Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (3 page)

  'Look, there's been some poor devil been kept prisoner in a barn for God knows how long and now he's running free, half out of his mind. We ought to let the authorities know so they can do something about it.'

  Serge pulled into the kerb and turned off the engine. 'All right, if you put it like that. But don't forget who let him out. Be careful what you say. Some gendarmes can be right buggers.'

  We went through the iron gate, up a concrete path and stopped at the varnished wooden door. Serge looked scared. 'And don't forget to call them all
m'sieu.'
He pulled a face. 'They like that.'

  I pushed open the door and we went in. Inside was an open-plan office with a long, shiny-topped reception desk. A fat ginger cat was fast asleep on a pile of books at one end. We stood and waited, watching a young officer in shirtsleeves with cropped hair poring over some papers, marking crosses with a black Bic pen. It looked like he was filling in his lottery entry form. When I coughed he glanced up and slowly rose, marking a couple of final crosses as he did so. He came over with an expectant look on his face, snapping into official policeman mode.

  'Sorry to bother you,
m'sieu,'
I said, 'but we felt we ought to report something.' I looked at Serge and he gave me a sheepish smile. 'We were up at a local farm and we discovered something a bit peculiar.'

  'Oh, yes,' said the officer. 'What farm was that then?'

  I described as closely as I could how to get to the place. He looked mystified, as if he was having difficulty understanding me.

  'That accent. You're not from round here?' He said it like an accusation.

  'No, he's a
rosbif,'
chipped in Serge. 'From England.' He gave a little hysterical laugh. 'I can barely understand what he's on about myself sometimes.'

  The gendarme looked slightly irritated. 'What do you want exactly?'

  An older policeman with a big handlebar moustache had come over to see what was going on. He looked formidable, like he was used to taking charge of difficult situations.

  'We were up at a local farm buying up some old furniture when we saw something bizarre,' I said. 'We thought we ought to report it.'

  'Buying up old furniture?' He sounded surprised.

  'Yes, we're
brocanteurs
,' I said. 'We were buying furniture from the farmer. We've got it in our van.'

  'Nothing of much value really,' said Serge. 'Just some old bits and pieces.'

  The officer looked as if he was carefully contemplating the information. 'I'm assuming you've got all the necessary papers.'

  There was an element of threat in his voice.

  'Oh, yes, we're professional
brocanteurs
,
m'sieu
,' said Serge, obsequiously.

  'Let's see them… the papers.'

  He held out his hand, waiting. Serge turned to me. 'Show them your papers then.' His eyes were panicky.

  I hurriedly searched through my wallet, found my yellow
carte professionale
and handed it over. The officer examined it closely, studying my face and comparing it with the photo on the card before giving it back. He turned to Serge. 'What about you then?'

  Serge looked cornered. 'Oh, I'm just helping him out. I'm not registered at the moment… Taking a break, so to speak.'

  So that was why he wanted me to come 'cold calling' with him. The crafty old sod. It was all starting to make sense. Without up-to-date professional papers he was vulnerable.

  'But you're a
brocanteur
as well?' said the policeman.

  'I am sometimes, but…'

  'Only sometimes, is it?'

  'When the work's about,' said Serge. He was starting to lose it. 'When it's quiet in the winter I have a rest… you know… spend time at home with the wife and family.' He gave a sickly smile.

  'Identity card?' said the officer, grimly.

  Serge patted his pockets. He pulled out a filthy grey handkerchief followed by a knotted piece of string and a broken penknife. 'It must be in the van.'

  'Let's go see then, shall we?' said the officer as if he was used to listening to a pack of lies.

  We trooped out to the van and waited while Serge fished around in the glove compartment. The officer with the moustache was losing his patience. 'All right then, let's see your car papers.'

  Serge rummaged around and produced some torn registration documents. Moustache took them gingerly and

examined them at arm's length as if they were infected. 'OK, now your insurance details.'

  Serge poked around in the front and reappeared empty-handed with a defeated expression. 'I must have left them at home. I'm always worried they'll get stolen.'

  He was cornered. The officer was pleased, as if this was the response he was after. 'You'd best fetch them up here then as soon as you like and show them to me if you want to stay out of trouble.'

  'I will,
m'sieu,
you have my word on that.'

  'It'll be your funeral if you don't,' said Moustache, noting down the van registration. 'Right then, let's see what you've got in the back.'

  The two of them stood close behind Serge as he swung back the doors to reveal the dusty pieces of ancient wood stacked to the roof. They peered in, as if this were a trick. Moustache picked up a woodwormy lump and examined it. 'You're
brocanteurs,
you say?' He winked at his colleague. 'Well, that is bits and pieces, just like you said. You've got a bargain here all right.'

  The officer with the crew cut sniggered.

  'If I were you, I'd burn this lot. We won't detain you any longer. On your way,' commanded Moustache.

  Serge went to climb into the van, but I wasn't about to give up so easily. 'There's something strange going on up at that farm,' I said. 'We thought you ought to know.'

  They appeared unable to grasp what I was saying. 'We saw someone locked in a barn up there. It sounds unbelievable, but honestly, it's the truth.'

  They both looked at each other and then Moustache's face lit up. 'Oh, you mean François?'

  'What's he been up to now?' said Crew Cut.

  'Poor old François,' said Moustache. 'Best keep him in the dark till he calms down.'

  'You mean he's not being held prisoner?' I said.

  'Not in the strict sense of the word, no,' said Moustache.

  'At least he's up there close to his family,' Crew Cut chipped in.

  'But he was locked away in the dark in a cold barn,' I said. 'Surely that can't be right?'

