Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  ‘Pumped full of antibiotics, no doubt,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘It’s the same with our salmon. And with lack of proper exercise, out goes the taste.’

  ‘If I were a salmon,’ said Mrs Pickering, ‘I’m not sure that I would want to swim all the way to Greenland and back simply because it would make me taste better.’

  ‘It does help to put the colour in their cheeks,’ said Mr Pickering.

  While the fish was being prepared for table, a bowl of freshly-made mayonnaise arrived. With it came a mesclun salad. Monsieur Pamplemousse identified lamb’s lettuce, rocket, dandelions, wild chicory, and red and curly endive. It had been seasoned with olive oil.

  The sommelier, whose name Monsieur Pamplemousse had discovered was Anouchka, materialised with a bottle of white Château de Crémat and held it up for inspection.

  ‘May I?’ Mr Pickering leant forward to examine the label.

  ‘It is from Bellet, Monsieur,’ said the girl. ‘330 metres up in the hills behind Nice. The vines are sheltered from the Mistral, but they benefit from long exposure to the sun. At the same time they are cooled by the sea breezes off the coast.’

  Having tasted the wine, Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded his approval and she began to pour. ‘They were first planted by the Phoenicians four centuries before the arrival of Christ. They say the wine can be aged for anything up to thirty years, but alors, it rarely has the chance. Most of it goes to the local restaurants long before then.’

  ‘In that case we are doubly privileged,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘What did you think of that?’ he asked, as Anouchka went on her way.

  ‘It makes me feel old,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In the Auvergne, when I was her age, we had red wine and we had white wine. We didn’t ask too many questions about where it came from. Times change.’

  ‘Well, here’s to Todd, wherever he is,’ said Mr Pickering, raising his glass. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s missing.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his pen again. The sea bass had been flavoured with herbs: bay leaves, thyme, fresh tarragon; and garnished with parsley. The mayonnaise was also lightly flavoured with tarragon, along with finely chopped parsley and chives. He reflected on the wine. It was perfectly chilled: cold, but not so cold that it masked the scent of wild flowers and lime blossom.

  Under the table Pommes Frites licked his lips as a large portion of boeuf en daube arrived in a separate bowl, compliments of the chef. It disappeared before the others had even begun their fish. Monsieur Pamplemousse made another note.

  ‘It’s strange,’ said Mrs Pickering. ‘We are supposed to be a nation of animal lovers, and yet how often do you see a dog eating in an English restaurant, or a Scottish one for that matter?’

  ‘Our two nations are full of misconceptions about each other,’ said Mr Pickering.

  ‘The popular perception used to be that if a Frenchman knocked an Englishman down with his car, the Englishman’s first thought was to apologise – the Frenchman would then call him an imbecile for getting in the way. Nowadays it is more likely to be the other way round. You French have retained the little forms of politeness which we long ago gave up …’

  He broke off as a minion from the front desk arrived bearing a note on a silver tray.

  Headed URGENT, it was for Monsieur Pamplemousse. His heart sank as he read it.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘Anything which interrupts a meal like this is bad news,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Must you, Aristide?’ said Doucette, when she saw who it was from.

  ‘I will take the call in our room. It will be easier in the long run.’ The last person he wanted to speak to while he was in the middle of dinner was the Director. There would be no short cuts. On the other hand, clearly something must be amiss.

  Having cleared his plate with as much haste as he could decently manage, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way to the lift.

  Monsieur Leclercq must have been waiting by the phone, for the receiver was picked up before the end of the second ring.

  ‘There you are, Pamplemousse. At long last! Don’t tell me your mobile has given up the ghost already. I have been trying to reach you all afternoon. News has reached me about the tragic affair with the antique dealer. I feel somehow responsible.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering how the Director had heard. Although he had skimmed through the rest of the Paris journaux he hadn’t seen a mention of the murder in any of them.

  ‘It seems as though our rendezvous wasn’t meant, Monsieur.’

  ‘It is a pity you didn’t manage to get there before it happened,’ said the Director: ‘Never mind, it isn’t the end of the world.’

  It was for the antique dealer, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly. He wondered if Monsieur Leclercq knew about the change in plans. ‘In any case, I have since tried the address in Nice you gave me, and the shutters are down.’

  ‘They are?’ the Director sounded uneasy. ‘I think, if I were you, Aristide, I would let matters rest there. There is no sense in putting your own life at risk. That is really why I was phoning you. It would be a terrible thing if you were to lose your appendages. Where would we be without them?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the receiver. There were times when Monsieur Leclercq’s self-centredness quite took his breath away. He decided to change the subject.

  ‘Since you mention telephones, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you could ask Veronique to send me some P37B forms. I am completely out of them.’

  The Director, his mind suddenly divorced from what had clearly been uppermost in it, emitted a clucking noise. ‘Did I hear the word “some”, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. I shall need more than one. First of all I have had trouble with my laptop …’

  ‘This is very disappointing,’ said the Director. ‘I always thought you had a mechanical bent. That is why I selected you for the task of evaluating the new equipment. I normally set great store on your opinion in such matters …’

  ‘Things are far from normal on the Côte d’Azur, Monsieur.’

