All the time that Francois lives on the ground floor at Seven Milner Square, he is careful to mind his own business. Does not wish to make waves or draw unwanted attention to himself. This household of squatters are an interesting assortment. Patricia, the hotshot secretary and personal assistant to a Greek shipping tycoon by day and a drug-taking, sexual predator by night. Scott, a trainee manager for an art company, running a crew selling paintings, taking art to the masses. Supplying his crew with drugs and, if they need it, finding them squatting accommodation at the Elgin Avenue squat. The American army deserter, Al, who does what? Nobody seems to know. Supplying Patricia, the ersatz landlady, with heroin. Big, blonde Sheila, Patricia’s lover, has the build of a female wrestler. She works in a sandwich bar on Upper Street. Can be really scary. And, of course, the beautiful-looking Francois who works for the famous French interior designers and suppliers, Roche Bobois at their main London location on Baker Street …
Of late, Francois has taken to lightly tapping on Scott’s door at ten o’clock on Sunday mornings. Poking his handsome head around the door when Scott eventually responds, inviting him to Sunday lunch for two o’clock at Lacey’s restaurant on Upper Street ... Scott was careful not to be tripping on the first Sunday they went to lunch. Francois is very impressive and Scott wants to know more. He looks like an attractive cross between the French actor, Alain Delon, and martial arts expert and kung fu fighter, Bruce Lee. With Francois’s father having been an officer in the French army, that enabled him to obtain a French passport. Scott’s not that brilliant on peoples’ ages and Francois is quite hard to judge, Scott guesses late-twenties. If people don't venture their age then it’s best not to pry. Everybody has their reasons, just like Scott trying to be twenty-four. What is so refreshing about Francois are his charming manners, his immaculate dress and ease of movement. When he smiles or laughs he becomes truly radiant. He seems to have taken a shine to Scott and now calls him Old Chap at every opportunity. As if this dubious title of affection was somehow quintessentially English and goes well with their Sunday roast. If and when they meet in the week, which is quite rare, Francois will enquire easily with “How are we today, Old Chap? Savoir?” Scott usually smiles back with a snappy “Savoir bien tot” ...
Lacey's restaurant on Upper Street is a delight for Sunday lunch. Francois reserves a special table-for-two positioned with a clear view of both the other diners and the teeming street outside. What is so compelling about Francois are his subtle little ways. His correctness and obvious delight in attempting to master the nuances of what he perceives as Englishness ... The Sunday lunch at Lacey’s is the traditional fare with accommodating, friendly staff who seem to take a pride in the restaurant. The sort of place where you can linger talking over a meal and nobody hustles you, or worse, presents you with the bill as to move you on. Even though Lacey’s is always packed out, you feel like a valued customer and the staff aren’t only interested in emptying your pockets …
Slowly, over a few weeks of Sunday lunches at Lacey’s, Francois gradually leaks out information about himself. As if he’s carefully waited to present it. Judging Scott. Deciding if he is to be trusted with personal details. So often, as Scott finds out afresh every day, new people going out with the crew, will blurt out great chunks of their lives if they are allowed to, without any thought of who they are talking to. Any regard to the consequences or repercussions in the future. The all-consuming desire to show oneself ... Of course, one of the points you have to look for, as Scott had already discovered with Advanced Art, is that some folk are just habitual liars. Some are just natural born liars. A few seem to live in a Walter Mitty fantasy land. Many others are looking to impress you. To impose how clever and smart they are on you, before they discover the truth of selling paintings on velvet door-to-door.
Francois must feel comfortable with Scott now. To reveal personal details about himself and take Scott fully into his confidence. Though Scott senses there is always a reserve. A place where you cannot go with Francois. Something he hasn't been able to fully fathom the exact nature of yet. Maybe it's just that oriental sense of mystery that surrounds him ... Francois reveals that his mother died suddenly in nineteen sixty-six. Asiatic cholera. Which to Scott’s ears sounds horrific. Don’t they inoculate against such a disease? He doesn’t like to ask. Better just to listen. Francois is very clever at using his voice, as if operating in his third language gives him a sense of freedom to experiment with sounds. He will occasionally stop in mid-sentence and check a particular vernacular expression or cliche with Scott. These parts of the language seem to amuse him greatly and he delights in them ... When he talked about his mother his beautiful black eyes kept darting around the restaurant. Forever checking his surroundings. As if spies may be secretly eavesdropping in their Sunday lunchtime conversation and keeping a record of what he says. He’s not paranoid. Scott believes that having sold heroin to American soldiers in Saigon he's naturally, especially vigilant. Living in a city constantly under surveillance and at war must make you that way. Feeds into your blood … then Francois will break away from discussing himself and the events of his life, and lean forward towards Scott's ear as if he does not want the other diners to read his lips or hear what they're talking about. An expansive smile and then the careful wave of his right arm and hand to describe the whole of Lacey’s dining area.
