Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  Though the first was man-made, and the other reflected nature in the raw, they both performed a similar function.

  As Pommes Frites settled himself down for the night, he had the satisfaction of knowing that while he might not have brought his master running, at least as far as those on the terrace of the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or were concerned, they couldn’t say they hadn’t been warned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The day had started well enough. Perhaps, on reflection, a little too well. The high note which had been struck early on would have been hard enough to sustain under any circumstances. But after the football landed in Doucette’s cup of hot chocolat it had been downhill all the way.

  At the time, the early morning walk along the beach, the combination of the sun, the sea and the sand had acted like a tonic. Pommes Frites had been in his element, dashing in and out of the water at every possible moment; taking pleasure out of presenting them with pieces of unwanted timber, sniffing rocks.

  Having stumbled across a likely looking waterside café, they decided to take petit déjeuner then and there rather than wait until they were back at the hotel. At the time, as she sipped her freshly squeezed orange juice and helped herself from a basket of brioche still warm from the oven, Doucette happily agreed that Paradise might well be constructed along similar lines.

  It was also a matter of accord that only in France would you find a humble beach café serving drinking chocolat made from granules supplied by Weiss of St Etienne; almost on a par with Angelina’s in the rue de Rivoli, back home in Paris; and they used a whole bar of chocolate in theirs.

  It felt as though it had all been meant, and perhaps it had been.

  Seconds later, the ball, propelled by an over-enthusiastic Sapeur-Pompier, one of a group playing nearby, sent the contents of the cup flying over her new beach dress, and the euphoric mood took a nose-dive.

  All the signs suggested that recapturing it would be a slow and tedious, not to say expensive business, with no guarantee of success at the end of the day.

  In retrospect, it had perhaps been a mistake to suggest that she shouldn’t have ordered a grande tasse de chocolat in the first place, rather than a demi.

  Thanking his lucky stars that the liquid had missed the Director’s new laptop by a matter of millimetres had been another error of judgement on his part, but it had been an instinctive reaction.

  All that being so, he could hardly blame Doucette for obeying her own instincts. Grabbing hold of the ball, she thrust it into her beach bag, pulled the drawstring tight, and refused to let go.

  Consternation reigned, but she wouldn’t budge, and it was pursed lips all round as names and addresses were exchanged. Pommes Frites looked disappointed too, for he had been hoping to join in the game.

  Mortified beyond measure, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed his wife back to the hotel, this time taking a path at the top of the beach, which was quicker than trudging through the dry sand.

  In vain did he point out that the Sapeurs-Pompiers hadn’t been playing football on the beach for fun. French firemen were members of a para-military organisation and such activities were part of their daily routine. It had to do with rigid discipline and the need to maintain a high standard of fitness in order to cope with anything and everything that came their way.

  Bombarding her with statistics on the exploits of their Paris colleagues while he tried to catch up with her: 200,000 calls a year, of which a mere 6,000 had to do with fires; the rest involving the rescue of attempted suicides from the Seine, removing wasps’ nests, dealing with drunken husbands and wife-beaters, drug addicts (who called on them because, unlike the police, they took no names), people trapped in lifts, leaking taps, rape, blocked drains. They had even been involved in the recent unsuccessful attempt to reanimate Francis le Belge, one of the last of the Marseilles Mafia Godfathers, who had been gunned down in a Paris betting shop. Admittedly they hadn’t known who they were dealing with at the time, but at least it demonstrated that their services were open to all, without fear or favour and regardless of his or her place in society.

  He might just as well have saved his breath. It all went down like the proverbially lead balloon.

  ‘If they’re so versatile,’ said Doucette crossly, ‘perhaps they can do something about removing the stains from my dress.’

  Sensing his master was fighting a losing battle, Pommes Frites tactfully disappeared, leaving them to their own devices.

  On the way they engaged in a fruitless search for a boutique which included in its daily schedule the faintest possibility of being open before ten o’clock in the morning, and having found a maid already hard at work in their room, Monsieur Pamplemousse established two things.

