Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took a closer look. ‘It is my baton, Monsieur.’

  ‘I am not interested in what you call it, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘I am more concerned with what you intend doing with it.’

  Picking up a magnifying glass, he took a closer look. ‘Mon dieu! It is not possible?’

  ‘It is kind of you to say so, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But it is not what you think. It is a saucisson. If you remember, I bought Pommes Frites a Bâton de Berger as a treat. I had been using it in order to defend myself …’

  ‘Stop!’ bellowed the Director. ‘I do not wish to hear another word. Is there no end to your depravity? These photographs are worse than the last ones you sent me. Far worse! In the first film you were patently preparing yourself for an orgy of the very worst kind. But these defy description. What am I going to tell the Leica representative when he arrives from Dusseldorf?’

  ‘With respect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, clutching at straws, ‘I think he will be coming from Wetzler. That is where their main offices are.’

  ‘Stop splitting hairs, Pamplemousse,’ barked the Director. ‘I have told you about it before.

  ‘And what was Pommes Frites doing all this time?’ he continued. ‘Keeping a watchful eye open I imagine? Baring his teeth to make sure no passers-by interrupted you while you satisfied your base desires?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face cleared. ‘That was it, Monsieur. I remember now. He must have been taking the pictures.’

  The Director’s eyes bulged. ‘I can hardly believe my ears!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought I had heard everything, but training a dog to record your unseemly activities beggars belief. No doubt you also persuaded him to bury the camera in the sand until such time as you could retrieve the film after dark.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Monsieur. There is a very simple explanation. Pommes Frites chased after my assailant and wrestled the camera from him. When he returned he had it in his mouth and it so happened that not only was it still set to automatic, but it was pointing in my direction. One of his incisors must have made contact with the shutter release. I remember hearing a whirring noise. That was why he rushed off and buried it. He probably thought it was a bomb. It is what he is trained to do. As for the girl who was bending over me … why, Leitz could make capital of the fact that even a dog can take wonderful pictures if he owns a Leica …’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off. The Director was now leafing through the shots taken with the aid of the laptop. Having glanced at the first one with a certain amount of distaste, he fastened on the second.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had met with Chantal’s uncle,’ he exclaimed.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the picture. It was a blow-up of the one he’d taken of the two men having breakfast at the beach café the first morning of his stay.

  ‘What does it all mean, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I must confess I have lost track.’

  Join the club, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. His mind was in a whirl.

  ‘I think, Monsieur,’ he said at last, ‘it means that at the end of the day it is a case of better the devil you know, than the one you don’t.’

  ‘One last thing before you go, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Please put me out of my misery. Why are both your thumbs in plaster?’

  ‘It would take rather long to explain, Monsieur. You may remember my mentioning Doucette’s problem and my interest in the art of Shiatsu …’

  ‘I trust you haven’t been practising it behind the dunes at the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or,’ said the Director.

  ‘There are no dunes on the beach at the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or, Monsieur. The sands are like a billiard table.’

  ‘That is even worse,’ said the Director. ‘I am surprised Madame Pamplemousse agreed. Presumably it took place after dark?’

  ‘Oh, no, Monsieur. Neither did it involve Doucette.’

  He picked up one of the enlargements – the group shot that had been taken at breakfast time – and pointed to a figure in the middle. ‘It was this lady here.’

  The Director stared at it. ‘Mon Dieu!’

  ‘It was all in the course of duty,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily. He held up two fingers resting one upon the other. ‘For a time she and I were like this.’

  ‘I trust, Aristide, that you were the one on top,’ said the Director.

  ‘Alas, no. As I discovered to my cost, she is the holder of a black belt in ju jitsu.’

  ‘Would it be foolish of me to ask why you were treating her?’

  ‘I think for some strange reason her husband credited me with the return of their daughter, although I suspect your wife’s uncle was more than pleased to be rid of her. However, feeling he owed me a favour, he suggested I might like to borrow his wife for the remainder of my stay.’

  ‘Hardly a fair exchange,’ said the Director, relieving Monsieur Pamplemousse of the photograph, ‘but then, different cultures place different values on these things.’

  ‘He is also easily offended,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘so I could hardly say no. When I discovered she suffered with her bones in much the same way as Doucette, I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Honour was satisfied on both sides.’

  ‘It is no wonder your thumbs suffered in consequence,’ exclaimed Monsieur Leclercq, making use of his magnifying glass. ‘All that bombazine to penetrate.’