“This is Candyland, Old Chap. Just look. Young families having their Sunday lunch in a special restaurant in peace. Twelve-year-old boys and girls treated as adults and served and catered to as if it is the most normal occurrence in all the world. They grow up believing that life is like this everywhere on the planet. When the reality is that three-quarters of the people of the earth live with some kind of constant daily fear, an underlying expectation of disaster. This Candyland is so special. It is to be preserved, cared for. It is so singular and we should never take it for granted, Old Chap.”
Francois has tears of gratitude in his eyes. As if, at this moment, from where he came from, black-hooded men brandishing 'M-sixteens' would burst into Lacey’s restaurant and gun down all the well-dressed young teenage children and their elders and dedicate their deaths to the ongoing revolution … Francois seems so taken with the beautifully dressed and presented twelve-year-old English girls who can have Sunday lunch and behave as young women. So, adult. So civilized …
Scott mistakenly believed that Francois was sending money to his mother and sister in Saigon every month. Francois never corrected him on that assumption in previous conversations. He just let it be and carried on the conversation. Now Scott knows better. It’s his aunt, his mother’s sister, and his own younger sister that he provides for. Maybe there was some shame attached in revealing that both of his parents were dead. He was, is, obviously very fond of his mother. Perhaps the hurt was too powerful to reveal, perhaps he's still recovering from the shock of her sudden death ... Of course, he is nobody’s fool and can see beneath the well-constructed facades of the families who frequent Lacey’s restaurant every Sunday. It is a well-observed pretence. The ways that they are attempting to project are already in the throes of slowly crumbling.
Francois was left to fend for himself aged twenty, twenty-one, in South Vietnam, an occupied country at war. He took to selling heroin to American GIs to survive so it is only to be expected that, from underneath his gracious exterior and manners, he can occasionally unveil a jaundiced eye ... To hear Francois talk you would think that half of all the American forces in Vietnam were taking heroin. Scott very much doubts that, no matter how persuasive and charming Francois is over today’s dessert of plum pudding. Although, even if the figure was say, twenty-percent that would still be a huge amount. No wonder the Americans seem to be losing their war in Vietnam.
Many young British officers, shocked and struggling to cope with the modern warfare of the First World War trenches in France, were grateful to receive parcels containing food, clothes and heroin sent by their kindly mothers, courtesy of Harrods the Department Store that caters for every eventuality. This went on for nearly a year until, of course, the Generals cottoned on to the disastrous and debilitating effect on their young, public school educated officers ... morale needed boosting as the war wasn’t over in the forecast six months. The young officers were having a high old time. Some blew their brains out. Others went AWOL and were later discovered living in French brothels. Some dug a hole in the ground and climbed in never to be seen again. Others disappeared altogether. Many were killed wandering vaguely along the tops of trenches. Christ, who could blame them. Scott thinks he would have been only too happy to shoot up heroin in the slaughterhouse and carnage of the bloody First World War trenches. Seeking a quick solution, heading for oblivion. Of course, heroin was declared a highly dangerous drug and was criminalized by the British government around nineteen-fifteen ...
Scott smiling at the thought of all those well-meaning, upper class English mothers, popping into Harrods in Knightsbridge to buy some good food and clothing to send to their sons in France and purchasing heroin to help ease the pain and take away the constant sorrow, distress and fatigue. All well-intentioned, harmless and completely mad. But then, all aspects of war are mad.