  ‘Have you tried seeking local assistance?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur. That was the start of my troubles.

  ‘Using my new mobile, I first of all dialled the number pencilled on a sheet of paper. A Japanese / American voice with Irish overtones answered. Although it is often hard to tell, it was, I believe, electronically simulated and so incapable of holding a conversation. Either that or the person was in an extremely bad mood. Having informed me that I could make use of my handset, I was given a series of numbers and combinations of numbers I could press relating to various services, none of which, as it happened, bore any relation to the one I required …’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The name of the nearest dealer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was put on standby to join the queue of those awaiting the next available advisor. I then went through a long sequence of listening to out-of-copyright music played on an electronic synthesiser, interspersed with announcements as to my place in the queue. As I recall, to begin with I was number 135. Finally, when I received the attention of a real live operator she put me through to the appropriate department where another electronic voice invited me to leave a message on the voicemail, having first pressed the star button followed by the extension number I required.

  ‘However, since I had no idea what that was, I had to begin all over again. When I was eventually connected to the correct number another electronic voice informed me the office was closed for the next three days. It didn’t offer any explanation as to why that was so.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I threw my mobile out of the hotel window, Monsieur. Which is why I require another P37B.’

  During the long silence that followed, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected a background noise which could only be described as a combination of heavy breathing and drumming.

  ‘It sounds to me, Pa
mplemousse,’ said the Director at long last, ‘very much as though you are in urgent need of counselling. I will seek Matron’s advice.’

  ‘I would sooner have a new telephone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘You have only yourself to blame,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I agree that it was a Kafka-like experience, but would Kafka have so lost his temper as to throw his mobile over a balcon? A balcon, moreover, which, as I understand it from Veronique, who made the reservation, is several floors above sea level.’

  ‘From all I have read of the author’s life, Monsieur, particularly the period when he was in the employ of the Worker’s Accident Insurance Institute of Prague, I doubt if he ever enjoyed the luxury of even so much as a Government surplus field telephone.

  ‘But had he been through what I had been through, he would, I am sure, have made capital out of the experience. It would have provided him with more than sufficient material for yet another of his doom-laden tales.’

  ‘This places me in a somewhat embarrassing situation, Pamplemousse. As you know, in response to numerous requests I have been busily upgrading our present equipment as part of my Technologie Accomplissement programme, but from the way things are going if we are not careful the whole thing may end up as a case of sable mouvant. What our friends across the ocean call “quicksanding”.’

  ‘The Americans have a succinct expression for most things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Monsieur has visited les États-Unis recently?’

  It wouldn’t surprise him. The Director often took it into his head to cross the Atlantic Ocean, and when he did he invariably returned armed with the latest jargon.

  There was a pause. ‘No, Aristide, it is an expression I came across when Chantal and I were staying with an uncle of hers in Corsica.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffened. ‘Not the one with Mafia connections?’

  The Director suddenly changed gear. ‘As you well know, Pamplemousse, through no fault of her own, my wife has Italian blood in her veins. It stems from her mother’s side of the family. She has numerous uncles …’

  ‘But we are talking about her Uncle Caputo,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The one whose nubile young daughter, Caterina, I had the misfortune to mislay when I was escorting her from Rome to Paris on the Palentino express?’

  ‘Chantal’s Uncle Caputo is Sicilian,’ said the Director patiently. ‘He has strict views on such matters. It just so happens he was in Corsica at the same time as we were. He was visiting the island in an advisory capacity; taking stock as it were with a view to creating critical mass in other parts of the world.’

  ‘On the Côte d’Azur, par exemple, Monsieur?’

  ‘No man is an island, Pamplemousse.’

  ‘By the same token, Monsieur, no island is one man.’

  ‘I would not wish to argue the point with Chantal’s Uncle Caputo. He has his fingers in many pies and those pies are not exclusive to the land of his birth. He has a generous nature and over the years he has spread his favours far and wide. New York, San Marino, South America … He now has many families within a family; and it is their interests he is anxious to protect. He wished to be remembered to you, by the way. He said “he owes you one”, whatever that may mean.

  ‘It was through his connections with the electronic industry that I obtained the new equipment; on very favourable terms I may add. He assured me they were all factory fresh.’

  ‘Doubtless they had fallen off the back of a lorry on their way to a dealer that very morning,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, bitterly. ‘It is one way of taking stock. Or perhaps it ran into an ambush. Did you not enquire into their origin at the time, Monsieur?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse, I did not. One does not ask too many questions of people like Uncle Caputo. Their patience is apt to wear thin. Remember, they adhere to a strict culture which involves omèrta or acqua in bocca: the code of silence. These things are not up for discussion.’

  ‘I hope you are not planning to stay with him over Christmas,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse coldly.

  ‘Why do you say that, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘Because, Monsieur, if his family all sit round the table at meal times observing the code of silence, it will be a very sombre affair.’

