Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft

by Michael Bond

  A few minutes later they drove out of the hotel car-park and joined the queue of traffic already heading for the beach.

  As the sea came into view Pommes Frites put his head out through the open window on the passenger side and sniffed. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Exhaust fumes rather than ozone filled the air; that, and a strong smell of ointment. Neither was pleasant on an empty stomach. The automatic seat belt alongside Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened as they negotiated the roundabout in the centre of the town and Pommes Frites settled back in his seat.

  But if Pommes Frites was looking forward to a gambol on the sands followed by a dip in the ocean, he was disappointed. His master had other priorities. Pulling up alongside a row of telephone cabines at the far end of the promenade, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to wait.

  Flicking open his wallet as he entered the nearest cabine, he withdrew a blue plastic card from its protective covering and committed it to a slot in front of him. Sliding shut the small black door in the apparatus he pressed a series of buttons appropriate to his call; the 16-1 code for Paris, followed by a further eight digits. He noted that nineteen of the original forty units on his Télécarte were still available. Provided he didn’t have too many interruptions they should allow him more than enough time to give vent to his feelings. During the drive from the hotel he had marshalled his thoughts into their appropriate order, rehearsing out loud his end of the conversation, honing it and polishing it until he was word perfect. Even though he hadn’t understood a word, Pommes Frites had got the gist and he’d looked suitably impressed.

  ‘Le Guide. Puis-je vous aider?’ A familiar voice responded before the second ring was complete.

  ‘Ah, Véronique. Monsieur le Directeur, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse! How are you? And how is the weather in Brittany?’

  ‘The weather in Brittany,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is très bien. I, unfortunately, am not. I am far from bien.’ He kept a watchful eye on the digital counter. Véronique was a nice girl, but he had little time at his disposal for pleasantries. He was short of change and he didn’t want to spend time looking for somewhere to buy another carte.

  Something in the tone of his voice must have conveyed itself via the many cables and amplifiers linking the western coast of France with the seventh arrondissement in Paris. Nuances of urgency had not been attenuated en route.

  ‘I will put you through at once, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse murmured his thanks and waited, growing steadily more impatient with every passing second. Clearly the Director was not poised, as his secretary had been, in readiness to receive incoming calls.

  He glanced across the road while he was waiting. A police car was parked outside the circus, but there was no sign of the occupants. Two men were busy setting up the carrousel. To the side of one of the caravans a woman was hanging out a line of washing. There was no sign of the girl, Yasmin, although he could see her car parked alongside a big generating lorry near the back. Behind the car, somewhat incongruously, there was a large menhir – one of the many ‘great stones’ bequeathed to that part of Brittany by a people who had inhabited the land even before the Gauls had come upon the scene.

  Looking towards the port he considered the possibility that he might see Mr. Pickering, but the road was empty. Nearly everyone was down on the sand. A low stone wall separated the beach from the promenade, at the same time sheltering beds of late spring flowers from the prevailing wind. That too, was new. Beyond a beflagged sign bearing the words Centre Sportif children’s heads rose into view, hovered momentarily, then disappeared again as their owners bounced up and down on a trampoline. Further down the beach other small figures were hard at work building sandcastles, anxious to complete them before they were enveloped by the incoming tide. He guessed they must be English. An insular race, the English, always digging themselves in. Their insularity and desire to conquer started at an early age. Even as he watched, one of them confirmed his suspicions by adding a Union Jack to one of the battlements. A provocative gesture on foreign soil – especially as he must have brought it with him with that sole purpose in mind.

  A late fishing boat chugged its way towards the harbour, an escort of gulls wheeling and screeching overhead. An old biplane came into view, towing a banner. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he made out the word cirque.

  ‘Aristide, how are you? And how is the weather in Brittany?’ It was the Director at last, sounding slightly out of breath. Did his voice also contain a hint of anxiety? A suggestion of trepidation?

  Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the reply he had given Véronique, but with even greater emphasis.

  ‘Oh, dear. I am sorry to hear that, Aristide. I was hoping the change of air would do you good. May I ask what is wrong?’

  ‘I can give you the answer in three words, Monsieur. Cuisine Régionale Naturelle.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you are tired of fish already, Pamplemousse. I find that hard to believe.’ The Director assumed his censorious voice. ‘You have only been at Ty Coz a matter of hours. Hardly time to unpack your valise.’

  ‘My valise, Monsieur, is in the back of my car, and there it will remain until Pommes Frites and I have found another hotel.’

  ‘But, Aristide, is this not a trifle premature? It is a plum assignment. Cuisine Régionale Naturelle is, after all, an entirely new technique. If we are to consider it for inclusion in Le Guide, extensive field trials will be necessary. I hesitate to say this, but it is a well known fact that our taste buds diminish in number as we grow older. One has to persevere, however …’

  ‘Mine will disappear altogether if I stay at Ty Coz,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They will have been pickled for posterity.’

  ‘Come, come, Aristide. This is not like you. As with all new things, Cuisine Régionale Naturelle is doubtless an acquired taste.’ There was a definite note of panic in the Director’s voice.

