Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [139]
wagged his tail. Again, Bertie acknowledged both man and dog with a nod. It was good to be in Paris, he thought. 93. Bertie’s New Friends
By twelve o’clock, Bertie’s case was almost full of money. Virtually no passer-by – and they were numerous that morning – walked on without giving something. This was not because they made a habit of giving to buskers – they did no such thing – but it was because none of them could resist the sight of a small boy playing the saxophone with such ease and to such good effect. And there was something about Bertie that appealed to the French. When Bertie eventually stopped and took on the task of counting his money, he found it hard to believe that he had collected so much. Not only would he be able to pay for lunch and dinner that day, but there was enough money to enable him to survive in Paris for several weeks should the need arise. Tucking the notes into his pockets, now bulging with money, he replaced the saxophone in the case and walked the few yards to the nearby restaurant. Looking at the menu displayed in the window, he struggled to make out what was on offer. It would have been different, he decided, if it had been in Italian – that would have been easy – but what, he wondered, were escargots and what were blanquettes de veau?
“Are you having difficulty?” said a voice behind him, in English.
Bertie turned round, to find a small group of people behind him, a man and two women. They were too old to be teenagers, he thought, but they were not much older than that. Perhaps they were students, he told himself. He had read that this was the part of Paris where students were to be seen.
“I don’t know what the menu says,” said Bertie. “I know how to read, but I don’t know how to read French.”
The woman who had first addressed him bent over to his level. “Ah, poor you!” she said. “Let me help you. Should I read 292 Bertie’s New Friends
from the top, or would you like to tell me what sort of thing you like to eat and I can see if it’s on the menu?”
“I like sausages,” said Bertie. “And I like sticky toffee pudding.”
The young woman looked at the menu board. “I can find sausages,” she said. “But I don’t think they have sticky toffee pudding. That is a great pity. But they do have some very nice apple tart. Would you like to try that? Tarte tatin?”
Bertie nodded.
“In that case,” said the woman, “why don’t you join me and my friends for lunch? We were just about to go inside.”
“Thank you,” said Bertie. “I have enough money to pay, you see.”
The young people laughed. “That will not be necessary,” said the young woman. “This is not an expensive place. No Michelin stars, but no fancy prices. Come on, let’s go in.”
They entered the restaurant, where the waiter, recognising Bertie’s three companions, immediately ushered them to a table near the window.
“That’s Henri,” said the young woman. “He has been here ever since the riots of 1968. He came in to take refuge and they offered him a job. He’s stayed here since then.”
“What happened in 1968?” asked Bertie. “Was there a war?”
They all laughed. “A war?” said the young man. “In a sense. The bourgeoisie was at war with the students and the advanced thinkers. It was very exciting.”
“Who won?” asked Bertie.
There was a silence. Then the second young woman spoke.
“It is difficult to say. I suppose the bourgeoisie is still with us.”
“So they won then,” said Bertie.
The young man looked uncomfortable. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said. “The system was badly wounded.”
“And they curbed the powers of the flics, eventually,” said the first young woman, shrugging, as if to dismiss the subject. “But we should introduce ourselves,” she went on. “I’m Marie-Louise, and this,” she said, turning to the other young woman, “is Sylvie. He’s called Jean-Philippe. We shorten him to Jarpipe. And what, may I ask, is your name?”
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Bertie