Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (16 page)

  'I can't wake him,' he said. 'I've tried everything. He's as cold as stone. I think maybe…' His voice cracked. 'I think maybe he's frozen to death.'

  I'd been laughing with Marcel a couple of hours ago. It didn't seem possible. Was Serge playing a joke on me?

  'Perhaps he's not dead,' I said. I pinched his cheek. It was icy.

  'Have you phoned for an ambulance?'

  'I've done it – on the mobile. They should be here any moment.'

  As he spoke I heard the
whoop-whoop
of a siren and saw flashing red lights. A white ambulance marked 'SAMU' with big black letters on the side was coming across the square. Serge ran towards it, waving his hands about, pointing the driver towards the van.

  Two men in dayglo jackets leaped out and began trying to revive Marcel. One of them turned to us and shook his head.

  'He's gone, I'm afraid. Do you know who he is? Was he a friend of yours?'

  Serge explained. They took his address and phone number.

  'The gendarmes should be round later to take a statement from you both.' They examined Marcel's identity card. 'He was only forty-two,' said one of them. 'He looks a lot older.'

  'He lived a life, that one,' said Serge ruefully. 'He crammed a lot into the years.'

  'He most probably had a heart attack or died of hypothermia,' said the ambulance driver. They lifted his body into the back of the ambulance and drove off.

  Lorries and white vans were starting to arrive in the square.

  Heavy pieces of antique furniture were being unloaded, trestle tables erected. There were shouts of greeting and excited chatter.

  'I can't believe it,' said Serge. 'Why Marcel? He was always so strong. How could he just die like this?' He pushed his gloved hands deep in his pockets to warm them up. Then he pulled something out and turned it over. I recognised Marcel's little leather-bound book,
L'Art de Péter.

  My face must have given me away because Serge reacted. 'What? Don't look at me like that, Johnny. What was I supposed to do? If I'd left it on the body someone else would only have stolen it. Marcel's got no use for it now. He'd have wanted me to have it.'

  I didn't say anything.

  'A dead man can't take a three-month holiday lying on soft sandy beaches sipping exotic cocktails surrounded by beautiful women.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'But I can.'

  Two young dealers unloading a massive armoire from the back of a lorry shouted across a greeting to us. 'How's it going, Serge? Cold enough for you?'

  'You won't say anything, will you, Johnny? You know, about me taking Marcel's little book?'

  What could I say? He was giving me his pathetic innocent little boy look.

  'No, Serge,' I said. 'Don't worry, I won't breathe a word.'

The ancient city of Bayonne looked uncannily like a stage set at this early hour of the morning; two-dimensional cardboard cut-out stone walls, backlit by the soft red glow of the rising sun. It was surprisingly warm and a dry Spanish wind was blowing in from across the Pyrenees, rustling the leaves on the Platanes. The medieval streets and alleyways that run back into the old town appeared darkly menacing as if hooded fiends lurked in the shadows. Bayonne is the nearest big town to us, an hour's drive down the motorway towards the Spanish border.

  The Ramparts at Bayonne are all that remain of the high stone walls that were built to fortify the town by the Marquis de Vauban, the military genius who supervised the fortifications of major cities all over France, in the seventeenth century. Bayonne has a bellicose history and purportedly the bayonet was invented here. When I walked to the edge and looked down from the top of the walls into the gloom I could imagine an invading army scaling rickety ladders while the townsfolk poured hot oil on their heads from colossal cast iron cauldrons.

  It was the beginning of April and the
brocante
markets were beginning to come alive again after a quiet winter. Happily, winter here in south-west France is normally a short one. Sometimes the weather can be hot and sunny right up to Christmas Day and then after two or three months of comparative cold it often begins to warm up again.

  I was here on Serge's advice to take part in the first of what was hoped would be a regular market on the walkway that runs along the top of the old city walls.

  'It's strange that no one runs a regular market in Bayonne,' he'd told me. 'You know my
copain,
Stefan?'

  I did, actually. I'd met him a few times and talked about music. He was a big blues fan.

  'Well, he's got permission from the
mairie
so don't miss the opportunity to get a pitch.
Premier levé, premier servi
.' (The early bird catches the worm.)

  A knot of
brocanteurs
were huddled together, cigarette ends glowing, and as I approached I could hear Serge holding forth.

  'It's no good going on at me. It's not my fault he's not here. He's probably still in bed with one of his mistresses. How should I know? Look, just set up your stands and we'll sort it all out later.'

  The small crowd began to disperse, grumbling. When Serge spotted me, he came over and shook my hand.

  'Eh, Johnny, hear that did you? What a bunch of moaners.'

  'Problem?' I said.

  'No, it's just Stefan, he's always late, the lazy sod. Grab a place and get set up. It looks like it could be a free-for all.'

  I went back to my van and was manoeuvring it into what I considered a good spot when Serge came over, arms waving.

  'Hey, Johnny, not there. Come over next to me by the snack stand. It's the best pitch on the market.' He guided me into position and I began to unpack my stuff.

  Like all the itinerant traders in France I carried a giant parasol for protection against the elements. It's the parasols that give the markets their colourful continental character. That and the habit the town councils have of relaying cheerful music from small loudspeakers cunningly positioned about the towns.

