Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

by Michael Bond

  ‘You mean … there are no facilities on board?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably staggered. ‘That is indeed a grave oversight.’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse, that is not what I mean. In the current situation “facilities” of the kind you doubtless have in mind are low on the agenda.’

  ‘But Monsieur, with respect, six hours is a long time. After all that food and drink …’

  ‘As things stand at the moment, Pamplemousse, there will be no food and drink. There will be no food and drink for the very simple reason that no one has thought to provide any. For weeks people have been planning. Schedules have been drawn up, security arrangements tested. Everything that could possibly go wrong has been thought of. Every aspect of the programme has been covered, not once but time and time again. All except the one vital factor, sustenance.’

  The Director paused to let his words sink in before resuming.

  ‘Imagine the atmosphere aloft if thirteen hundred hours came and went and there was no sign of déjeuner. It would be icy in the extreme. Entente would be far from cordiale. Had the arrangements been made in Angleterre one might have understood. They would probably have been happy to make do with sandwiches and a thermos of hot tea – although to give them their due, even that would be better than nothing – but for La Belle France to make such a cardinal error – poof! It is hard to credit. We shall be the laughing-stock of Europe. Heads will roll, of course, but that doesn’t solve the immediate problem. Which is where, Aristide, we come in. Or rather, you do.’

  ‘I, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sat bolt upright. Had the Director suddenly let off a shotgun at close range he could hardly have been more startled.

  The Director assumed his ‘all has been decided, yours is not to reason why’ tones. ‘Le Guide has been charged with making good the omission. We have been given carte blanche. Of course, Michelin will be piqued and Gault–Millau will be seething. Both will probably take umbrage, but that cannot be helped. If all goes well it will be a considerable plume in our chapeau.’

  The interior of a cupboard became illuminated as he opened it to reach inside for a bottle of champagne. ‘I think this calls for a celebration, although I must admit the whole thing came about by sheer chance.

  ‘It so happened that last night I was dining with a group of friends, some of whom are highly placed, and the subject of the conversation turned to that of the dirigible.

  ‘Purely out of professional interest I enquired as to the nature of the catering arrangements. Aristide, you could have sliced the silence which followed my remark with a couteau à beurre.

  ‘I won’t bore you with all that followed. Someone, whose name I cannot disclose, left the table to make a telephone call. When he returned, looking, I may say, a trifle pale, names were bandied around. One by one they were abandoned. Bocuse is in Japan on one of his tours. Vergé is in America. We went through the list, and to cut a long story short, suddenly they all turned and looked in my direction.’

  The cork was removed with the discreetest of pops and the Director held up two glasses to the light to check their cleanliness before pouring. ‘The honour of France is in your hands, Aristide. I need hardly say that not a word of this must be breathed to anyone. That is one of the main reasons why you have been selected. Your vast experience in matters of security coupled with your extraordinary palate and your natural sense of discretion make you an ideal choice.

  ‘I can think of no better person for the job, Pamplemousse.’ The Director raised his glass. ‘Your very good health, and here’s to the success of your mission. I have already drawn up some preliminary notes for a possible menu, but naturally I leave the final choice to you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sipped his champagne reflectively. It was his favourite – Gosset. He judged it to be a ’62. There was a distinct flavour of hazelnuts. The Director must have got it in specially. All part of the softening up process, no doubt. Not that it was necessary; the whole idea sounded intriguing. He would willingly postpone his holiday. This would be a challenge.

  ‘You say the airfield is north of La Baule, Monsieur?’

  ‘It is just outside a little place called Port St. Augustin. You may know it. An ideal location for those wishing to arrive in style at what is probably the best beach in Europe.’

  Port St. Augustin. Monsieur Pamplemousse remembered it well, although it was many years since he’d last been in the area.

  ‘Madame Pamplemousse and I went there soon after we got married, Monsieur. We stayed at the Hôtel du Port. It is perched on the rocks overlooking the harbour …’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The Director looked less than enthusiastic. ‘The Hôtel du Port is full, I’m afraid.’

  ‘There was one other. The Hôtel du Centre, I believe it was called.’

  ‘That too, is fully booked.’ For some reason Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected a note of unease creeping into the other’s voice. ‘It is always the same in Brittany. The season is short and the same people go there year after year.

  ‘However, a reservation has been made for you from tomorrow evening onwards at a small hotel just outside the village – the Ty Coz. I am told some of the rooms have a view of the sea, although the view inland is said to be equally good. The choice is yours.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to ask why, if everywhere else was so crowded, he could get into the Ty Coz with a choice of rooms, but the Director was in full flight.

  ‘The Hôtel has been recommended to me in the strongest possible terms. It seems the owner has invented a whole new cuisine, La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle. And in southern Brittany, Aristide, we all know what that means. Luscious lobsters, fresh from their pots. Tunny fish from Concarneau, sardines from La Turballe, mussels and oysters from the Morbihan … It will be an ideal opportunity to carry out an investigation.

  ‘Ah, Aristide,’ the Director crossed to his desk and gazed lovingly at the airship. ‘All that and a ride in a dirigible to boot. I wish I could come too, but alas, I am on a diet.’

