by Michael Bond
Bathed in the light from a single overhead bulb he saw a figure stretched out on a bunk at the far end. From the way it was lying it was patently obvious why there had been no reply.
10
THE FINAL PRINT-OUT
Monsieur Pamplemousse studied a long, hand-written list of ‘things to do’ as he paused for a moment outside the Director’s office, mentally ticking off the items as he went.
JoJo was in his rightful place in Madame Grante’s apartment; the stand-by oiseau from the pet shop was back with the Director. That in itself hadn’t been as easy as it sounded. The first mistake – and one he wouldn’t make again in a hurry – had been to let both birds out for their morning fly at the same time. Catching one had been bad enough; catching two was more than one too many. With the early-morning traffic building up behind him in the Rue des Renaudes, the taxi driver had not been pleased at being kept waiting.
On the way back to Madame Grante’s apartment he had visited her in hospital. Outwardly at least, she was very little the worse for her experience and, subject to a favourable report from the doctor, she would be going home later that same day.
Before leaving the Rue des Renaudes for good, he had been through the apartment with a fine-tooth comb. Sheets and pillow cases had been taken to the launderette and were freshly ironed, and every last trace of Pommes Frites’ hairs had been removed from the carpet and rugs with a vacuum cleaner. JoJo’s supplies had been ‘doctored’ to make it look as though they had never been replenished. Monsieur Pamplemousse was particularly pleased with the last touch. It was what separated the professional from the amateur. He’d very nearly slipped up and filled both water and seed bowl to the brim. The sand on the floor of the cage looked as though it hadn’t been touched for days. With luck Madame Grante would have so many other things on her mind she would never know he had been there. Any missing items of food she would put down to her erstwhile lover.
He’d ordered some flowers and a large box of chocolates for the girls in Communications. They should arrive at any moment.
A message of thanks had gone out to Jacques asking when and where he would like to be taken out to dinner. The fact that in the end he’d been able to do without his help was beside the point, there were still things to be done.
Only one vital piece of the jigsaw was missing – the fate of the missing disques, and that he could do nothing about.
Suddenly conscious from the odd glances Pommes Frites kept giving him, that he wasn’t exactly looking his best, Monsieur Pamplemousse made a half-hearted attempt at straightening his tie, before knocking on the door.
‘Aristide!’ The Director jumped to his feet and came bounding round his desk as they entered. ‘Congratulations!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. ‘It is not quite as satisfactory as I would have wished, Monsieur.’ Personally he would have awarded himself eight out of ten at the most. Without the vital disques, publication of Le Guide would have to be delayed indefinitely.
‘At least we can sleep safely in our beds from now on. What do you think will happen to him?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave another shrug, even more non-committal than the first. How long was a piece of string? It was out of his hands now.
‘Time alone will tell, Monsieur.’
Like a visiting dignitary inspecting his guard of honour, the Director stood back in order to get a better view of his guests.
‘I trust Pommes Frites’ head will soon be better.’
‘The vétérinaire has said the bandages can be removed in a few days.’
‘Good. Good. As soon as they are we must make sure he is suitably rewarded.’ The Director fastened his gaze on Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I must say you have surpassed yourself this time, Aristide. Before we go any further I must let you divest yourself of your disguise, although if I may venture one criticism, I doubt if even the most hard done-by of the working classes – an artisan who has seen his livelihood submerged beneath a tidal wave of cheap imported Japanese goods, or someone practising what has become a dying trade, a wheelwright, perhaps, or soothsayer – would hardly venture forth knowing there was a large tear in his trouser leg. As for the jacket lapels hanging by a thread, do you not think that is a trifle over the top?’
‘I am afraid, Monsieur, I had a little accident. I was climbing through a ventilation shaft and it got caught in a projection of some kind. As for the trousers, I had an encounter with some rose bushes. I will ask Madame Pamplemousse to see what she can do before I return them.’
The Director stared at him, glassy-eyed. ‘You mean that is my suit you are wearing?’
‘Oui, Monsieur, it is the one you were kind enough to lend me.’
‘But that was one of my best suits, Pamplemousse. It came with a ten-year guarantee!’
‘In that case, Monsieur, there is no problem. You have good cause to complain.’
‘They are not designed for use below ground, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely, ‘least of all in les égouts!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a deep breath. He could see he was in for a difficult time. ‘It was not in the sewers, Monsieur,’ he began. ‘It was in the Canal Saint-Martin …’
‘Canals, sewers, they are all one and the same, Pamplemousse.’ The Director sounded less than mollified.
‘Perhaps, Monsieur, you could catch Madame Grante while she is in a good mood. In the circumstances she can hardly turn down a claim for expenses.’
‘Hmmph. You don’t know how much it cost. She will need to be in a very good mood indeed. I suggest you choose something a little less costly for the time being – you will find a sports jacket somewhere in the wardrobe.’
‘You are very kind, Monsieur.’ Before the Director had time to comment further, Monsieur Pamplemousse disappeared into the other room. Ever sensitive to the atmosphere, Pommes Frites followed on behind.
