Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette (22 page)

  Inside there was a vast painting on the ceiling, purportedly of the Virgin Mary.

  'Oh my God! It looks almost like a devil to me,' said Helen.

  'Yeah,' I said. 'It's like a big, floating, evil face.'

  'I think it's really creepy,' said Helen.

  'Looks like they had trouble with their painters as well as their sculptors,' said Serge.

  'Where's the grotto?' said Helen. 'This place is horrid.'

  'You know, you're right,' said Serge.

  We followed him out into the fresh air and down some steps to a lower level. With his bright blue plastic flasks of holy water hanging round his neck he looked like a big kid let loose in Disneyland.

  The grotto itself was the complete antithesis of the puffed up Basilica. It almost seemed to be cowering down beneath it, an unprepossessing, half-moon shaped cave of white rock inset with a coloured statue of the Virgin. There were lots of ancient crutches hanging pathetically from the stone walls, but strangely enough, no shiny new ones. Maybe something miraculous had happened here in the past but there was no concrete evidence of recent cures.

  A handful of people drifted by, looking at the statue and up at the crutches. It felt like we were in a museum that had no real relevance to the world today.

  'Is that it?' I asked Serge. 'Is that all the grotto is? I was expecting at least a decent-sized cave.'

  'It's not what I expected either,' said Helen.

  'It's a bit drab,' I said.

  'Yes, and very sad,' she said, 'with all those crutches.'

  'I reckon they just hung them there to impress the punters,' I said. 'Probably the same time they put up the statue. I'm not fooled.'

  'Please don't make fun of it,' said Serge. 'I told you I wanted to be a priest once. I still have finer feelings you know, despite being a
brocanteur.
'

  I couldn't help smiling, thinking of some of his more recent tricks.

  'I don't think I could work up the enthusiasm to come to a candlelit service tonight.' I said. 'Maybe we should skip it.'

  'Let's see how we feel later,' said Helen, 'after Serge has checked into a hotel.'

  We left the grotto, climbed the stone steps and walked back up the drive to the main gates. There was still a constant flow of people drifting in and out.

  As we drew nearer to our parked van we could see Robespierre's face up at the window.

  'Do you think he's been looking out for us like that all the time?' said Helen.

  'Of course he has,' said Serge. 'That's one faithful little dog – a real character.'

Most of the hotels were full, but Serge eventually found one with a spare room that accepted dogs. The proprietor – a diminutive rosy-cheeked woman with neat blonde hair – was yet another doll collector. She looked like a little doll herself. We could see into her living room. There were dolls everywhere; a line of them sitting on a couch and even more up on the mantelpiece. Some of them looked like antiques and Serge's eyes were popping as he leaned over to get a better view. I knew he was trying to spot any valuable ones.

  When I took his arm and hissed 'No!' at him, he rubbed his eyes, crossed himself and smiled sheepishly, as if reminded of the sanctity of his pilgrimage here.

  'Don't worry, Johnny, I'm not here for business – I'm here for my soul.'

  He invited us to dine with him before we returned to our caravan, which was parked on a nearby site. But as we ate our dinner in the hotel's dining room, I noticed he couldn't stop his eyes straying to the various little alcoves and shelves where several dolls had been decoratively perched.

The evening was balmy and surprisingly warm with a thin crescent moon and a breathtaking sky bright with stars. After dinner we decided we would go to the candlelit service after all. With Robespierre sitting up front in the van we drove across town and parked within walking distance of the grotto.

  Serge patted Robespierre on the head. 'Now look after the van while we're gone and bite anyone who tries to break in.'

  'I'm training him up to guard my stuff,' he explained. 'He may be small now, but you wait till he gets his big boy's teeth.'

  We followed the flow of people through to the main gates and wandered around aimlessly until we found ourselves high up on the flat roof of the Basilica looking out over the steeples and minarets. The scene below had a magical quality. The lights from hundreds of candles and lanterns moved slowly in a shimmering river of tiny flames as the crowds swirled round the grotto.