  ‘Then someone else will have to acquire it, Monsieur. Guilot, for example. He is always trying to lose weight. He might welcome the chance to go without food for a while.’

  Over the telephone he heard the distinct sound of a cork being withdrawn from a bottle. It was followed by a ‘glugging’ noise. He braced himself for the attack. It was not long in coming.

  ‘Pamplemousse. Nothing grieves me more than to have to put the matter this way, but I am afraid it is no longer a request. It is a command. Accommodation has been reserved at Ty Coz until the day after the launch. Your flag is firmly placed on the map of France in the operations room. I must warn you here and now that if you go elsewhere not only will opprobrium fall upon your head but I shall be unable to justify your P39s to Madame Grante …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath as he cut across the Director’s monologue, but with only five units left on his card it was essential to get his point across.

  ‘Monsieur, have you tried eating Cuisine Régionale Naturelle?’

  ‘I am told it is very popular in Okinawa, Aristide …’ Clearly the Director was not giving in without a fight. Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to remark that it confirmed his worst suspicions. Whoever had recommended the hotel couldn’t possibly have been a Frenchman. An oriental with a grudge perhaps?

  ‘There are doubtless many things not to our taste which are popular in Okinawa, Monsieur.’ In deference to Pommes Frites he turned and lowered his voice. ‘Chiens en croûte are probably considered a delicacy, whereas over here …’

  He paused.

  Along the road nearer the port a man on a ladder was pasting a white paper across one of the circus posters.

  ‘It is also possible that the waters of the Pacific are less polluted than those of the Atlantic Ocean, but even if that is true I doubt if they cook everything in sea-water. Fish is not the only speciality of the region, Monsieur. The Guérande peninsula is also the centre for salt production …’ Even by hanging outside the cabine he couldn’t read the la
bel.

  ‘Everything? But that is not possible!’

  ‘Tout à fait, Monsieur. Everything at Ty Coz is either cooked in or made with sea-water. The bread, the mayonnaise, even the coffee. Had we stayed for breakfast, I am sure even the dough for the croissants would have been mixed with sea-water. Pommes Frites was sick twice yesterday evening and he is not normally one to complain.

  ‘The final straw came when I mistook the end of his nose for a truffle.’

  A nun zoomed past on a cyclomoteur, a brace of baguettes clipped to the rear pannier. Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. He could have sworn he’d caught a glimpse of rolled-up trousers beneath her black skirt as it billowed in the slipstream. He crossed himself as he followed her progress along the promenade.

  ‘Pamplemousse, are you there? Can you hear me? Did you say a truffle? Frankly, I am worried about you. Was the roof of your car open on the journey down yesterday? One forgets the sun can be strong at this time of the year.’

  ‘Pardon, Monsieur. I was distracted momentarily. A nun went past on a motorised cycle. Her habit was caught in the slipstream and I couldn’t help noticing what she was wearing underneath …’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Pamplemousse! I sometimes despair, I really do. Is there no end to your depravity? Is there nothing that can assuage your desires of the flesh? A poor girl who has forsaken all to take the vow?’ Once again there was a distinct sound of something being poured from a bottle. ‘Was she – was she a young novice, perhaps? I must confess, I have often wondered about these things myself.’

  ‘Monsieur, whatever else she was, I suspect she was no novice, nor was she particularly young.’

  ‘Age is immaterial, Pamplemousse. It is the principle. Or rather, the lack of principle. It is …’ There was a click and the line went dead.

  Feeling that it had somehow been a less than satisfactory conversation, not quite as rehearsed, Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the handset and left the cabine. Perhaps in the end if accommodation was difficult he would compromise by keeping his room at the Ty Coz and eating out. But at least he had made his point.

  He hesitated for a moment. The man with the ladder was now working on another poster – slightly nearer this time. He wondered whether to take a closer look, then glanced at his watch. It showed barely a quarter to ten. His rendezvous with the airship wasn’t until eleven. There would be time to take a quick look at the circus – perhaps even reserve a seat for the evening’s performance – before strolling along to one of the cafés near the harbour for a leisurely breakfast. He must also remember to get a card for Doucette. That was always one of his first acts on arriving anywhere. She would start to worry if he didn’t.

  Pommes Frites jumped out of the car and followed his master across the road with alacrity. There was a lot to catch up on.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way towards the back of the waste ground. Close to, the BMW looked even more incongruous against the menhir; the blue van parked on the other side of it hardly less so. He wondered idly what the early inhabitants who had struggled to erect the stone all those thousands of years ago would think if they could see it now. No doubt they would marvel at the BMW, just as today’s inhabitants marvelled at the stone. Both attracted their worshippers.

  Pommes Frites had no such respect for antiquity. For some reason best known to himself he appeared to have taken a violent dislike to the menhir. Having run round and round it several times growling and barking, he then bestowed his mark, not as a sign of favour, but rather the reverse, sniffing the stone at the same time, thus leaving behind a strong smell of embrocation as well. The previous evening’s meal had given rise to a great thirst during the night, and Pommes Frites was clearly in no hurry.

