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?”
Bertie’s New Friends 293
Bertie thought for a moment. It seemed to him that the French put in their second names, and he did not want to appear unsophisticated. His second name, he recollected, was Peter, and he did know the French for that. “I’m Bertie-Pierre,” he said quickly. It sounded rather good, he thought, and none of his new friends seemed to think it at all odd.
“Alors, Bertie-Pierre,” said Marie-Louise. “Let us order our lunch. You said that you liked sausages, so we shall see what Henri can do about that.”
They gave the order to Henri, who nodded a polite greeting to Bertie, and then Marie-Louise turned to Bertie and said:
“Tell us about yourself, Bertie-Pierre. What are you doing in Paris, all by leetle self? And what have you got in that case of yours?”
“I came here with an orchestra,” Bertie said. “The Edinburgh Teenage Orchestra.”
“But you are surely not . . .” said Jean-Philippe.
“I’m not a teenager quite yet,” said Bertie. “But my mother . . .”
“He is a prodigy,” said Sylvie. “That is why.”
“Are you a prodigy, Bertie-Pierre?” asked Jean-Philippe.
Bertie looked down at the table. “I am not sure,” he said.
“Mr Morrison thinks I am. But I don’t know myself.”
“And who is this Monsieur Morrison?” asked Sylvie.
“He is my saxophone teacher,” said Bertie.
“Ah well,” said Marie-Louise. “I am sure that Monsieur Morrison knows what he is talking about. We should tell you a little bit about ourselves. We are all students here at the Sorbonne. I am a student of English literature. Sylvie is a student of economics – that is very dull, but she does not seem to mind, hah! – and Jarpipe is a student of philosophy. He is very serious, very melancholic, as you may have noticed. He is in love with Sylvie here, but Sylvie loves another. She loves Jacques, who has blue eyes and drives a very fast car. Poor Jarpipe!”
“I live in hope,” said Jean-Philippe, smiling. “What is there to do but to live in the belief of the reality of what you want?
That is what Camus said, Bertie-Pierre.”
294 Deconstruction at the Sorbonne
“Camus is very passé,” said Sylvie. “How can I love one who talks about Camus?”
“I cannot talk about Derrida,” said Jean-Philippe indignantly.
“There is nothing to be said about Derrida. Nothing. Rien. Bah!”
Bertie listened to this exchange in fascination. This was the Paris he had been hoping to find, and he had now found it. Oh, if only Tofu and Olive could see him sitting here with his new friends, on the Left Bank, talking about these sophisticated matters. Oh, if only his mother could see . . . No, perhaps not.
94. Deconstruction at the Sorbonne Bertie enjoyed every minute of the lunch with his new friends in the restaurant in the Latin Quarter. The conversation was wide-ranging, but Bertie was more than capable of holding his own in the various topics into which it strayed. At one point, when Freud was mentioned, he let slip the name of Melanie Klein, which brought astonished stares from the three French students.
“So!” exclaimed Sylvie. “You have heard of Melanie Klein!
Formidable! ”
Bertie had learned that the hallmark of sophisticated conversation in Paris was the tossing out of derogatory remarks, usually calling into question an entire theory or oeuvre. He had been waiting to do this with Melanie Klein, and now the opportunity had presented itself. “She’s rubbish,” said Bertie.