  Helen and I stood holding hands. Our eyes were drawn from the sparkling candles below to the vastness of the night sky above. The stars themselves were like billions of twinkling candles and we gazed up at the vastness of the firmament in wonder. We were just two small beings on the surface of a planet floating in a far-flung corner of the universe. What were we doing here? What was it all about?

  I felt a thump against my shoulder. Someone had barged into me, bringing me back to earth with a bang. I swung round to see whoever had done it run off and disappear behind a section of stone roofing. At first I thought it must have been an accident. But then the individual reappeared and circled back through the crowd towards us.

  The thought crossed my mind that it was someone who knew us having a joke. But as the character got closer I could see it was a young man in his early twenties with a wild expression and staring eyes.

  He sidled along beside a parapet and as he passed close by hissed at me: 'Satan's spawn – you must be gone from this sacred place!'

  The bloke had a strong German accent. I could hardly believe my ears. But for some reason it struck me as comical. Why had he picked on me? Did I look like Satan's spawn? Surely not.

  Helen was amused at first, but then worried. 'He looks nasty. Maybe we should keep out of his way.'

  Serge had seen what had happened. I tried to explain about the 'Satan's spawn' bit, but had difficulty translating this into French.

  He got the gist of it though. 'There are all sorts of maniacs about these days, Johnny. Best be careful, eh?'

  We watched out to see if the guy would reappear. When there was no sign of him I tried to regain some of the calm and tranquillity we'd been enjoying earlier. But the mood had gone.

  We looked over the wall at the scene below. Several priests were leading a procession from the Basilica towards the grotto. They were joined by more people holding candles, following silently.

  'I think the service is about to begin,' said Helen.

  As we headed for the stairs I felt bony fingers bite into the flesh at the back of my arm and I turned to look into the eyes of the German weirdo who'd bothered me earlier. He pulled himself in close. I could feel his hot breath on my face.

  'I haf been warning you already Beelzebub, you must be gone from this…'

  And here his words were choked off. His eyes widened as he was jerked back almost off his feet. It was only then I realised that Serge had him by the collar and seat of his pants. He frogmarched him across the roof, dragged him up against a parapet and held him bent over against the brickwork. We watched amazed as Serge cuffed him lightly across the back of his head, hoisted him upright and began to berate him, poking his finger in his chest to emphasise what he was saying. The poor bloke looked shocked, pulling back in disbelief. And when Serge pinched his cheek and mockingly slapped him across the forehead with the palm of his hand he recoiled in horror and reeled back to stagger off towards the stairs.

  Serge rejoined us, smiling to himself.

  'What on earth did you say to him?' asked Helen.

  'Nothing much. I just told him that Johnny was the Antichrist sent from hell to destroy the earth, and that I was his Black Angel. If he dared bother you again he would be killed and cast into outer darkness to rot for all eternity.'

  'He might have had a bit of difficulty grasping all that,' I said. 'He was German. I doubt if he spoke much French.'

  'He understood all right,' said Serge. 'He went off as if all the demons in hell were after him.'

  'Thanks,' I said. 'I appreciate it.' There was a note of admiration in my voice.

  He put his arm round my shoulder. 'Think nothing of it, Johnny. Eh! He was a junkie, high as a kite on God knows what. There's no telling what
pourri
like that will do.'

  'Quite,' I said. And made a mental note to try not to offend Serge in future if I could possibly help it.

We descended the staircase to ground level and followed the flow until we were in the middle of the hushed crowd standing in front of the grotto. We could hear a low murmur from the priests conducting the service.

  The money-grabbing gift shops, the puffed up Basilica and my experience on the roof with the mad German hadn't put me in a very receptive mood for tuning in to things of a deeper or spiritual nature. I was now totally convinced that Lourdes was an elaborate confidence trick designed to magnify the power of the Roman Catholic Church. I was of a completely disbelieving frame of mind, slightly revolted with myself for bothering to have come here in the first place.

