Son of Serge Bastarde (25 page)

  'I really can't believe you are sharing a stand with that little shyster,' he said, pointing at the 'Bastarde & Fils' sign. 'I'm surprised at you, Helen. I'd have thought you had better taste.'

  Helen had taken one look at him and was suffering from a fit of the giggles. His outfit had got to her. She had set me off too and I was trying to control myself when I spotted Diddy wheeling a trolley stacked with cardboard boxes. Serge was walking majestically beside him, wearing an expensive-looking suit with the jacket draped round his shoulders, carrying a silver-topped lacquered cane in one hand. As he approached I could see he was even sporting a pair of long pointy-toed shoes, a style much favoured by all the
gitans
. He must have sold a couple of his gold coins and was feeling flush.

  'Talk of the devil,' said Algie waving his hand disdainfully, 'and his son!'

  Serge greeted us warmly, shook our hands and kissed Helen. He indicated to Diddy where he should place the boxes in his half of the stand and began unpacking the contents. They unwrapped tissue paper to reveal a collection of Chinese porcelain and statuettes of dubious provenance.

  'Oh dear, they look new to me,' Helen whispered. 'They're all repro.' We watched, open-mouthed. 'Are you allowed to sell copies at this fair?' Helen asked.

  '
Quoi?
Helen, these are not copies, they are valuable, much sought-after Chinese antiques.' He produced a file and pulled out a sheaf of papers. 'Here are the authenticated certificates of guarantee signed by an expert.'

  'Was that the same expert who sold them to you?' Helen asked dryly.

  Algie picked up a porcelain figure of a dragon and examined it.
'C'est nul!'
(It's rubbish!) he told Serge, scornfully replacing it on the table. 'Where did you buy this lot Serge, GiFi? ('GiFi' is a cut-price chain of French stores.)

  Serge waved the guarantees under his nose.

  'If you need a signed guarantee to prove something is genuine, then it must be a fake,' said Algie. 'Everyone knows that, old chap.'

  He was right about that. We had visited antiques fairs in Spain that had featured stands selling so-called ivory netsukes (miniature carved Japanese sculptures) and intricately decorated tusks and figurines which the besuited salesmen had insisted were hand-carved from million-year-old mammoths' tusks recently discovered in Siberia. They screened non-stop videos of explorers digging up the mammoth remains and issued signed certificates as to their authenticity. But they were unable to offer us any believable explanation as to who had carved these tusks and pieces of ivory so perfectly with such incredible artistic skill. It was obvious that they were in fact very well cast in resin to resemble ivory. It was a scam and no amount of signed certificates or videos would convince us otherwise. In fact, the better antiques fairs in Madrid and the larger Spanish towns had barred these dodgy dealers completely.

  Serge was unmoved by Algie's comments. 'You think I'm an idiot, do you? That me and my son would sell fakes?'

  Algie guffawed rudely. 'Yes on both counts, Bastarde.' He turned to us. 'I really don't know what you're doing sharing a stand with this pair of buffoons.'

  I was embarrassed by his outburst. Maybe Serge had got it wrong but we certainly weren't about to join Algie in poking fun at him.

  'We thought it might be nice to sell inside in the warm,' I said. 'It's all very swish, isn't it?'

  'Well, at least you have some quite nice pieces of English furniture,' Algie conceded. 'You should do all right, but I can't say the same for Bastarde and son.' He went off, chuckling to himself.

  Exhausted from unloading and setting up our stand we left Serge and Diddy to it, took Buster for a swift walk round the block and checked into our hotel for an early night in preparation for the days ahead. Hotels and restaurants in France are very dog friendly and we have always been allowed to take Buster up to our room. It's impossible to stop him jumping up on the bed with us so we cover it with a blanket specially brought for the purpose.

  The following morning found us queuing up with the other dealers, waiting to get into the hall early and add the finishing touches to our stand. While Helen unpacked some quality 'smalls' (as we English dealers call anything for sale that is not actually furniture; the French call them
bibelots)
and positioned them on our polished desks and tables, I fiddled with the lighting panel and tried to create even more tasteful lighting effects, taking inspiration from Mr Repro at Dax, hoping to impress the rich discerning buyers who were bound to turn up in droves. Serge arrived late.

  'Where's Diddy?' asked Helen.

  'He's gone to see his mother,' said Serge.

  Helen and I exchanged looks. His mother?

  When the doors opened at nine we were disappointed that just a handful of visitors strolled in.

  A little short man came up to Serge and pointed at his stock. 'Is this yours?'

  Serge, all proud, thought he was an early customer. 'Yes, what are you interested in?'

  'All of it,' said the man. Serge looked triumphant.

  'You're going to have to remove it all,' said the little man. 'You can't sell reproductions at this fair.'

  'They aren't reproductions,' spluttered Serge. 'Who are you?'

  'I'm Monsieur Belland the expert,' said the little man. 'I'm here at the request of the organisers to make sure everything sold at this fair is a genuine antique. You can pack up all this Oriental stuff and get it off your stand.' Serge was speechless. 'I'll be back in half an hour and it had better all be gone or else you'll have to leave,' he said officiously, walking off.

  Serge watched him go. He looked stunned.

  
'Il est fou ce Monsieur Belland!'
(He's mad!) 'He can go to hell!' But after a few minutes he began to pack some of the Chinese figures back in their cardboard boxes. It didn't matter much as the fair was dead. A few people meandered slowly about from stand to stand but no one seemed interested in buying. By midday we were starting to wish we hadn't come at all. We stood around, bored, praying at least one customer would show some interest. If it went on like this, we were going to lose money. I was beginning to wish we'd stuck to the
brocante
markets. I was missing the parasol and the open air. Why had I let Serge persuade us to go 'upmarket'?