  ‘In the event that wasn’t necessary, Monsieur.’

  The Director stared at him. ‘I have always understood, Pamplemousse, that one of the main advantages of Shiatsu is that patients have no need to remove their clothing.’

  ‘It was not my fault she chose to,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We had a language problem and I think she misunderstood my mime. She is a very solid lady and there was a lot of territory to cover. Following her meridians was not the easiest thing in the world. Interestingly she had a surprisingly tiny voice for her size. The response each time I came across a pressure point was quite remarkable. Were I to put a culinary value on her squeaks they would certainly merit three Stockpots. It was a great strain maintaining the pressure in order to bring the Yin and the Yang together in harmony.’

  The Director gave a shudder. ‘I don’t think I want to hear any more. It is no wonder you are looking peaky, Pamplemousse. Your vacation doesn’t seem to have done you any good at all.’

  Abruptly changing the subject, he opened a desk drawer. ‘Which reminds me. I have a letter which arrived for you this morning.’

  Slitting open the envelope as best he could with a damaged thumb, Monsieur Pamplemousse withdrew a sheet of paper and scanned through it.

  ‘… you will be pleased to know our friends have taken the hint … scattering along the coast … Todd is trying to find somewhere to park … in Cannes of all places! In June! Who knows where they will turn up next! Jan is on her way home. There is an important meeting of the WI. Meanwhile, I am heading for San Marino … Let’s hope the weather is good and I have no need for my umbrella …’

  Reading on, the last paragraph brought a smile to his lips. Glancing up, he realised the Director was watching him intently.

  ‘Forgive me, Monsieur. It is from an old friend I met while we were away. He is apologising for the fact that one of his colleagues telephoned me at a singularly inopportune moment. He had been told to check that I was alive and well. As he had no idea what was going on he pretended to be a double-glazing salesman.’

  ‘A double-glazing salesman!’ Monsieur Leclercq’s delivery could hardly have been bettered by Dame Edith Evans at the peak of her career.

  He gazed at Monsieur Pamplemousse with a mixture of awe and affection. It was hard to tell which was uppermost.

  ‘Much as I value your work for Le Guide, Aristide,’ he said, ‘there are times when I wonder whether you shouldn’t consider a career change.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse forbore to say there were times when he felt much the same way him
self. Instead, he waited for the other to continue.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Monsieur Leclercq held out his hand, ‘I sincerely hope you don’t. Life would be very dull without both you and Pommes Frites!’

  Doucette was already waiting by the entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens when they reached the rue Auguste Comte, and together all three made their way inside via the gate Place André Honnorat.

  Among the many signs attached to the ironwork was one headed Accès des Chiens. Pointing out that dogs were required to use either the gate they had just passed through or one in the Boulevard Saint Michel, there was a map alongside it showing exactly where they were allowed to go once they had entered, provided always that they were on a leash.

  Blissfully unaware of the fact, and having signally failed to recognise anything in the accompanying symbol even remotely resembling a fellow creature, Pommes Frites sailed through the opening as to the manner born and promptly set off along a tarmac path in hot pursuit of a tiny radio-controlled motorcycle operated by the father of a small boy.

  Taking hold of Doucette’s arm, Monsieur Pamplemousse pretended not to notice and led his wife along one of the parallel gravel paths.

  It was all very well for Pommes Frites. Despite their long walk, he was still full of beans. Like a small child let out of school for the morning break, he was making the most of his freedom. Quickly abandoning the miniature motorcycle in favour of a stall selling coloured hoops and picture postcards, he gave it a cursory inspection, left his mark on a nearby statue, then set off at a gallop along the far side of a flower bed.

  Seeing his head bobbing up and down behind vast displays of dahlias, begonias and nicotiana, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that colourful though the scene was, it could be forbidden territory. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted two gendarmes who had clearly reached a similar conclusion.

  As they set off in hot pursuit, he gently steered Doucette towards the nearside of the bed, away from the action.

  Speaking personally, he was looking forward to having a sit down, but he might just as well have dreamt of going to the moon. It was Wednesday afternoon – a half-day holiday for schools – and there wasn’t a spare chair to be had.

  Ahead of them lay the Grand Bassin, the octagonal pond which, ever since Napoleon decreed the gardens should be dedicated to children, had been reserved for model boats. If the armada of blue and white sails was anything to go by the Emperor’s wishes were being amply fulfilled that afternoon.