Towards the end of nineteen sixty-seven Francois had saved enough money to at last fulfil his dreams. He'd applied for and was finally granted a French passport at the third attempt. He was able to pay for a series of passages by ship that would get him to Marseilles. Why didn’t he fly? Scott rarely interrupts Francois, but the question just flew straight out of his mouth. Francois just smiles in that all-knowing way of his. When he is animated or laughing and smiling he seems very Asian. Vietnamese. When he is silent and implacable then he is a young, handsome, French gangster ... Francois explains, pausing as the Lacey’s waitress takes away the dessert dishes, that he wished to see something of life before he reached France. Even just a few ports of call along the way would be exciting. He had the time. After all, when you enter an aeroplane which is really no more than a large tin bird with engines, you sit in a tiny seat and contemplate your fate. Looking desperately for any kind of distraction. And eventually, after what seems like an eternity of time, you are deposited at an airport. It may be quicker and work out cheaper, but all you've seen are clouds and felt fear and the hopelessness of your situation should any accident occur. At least on a ship you have the misguided idea that if the ship went down you could swim for a while until the sharks got you …
As the Sunday lunches slide by, more of Francois’s tale slips out. At last, realizing his long-held dream and arriving in the South of France. That cradle of sun, sand, sea and sky. Enough to dazzle anybody’s eye. Especially a young, impressionable, half-Vietnamese, half-French, new arrival from Saigon ... Francois enrolled himself at a college in Avignon to study interior design. Selling heroin to American soldiers had proved to be a very lucrative business. Francois doesn’t have any regrets about dealing heroin. Neither is he ashamed. To survive is all that matters in whatever way you can. It's always easy to be critical of other people’s choices and experiences. Scott fights very hard not to be judgmental. To stay open …
For Francois, living and studying in Avignon was like waking up one morning and finding yourself in a vision of Heaven. Yes, the course was difficult. And not everybody was helpful to him. But compared to Saigon these were palmy days indeed ... Francois gained his Diploma in Interior Design and, through an introduction from a tutor at Avignon College, obtained an interview with the prestigious French interior design company, Roche Bobois …
The Sunday lunches of roast lamb, roast beef and roast chicken at Lacey’s restaurant in Upper Street have all been consumed, and Francois has just reached Paris and a successful interview with the Roche Bobois company. In that charming mannered way of his, he will discuss the present and all things of Englishness with the Old Chap. A comic anecdote, an observational aside. Forever amazed to be in Candyland. For him everything is so simple and easy. It is beyond belief, but you sense that his experiences have taught him to be suspicious. To understand that this is only a certain moment in time. Candyland is present for now, but can easily melt away, disintegrate in the flicker of one of Francois’s long black eyelashes. This is why he mentions it so much between luncheon courses. Steering the conversation away from himself. If he refers to Candyland enough times it may stay around longer …
The draw and excitement of Paris can be overwhelming if you do not control it. Francois worked hard in his first year with Roche Bobois. He got to learn the entire process and workings of the company. Resisted the nightlife of Paris. Took an additional evening course in interior design and worked assiduously ... Lacey’s restaurant is only half full today. Scott guesses it’s the start of the summer holidays and a lot of the usual families of Sunday diners have headed off to exotic destinations like the South of France, Tuscany, Corfu, the Algarve and Crete. The young, teenage, English roses are sunning themselves in luxurious climes …
Francois earned his reward after fourteen months in Paris. Roche Bobois promoted him and transferred him to their excellent showrooms at Baker Street in London. He was on his way ... Francois is very clever with his hands when he is talking. They are quite small hands, perfectly manicured and finely chiselled. He seems to encourage his words with them. If the right word doesn't appear in English he will hesitate a second, try the French equivalent and move those hands of his in such a way as to translate the very meaning. It is all very charming and Scott finds the whole process amusing and endearing. The Old Chap is a willing participant …
Francois squats at Seven Milner Square to save money. The extra funds he squirrels away get sent every month to his sister and aunt in Saigon ... He met Patricia by accident late one night in a bar on Upper Street. She fell off her bar stool. Francois helped her up and bought her a drink. With that introduction he soon secured a room at Seven Milner Square. He is Patricia’s idea of a respectable tenant. Immaculate manners. Halting English with just that level of mistakes that make conversation comically endearing. Francois always dresses in two-piece, lightweight, French suits. Either in light blue or grey. Wears white, cotton shirts buttoned at the wrist. Black tie, black shoes and socks. Immaculately turned out.