  Monsieur Belland returned to check Serge was following his orders. When he had made sure all the reproductions had been removed he went off satisfied. But once he was out of sight Serge pulled out a couple of the boxes and began replacing some of the banned items. This made us laugh.

  'You're wasting your time, Serge,' I said. 'Might as well leave them in their boxes – no one's selling a thing.'

  'Don't worry, it'll probably pick up tomorrow,' he said hopefully.

  After lunch we sat around in an empty hall. Algie came past, looking glum. 'It's a misery,' he said. 'I've been chatting to the other dealers. It's a dead loss. I shan't be coming back here again.'

  Around five in the afternoon, however, there was a flurry of buyers and an elderly silver-haired gentleman and his blonde, younger wife took an interest in a Swiss Mermod Frères cylindrical musical box Helen had bought in England. It was an exquisite piece with intricate machinery. I love anything that produces music and this was brilliant. It was the first music box of its kind we had ever had and the six melodic airs it played evoked childhood memories. The problem with a valuable and comparatively rare item like this is what level should you set the price? As it was the first one to pass through our hands we were unfamiliar with its subtleties. Helen had done some research and had set what she thought was a reasonable price. The silver-haired gentleman appeared to be familiar with exactly how the box worked and was obviously an avid collector. He made an offer which was somewhat less than we were hoping for but which gave us a good profit and would more than pay for the cost of our half of the stand. We hesitated but as the fair had been dead so far we accepted. As I wrapped the box Algie appeared and watched over my shoulder. He asked how much we had sold it for and when I told him he looked jealous. He squinted at the couple and I panicked – I thought he might interfere and start chatting to them. But he sloped off with a sick expression on his face.

  Serge sat with his head in his hands looking glum. 'I don't know what's happened to Diddy,' he said. 'I've been ringing him all day. He's ignoring me. I don't think he's suited to this game. He gets bored so easily.'

  'I'm sure he's all right,' said Helen. 'You haven't really needed him yet, have you? Only when you have to pack up.'

The fair started to pick up on Sunday morning. More people began turning up to look at what was on offer. Serge carried on sneaking back his Chinese repro little by little, but it didn't help; people just ignored his stock.

  'I can't believe this,' he said, growing visibly more depressed. 'I was sure I was onto a good thing with these Chinese antiques.'

  'Good job you found those gold coins in that house,' I said, trying to cheer him up.

  He leapt up, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over to one side. 'For God's sake, don't ever mention that again, Johnny! It never happened!' He was hissing in a stage whisper.

  'Sorry, Serge, I didn't realise.' What had possessed me to bring that up? Me and my big mouth.

  Just before lunch Algie came over to see us. 'I've just sold a bronze ormolu clock for a small fortune, and I've got a rich picture dealer interested in one of my oil paintings,' he crowed. His whole attitude had changed from yesterday.

  Serge was totally down in the dumps. 'Did you hear that Bastarde? A small fortune! How's the GiFi stuff going? Not so good, what?'

  Serge ignored him. He shot us a pleading look. He still hadn't heard from Diddy. He kept making circuits of the other stands with a haunted expression on his face, hanging round the entrance waiting for Diddy. We invited him to join us for lunch. It wasn't a very tempting offer. We sat in a corner together in a typically English manner eating home-made sandwiches and sipping hot tomato soup from plastic cups while the other French dealers laid out banquets of food and wine on their tables.

  Algie came over. 'Ooh, cream of tomato soup, delicious! I always bring several tins back with me from Blighty. You can't beat it, that great British taste.'

  'This is French, actually,' said Helen. 'It's almost the same, but much nicer, not tinny tasting.'

  'If you say so,' said Algie, looking dubious. 'Anyway, excuse me if I don't join you. I've made a killing this morning,' he boasted, 'so I'm off into town for a slap-up lunch with all the trimmings. I'll tell you all about it when I get back.'

  'Don't bother,' said Helen.

  'Are you sure you won't join me, Helen? Or are you happy to eat your picnic with this rabble?' He pointed at me and Serge.

  'No thanks,' said Helen. 'Don't choke on a fish bone, will you?'

  Algie loved this and went off guffawing loudly. He and Helen had a good line in Cockney banter going between them now.

  Serge seemed pleased to sit with us and nibble at a sandwich. 'I haven't got much appetite,' he said pathetically. We watched a party of dealers nearby stuffing their faces, quaffing wine, laughing and generally partying it up. This made it worse somehow. They were so jolly it amplified how depressed Serge was.

  After lunch Algie staggered back, sated and half cut. He flopped on a chaise longue on his stand and promptly fell asleep. Visitors making the rounds stared at him lying there with his mouth open like a fish. He wore black patent leather shoes with silver buckles, beige socks with purple garters, a white silk shirt with flouncy sleeves, his tartan plus fours and a brilliant black-and-yellow chequered waistcoat. Dressed as he was in such outlandish garb, he was like an actor in some strange costume drama.

  As the afternoon wore on more buyers began to turn up. By teatime we had some good profit in hand. Serge had sold nothing, there was still no sign of Diddy and the fair was nearly over.

  A middle-aged woman was hovering about looking at Serge oddly.

  'Looks like Serge's luck's in – I think he's pulled,' I said to Helen.

  The woman approached our stand tentatively. She drew closer to Serge, who was sitting staring forlornly into space.

  '
Bonjour
, Serge,' she said softly, leaning in closer.

  He glanced up and a look of recognition spread over his face. 'Anne-Marie?'

  
'Oui, c'est moi.'

  We tried desperately not to stare.

  'It's been a long time, Serge.' She hesitated and looked away.

  Serge stood up and kissed her on both cheeks. 'It's good to see you,' he said and, looking around, 'Is Diddy with you?'