  'It's better than having him running around getting up to God knows what sort of mischief,' said Moustache. 'You should have seen what happened last time he was let loose to wander free. We don't want him carted off to hospital again, do we?'

  What had we done? I felt like a perfect idiot.

  Serge leaned out of the window. 'Come on, Johnny. There's your explanation. Let's go.'

  I climbed in beside him reluctantly. 'So, what did he actually get up to last time?' I asked, not really wanting to know but unable to stop myself.

  'Best not talk about it,' said Moustache. 'These rumours have a habit of spreading and then where would we be, eh?' He rapped on the van roof. 'And don't forget those insurance papers, you,' he said to Serge.

  As we drove off I could see them both grinning happily. We had proved to be an amusing diversion to an otherwise boring afternoon.

  Serge was fuming. 'See, I told you, never go to the gendarmes about anything… ever.'

  'But how can they know about someone being held prisoner and condone it like that?' I said. 'It's like something out of the Middle Ages.'

  'It's nothing to do with us, like I told you, but you wouldn't listen. Now just look at all the trouble I'm in. How am I going to sort out insurance papers in time?'

  We drove along in silence. After a bit I said, 'I didn't know you were resting, taking time off to be with your wife and family. In fact, I didn't even know you had a wife and family.'

  'Yes, well sometimes you have to tell those sons of bitches what they want to hear. We got off lightly there. Maybe next time you'll listen to what I say.'

  We arrived at his apartment and unloaded the stuff into the ground-floor garage. I left him to it, trying to sort out which bit went with which, puzzling over how to put them together. But as I drove home I couldn't stop thinking about old François. What sort of mischief was he getting up to now? He could have been a crazed psychotic killer as far as I knew. What had we done?

Serge phoned me early the next morning, sounding desperate. 'I'm having a bit of trouble here,
rosbif
. You don't think you could come over and give me a hand, do you?'

  I turned up to find him in the garage with all the pieces of furniture stacked round the walls. He was in the middle of reassembling a giant wardrobe. He had the back and two sides slotted in the base and was attempting to fix a door into place. They whole edifice was swaying alarmingly as he whacked at it with a hammer, attempting to secure it with one of the little pegs. I rushed to help him, too late, as the heavy wooden back broke loose from the sides and fell forward in slow motion, crashing through the door. Serge leaped back to avoid being crushed but the door caught him and knocked him on his back, pinning him to the concrete floor.

  He was cursing freely as I helped him out from under it. 'See this, Johnny? This is what I'm stuck with. I'll never, ever buy anything from a peasant again. You always end up getting conned. They pretend they're thick and lull you into a false sense of security.'

  His face was red and sweaty and grimy with dust. 'But what about all this stuff?' I said. 'All the priceless pieces of furniture?'

  'Huh! I've been working away most of the night trying to match up the bits, but if there's a complete piece in there I've yet to find it. This wardrobe is the closest I've come and I still can't get the damn thing to hold together.' He looked like he was about to burst into tears. He pulled out a grubby handkerchief and blew his nose. 'Come on, I deserve a rest. Fancy a spot of breakfast?'

  I followed him up some back stairs into the apartment, through a gloomy hall, negotiating our way round pieces of old furniture and bits of bric-a-brac, and into a little kitchen at the back which smelled strongly of garlic, onions and damp dog. Serge sat me down at the kitchen table, set a jug of coffee percolating and produced a bag of
chocolatines.
There was an empty basket with a tartan blanket in a corner by the stove. Serge noticed me looking at it.

  'That's where my dear old Danton used to sleep. He only died a month ago and I really miss him. I keep thinking I'll get another dog but somehow I can't face it. I'll never be able to replace my Danton.'

  I knew exactly how he felt. I had to have our brindle Staffordshire bull terrier, Spike, put down quite recently and just thinking about him still made me well up. Some dogs are irreplaceable and become so much a part of your everyday life that they leave an enormous hole when they're gone.

  We ate our breakfast with an air of melancholy hanging over us. We were on our second cup of coffee before Serge unexpectedly perked up.

  'Listen, Johnny. Fancy another trip out in the country next week? Who knows what valuable pieces we might unearth.'

  I wanted to say no, turn down the offer flat and tell him to find some other mug. But I felt sorry for him.

  'OK, Serge,' I said, 'if you're sure it's going to be worth it.'

  He was beaming. 'Oh, it'll be worth it all right. Trust me. It'll be worth it.'

When I told my wife Helen about what had happened, her response was: 'Typical! I told you not to hang out with that Serge Bastarde. He hasn't a clue what he's doing.'

  She'd only met him once, and briefly at that. From past experience I have to admit she's a better judge of character than I am. But even so I thought she was being a trifle harsh. Serge wasn't that bad. And after all, he'd been a
brocanteur
all his life and we were just starting up. In my naivety I was sure I could pick up a few tips from him. Also, he had a lot of local contacts. The prices in auction were almost too high to make a profit; Serge would hopefully put some house clearances our way. Then we could get hold of saleable stuff at a reasonable price.

It wasn't as if Helen and I were a pair of starry-eyed New Settlers. We had originally moved to France on a whim in the late eighties. I had been a drummer with my own blues band in the sixties and later worked as a press officer and 'plugger' in the music business for various record labels. At the onset of the punk era I had joined the embryo doo-wop group Darts, and met and fell in love with Helen when she was a professional photographer doing the first photo shoot for the band. She was an attractive, charismatic redhead with attitude and a great sense of humour. I was completely smitten. My first marriage had disintegrated, my personal life was a mess and I was an infamous character banned from most of the pubs round Clapham for spitting beer and singing dirty songs.