  First, he not only had to prepare a report on the Au Soleil d’Or, but also there were various pieces of new equipment the Director had landed him with, and if he didn’t get down to it soon he never would.

  Secondly, rather than trek into Nice with him, Doucette was perfectly happy to spend the morning by herself on the hotel’s private beach.

  ‘Wearing nothing but my bathing costume?’ had been her response to his invitation.

  She gazed at her flowered reflection in the long mirror attached to the inside door of the 1920s wardrobe. ‘I suppose I shall have to make do with this old wrap. It’s years since I last wore it. You don’t think it is too short?’

  ‘It is exactly right, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  Doucette looked at him suspiciously. ‘You always say that.’

  He stifled a sigh. Some days you couldn’t win. Gathering up his belongings, he beat a hasty retreat.

  Back at the café he placed a repeat order for petit déjeuner and settled himself down to work. To his relief, the Sapeurs-Pompiers were nowhere to be seen, and apart from an occasional drone from a passing boat, all was at peace with the world.

  Opening the lid of the computer, he reached for a fresh croissant, closed his eyes, and began marshalling his thoughts before starting work.

  He had woken early, not so much through the strange surroundings – he was used to that – but because the events of the previous evening were still fresh in his mind. The Capricorn in him disliked having to admit defeat, even over such a comparatively minor problem as taking delivery of the Director’s picture, which was, after all, one of the prime reasons for their visit.

  Doucette had no such problems. When he’d pressed the button to raise the electrically operated shutters and sunlight flooded the room, she simply gave a grunt and turned over. There was no need for him to move around on tiptoe, but he had done so as a matter of course.

  Hearing the clink of china, he’d looked down from the balcony and found he wasn’t the only one awake by a long way. Several couples were already having breakfast on the terrace. Sparrows, clearly old hands at the game, gathered in an expectant row along the balustrade waiting for crumbs, and on a concrete area by the water’s edge tables were already being made ready for lunch.

  Pommes Frites was also out and about, acting in a supervisory capacity, chasing after a nut-brown beach attendant as he hurried past, bow-legged beneath a pile of blue and white striped mattresses.

  The sommelier appeared, carrying a tray-load of glasses. Out of uniform and with her hair down, he hardly recognised her. She looked like a schoolgirl.

  A speedboat, negotiating a line of yellow marker buoys, headed towards the pier, executed a sharp turn at the last possible moment and brought an early morning skier safely to rest at exactly the right spot as the driver cut his engine. The girl removed her skis, gave a thank-you wave, then climbed the steps and began sluicing herself down under a fresh water shower.

  There was no sign of the fishing boat that had tied up the night before.

  On the other side of the bay a matchstick figure rose into the air beneath a parachute, hovered for a moment or two, then pancaked into the sea.

  It was the best part of the day; the hour or two before the crowds began to arrive
.

  He fell to thinking about his report. Recipient of two Stockpots in Le Guide and an equal number of rosettes in Michelin, the hotel also enjoyed an entry in Relais et Châteaux, where it was described as being like a precious jewel set in a ribbon of gold; a statement it would be hard to argue with. In many ways it was a relic of a bygone age; to the days before property developers moved in, gobbling up every available piece of land that could conceivably be built on.

  But then the Côte d’Azur was like that. Just as there were times when you felt it was hell on earth and must one day sink beneath the weight of all the concrete development, you turned a corner and found somewhere like Au Soleil d’Or; to all intents and purposes on another planet.

  As for dîner. That had been hard to fault. The pistou with which they had begun the meal was a reminder that the great joy of being in Provence was the quality of the produce, and one of the main reasons why the hotel’s restaurant enjoyed two Stockpots in Le Guide.