  While he was waiting, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around. He had a strange, almost eerie sensation of being watched, but there was no one about. The whole site seemed strangely quiet. The doors to the motley collection of caravans were nearly all closed; the blinds drawn. There was no sign of the woman with the washing he’d noticed earlier. The line of side shows still had their shutters up. No doubt when the lights were on and there were people around it was all very different, but by daylight it simply looked tatty. Tatty and rather sad. The old Gustave Bayol carrousel had seen better days, although nothing would ever replace the quality of the delicately carved horses with their rosettes and tassels. It must have been someone’s pride and joy when it was new.

  He wandered along through the fairground towards the circus tent, past the Dodgem cars and a heavily ornamented caravan belonging to a fortune-teller, its sides covered in paintings of stars and other heavenly bodies. Next to the caravan were two tents, one of which had a Jacques Courtois painted canvas façade advertising the only bearded lady left in Europe, the other bore a picture depicting the smallest man in the world. Both tents had their flaps tightly closed. Next came a coconut shy, and after that a helter-skelter.

  He could smell the circus long before he reached it; a mixture of sawdust and animals. It was the same smell he had noticed in the girl’s car.

  Some Arab ponies were tethered to a tree, and near by there was a cage containing an elderly lion. It was fast asleep, enjoying the sunshine. Clearly, it suffered from the kind of affliction even its best friend wouldn’t have mentioned. But who would tell a lion? Seeing something lying on the ground, he stooped and picked it up. It was a small piece of fibreglass, newly sawn – the cut was still shiny. From force of habit he slipped it into his pocket.

  To his right lay the entrance to the ‘big top’, fronted by a decorated pay-box. He made his way across the down-trodden grass. It was worth a try. But once again he drew a blank, and he was about to give up when he heard someone call out.

  A man appeared from behind a lorry, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘What do you want? We’re not open yet.’

  ‘I was wanting a ticket for the circus.’

  ‘The matinée has been cancelled.’

  ‘Tonight will be fine.’

  ‘Tonight! Pas de problème! You can have as many as you like. Vingt, cinquante, cent …’

  ‘I want one only.’

  ‘Poof!’ The man raised his hands. Clearly he had better things to do than open up the box office just for the sake of selling one ticket. He pointed towards the fortune teller’s caravan. ‘You’d better see Madame Caoutchouc. She’s the boss.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back across the fairground, threading a path through the stalls and sideshows until he reached the caravan. Signalling Pommes Frites to wait outside, he climbed the steps and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a moment or two he turned the handle and pushed it open.

  He found himself in a small area curtained off by black drapes hanging from rails fixed to the ceiling. In the middle there was a round, baize-covered table in the centre of which stood a large crystal ball. There were two chairs – one just inside the door, the other on the far side. A single shaded lamp suspended from the roof threw a pool of light onto the table.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse called out, but again there was no reply. Pulling the curtain on his left to one side revealed a bedroom. A built-in bed occupied most of the space and to one side of it there was another door. It was reminiscent of a ship’s cabin or the sleeping-berth on an overnight express train – all polished wood and brass. Underneath the bed he could see what looked like a long leather bag. On top of the bed there was a red cushion embroidered with a piano keyboard.

  He tried parting the curtains on the other side. It was a real old-fashioned Showman’s caravan and no mistake. A long bow-fronted sideboard ran along one wall. The top was covered with knick-knacks collected during a lifetime of travel, old photographs in silver frames, china and brass ornaments. They must all be stowed away when the circus was on the move and brought out again at each place of call. In the centre of the sideboard, looking totally out of place, there was a Sony hi-fi – all black dials and knobs, with two miniature loudspeakers, one on either side. On
the wall behind it there was a large old-fashioned mirror with a patterned border etched into the glass. On a small table in the centre of the room there was a vase full of fresh flowers, and along the remaining wall a small sink and a cooking stove let into the top of some fitted cupboards.

  It was someone’s whole world encapsulated in a few square metres.

  It certainly wouldn’t have done for Doucette, nor for him either. He found himself wondering what Madame Caoutchouc did in her spare moments – other than listen to the radio. There wasn’t a single book or a magazine to be seen anywhere. His own day was rarely complete without reading something before he went to sleep. Perhaps she didn’t have any spare moments.

  At that moment he heard footsteps coming up the steps. He let the curtain fall back into place and turned just as the door opened.

  If Madame Caoutchouc was surprised to see such an early customer she hardly registered the fact. Instead she motioned him towards the nearest chair.

  She looked worried, distracted. He could see the family likeness at once. She was an older, larger version of the girl. Yasmin in perhaps twenty years’ time.

  ‘I have told you all I know. There is nothing more to add.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably baffled.

  ‘I’m sorry. I do not understand …’

  It was Madame Caoutchouc’s turn to look confused.

  ‘You are not from the press?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Or the police?’

  He shook his head again. ‘No. I simply wanted to buy a ticket for tonight’s performance.’

  Madame Caoutchouc gave a short laugh. ‘Tonight? Tonight, there will be no problem, Monsieur.’ She reached for the door handle.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. For reasons best known to themselves, Le Cirque Bretagno was not in the business of selling tickets that morning. So be it. He turned and was about to leave when the memory of the man pasting over the advertising posters came back to him.