  He picked up the small black object which Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen him holding in his hand earlier, and which he now realised was a radio-control module. ‘Would you care for a go, Aristide?’

  ‘May I, Monsieur?’

  The Director detached the airship carefully from its mooring and gathered it tenderly in his arms. ‘If you don’t mind, I will carry out the initial launch. It is the only model in existence and it wouldn’t do to have an accident. Once it is airborne you will soon get the feel of the controls.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse followed him out onto the balcony and watched while adjustments were being made and the twin motors set in motion.

  ‘It is a complete replica in every detail.’ Like a small boy with a new toy, the Director could hardly keep the excitement from his voice as he licked his finger and held it up to test the wind direction. ‘As I said earlier, no expense has been spared to ensure the success of the enterprise; no stone left unturned …’

  ‘Except one,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse found the Director’s enthusiasm infectious.

  ‘Indeed, Aristide. Except one. The reason for my being given the loan of this is so that we can see for ourselves the ergonomics of the task ahead. Is there, par exemple, room for a dessert chariot, and if so, how large?’ Shading his eyes against the sun, the Director released his hold on the craft and then watched as it set off, uncertainly at first, and then with rapidly gathering speed in the direction of the wide open space of the Esplanade des Invalides.

  ‘You may take over now, Pamplemousse.’

  Feeling slightly nervous now that the actual moment had arrived, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the control unit and began tentatively moving an array of levers.

  On the square below an autobus was disgorging a load of Japanese tourists, all of whom were so busy rushing to and fro taking photographs of each other in groups of varying size and complexity they quite failed to see what was going on above their heads. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflect
ed that had they but known, they were missing a golden opportunity to surprise and delight their friends back home.

  He suddenly realised he’d been concentrating so hard he hadn’t noticed the Director was talking again.

  ‘I was saying, Pamplemousse, I should try and avoid flying too close to the Hôtel des Invalides. It wouldn’t do to attract the attention of the guards. One of them might draw his revolver and attempt to shoot it down. I have promised to return it safely by this afternoon at the latest. The President himself has yet to see it. No doubt he will wish to have a go inside the Palace grounds.’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse moved a lever to the left and watched as the airship began executing a turn to port. It really was most enjoyable. Perhaps when he got back from Brittany he would investigate some more modest version of the toy. A radio-controlled boat, perhaps? The possibilities were endless.

  As he moved another control and set the craft into a downward path which would bring it level with the top of the balcony he felt a stirring behind him. It heralded the arrival of Pommes Frites on the scene.

  Pommes Frites blinked as he emerged from the Director’s office onto the sunlit balcony. Having enjoyed a short nap while the others were talking, he’d woken to find he was alone and that the voices were now coming from outside. Something was going on, and feeling left out of things he decided – quite reasonably in his view – to find out what it was.

  He arrived just as his master was about to carry out the delicate manoeuvre of making the final approach; a manoeuvre which would have been difficult enough at the best of times, but made more so by a sudden downward draught of cold air created by the temperature of the water issuing from the fountain in the courtyard below. It was a manoeuvre which needed the utmost concentration and which most certainly would have been brought to a more successful conclusion, had not what felt like a ton weight suddenly landed on his shoulders just at the moment critique.

  Catching sight of Pommes Frites, and anticipating his next move, the Director issued a warning cry, but it was too late. Watched by all three, the dirigible lost height rapidly and disappeared at speed through an open window several floors below.

  A feeling of gloom descended on the balcony. It was as though a large black cloud had suddenly obscured the sun.

  ‘Let us hope,’ said the Director, ‘that Madame Grante manages to shut off the motors before too much damage is done. I think it was her window the dirigible entered. I trust, also, that it is not an omen.’

  Without bothering to reply, Monsieur Pamplemousse bounded through the Director’s office, past an astonished secretary, and out into the corridor. Eschewing the lift, and with Pommes Frites hard on his heels, he shot down three floors, arriving outside Madame Grante’s office without even bothering to draw breath. There was a possibility, a very faint possibility, that she would be out of her room.

  But as he opened the door he came to an abrupt halt. Patently the room was far from empty. There were papers everywhere. It looked as though it had been struck by a minor hurricane.

  Madame Grante was in the act of closing the door of her stationery cupboard on the far side of the room.

  She turned. ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse?’

  ‘Madame Grante.’ He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. ‘Madame Grante, I was wondering … that is to say … may we have our balloon back, s’il vous plaît?’

  With a flourish Madame Grante deposited a silver key in a place where it would have needed a braver man than Monsieur Pamplemousse to retrieve it. ‘Your balloon, Monsieur Pamplemousse? I see no balloon.’

  For a full thirty seconds they stood staring at each other. Once again he was conscious of a look in Madame Grante’s eyes he couldn’t quite make out. It was something more than mere triumph.

  Wild thoughts of declaring his undying love for her crossed his mind and were instantly dismissed. Bernard always said you never could tell; still waters ran deep. But Bernard had theories about most things. The prospect of Madame Grante melting in his arms was not only remote, it didn’t bear thinking about. Such a declaration might even send her into a state of shock. Not to mention the possible effect on Pommes Frites. Would it get him what he wanted? More important still, would it be worth it?