  Somewhat bruised by the encounter, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the table wondering if he had been overprecipitate in hanging up. If pressed, he would have to pretend they had been cut off.

  He was just in time to attend the serving of the main course. As he took his seat the already plated dishes arrived. A group of four waiters materialised round the table and domes were lifted in unison.

  The senior of the four remained to explain what they were about to eat. ‘Poulet à la Niçoise: chicken cooked with onion, tomato, olives and white wine. With it we serve épinards aux pignons and fenouil braisé: the spinach is cooked with pine nuts and orange blossom water. Bon appetit.’

  ‘Yums!’ said Mrs Pickering as the waiter disappeared.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her curiously. He assumed it was a compliment, but as with her husband it was often hard to read her mind.

  This time, the dish was accompanied by a red wine from Bellet: Domaine Tempier. Aged in oak, it was served chilled in the manner of a young Beaujolais.

  Mr Pickering thought he detected a bouquet of cherries.

  ‘They plant fruit trees amongst the vines, Monsieur,’ explained Anouchka, returning the bottle to the ice bucket. ‘It is well thought of.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse held up a chicken leg and examined it carefully. Again, there was not a trace of fat, indicating that the bird really had been allowed free range in the truest sense of the word, not just given a token square metre of earth to peck around in. The fennel had been lightly browned before being braised in stock from the chicken, giving it an almost translucent texture. It was pure Escoffier.

  He raised his glass in a toast to the great man’s memory.

  ‘We have a lot to thank him for,’ agreed Mr Pickering. ‘In many ways he was the Leonardo da Vinci of the culinary world. If he’d been able to take out a patent on his Pêche Melba he could have lived on the royalties for the rest of his life. Since he introduced the frying pan to England we’ve never looked back. And he wasn’t above inventing tinned tomatoes.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his knife and fork and was in the act of spearing a morsel of chicken breast when he notice the maître d’hôtel hovering anxiously nearby as though expecting him to say something.

  ‘Superbe!’ he said. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur.’ The man executed a deep bow and in so doing contrived to bring his lips closer to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s left ear.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he whispered, ‘we have a very strict rule in the hotel about the use of mobile telephones during meal times.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am delighted to hear it.’ He made a mental note to inform the Director as soon as possible. ‘I trust that many more hotels will follow your good example.’

  The maître d’hôtel looked relieved. ‘I am pleased that you are pleased, Monsieur.’

  ‘Good,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Now that we are all pleased, perhaps I can enjoy my meal in peace and quiet.’

  ‘I will make sure your plate is kept warm for you while you are gone, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. ‘But I am not going anywhere …’

  The maître d’hôtel permitted himself a discreet cough. ‘It seems the young Monsieur has been receiving calls,’ he said. ‘The telephone in his gonflable has been ringing constantly for the last half hour.’

  A portion of chicken fell from Monsieur Pamplemousse’s fork and landed on the floor. It disappeared in a flash.

  ‘A telephone!’ he exclaimed. ‘In Pommes Frites’ inflatable kennel?’

  ‘Oui, Monsieur.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘I am afraid not, Monsieur. There have been
a number of complaints.’ Reaching for a dome he placed a hand firmly on the back of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s chair. ‘If Monsieur would be so kind …’

  ‘Not more bad news I trust?’ said Mr Pickering.

  ‘It never rains,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but what it pours.’

  ‘Especially when you are on the Riviera, Aristide,’ said Doucette pointedly.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the remark. ‘Please carry on everyone. I have no idea how long I shall be.’

  Having heard certain key words being mentioned following the unexpected windfall of a piece of chicken, Pommes Frites rose to his feet and padded after his master. Halfway down the steps leading to the beach he pricked up his ears. There was an insistent, albeit familiar ringing noise coming from his kennel, which he certainly hadn’t noticed before. Quickening his pace, he pushed past Monsieur Pamplemousse and hastened towards the source.

  Seconds later the ringing ceased and he emerged triumphant from his quarters holding the offending article firmly in his mouth.

  Aware of the interest being shown by the sprinkling of late diners taking their apéritifs by the water before going up to the terrace, Monsieur Pamplemousse received the gift gratefully, wiped it dry with his handkerchief, and moved further along the beach out of hearing.

  Holding the mobile to his ear his worst fears were realised.

  ‘Pamplemousse! What is going on?’

  ‘It is my mobile, Monsieur …’

  ‘I know it is your mobile!’ barked Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Trigaux tells me it has been working for the past half hour. He has been trying to contact you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse carefully detached a piece of dried seaweed from the earpiece. ‘Pommes Frites has only just located it, Monsieur. You will be pleased to know that apart from some tooth-marks it seems little the worse for wear. I may not have need of as many P37B’s after all.’

  ‘This is good news, Pamplemousse. We must be thankful for small mercies. Please give him my congratulations. I have said it before and I will say it again. Pommes Frites is an example to us all.

  ‘However,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘that is not why I wish to speak to you. I have in front of me the results of your photographic expedition.’