Chapter 6: First Steps

In mid-September, a week after I shared a night of passion and chocolate éclairs with Madam Curtis, the Chevalier and I left Biarritz en route to Perpignan. I had assumed we would leave Biarritz on the day I agreed to work for the Chevalier although my contract with the restaurant did not expire until the end of the season. The Chevalier advised me to continue working at the Café Pavé for the remainder of my contract as staff who leave hotels and restaurants abruptly without giving notice are placed on a black list. Blacklisted personnel find future employment at top rated, better paying, establishments hard to come by and are forced to work in places like fast food outlets, and motels that rent rooms by the hour.

I took the Chevalier’s advice and continued waiting on tables while he spent the week at card tables in the several casinos of the town recouping the money expended in his pursuit of the delectable Chloe Curtis and her mother.

The Chevalier had hired a car to take us to Perpignan, from where we would first visit my parents at Le Boulou. Much to my surprise he elected to drive the vehicle himself, although I was able to spell him en route as I had passed my driving test not long after my fifteenth birthday. The Chevalier was an excellent driver, and as we sped along the AutoRoute towards Toulouse I compared this journey with the one I had made in the opposite direction some six months earlier.

My father had driven me, in the van used for meat deliveries, to the Perpignan railway station. From there I took the train to Toulouse and then a series of local buses that seemed to stop in practically every village on every minor road between Toulouse and Biarritz. Eventually I was deposited on the sea front at Biarritz where I gratefully gulped in great lungfuls of the Atlantic driven air. For the previous four hours I had been jammed up against a great lump of a female whose BO could have be classified as a WMD, and I certainly needed some clean fresh air to clear my sorely abused nasal passages.

Now, with the car purring along the A63 at a steady 90 kph, the in-car ambience fresh and pleasantly warm and the ethereal sounds of The Gesualdo Six coming from the CD player, it was a completely different experience to the sweaty, uncomfortable, and seemingly interminable journey of six months previous.

I had learned much in the intervening time, and not only of female anatomy but also of the hospitality sector, the profession where I aspired to become a fully trained worker.

For the first few miles we kept a companionable silence. I was remembering the delights enjoyed with Veronique Curtis and supposed the Chevalier was recalling the equally pleasant time he spent with her daughter Chloe.

“Madame Curtis was fulsome in the compliments she paid you.” The Chevalier interrupted my daydreaming with uncanny accuracy. “You exceeded all of her expectations,” he shot me a swift smile. “And mine. We make a good team and I foresee years of a mutually beneficial partnership ‘twixt Champignon and Planchette,” he paused and removed a small packet from the glove compartment. “In fact here is a gift from Madame Curtis as a tangible proof of her pleasure at meeting you.” I ripped open the packet to reveal a small square box emblazoned with the name Cartier in gold script. Inside the box nestled a pair of gold cuff links inset with square cut diamonds. The Chevalier smiled.” A worthy gift, the first of many and the one you will treasure the most.”

He was absolutely correct. I still wear and treasure those cufflinks, although I have had many other pairs given me over the years.

The Chevalier was silent for a few more miles before returning to the conversation. “Madame Curtis informed me the pair of you indulged sans protection?”

I assumed ‘indulged’ was the Chevalier’s term for fornication. “Yes, Madame asked if I had always worn a condom when – err – indulging, and I replied that I had. I spoke the truth, Chevalier, believe me.”

A warm smile appeared on his face. “I do believe you, Rafael. It was your honesty that first drew you to my attention.” He gave a chuckle, “and the way Madame Curtis looked at you when first we met.” We were approaching a toll booth and the Chevalier busied himself with paying the charge before continuing. “As a companion, close companion, to ladies of a certain age, you will be obliged to satisfy their every whish and desire, and the females will expect you to be in a state of health so that protection is not required.” He held up his hand to stop me from interrupting. “Yes, I know you are sexually healthy but before we set off for the season both you and I will need to be examined and have certification to confirm our health status. All the females who we will be indulging with will have similar certification and so there will be no need to wear protection. However, and I cannot stress this strongly enough, should you indulge with any other female than the one you are escorting and fail to use protection then I would have no choice but to dismiss you from my service. It was what I had to do with your predecessor. He lied to me and his action could have resulted in disaster for me and my reputation.”

“You can rely on me to use a condom whenever I need to, Chevalier.”

He nodded, “Thank you, Rafael. I have complete confidence in you.”

Five hours after leaving the Atlantic coast we arrived at the Hotel Majestic in Perpignan from which I rang my parents and informed them of my new position of valet/companion to The Chevalier Champignon. They were naturally eager to meet my new employer and asked to speak to him. The Chevalier took the phone from my hand and in less than a minute had my mother eating from his, and he was invited to visit Chez Planchette the next day.

“Rafael will serve as my valet, companion, driver, and right hand man,” the Chevalier began after introductions and handshakes had been exchanged in the house in Le Boulou that was not only Chez Planchette but also Le Boucherie Planchette.

“Rafael cannot drive without supervision, Chevalier. He is only sixteen,” my mother interrupted.

“I’m nearly seventeen,” I insisted.

“Yes, I know exactly how old you are, Rafael. I was present at your birth.” At times my mother can be as sarcastic as any Englishman. “However, you cannot drive without supervision until you are eighteen. That is the law.” My mother is very law abiding, other than when it comes to filling in tax returns.

“Rest assured, Madame Planchette. I will be with him every time he is behind the wheel of the car,” the Chevalier said in a soothing tone of voice. My mother favoured him with one of her incandescent smiles.