  For the main course they had chosen canette laquée au miel de lavande – fillets of duck breast brushed with lavender honey, simmered in a vegetable and herb stock, then browned, caramelised, and served with braised tomatoes and red peppers. The accompanying salad, the freshly picked raspberries that followed, had all been beyond reproach. With it they had drunk local wines; a Côtes de Provence white, and a robust Domain Tempier red from Bandol, served chilled. Both complemented the food in a way which greater wines would have been hard put to match.

  It was high time he recaptured the essence of it all on paper. With over 500 questions on the standard report form to be answered, he needed to make a start while everything was still fresh in his mind. But before that, he had other matters to report on.

  Creeping back into the bedroom, he went to Le Guide’s travelling case and carefully removed the first of the Director’s latest toys – a sub-miniature laptop. Half the depth of a normal one, it even had a tiny video camera built into the lid.

  Returning to the balcony he placed the computer and its accompanying accessories on the table, opened the lid and having pressed the start button, began to read through the instructions.

  In the early days, when Le Guide’s founder had first introduced the case, it had been a modest affair, containing just a few basic items. An austere man, and with only Paris and its environs to cover on his Michaux bicyclette, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had deemed a few tins of emergency rations, a bottle of iodine, some bandages and a notepad more than sufficient for his needs. In the fullness of time, with the arrival of the pneumatic tyre, a puncture repair outfit had been added, but for many years there matters had rested.

  It was only after he retired and handed over the reins to Monsieur Leclercq that things began to change. What had started out as a simple cardboard attaché case small enough to slip into a wickerwork basket attached to the handlebars of his bicycle, grew into a sizeable piece of luggage made of thick leather. And as it grew in size, so it grew in complexity and weight.

  A recent article in L’Escargot, Le Guide’s staff magazine, had raised the subject. An unattributed pen and ink drawing (although everyone knew it was the work of the editor – Calvet) showed an Inspector toiling up a mountain pass followed by two Sherpas carrying the case between them. Rubbing salt into the wound, an anonymous writer in the letters column had suggested adding a wheel to all four corners.

  As ever, Monsieur Leclercq had risen to the bait; and gone over the top. Miniaturisation was now a key element in his thinking, and science hadn’t let him down: indeed, science showed it had every intention of keeping one step ahead for many years to come.

  The new laptop was a good example. Although he wouldn’t have admitted it to Doucette, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t wait to try it out.

  The set-up complete, he used the tracking button in the centre of the keyboard to manoeuvre the arrow over the Smart Capture icon and pressed the Enter key.

  A second or so later the image on the screen reminded him forcibly that he had yet to shave. He could practically count the whiskers on his chin.

  Having transferred the image onto the computer’s memory, he tried rotating the tiny lozenge-size camera through 180 degrees so that its lens was facing out to sea. A large motor vessel swam into view, heading towards a landing stage further along the coast. The maroon and blue stars and oblong blocks of a Panamanian flag of convenience were crystal clear against the background of the sky.

  He felt tempted to call his wife before recording it, then changed his mind. Doucette valued her beauty sleep and she wouldn’t thank him.

  The tip of his index finger having grown numb through using the tiny button, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned his attention to another of the Director’s purchases; a miniature handheld dictating machine – half the size of the new mobile phone – but with voice-recognition facilities.

  Connecting it to the laptop, he added a CD player attachment, inserted a disc and reached for the instruction manual. At least its five different languages were separated; the very worst scenario was having five different languages for each paragraph. Once again though, as with the laptop, he couldn’t help wondering why Monsieur Leclercq had chosen to purchase the English model. Perhaps it was simply that both being new on the market, a French version wasn’t yet available. Being a leader of fashion had its disadvantages. All the same, it struck him that ‘Please write to Mr Wright right now,’ must be a bit of a tongue twister for an English person, let alone anyone unaccustomed to the language.

  ‘What are you doing, Aristide?’ Doucette appeared in her dressing gown. ‘I thought I heard voices.’

