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 290
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: “
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.
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
“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
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?
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.”
