which made the barman, by onomastic filiation, a direct descendant of Thor. There were those who considered the etymology rather dubious, and Decambrais was of their number; but nobody thought it sensible to cut Bertin’s family tree down to size and thereby lay to waste the dreams of a man who had been soldiering away at the sink for the past thirty years.
All the same Bertin’s gong and his ancestry had made the Viking famous well beyond its immediate catchment area, and the place was never less than packed.
Holding his glass of beer aloft, Decambrais cut a careful path towards the table where Joss was sitting.
“Could I possibly have a word?” he asked, still standing.
Joss didn’t answer, but carried on masticating as he raised his narrow blue eyes. Who had spilled the beans? Bertin? Or Damascus? Was Decambrais going to tell him to forget about the vacant room, just so he could gloat over declaring that rough customers weren’t welcome in a place with proper flooring? If Decambrais had it in mind to insult him, then Joss would let the cat right out of the bag. He gestured vaguely to the bookworm to sit down.
“Ad number 12,” said Decambrais.
“I know,” said Joss, surprised. “It was a special one.”
So the Breton had noticed. That was going to make things easier.
“It’s got brothers and sisters,” said Decambrais.
“Yep. For the last three weeks.”
“I was wondering if you had kept them.”
Joss cleaned the gravy off his plate with a piece of bread, which he popped in his mouth before folding his arms.
“And if I had?”
“I’d like to reread them. If you like,” Decambrais said to overcome the fisherman’s blank expression, “I’ll buy them off you. All the ones you’ve got and all the ones you’ll get from now on.”
“So you’re telling me you didn’t write them yourself?”
“Me?’
“Yep, and put them in the urn. I was wondering. It could be your kind of thing, writing old-fashioned sentences no-one can make head or tail of. But if you’re offering to buy them off me, you can’t have written them. That’s a logical deduction, if you ask me.”
“Name your price.”
“I haven’t got all of them. Only the last five.”
“The price?”
Joss pointed at his empty plate. “An ad that’s been read out is like a lamb chop after lunch. As there’s nothing left on it to eat, it’s not worth a sou. So I’m not selling. The Le Guerns may be rough customers, but they never stole a penny.”
Joss gave the bookworm a knowing look.
“And so?” Decambrais asked.
Joss wasn’t sure what move he should now make. Could he really land a room with his five bits of gibberish?
“I’ve heard that one of your rooms is going to be vacant,” he mumbled.
Decambrais’s face froze.
“I’ve got applicants already,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “They have priority, you know.”
“OK, fine,” Joss said. “You can keep your patter for yourself. Hervé Decambrais Esquire doesn’t want a rough customer clumping muddy boots over his fine carpets. Better to say it straight out, isn’t it? Only graduates get into your place, unless you’re called Lizbeth, isn’t that right? And I’m not likely to turn into one or the other any time soon.”
Joss drained his glass of wine and put it down rather sharply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and all of a sudden calmed down. The Le Guerns had been through much worse in their time.
“That’s fine,” he said as he poured himself another glass. “Keep your room. I can see your point of view. You’re not my kind of bloke, and I’m not yours, and that’s the end of it. Can’t do a thing about it. You can have your bloody messages if that’s what you’re excited about. Meet me at Damascus’s place this evening, just before the 1810 newscast.”
Decambrais turned up on time at Rolaride. Damascus was busy adjusting a customer’s rollerblades. His sister, standing behind the till, beckoned to the
All the same Bertin’s gong and his ancestry had made the Viking famous well beyond its immediate catchment area, and the place was never less than packed.
Holding his glass of beer aloft, Decambrais cut a careful path towards the table where Joss was sitting.
“Could I possibly have a word?” he asked, still standing.
Joss didn’t answer, but carried on masticating as he raised his narrow blue eyes. Who had spilled the beans? Bertin? Or Damascus? Was Decambrais going to tell him to forget about the vacant room, just so he could gloat over declaring that rough customers weren’t welcome in a place with proper flooring? If Decambrais had it in mind to insult him, then Joss would let the cat right out of the bag. He gestured vaguely to the bookworm to sit down.
“Ad number 12,” said Decambrais.
“I know,” said Joss, surprised. “It was a special one.”
So the Breton had noticed. That was going to make things easier.
“It’s got brothers and sisters,” said Decambrais.
“Yep. For the last three weeks.”
“I was wondering if you had kept them.”
Joss cleaned the gravy off his plate with a piece of bread, which he popped in his mouth before folding his arms.
“And if I had?”
“I’d like to reread them. If you like,” Decambrais said to overcome the fisherman’s blank expression, “I’ll buy them off you. All the ones you’ve got and all the ones you’ll get from now on.”
“So you’re telling me you didn’t write them yourself?”
“Me?’
“Yep, and put them in the urn. I was wondering. It could be your kind of thing, writing old-fashioned sentences no-one can make head or tail of. But if you’re offering to buy them off me, you can’t have written them. That’s a logical deduction, if you ask me.”
“Name your price.”
“I haven’t got all of them. Only the last five.”
“The price?”
Joss pointed at his empty plate. “An ad that’s been read out is like a lamb chop after lunch. As there’s nothing left on it to eat, it’s not worth a sou. So I’m not selling. The Le Guerns may be rough customers, but they never stole a penny.”
Joss gave the bookworm a knowing look.
“And so?” Decambrais asked.
Joss wasn’t sure what move he should now make. Could he really land a room with his five bits of gibberish?
“I’ve heard that one of your rooms is going to be vacant,” he mumbled.
Decambrais’s face froze.
“I’ve got applicants already,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “They have priority, you know.”
“OK, fine,” Joss said. “You can keep your patter for yourself. Hervé Decambrais Esquire doesn’t want a rough customer clumping muddy boots over his fine carpets. Better to say it straight out, isn’t it? Only graduates get into your place, unless you’re called Lizbeth, isn’t that right? And I’m not likely to turn into one or the other any time soon.”
Joss drained his glass of wine and put it down rather sharply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and all of a sudden calmed down. The Le Guerns had been through much worse in their time.
“That’s fine,” he said as he poured himself another glass. “Keep your room. I can see your point of view. You’re not my kind of bloke, and I’m not yours, and that’s the end of it. Can’t do a thing about it. You can have your bloody messages if that’s what you’re excited about. Meet me at Damascus’s place this evening, just before the 1810 newscast.”
Decambrais turned up on time at Rolaride. Damascus was busy adjusting a customer’s rollerblades. His sister, standing behind the till, beckoned to the
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