When they returned, the Director was busying himself in front of his drinks cupboard, opening some wine. He looked in a better mood. Monsieur Pamplemousse caught a glimpse of the label on the bottle. It was a Bâtard-Montrachet from Remoissenet, an ’83. It must have been left over from the launch party. Perks were not confined to the office staff making free telephone calls.
‘I have put another bottle on one side for you, Aristide. I think you deserve it.’ The Director must have read his thoughts.
Monsieur Pamplemousse murmured his appreciation as he took a large Burgundy glass and held it to his nose. So much had happened it hardly seemed possible that only a few days had passed since he had last tasted it. ‘Twice in one week is a very great privilege, Monsieur. It is not often I am able to afford such nectar.’
The Director brushed aside the compliment. ‘Good wine is never expensive, Aristide. Only bad wine is expensive.’ He crossed the room and opened one of the french windows leading to his balcony.
‘I do believe we are in for a change in the weather. Look, the sun is shining.’ He stepped outside and took in a deep draught of fresh air. ‘A perfect spring day at last!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse joined his chief on the balcony. All around there was the hum of traffic. The Boules players were still at it.
‘I am dying to hear everything. Tell me about Madame Grante, how is she? What did she have to say when you found her?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. The truth was that in the event it had all been strangely formal. When he removed her gag she had said ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse’ and he had said ‘Madame Grante’. They might have just bumped into each other in the street. Afterwards, on the way to the hospital, he had held her hand and she had said his name again.
‘She is little the worse for her adventure, Monsieur. It is largely a matter of getting her circulation back. When I went to see her she was already asking about the P39s, wondering if they were beginning to pile up. I did my best to reassure her.’
‘Ah, with some people, Pamplemousse, recovery is a mixed blessing. Tell me, was she … was
she complete? Did she have her full complement of digits? There was nothing missing, I trust?’
‘As far as I could tell, Monsieur, Madame Grante was complete in every detail. Those that were visible. I cannot, of course, vouch for what lay or did not lie beneath the sheets.’
The Director had the grace to blush. ‘You know what the mail is like these days, Aristide. There might have been something still in the post. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if anything had happened.
‘Has she … has she recovered in other ways?’
‘It is hard to say, Monsieur. Time alone will tell.’
‘I wonder what made her do it?’
‘Love clouds judgement, Monsieur.’
‘Do you think there was any love on his part, or was it totally a matter of expediency?’
‘Perhaps a little of each.’ Secretly, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself hoping there was a lot of the first. It would be unbearably sad if there wasn’t.
‘It is certainly hard to picture.’
‘La nuit, toutes les chattes sont grises, Monsieur. They say that all cats are grey in the dark.’
‘Do you really believe that, Pamplemousse?’
‘Non, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘No, I have never believed that.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. Were that true there would be little hope for mankind.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking it would also mean an end to romance. He took in the scene before them. The Eiffel Tower to their left, in front of them the Seine, and beyond that the Grand Palais and the Tuileries. On the horizon there was the Sacré-Coeur to remind him that he would soon be home again. The whole added up to a feeling of permanence.
The Director read his thoughts.
‘France may be a country divided into fifty-five million inhabitants, Aristide, but with all our faults, God loves the French best. We don’t have a future, we have a destiny, a destiny rich in memories of the past. We are indeed a favoured nation. That is my belief.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to remark that the poet Péguy had thought of it first. The Director was definitely feeling better. He was about to enter one of his Napoleonic moods. It was one of the great disadvantages of being situated within sight of the Emperor’s tomb. He chose the line of least resistance.
‘It is a very reassuring view, Monsieur. It makes it even harder to believe that such a small mistake made by one person so many years ago could have caused so much disruption.’
‘No, Aristide, there I beg to differ. It was not a small mistake, it was a blatant and unforgivable act of deception, one which brought dishonour not only to his calling, but to his father’s memory as well. It had to be stamped on.
‘Curnonsky, the Prince of gastronomes, once said: “Never eat the left leg of a partridge, for that is the leg it sits on.” A counsel of perfection perhaps, but one must have standards. Gastronomy is not just a matter of pots and pans, it is also a mental attitude.
‘We must maintain our standards. I have read that there are more nutrients in a cornflake packet than there are in the actual cornflakes themselves. There are undoubtedly people out there who are only too willing to take advantage of that fact. We must guard against the erosion of our taste-buds in the name of convenience. The world is full of people who care so little about standards they would be only too willing to meet the demands of those who eat to live rather than live to eat in order to make a profit.
‘Do you wish to eat neurotic tasteless birds, brought up on antibiotics, killed before they have acquired any taste, frozen solid until they are like rocks before being dumped into a freezer cabinet, with nothing left to thaw out except water? Or do you want to eat birds which have been brought up on a proper diet of maize and dairy products; chicken which taste as though they have led a happy life?