  But as I stood watching the people standing silently all around me, their faces lit by the glow of the lanterns, I suddenly felt an incredible force hit me square in the chest.

  It took my breath away.

  It was emanating from the rock face and the sheer strength of it was overwhelming.

  Helen held me tightly round the waist. I looked at Serge. His eyes were all swimmy. The three of us were riveted to the spot.

  It was as if some benevolent alien being had suddenly arrived, radiating all-powerful love and compassion.

  I'm not sure how long we stood there entranced. Time seemed to stand still. But eventually the strength of the emanation diminished, the service finished and we drifted towards the entrance gate with everyone else still enthralled. All my cynicism had melted away.

  It had been an incredible experience. One we would never forget.

  Was this what the villagers felt watching Bernadette kneeling in front of the grotto? If so, I could see why the Church had wanted to muscle in on the act. But was it a holy manifestation or something else?

  We reached the van and as I unlocked the door Robespierre jumped around on the seat, ecstatic to have us back. I'm not sure how it happened, but as I unlocked the door on the driver's side he bounced excitedly towards me, lost his footing and plummeted over the edge. I tried to catch him but he slipped through the gap and hit the pavement giving a little squeal of pain as he did so. He went to get up but pitifully fell on his face again as his front legs gave way.

  Serge rushed round in a panic and swept him up.

  'Is he all right? He's not hurt, is he?'

  He placed him carefully on the pavement and the puppy bravely limped a few steps, holding his right front paw up.

  'I'm really sorry, Serge,' I said. 'He was too quick for me. I just couldn't catch him.'

  'He's hurt his leg,' said Serge. 'You don't think he's broken it, do you?' He was distraught.

  'Oh God, I can't stand it! He's going to be a cripple all his life.' He picked up the little animal and clutched him to his chest. The pressure must have hurt because Robespierre gave another little cry of pain.

  'Maybe he's just bruised his leg,' said Helen. 'It might not be broken.'

  Serge put him down again and we watched him limp in circles and widdle on a piece of grass. When he'd finished we examined him under the interior light in the van.

  'No, I think he
has
broken his leg,' Serge said hollowly.

  We drove in silence back to Serge's hotel and carried the puppy up to his room. When Serge put him down on the carpet he tried to walk but fell forward again, clearly in great pain.

  'We ought to get him to a vet,' said Helen.

  'We'll never find a surgery open at this time of night,' said Serge. He was close to tears.

  'I'm so sorry,' I said. 'I should have caught him.'

  'How could you see him in the dark?' said Serge. 'It wasn't your fault, Johnny. Don't blame yourself.'

  'What can we do?' said Helen. 'We can't just leave him in agony like this.'

  The little animal was sitting looking up at us with one front paw held off the ground and a pleading expression on his face. It was pitiful.

  'The holy water!' exclaimed Serge. 'I left the bottles in the van.'

  He ran off to get them and we looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  'That won't do anything,' said Helen.

  'No, but let's just humour him, eh?' I said.

  He returned excitedly with the blue plastic bottles, unscrewed the top of one and poured some of the holy water into a dish.

  Robespierre hobbled painfully over and began lapping it up.

  'See, he was thirsty,' said Serge, 'the poor little chap.'

  The puppy finished the water and ran his tongue round his chops as if relishing every last drop.

  Serge poured some of the holy water into his hand and sploshed it on the dog's chest, rubbing it gently into his front legs.

  'You've got to have faith,' he said, 'when you want something wonderful to happen.'

  Serge seemed like an unlikely convert to the efficacy of holy water. And I was dubious that its powers extended to mending a broken leg.

  Robespierre sat back on his haunches and looked up at us. The holy water didn't appear to be having any effect.

  'We should get him to the vet first thing,' I said. 'If his leg is broken it will need setting.'