Scott and Francois had met on Saundays at Lacey’s for a good while when events took a dramatic turn for Francois. A very rich Indian businessman from Bombay is having an office designed by Roche Bobois of Baker Street and asks for Francois to be his
advisor and appointed designer. The said office is situated at the rear of Knightsbridge Underground Station, off Sloane Street on Harriet Street ... Francois tells this to Scott one evening on a rare late-night visit. He is cautious, wary perhaps, as to what he might encounter. But all is safe and well this particular late Thursday night ... Scott still buzzing from the sales day. A smoke of freebased coke. Francois likes just a little. He has some great news.
“I just had to share it with you, Old Chap.”
The rich Indian businessman and his unseen partners have offered Francois a job. They have invited him to manage the shop and office in Harriet Street ... Francois confides in Scott that at the moment he is earning twenty-five pounds a week with Roche Bobois. A very prestigious company, but they don't pay that well. That is, until you make your way up the company ladder into the higher echelons. The rich Indian businessman from Bombay is offering Francois a salary of two-and-a-half-thousand pounds! Fifty pounds a week as well as a five percent commission on whatever he sells. Francois is talking about antique Indian furniture. Chairs, tables, divans, stools, ornaments, statues, carvings, wall-hangings and paintings ... Francois explains that all of these items and more are ‘Tres expensive, Old Chap’... Why, he was shown an antique Indian chair which carries a price tag of one hundred thousand pounds!
“Just think of that, Old Chap! One hundred thousand pounds for a chair and it doesn’t even look that comfortable to sit in!” He laughs and it’s a different sound. It has a ring of future prosperity in it. Francois is naturally very excited and why wouldn’t he be, when just four years ago he was surviving by hustling top grade heroin to American soldiers in Saigon. This is an opportunity of a lifetime and he’s worked very hard for it. The Gods of good fortune are smiling on him. And yes, even with a wage of fifty pounds a week, he is going to continue to squat at Seven Milner Square. After all, why not.
“I am so happy here, Old Chap. Things go so well for me. This is proving to be a lucky spot, n’est ce pas? I have met you and made friends, Old Chap. That is good, no? Now I shall be able to send more money back to my sister and aunt in Saigon. This makes me so happy. But you must promise me, Old Chap, that you will not tell a soul. I mean no one. Not even a lover late at night, which is when most men give away their secrets. This is just between us, Old Chap ... You understand?” Scott nods firmly. They shake hands as a sign of good trust.
“You are the only friend I have made here, Old Chap. Friends, even casual ones, are so hard to come by. People always want something, information, money, a helping hand, as you English say. It's never straightforward.”
Scott smiles and agrees. Sets up another silver valley of freebase cocaine. He is so happy for Francois. Very pleased for him. He deserves this break … Francois leaves Roche Bobois quickly. He worked one week’s notice and claimed the three weeks of holiday-pay that was owing to him, to complete one month’s required notice. There was no going away party or fond farewells from his fellow workers.
“I just left on a Friday evening at five-thirty Old Chap, and the showroom manager had not even waited to bid me adieu!”
Francois has twice invited Scott to his new office in Harriet Street. He seems very proud of his new position, so a couple of weeks later, one morning around ten o’clock, Scott motors over to Knightsbridge. In a fit of nostalgia, he drives the Paris green Cortina down Sloane Street, turning right into Pont Street and parking the car close by the house to where Lillie Langtry, the actress and former mistress of King Edward the Seventh used to live. She was a first cousin of Scott’s maternal great-grandmother. It’s silly, but he feels a connection …
Walking back up Sloane Street towards Knightsbridge. Turning down a small side road on the right, the antique shop is the only place of business in the street. Everything else is residential. A highly prized and expensive location ... The shop sign in large gold lettering proclaims ‘LAKSHMI ANTIQUES’. Francois informs Scott later that, in his world, this implies great wealth and good fortune … Scott sat with Francois in a small, glass office, more of a cubby-hole really, though it affords a clear view of all the shop area. Francois doesn't like the word shop; he thinks it’s too down-market. Very pleased with himself for his sentence-construction, and gleaming at Scott. He much prefers the title 'Emporium', Old Chap.
Scott has noticed the differences already in Francois. He is sporting a very expensive gold watch. A gift. The gold metal wrist strap alone looks worth a king’s ransom. Also, a gold identity bracelet to bring him good luck he says. Yet another present.