“What is it that you do for a living, Chevalier, if you don’t mind me asking?” she said, expecting her smile to have dazzled him enough to reveal himself.

The Chevalier was too well mannered to say if he did mind being asked. “I was apprenticed to my father, who was a Master Butcher,” he said, smiling, and received surprised looks from both my parents. “I am no longer a butcher but a professional gambler. My speciality is cards, and I make a good living by my skill. I never venture anything on Roulette as the wheels are rigged but cards cannot be.”

“Isn’t that a rather precarious profession; don’t casino security watch for professional card players at the table and run them off?” My father asked.

“It would be precarious if I were not adept at most card games. As for security at the casinos; I am not a greedy person, and leave the casino before they become aware I am taking lots of their money, or rather taking the money which they hoped to acquire from their customers.” The Chevalier smiled at my mother. “And I can assure you, Madame Planchette, your son will not have to bail me out of jail.” He saw he had convinced her and then regaled her with much the same sales pitch he had given me when inviting me to join him in snaring the mature mothers of the young girls he intended ‘indulging’ with, although he left out those parts not suitable for a mother to hear. He did however elaborate on his modus operandi

“I ply my trade between the months of May and September. From October to the end of December I reside at The Hotel Superb in Menton. My former valet was an Italian whose family live in Taggia, and I allowed him to visit his family when not engaged in looking after me. I find European winters hard to bear even on the Cote d’Azure so spend the first three months of the year in Morocco. I return to Menton at the end of March and prepare my itinerary for the coming season. My valet remains at my suite in Menton during my absence in Morocco and works full time at the hotel. Of course this is...”

“Who looks after you in Morocco?” my mother interrupted.

“I rent a suite for three months in a family-run hotel. The hotel staff are very solicitous and look after me as if I were one of the family.”

“Do you expect Rafael to stay in Menton when you visit Morocco?” My father asked.

The Chevalier shook his head. “I stayed in Menton as it was convenient not only for the many casinos along the coast but also near my former valet/companion’s family. Naturally, I will move my base to somewhere nearer to Le Boulou so that Rafael would be able to visit you as often as possible.”

I could see my mother was enchanted by the Chevalier although my father was not so impressed. Always the pragmatist my father asked if there would be a legal contract of employment. He fixed the Chevalier with a steady, grey eyed, gaze after the question had been posed. The Chevalier returned the steady gaze with one of his own, and I noted that my father and the Chevalier’s eyes were a similar shade of grey, and each had thrust out a similarly pugnacious jaw.

It was the Chevalier who first broke eye contact. “But of course there will be a contract of employment between me and your son, Monsieur Planchette. We will visit an Advocate of your choice first thing tomorrow morning and have a contract drawn up that will satisfy both you and me,” the Chevalier said in a conciliatory tone of voice. Both he and my father relaxed and exchanged slight smiles. It was if there had been a passage of arms, and both participants had assayed the metal and the worth of the other.

The following morning a contract of employment, drawn up by Attorney Lorraine, was signed by the Chevalier and myself and witnessed by my parents. The contract was renewable and ran for a year, setting out my duties and responsibilities as well as my remuneration.I would receive a weekly allowance of 100 Euros from the Chevalier and would be his valet/driver/companion; in fact a ‘gentleman’s gentleman’ as the English describe the position. I would ‘volunteer’ to work in any capacity for free at any hotel that the Chevalier and I stayed at. I was not to play cards for money with, for, or against, the Chevalier, and my mother put in an extra article that stopped me from imbibing spirits until eighteen years of age.

The Chevalier explained to my parents that he spent a season, as he called it, in a specific region of Europe and visited the major casinos of the area. He had been in Brittany at the start of the year, visiting casinos at Dinard, St Malo, Brest, Quimper and Vanes before moving on to Bayonne and Biarritz in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques department.

“I make a comfortable living at the card tables of casinos but my major income stream comes from the private card games hosted by the casinos,” the Chevalier said. “These are usually one of the many variants of poker, more rarely backgammon or baccarat. Large sums are wagered; it is a rite of passage for a certain type of man, those who wish to be thought of as alpha males, who aspire to be heads of international, multinational, conglomerates or top politicians in government. They wish to be numbered among the movers and shakers of the world, and always have a beautiful woman on their arms.” He smiled knowingly. “Regardless of their aspirations, the old adage ‘a fool and his money are soon parted’ usually holds good for them. Although they may not be foolish they play recklessly, as does any man who plays cards for reputation and esteem and can afford to lose. I am a professional. I cannot afford to lose and I play to win. However, there is a problem when playing high stakes games with ruthless men who although they can lose a hundred thousand euros a night and not notice it, hate to come second in any competition. When taking part in a game with megalomaniacs as players the game can go on for days – I once played non-stop for eighteen hours. When in one of those types of games I try and make my money early on, then fold my cards and silently steal away, clutching my winnings.” He sighed ruefully, “but that was a long time ago. Now I let the alpha male win the large, last, pot but my contribution is small compared to the other aspiring alpha males who have been my playing companions. Recently I ‘lost’ to an international weapons dealer with a hair-trigger temper. However, my losses were covered by the large sum I had won the night before from a member of the British aristocracy, a chinless wonder whose IQ was less than that of his Golden Retriever. This way I do not upset dangerous men but walk away with some of their money.” He paused as if remembering the chinless wonder he had taken money from, and I noticed a quick flicker of a smile cross his face. “One has to be something of a mathematician and psychologist in professional gambling,” the Chevalier continued. “Fortunately, I have a well-trained memory and a fair grasp of mathematics, particularly the Bernoulli Distribution and Bayes’ Theorem. I am also able to ‘read’ most players...”