I know a reader, who considers herself to be “serious”, who took up Sarah Lotz’s Pompidou Posse on a lark (her term) – though not without trepidation, worrying that the fare the novel dishes up might be too “light”.
Turns out, the book was one of her reads of the year, the only novel that made her laugh out loud on more than one occasion.
For Boxing Day, then, a slice of alternative Paris, and a scene that might have been dreamed up for Woody Allen’s Sleeper – except that it’s set in the past, not the future. If you like what you read, you’ll find a link to another excerpt from Pompidou Posse below:
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‘This is a banana hold-up. Give us yer money or a bottle of whiskey or I’ll shoot yer.’
The guy standing splay-legged in front of us is holding a banana in each hand at his hips, like fruit-wielding stick-up artist. He looks deadly serious.
For once Sage has lost control of her facial expressions. Her mouth drops open and she gapes at me, speechless. Both of us start giggling nervously.
‘Did ye hear me, lassies?’ he growls.
‘Er, yeah,’ I say carefully. I’m not sure how to respond to this guy. What if he’s an unhinged nutter like that mad scary Arab guy or something? Those bananas could be dangerous in the wrong hands. ‘Sorry, mate,’ I shrug as if I mean it. ‘We’re fresh out of cash and alcohol.’
He doesn’t respond or drop his ‘guns’. His hollow cheeks yawn in deeply – just like my Nan’s face when she takes out her teeth. His skin is the thick calloused leather that I’ve begun to recognise as typical of street people, especially the old ones. I reckon it’s because they’re outside so much of the time, but their eyes also seem to sink lower and lower into their faces as if the whole structure is subsiding from overexposure to booze and sunlight. He reminds me of the old alkies you sometimes see drinking the day away in naff Wolverhampton town centre pubs.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Bob approaching. I hope he knows how to deal with this obvious nutcase. Sage and I had been waiting for Bob next to the crap sculpture pond when the banana stick-up artist had sneaked up behind us. We’re normally on high nutter alert, especially around this area, but he’d taken us completely by surprise.
‘Hello, girls,’ Bob says in his posh voice. ‘I see you’ve met Alex?’
‘You know this guy?’ Sage says unbelievingly. I’m also a tad shocked. Although Bob is unashamedly unapologetic about his tramp status, he’s struck me as remarkably normal. Plus, he speaks like one of my folks’ stockbroker friends. I’m dying to know the story behind his exile here, but I’m used to leaving this sort of prying behaviour up to Sage. Strangely, unless there’s something she hasn’t told me, she hasn’t bothered yet. It’s probably because she’s convinced he’s a closet poof, which in her eyes makes him ‘safe’ and unlikely to do a Bobby on us. And maybe she doesn’t think it’s fair to be too nosy. Without Bob we’d still be surviving on stolen Nausicaa yogurts.
‘Alex is an institution around here. Aren’t you, Alex?’ Bob is saying.
‘Aye,’ Alex nods proudly.
‘Now, let me introduce you properly,’ Bob says, as if he’s at a cocktail party instead of amongst a bunch of scruffy, and let’s face it, rather smelly people. ‘Alex, this is Sage and Vicki.’
Alex grins. His remaining teeth are little brown chiclets. His eyes are bright blue stones that gleam wetly from their dark holes. I wouldn’t say it’s an evil face, though. He nods at us.
‘Is a pleasure,’ he drawls in an accent that’s broader than Scotty’s.
‘A clochard de luxe at your service.’
‘A what?’ Sage scrunches up her face.
‘A clochard de luxe,’ Bob says. ‘A luxury tramp.’
‘I’ll not be havin’ ye callin’ me a tramp now, Bob,’ Alex winks at us. He reminds me of those rugged characters that always play the ex-con baddies on Taggart. ‘Now young lassies, will ye join me for a wee walk about the toon?’ he offers us a crooked arm each. Sage looks horrified. I shrug: it doesn’t look like we have much of a choice.
Trying not to flinch at the rough feel of his dust-caked donkey jacket, I hook my arm through his. Scowling, Sage does the same. Neither of us wants to offend Bob by telling his friend to fuck off. Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of annoyance as Bob sits himself down on the pond wall and waves us cheerfully on our way as if he’s doing us a favour.
The three of us hobble towards the smattering of tourist shops in front of the centre’s entrance. It’s not an easy feat. Alex walks with a bow-legged gait as if he’s spent far too long in the saddle or has that rickets disease we learned about in biology class. Waves of alcohol and ancient sweat radiate off his body. The tam-o’-shanter perched sideways on his head is so filthy the dirt has made its own tartan pattern in the material. His trousers flap a good few inches above his battered red Doc Martens.
Mind you, it’s not as if Sage or I look any great shakes at the moment, either. I can’t remember what it feels like to wear newly washed clothes. My underwear is painfully scratchy after hasty washes in the sink with hand soap. It almost seems to crack when I move, as if I’m wearing cardboard pants. My dresses have failed the smell test so often I just rotate them in order of least stinky. I noticed Nausicaa’s mother scrunching her nose up the other day when I’d mistakenly allowed her to get within smelling distance. It’s doing Sage’s head in. She loathes being dirty, and she’s had to wear the same grey sweatshirt for the last three days.
We cut a swathe through the tourist traffic as people naturally give the three of us a wide berth. I’m pretty sure that the passing tourists and lunchtime Frog crowd think we’re some kind of bizarre sideshow, or perhaps they assume Sage and I are taking our mad uncle for an outing. We’re like the tramp version of the Wizard of Oz characters, with Alex as a scruffy scabby Dorothy leading us down the Yellow Brick Pompidou Road.
But from the way Alex’s eyes are predatorily scanning the passers-by, I’m getting the impression that ‘a walk about the toon’ isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be. We’ve just turned down the street parallel to the other side of the Pompidou Centre, when Alex stops dead in front of the queue of people waiting outside the arty farty cinema. Quick as a flash, he drops our arms, and pulling the bananas out from the waistband of his scrofulous trousers he aims the fruit guns at a middle-aged well-heeled couple, who are trying their best to make themselves less noticeable. The other members of the queue titter nervously with relief.
‘This is a banana hold-up, giz yer money or a bottle of whiskey or I’ll shoot yer.’
Unbelievable! The couple start laughing and the smartly suited man pulls out a fifty franc note and passes it to Alex.
Sage looks at me and mouths, ‘Oh my God!’
Alex nods curtly to the couple, as if it is they who should be thanking him for the privilege of being accosted, and not the other way around; then crooks his arms again, signalling that we’re off.
‘Bloody hell, Alex, nice one,’ I say, suddenly no longer feeling quite so self-conscious.
‘Aye,’ Alex sniffs. ‘Bloody Frogs. Fooking idiots all.’
I catch sight of Sage’s face. She’s grinning. It looks like she’s met a kindred spirit.
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