  I parked and began unloading the gear, hefting the heavy metal stand of the parasol onto the walkway on top of the wall. I splayed the feet, secured it with the locking screw and went to fetch the umbrella part which I inserted into the base and opened. It was four metres long by three metres wide, covered in cheerful red canvas with yellow stripes and scalloped edging. It's actually the most important piece of equipment in the
brocanteur
's arsenal. Your parasol gives shelter from the sun when it sizzles, and from the rain when it drizzles. In a downpour you can fasten special plastic sides all round as protection from the driving rain. Without your parasol you're at the mercy of the elements and you grow to depend on it never letting you down.

  I sniffed the air. It smelled like it might rain. There was no moon; the sky to the west was still dark and I was unable to pick out any cloud formations. Working outside I had grown accustomed to watching the sky, predicting oncoming storms and bad weather. But the air was still. Even so it might be wise to secure the four corners of the parasol, just in case. I had seen people being led away with blood running down their faces from nasty flesh wounds caused by the metal spokes of an out-of-control parasol blown by the wind.

   I was feeling about in the back of the van for the weights and cords to secure mine when there was the roar of a powerful motorbike and Stefan turned up on his big black Harley-Davidson.

  'Eh, Johnny, how's it going?' He cut the engine and climbed off to shake my hand. Although his mother was French his German father had bequeathed him a six-foot frame, sandy blond hair and an easy sense of his own superiority. He stood at least a head and shoulders above most of the locals.

  'What time do you call this?' said Serge. 'I nearly had a riot on my hands earlier.'

  Stefan's eyes were twinkling. 'My new girlfriend held me hostage in bed this morning. You wouldn't want me to disappoint her, would you, Serge?'

  He turned to me. 'I'm hoping you have brought your harmonicas with you, Johnny. I fancy some down home blues at lunchtime.'

  I was about to reply but my eyes were drawn to something moving overhead. Aliens were landing at Bayonne!

  A giant shadow with a twinkling undercarriage was hovering high above us. I watched hypnotised as the huge ship twisted and turned, searching for a suitable place to land.

  Serge gave a yell and threw himself forward into the back of my van.

  I looked again and realised with a rush of fear and perfect clarity that this was no alien spaceship, but my parasol. I recognised the crucifix shape of the heavy metal base. Strong winds had swept it up the edge of the Ramparts and carried it silently high into the air like a piece of thistle down. The legends of stallholders being carried off like Mary Poppins on their umbrellas suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched.

  I instinctively raised my arms to protect myself, expecting it to crash down on us. But it gave a sudden twist and floated off over the road towards the headlights of an oncoming car.

  I watched, mesmerised, holding my breath. If it dropped now and the heavy metal base went through the windscreen there was a strong possibility the driver would be killed or badly injured. In that split second I was wondering if our
responsabilité civile
insurance would cover such an eventuality.

  It plummeted down and crashed onto the car bonnet, bouncing off, spraying bright sparks as the metal base hit the road. The car skidded to a halt and the driver climbed out, looking shocked. I rushed to calm him. He bent over to examine the ugly dent in his car bonnet and looked at me, nonplussed. We both watched Stefan sprint past, chasing after the umbrella that was being dragged along the road.

  'I'm really sorry,' I said. 'The wind.'

  There was a blinding flash of lightning followed by a rumble of thunder.

  Stefan had caught up with the umbrella. The canvas was torn and the frame was bent. He held it aloft, grinning.

  The man took hold of my sleeve. 'My car… what about my car?' He looked as though he was having difficulty dealing with all this before his
petit-déjeuner
.

  There was a queue of traffic forming. Serge was out in the middle of the road directing it. Someone got out to see what was happening. A horn sounded. I persuaded the driver of the damaged car to pull over and gave him my insurance details. I only hoped I was covered.

  'I never expected to be bombed from the air like that,' he said. 'It's not the sort of thing that happens in Bayonne.'

  As he drove off there was a deafening clap of thunder and the heavens opened. I joined Serge and Stefan, who were sheltering in the back of my van. We watched the water swirling in the gutter, carrying a debris of twigs and fallen leaves.

  'Lucky that bloke wasn't killed, eh, Johnny?' said Serge.

  'It was a miracle,' I sighed.

  'Your umbrella's not too bad,' Stefan pointed out. 'You'll be able to fix it. Next time make sure it's tied down. You have to take precautions when you put it up, just the same as with women.' He gave a filthy laugh.

  The rain was easing off. The early morning sky began to brighten and the bank of black clouds rolled back to reveal blue skies. I felt upset about my damaged parasol, but probably not as shaken as the poor bloke who almost got killed by it.

  Serge reassured me. 'Don't worry, Johnny, I've got some sticky tape to fix the holes in your parasol. It'll be as good as new.'

  I remembered how his parasol had various taped crosses positioned all over it. Now I knew how they got there.

  'I don't think we'll see much more rain,' said Stefan. 'You can leave your van parked where it is next to Serge.

  A big fat jolly character known as Pepé Le Frite who ran the snacks stand was sweating profusely as he unloaded boxes of sa
ucissons et frites
(sausages and chips) ready for the lunchtime rush.

  When I went back to my van to fetch the rest of the gear a weaselly bloke wearing a fifties-style blue mohair thug's coat and polished black brogues was overseeing three moots (who could all have found jobs as extras in a gangster movie) unloading Turkish carpets and reproduction furniture from a white Iveco van double-parked in the road. He came over when he saw me open my van doors.

  'Eh! You can't park there.' Up close I could see he had a sinister moustache. It was like a shadow, shaved close and bristly. The three burly blokes put down the wardrobe they were carrying and watched.

  'That's our place. Better shift it if you know what's good for you.'

'I don't think so, this is the first one,' I said. 'And I was allocated this spot.'