Love Over Scotland (32 page)

92. Alone in Paris

When he woke up that morning and realised that he had slept in, Bertie felt intensely alarmed. But he was not a boy given to panic, and so he dressed carefully, brushing his hair with attention to the fact that he was, after all, in Paris. Then he made his way downstairs, allowing himself at least to hope that somebody from the orchestra might have stayed behind for him or possibly left a note. But the woman at the desk informed him that the Edinburgh group had left. She assumed that Bertie belonged to a British couple staying upstairs and it did not enter her head that he was now entirely on his own.

Bertie sat down in the lobby and wondered what to do. They had obviously forgotten all about him, he decided, but they would remember their mistake when they arrived in Edinburgh and his parents asked where he was. He looked at his watch; that should be happening about now. And then they would come back to fetch him, but would probably not arrive until tomorrow morning. So that, in his reckoning, gave him a whole day and night in Paris, which would be rather interesting. He had quite a bit of his spending money left over, as nobody had allowed him to pay for anything, and he could use that to tide him over. It might even be enough to get a ticket for the Moulin Rouge, should he come across that establishment during the sightseeing that he proposed to do.

Paging through his guidebook and map, Bertie decided that he would set off to the Louvre. He liked galleries, and he thought that he would possibly spend the entire morning there. Then he would have lunch somewhere nearby…He stopped. Although he was sure that he had enough money to tide him over, he did not think that it would run to two meals (not including breakfast) as well as the tickets for the various places that he wished to visit. Would the woman at the hotel desk lend him some, he wondered, if he promised to send it back to her when it came to next pocket-money day? He glanced in her direction. No, he did not think that she looked the type of person from whom one could ask for a loan. Tofu would have had no hesitation in asking, of course, as he was always demanding money from people. But Bertie was not Tofu, and Tofu was not in Paris.

Then Bertie had an idea. When the group had gone to Notre Dame on their sightseeing, they had passed through the Latin Quarter and seen a number of people playing their instruments in the street–busking, explained one of the violinists.

“I did that outside Jenners last Christmas,” he said. “I made twenty-four pounds in one morning. Twenty-four pounds! And all I played was ‘Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’ over and over again. It was dead easy!”

The saxophone which had been borrowed for him was still in his room, and it occurred to Bertie that there was no reason why he should not spend the morning busking in the Latin Quarter. He could play ‘As Time Goes By’ from
Casablanca
, which people always seemed to like, and he could vary it with some Satie which he had recently learned. He had read that Satie had lived in Paris, and perhaps some of his old friends would recognise his music and give particularly generously. Or Mr Satie himself might pass by, although he must be very old by now, thought Bertie.

Filled with excitement at his plan, Bertie rushed upstairs and retrieved his saxophone. Then, struggling somewhat with the weight of it, he set out from the hotel in the direction of the Latin Quarter. It was heavy going. After a few blocks, Bertie realised that it would take him several hours to walk across Paris with his instrument, as he would have to stop at virtually every corner to rest his aching muscles. He felt in his pocket, where his money nestled, neatly folded. A taxi would be expensive, he knew, but even if it took all his funds, there was the money that he would undoubtedly soon earn from his busking.

He stood on the edge of the road and waited until a taxi came past. He did not have to wait long, and soon he was seated comfortably in the back of a white Peugeot heading for the point on his map which he had shown to a slightly surprised taxi driver. The journey went quickly and Bertie took the money out of his pocket to pay. He was slightly short of the fare requested, but the driver smiled and indicated that the shortfall was not an issue. Then, staggering under the weight of the borrowed saxophone in its heavy wooden case, he walked a few blocks into the network of narrow streets that made up the Quarter.

It did not take him long to find a suitable pitch. Halfway along one street there was a boarded-up doorway off the pavement. With a restaurant next door, a coffee bar a few yards away on the same side, and a student bookshop opposite, it seemed to Bertie that it was an ideal place for him to play. He set the open case down in front of him–as he had seen other buskers do–and, summoning up all his courage, he started to play ‘As Time Goes By’.

The first person to walk past was a woman wearing a long brown coat and with her hair done up in a bun. As she went past Bertie, she glanced at him, took a few more steps, and then stopped and turned round. Fumbling in her purse, she extracted a crumpled banknote and turned to toss it into the open case, murmuring, as she did so: “
Petit ange!
”

Bertie acknowledged the donation with a nod of his head–as he had seen other buskers do–and modulated into one of the jazz tunes he had learned from Lewis Morrison, ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’. This went down very well with the next passer-by, a visiting Senegalese civil servant, who clapped his hands in appreciation and tossed a few small notes into the case. This was followed by a donation of a few coins from a thin man walking a large Dalmatian. The Dalmatian barked at Bertie and 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 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 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.”

“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.

It made him feel considerably better to say that, and he felt even better when the others agreed with him.