‘It may sound a small matter, Pamplemousse, but it is the tip of the iceberg. In the end it is a matter of how you want things to be. What kind of world you wish to inhabit. That was the question uppermost in my mind that evening many years ago, and once I had posed the question, I had no doubt in my mind as to the answer.’
The Director was right, of course. Monsieur Pamplemousse would have done exactly the same thing in his place, otherwise what was he doing in his present job?
‘And now, Aristide, for my little morsel of news.’ The Director turned and led the way back into his room. ‘I think I may say with all due modesty that I have achieved something of a breakthrough myself. When I woke this morning and found you had returned the oiseau to my office, I must say I felt somewhat piqued, but at long last patience has reaped its due reward. Somewhat late in the day the oiseau and I have established a rapport. Conversation is limited at present to a few basic pleasantries, and the language is, I fear, not all that one might expect from a creature who has spent most of its life either in the nest or in the company of a maiden lady, but who knows where it may lead, perhaps even to the recovery of the missing disques?’
Crossing to where the bird cage was standing, the Director removed the cloth with a flourish.
‘Comment ça va, JoJo?’
The effect, as far as at least one member of his audience of two was concerned, was no less magical than it would have been had they been watching the great Robert-Houdin performing at the peak of his career.
‘Comment ça va, JoJo?’ The Director’s words were echoed by a smaller, though in its way, and size for size, hardly less powerful voice. There then followed a stream of expletives which would not have disgraced a stevedore who had suffered the misfortune of having a bulk container break loose from a dockside crane and land on his foot.
‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse involuntarily added his quota to JoJo’s list of adjectives as the truth of the matter sank in. Somehow or other he must have got the two birds mixed up. His heart sank as he looked at his watch. In all probability Madame Grante would be getting ready to go home by now – if she wasn’t already on her way. There wasn’t a moment to be lost.
‘I am sorry, Monsieur. I shouldn’t have inflicted JoJo on you. I will remove the cage at once. In any case I must return him to Madame Grante.’
‘I shall miss it, Aristide.’ The Director looked genuinely sorry. ‘Birds are strange creatures. They are like women. Who knows what goes on in their minds?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to strike while the iron was hot.
‘Monsieur, I know someone whose oiseau has recently received a great shock. In all probability it has temporarily lost the power of speech. Given your success with JoJo …’
‘You’re a good fellow, Aristide. I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few days.’ The Director crossed to his drinks cupboard. ‘You must have two bottles of wine. I insist.’
If Monsieur Pamplemousse had a twinge of conscience, it was only momentary. After all he had been through, he felt as though a whole vintage would not have come amiss. He paused at the door.
‘I shall be back very soon, Monsieur.’
It was with a feeling of déjà vu that Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed out of a taxi in the Rue des Renaudes for what he fervently hoped was the very last time plus one. He was beginning to get the feeling that he was somehow caught up in an avant-garde play, doomed to trudge the streets of Paris for ever carrying a bird cage as a penance for past misdemeanours. His mood transmitted itself to his companions. Pommes Frites clearly felt much the same way about things as he gazed gloomily up and down the street, and the object of the exercise, JoJo himself, had remained mute for the whole of the journey.
As they paused outside the entrance to Madame Grante’s apartment, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt in his pocket for the keys, then stifled an oath. In his anxiety to restore the status quo and return things to normal he’d put them back in Madame Grante’s drawer at the office. He turned and waved, but the taxi had already disappeared round the nearest corner.
It was then that he made his second mistake. Truly, misfor
tunes never came singly. Glancing towards the upper floors of the block he caught sight of Madame Grante looking out of her window. She must have beaten him to it. It was also abundantly clear from the look on her face that she had seen everything, including the cage.
He made his way into the entrance hall and pressed the button for her apartment. He would have to put a brave face on things. In response to a buzz, he pushed open the inner door, signalling at the same time for Pommes Frites to remain where he was. Pommes Frites was only too pleased to obey.
The lift was waiting. On the way up it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that it seemed to be going faster than usual. The door to the apartment opened before he had a chance to touch the bell-push.
‘Madame Grante … I know you are not going to believe this …’
‘In that case, Monsieur Pamplemousse, why bother to tell me.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
‘As you may have gathered, when we became alarmed for your safety I visited your apartment.’
‘I trust Pommes Frites did not come too. JoJo is terrified of dogs. He either goes berserk or else he goes into hiding. Once, when I had a friend for déjeuner, he hid in a fold of the curtains. It took me until the evening to find him.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse held up the cage. ‘I realised that, Madame Grante. Which is why I thought it best to remove him to a place of safety. JoJo has been in good hands. He has been staying with the Director. The one in your cage is merely a stand-in.’
As JoJo jumped from his perch and clung to the bars of the cage nearest Madame Grante, Monsieur Pamplemousse had a sudden thought. ‘I believe Monsieur le Directeur has been trying to teach him a few new words. He seemed very pleased with the result.’
It was an insurance policy. There was no knowing what the real JoJo might say once he found himself back in familiar surroundings.
‘Perhaps you would like to change the oiseaux over. I’m sure you are much better at it than I am.’