His text to me said "Just ask anyone. Everyone knows me".
And sure enough, she knew him but not his house number. Luckily, just passing, was a woman who did. As they explained how to find to his house- apparently extremely difficult by motorbike with the narrow, steep cobbled roads, steps and the one way system- several other people on the pavement who also knew him well joined in our conversation.
The gallery itself was worth a visit.
A bit of a tardis with a melange of kitch which included those characteristically saccharine yet quirky French paintings, overtly sexual sculptures, dark cellars with landscapes of the local terrain, of both mind and body, and rather a lot of 'Zap' and 'Fritz the Cat' comics harking me back to 1970's California.
And now I know why the comics were there.
According to my in-house wise man, Wikipedia, "in the mid-1990s American underground comic artist Robert Crumb traded six of his sketchbooks for a townhouse in Sauve.
He presently lives there with his family.
The drummer of the Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts, also has an apartment in the town."
After a bit of up and down and round about, I found the friend of a friend.
It was excruciatingly bad timing.
He was escorting a gorgeous young woman down the stairs and explained, cold and clear, that they were off for a very long walk.
I could stay one night if I wanted, but all he could offer was a bed his workroom, and he'd be up extremely early to continue with the renovation of his house.
A few minutes after they departed a tail wagging dog sauntered in followed by his bearded barefoot master. The dog had that eager to do a bit of territorial marking look on his face.
" Sorry, X isn't here." I said.
"Oh? Well, I don't know him anyway."
The bearded man didn't make eye contact. He looked the room up and down, taking in the red Chinese lanterns, the long, saffron coloured silk scarves that swagged from the ceiling, the Siamese paper umbrellas either side of my magenta bed.
He continued,
"there's a sign on the street saying anyone is welcome to come in so long as they don't f*** about with anything".
"Oh. I see."
The bearded man was a compatriot, from Alabama, although I didn't let on to our common land and during his life story he asked me no questions. For the past ten years he's been a guitarist in a hillbilly band in Belgium. Perhaps thinking I didn't believe him, he flicked out his business card for me with a magician's flourish, whistled to his dog and walked back down the stairs.
I left at first light, careful to not make a noise.
Later that day, I received another text from X, kindly inviting me back again if I were ever passing.
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