“I’m surprised that anybody still reads her,” said Sylvie. “Perhaps in places like Scotland…”

Bertie thought quickly. He knew that his mother read Melanie Klein religiously, but he did not want to reveal that now. At the same time, his Scottish pride had been pricked by the suggestion that people in Scotland were less at the forefront of intellectual fashion than people in Paris.

“We only read her to laugh at her,” said Bertie quickly. “In Scotland, she’s considered a comic writer.”

The students laughed at this. “Very good, Bertie-Pierre,” said Sylvie. “So, tell me, who do you read at your university?”

Bertie shifted his feet uncomfortably, even though they did not quite reach the floor. “I’m still at school,” he said meekly. “I’m not at university yet.”

The students pretended surprise at this revelation. “But there you are knowing all about Melanie Klein and still at school!” said Marie-Louise. “Remarkable. Perhaps this is the new Scottish Enlightenment.”

Bertie let the remark pass. Jean-Philippe, he noticed, was looking at him with interest. “Tell me, Bertie-Pierre,” the student said. “Who are your friends at school?”

“There is a boy called Tofu,” Bertie replied. “He’s my friend. Sometimes.”

“And tell us about this Tofu,” asked Sylvie. “Would we like him?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bertie.

“Ah!” said Jean-Philippe. “And are there other friends?”

Bertie thought for a moment. “There’s Olive,” he said. “She’s a girl.”

“Well, perhaps we would like this Olive,” said Sylvie.

“No,” said Bertie. “I don’t think you would.”

They were silent for a moment. Then Jean-Philippe looked at his watch. “Well, Bertie-Pierre, time is marching on. We were all going to a lecture this afternoon. Jean-François François, the well-known deconstructionist, is talking at three. Everybody is going to be there. Would you like to join us?”

Bertie did not hesitate to accept the invitation. He had never heard of Jean-François François, nor of deconstruction, but he thought that it would be fun to listen to a lecture with his three friends.

“Time to pay,” said Sylvie, signalling to Henri.

Henri brought the bill over to the table and presented it to Jean-Philippe. He glanced at it quickly and then slipped it over the table to Marie-Louise, who shook her head in disbelief.

“Please let me pay,” said Bertie. “I have lots of money.”

“But Bertie-Pierre,” protested Sylvie. “You are our guest!”

“On the other hand,” said Jean-Philippe, “it’s very generous of you, Bertie-Pierre. And perhaps we should accept.”

Bertie extracted a wad of banknotes from his pocket and passed them to Henri. Then, collecting their belongings, he and his friends left the restaurant and made the short journey on foot to the lecture theatre in the Sorbonne where Jean-François François was due to speak.

There was a good crowd already waiting there. Bertie sat near the back row with his friends and watched the scene as the theatre filled up. There was a great deal of conversation going on between members of the audience, but this died down when a door at the side opened and Jean-François François entered the room. There was applause as he made his way up to the podium, but when he reached it he quickly spat out some words into the microphone and the applause died down.

“What’s he saying?” Bertie whispered to Jean-Philippe. “I haven’t learned French yet.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jean-Philippe. “I’ll translate for you. He just said that applause is infantile. He says that only the bourgeoisie claps. That’s why everybody has stopped clapping.”

Bertie thought about this. What was wrong with clapping, particularly if somebody said something you agreed with? They had been clapped at their concert; was that because the bourgeoisie had been present?

Jean-François François now burst into a torrent of French, pointing a thin, nicotine-stained finger into the crowd for emphasis. Bertie listened enthralled. It seemed to him that whatever the lecturer was saying must be very important, as the audience was hanging onto every word.

“What’s he saying now?” he whispered to Jean-Philippe.

“He says that the rules of science are not rules at all,” Jean-Philippe whispered back. “He says that the hegemony of scientific knowledge is the creation of an imposed consensus. The social basis of that consensus is artificial and illusory. He says that even the rules of physics are a socially determined imposition. There is no scientific truth. That’s more or less what he says.”

Bertie was astonished. He did not know many rules of physics, but he did know Bernoulli’s principle which explained how lift occurred. And surely that was true, because he had seen it in operation on the flight from Edinburgh to Paris.

Bertie turned to Jean-Phillipe and said: “But would Mr François say that Bernoulli’s principle was rubbish when he was in a plane, up in the air?”

Jean-Philippe listened to Bertie’s remark and frowned. Then the frown disappeared and he turned and passed the observation on to Sylvie, who listened with a slowly dawning smile and passed it on to the person next to her. Soon the remark was travelling across the lecture theatre in every direction and people could be heard muttering and giggling. Then a young man at the front of the lecture theatre stood up and shouted out a question, interrupting the lecturer’s flow. Bertie could not understand what it was about but he did hear reference to Bernoulli.

Jean-François François hesitated. He pointed a finger into the crowd and began to speak. But he was now shouted down. There were jeers and more laughter.

“Amazing!” said Jean-Philippe, turning to Bertie in frank admiration. “Bertie-Pierre, you’ve deconstructed Jean-François François himself! Incredible!”

Bertie did not know what to say, but thought it polite to say thank you, and so he did.