“You have to look the part, Old Chap. That is why I have this brand-new suit. Do you like the waistcoat, Old Chap?” Nothing for it, but to say yes. Why spoil his optimistic mood. Though he looked much better in his light blue and grey, two-piece suits. Now he is in light brown and everything is changed. His manner oozes confidence in keeping with his new surroundings. Very plush. Very expensive. The walls are lined in Japanese silk wallpaper. The floor boasts a fluffy beige carpet that a small dog, say a Pekingese, could easily get lost in. Spotlights are positioned at advantageous angles. A chandelier is suspended from a faintly silver ceiling. The overall effect is arresting, On display are two ancient looking armchairs, upholstered in red, ornamented with what look, to Scott, like gold studs all around the edges. A matching divan sits across the room admiring its surroundings.
There's a huge gold statue of a fearsome female figure. Scott counts four arms. This is a representation of the Goddess Kali. Not to be talked about lightly according to Francois. She is apparently the Hindu Goddess of Destruction. One has to be careful around her. She is well known for her terrible savagery and cannibalism. Two low, antique brown tables are supporting lamps that have highly ornamental lampshades with lovely Indian ladies dancing in flowering dresses of all the colours of the rainbow. And that's it, save for a small squat figure of an elephant in white that makes Scott smile. He asks Francois if it's a representation of the elephant god, Ganesha?
“No, no, Old Chap. Just a small elephant. That is all.”
Becoming very serious. As if all these rich Indian antiques and this highly decorated emporium have imposed a strictness of behaviour and a seriousness of manner. Money is a serious business. No laughing matter ... Expensive, excessive, exclusive, but who exactly will find their way down to Harriet Street. No one is going to come in off the pavement. Wander in just having shopped in Harrods and start buying up antique Indian furniture. Francois is quick to point out to Scott that this Emporium, as with all such establishments, is just a front, a showcase. A viewing area with which to work. The real business is really conducted in places like the restaurant in the Dorchester Hotel. Or late at night in the Playboy Club. Francois proudly shows Scott his Playboy membership card.
“You like the coffee, Old Chap?”
“Excellent, Francois, Truly excellent.” Scott’s thinking that regardless of the changes in him, Francois fits so perfectly in this place. Surrounded by all these precious objects. Like an Asian curator of French poise and smooth character. He looks as if he should be for sale himself. And Scott suspects that in a way he is. Bought and paid for by the Indian moguls …
“I have splendid news, Old Chap ... More coffee?” ... The pause, the delay, the fussing with the coffee pot and cups. The glancing at a passer-by through the large, showcased, emporium windows. All to heighten the moment. Create the effect …” I have sold my first item, Old Chap.”
“You have!...What?...How much?...Christ! Well done, Francois!”
“Do you see that antique brown chair over in the corner, tucked out of the way? Hiding behind the divan with a cloth covering half hanging off it?”
“Well, now that you’ve pointed it out to me, I do. I hadn’t noticed it before.”
“One hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, Old Chap.”
Silence …
“Congratulations, Francois! That's terrific!”
Scott, of course, realizes that all of these precious antiques and artefacts must have been smuggled out of India illegally. These rich Indian businessmen that Francois is now working for are just gangsters in the name of art and religion. They must be paying backhanders right the way down the line. Bent customs officials, false documentation. Secret transportation. This is one huge scam. Except, of course, a scam implies a sense of fate, a falseness and there is nothing sham about the powering eyes of the statue of Kali glowering at Scott right now ... Francois, of course, must know all of this or at the very least suspect it. But somehow refuses to acknowledge or mention it. If you say nothing then it remains silent, unstated and may just stay that way indefinitely. Once you keep alluding to something it gains momentum, it gets arms and legs. A journalist prints a story on page three of the Times newspaper. A phrase like ‘Our stolen heritage’ is coined and later used in the Indian Parliament. Eventually coming to the attention of the Prime Minister, Mrs Indira Gandhi.
Francois doesn't look like he has a care in all the world, his hands resting easily in his new suit pockets. Thinking about his five percent commission on the small, brown, antique chair he has sold to an American collector for a small fortune. He laughs.
“We could hang one of your velvet paintings on the wall of the Emporium, Old Chap ... Which one would you suggest?”
“Shredded Time!” …