  For the sake of the Director? Certainly not!

  For the sake of France? No, not even for that!

  Monsieur Pamplemousse knew when he was beaten. He turned on his heels and left, making his way up to the top floor at a somewhat slower rate than he had come down.

  The Director was waiting outside his door. His face fell as Monsieur Pamplemousse came into view. ‘You are empty-handed. Don’t tell me …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘I am afraid we are in trouble, Monsieur. Madame Grante has put the, dirigible where she keeps her P39s.’

  ‘And the key, Pamplemousse? Where is the key?’

  ‘The key, Monsieur, is in a place which is even more impregnable than her store cupboard. It is where she keeps her doudounes!’

  The Director clutched at the door frame for support. ‘This bodes ill, Pamplemousse!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am not by nature a superstitious man, but I fear this bodes ill for us all.’

  2

  A SURFEIT OF NUNS

  Monsieur Pamplemousse focused his Leica camera on the off side of his 2CV, or the little of it which could still be seen above the top of a ditch, and operated the shutter several times. As he did so he pondered, not for the first time in his life, on the immutability of the laws of fate which decreed that following a series of seemingly unconnected events one should, for better or worse, find oneself at a certain spot at a certain time, not a second before nor a split-second after that moment which had all the appearances of being pre-ordained.

  His present situation definitely came under the second category. If fate had indeed had a hand in things then someone, somewhere on high, had it in for him. His star was not in the ascendant.

  He shivered a little, partly from delayed shock and partly from the cool breeze which was blowing in from the sea. He licked his lips. They tasted of salt. Glancing up he registered the fact that the same breeze was bringing with it a bank of dark rain clouds and he hoped it was only a passing storm. The sky to the west still looked bright enough and the long-term forecast was good, but even a minor shower would be bad news in the circumstances. Short of getting back in the car – which wouldn’t be easy – shelter was non-existent. Pommes Frites would be all right. At least he had his inflatable kennel, but there certainly wouldn’t be room in it for both of them.

  If only he hadn’t decided on the spur of the moment to branch off the D99 at Guérande. It hadn’t even been a short cut; a voyage of remembrance rather than one of discovery, an exercise in nostalgia. If he’d stuck to the main road he would have been in Port St. Augustin by now, sampling the delights of La Cuisine Régionale Naturelle.

  Long before that there had been lunch.

  Not that he regretted his meal, but it had been a far more protracted affair than he’d intended. One of his colleagues, Glandier, had left a note in his tray back at the office concerning a little restaurant he’d come across on the bank of one of the Loire’s many tributaries. Any recommendation from Glandier was worth following up, and on the strength of it he’d made a detour.

  In the event it had exceeded all his expectations. Over a Kir made with ice-cold aligoté and served at a little table under a tree by the river, he had been able to watch the work going on in the kitchen, while making the first of many notes to come during the meal.

  The first course – a cucumber salad – had been exactly right. Peeled, split down the middle, its seeds removed, the cucumber had been cut paper thin and sprinkled with salt to draw out all the excess liquid, leaving it, after draining, limp, yet deliciously crunchy. The vinegar and oil in the dressing had been of good quality with just the right amount of sugar added to counteract the natural bitterness. But it was the addition of the few freshwater crayfish which
had lifted the dish above the norm.

  With a basketful of crisp, fresh bread and a glass or two of sparkling Vouvray to help it down, he’d been of a mind to call it a day; a refreshing break in an otherwise long and tedious journey. But then he’d caught sight of some trout being brought to the back door of the restaurant by someone he had earlier seen fishing further along the river bank and the temptation to explore the menu still further had proved too great to resist.

  It had been a wise decision.

  Coated in oil and rolled in flour before being seared in hot butter – quickly enough so that it didn’t stick to the pan, but not so hot that the flour formed a crust – the fish had arrived at the table golden brown. A little lemon juice and some fresh blanched parsley had been added to the butter in which the trout had been cooked and made a golden foam as it was poured over the top at the last moment. The pommes frites were as perfect an accompaniment as one could wish for.

  But it was the dessert which was undoubtedly the pièce de résistance. When Monsieur Pamplemousse saw a man at a nearby table – obviously a regular – tucking into a jam omelette with such gusto and dabbing of the lips with his napkin that it was like a cabaret act, he’d quickly succumbed.

  As with the trout, the omelette arrived at his table at exactly the right moment. Piping hot, the icing-sugar on the top caramelised in a criss-cross pattern by the use of a red-hot metal skewer, the confiture inside of a quality which indicated it had never seen the inside of a shop let alone a factory. He could still taste it.

  Even Pommes Frites, not normally a jam-eater, had signalled his approval, which was praise indeed. The look on his face as his master slipped him a portion said it all. Even so, with a long journey ahead of them, to have indulged in a second helping had been folly of the very worst kind. A feeling of somnolence had set in uncomfortably soon after they set off on the last part of their journey. Snores had started to issue from the back of the Deux Chevaux long before they reached the N23.