  ‘It is the very latest in voice-operated software, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse proudly. ‘In future, instead of typing in my report I shall be able to speak it. But first it has to become accustomed to my voice.’

  ‘It would be nice if other people had the chance to get accustomed to it once in a while,’ said Doucette pointedly.

  She peered over his shoulder at the screen. ‘Write … write … write … If that’s the best it can do I hate to think what it will make of last night’s meal – a lot of gobbledegook I shouldn’t wonder. It isn’t even in French.’

  ‘Patience, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘One out of three isn’t bad for a start.’

  ‘You need the man who was at the next table,’ mused Ducette. ‘His English was almost as good as his French. It could have been that he is from the Loire, of course …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended he hadn’t heard. He was rapidly taking a dislike to the other guest, whoever he was.

  ‘Anyway, I thought you said it was a matter of saving space.’ Doucette gazed at the tangle of wires spread out across the table. ‘If you ask me it’s worse than ever.’

  ‘Even at this very moment, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, enunciating his words carefully for the benefit of the laptop, whilst at the same time turning the screen away from his wife in case it made heavy weather of the endearment, ‘scientists all over the world are doubtless working on the problem. By this time next year they will have come up with the answers. All the optional extras will be part and parcel of the whole. You mark my words. We are on the threshold of a paperless society. Best of all, this laptop slips into my trouser leg pocket and takes up no more room than the notepad.’

  ‘Things may be getting smaller,’ said Doucette, ‘but your fingers certainly aren’t. Anyway, by this time next year they will probably have invented something that makes it all redundant. As for a paperless society, I shall believe it when I see it. A small packet of paper used to last you months. Now you buy it 500 sheets at a time. People no longer write letters, but they use more paper than ever, what with their faxes and their emails.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. Some people were left entirely unmoved by the manifold wonders of science. ‘How about a walk before breakfast?’ he suggested.

  ‘I thought you would never ask …’ Doucette’s voice took on a dream-like quality and fa
ded away as she padded off in the direction of the bathroom.

  Left on his own, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out to shut the lid of his computer only to discover … horror of horrors … it had seized up! No matter how hard he wrestled with it, it simply refused to budge.

  ‘Sacrebleu! Nom d’un nom!’ He could hardly believe it.

  ‘Merde!’ Banging on the table out of sheer frustration he woke with a start to find his fist covered in grease and the sound of a baby crying.

  A squashed packet lay in front of him, a sodden mess of gold foil and butter. The bawling child and its owners – an English couple by the look of it, lobster red – were sitting at a nearby table. They stared at him uneasily, the mother making cooing noises as she tried to soothe her offspring. As soon as they saw Monsieur Pamplemousse glaring at them they looked the other way as though nothing had happened.

  Wiping the stains from his Cupillard Rième wristwatch he saw it registered a few minutes short of 9.30. He must have been asleep for over half an hour.

  Recovering himself as best he could, Monsieur Pamplemousse blew some croissant crumbs from the laptop’s keyboard and pressed the power switch.

  While the machine was booting itself up, spewing out facts and figures at a speed too fast to read, he caught sight of the Russian he’d mentally christened Nikita. He was seated at a table at the far end of the small terrace in deep discussion with another man who had his back to the café. The second man had close-cropped grey hair. Expensively dressed in a mid-blue silk suit, each time he made a gesture with his right hand there was a sparkle from a gold bracelet.

  Acting on an impulse, Monsieur Pamplemousse set up the mini-camera facility, rotating the pod until both men filled the frame.

  Choosing his moment, he gave a friendly wave. It wasn’t reciprocated, but the Russian said something to the second man, who glanced round briefly.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse captured the moment and stored it for reference in the computer’s memory. It was a very satisfactory experiment in covert information gathering. With no tell-tale click of a shutter, he could see all sorts of possible uses for it. He was also impressed at the speed at which the automatic exposure had corrected itself in order to compensate for the second man’s swarthy appearance, somewhere midway between the blue of the suit and his white shirt.