  And all around them it seemed as though lovers, oblivious to their surroundings, were gazing into each other’s eyes. The simple pleasures of life for the young at heart were all to hand. Even the pigeons seemed to have but one thing on their mind, but then they always did.

  Seeing a couple locked in each other’s arms reminded him of Katya.

  ‘Why do you keep sighing, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I was thinking of something Monsieur Leclercq said to me earlier today, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily.

  Abandoning his search for somewhere to sit, he paused by a flight of stone steps leading up to the wooded part of the gardens.

  ‘I met Madame Leclercq’s Uncle Caputo while we were in Nice.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me, Aristide.’

  ‘That is exactly what the Director said. The point is, I didn’t know it at the time.’

  ‘But didn’t he realise who you were?’

  ‘Not at first. There was no reason why either of us should have recognised the other. We have never met. Probably, after he had spoken to the Director it was a different matter, but by then he chose not to let on. By Monsieur Leclercq’s own admission Uncle Caputo has his fingers in many pies; most of them distinctly unsavoury.

  ‘When he came to see me in the hospital he posed as a member of the Direction Général de la Sécurité Extériere and led me to believe that he had managed to infiltrate the Mafiya posing as a bent agent. At the time I had no reason to doubt him. Where there is big money involved there are always underhand dealings going on. The DGSE are no exception.

  ‘In fact, he was probably trying to reach an arrangement with the Russians in order to protect his own territory, but when that began to go sour following the death of the antique dealer, he kidnapped the daughter in retaliation.

  ‘When they took a pot shot at me and I ended up in hospital he came up with the idea of the funeral. He suggested to the Mafiya that it would be a spectacular way for them to make their mark and establish themselves in the area. In fact, he hoped it would bring as many of them out into the open as possible so that he could identify them.’

  ‘Is that what you call spraying people with bullets, Aristide? Taking a pot shot?’

  ‘Apart from the sign outside the restaurant, it didn’t do any great damage,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I still don’t understand what went wrong,’ Doucette persisted. ‘When the hearse suddenly took off and disappeared down an underpass I didn’t know what to do. And by the time the other cars had stopped it was too late anyway.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. ‘Unbeknown to Uncle Caputo, the Mafiya had already infiltrated some of the funeral parlours of Nice, taking over from the old Mafia. He happened to pick on the wrong one.’

  All because of an egg,’ said Doucette. ‘Do you think the Leclercqs will keep it?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The Director will be much too worried about his reputation and that of Le Guide. Think of the scandal if it ever got out that he was a receiver of stolen property. Although what he will do …’

  He broke off as he heard the shrill blast of a whistle coming from the direction of the Grand Bassin.

  Fearing the worst, he wasn’t disappointed. Looking round, he was just in time to catch sight of a shape, not unlike that of a porpoise, threshing around in the pond, scattering boats as it went. It looked like the aftermath of the Spanish Armada. The Emperor must be turning in his grave.

  Conspicuous among the crowd that had gathered to watch Pommes Frites disporting himself were the two gendarmes he had seen earlier. Both were on their hands and knees trying to drag him over the edge on to dry ground.

  ‘Merde!’

  Emerging, not without difficulty, from the green waters, Pommes Frites rewarded their efforts by shaking himself dry.

  Hastily regrouping, one of the gendarmes produced a handkerchief and held it to his nose while he set about examining the tag on Pommes Frites’ collar. Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. The name would undoubtedly ring a bell. The second officer, the plumper of the two, began talking into her mobile.

  ‘Alors!’ Doucette looked on with alarm. ‘It is all my fault for suggesting we come here. Perhaps if you were to pick him up, Aristide? I’ve seen others carrying their dogs and they seem to get away with it.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily, ‘but I have no wish to give myself a hernia and catch my death of cold into the bargain. Besides, I fear it is already too late.’

  Pommes Frites’ encounter with the law had already reached the ‘taking down of details in a notebook stage’.

  ‘I think, Couscous, I may put plan B into action before they throw the book at us.’

  Taking the steps two at a time, he paused at the top to get his breath back before producing his trusty dog whistle. Placing it to his lips, he blew as hard as he could. Although beyond the range of human hearing, it had an immediate effect.

  Pricking up his ears, Pommes Frites wriggled free from his captor and to cheers from the crowd set off round the perimeter of the pond in the opposite direction from his master. Over the years he had developed a sixth sense in such matters and there was no question of him giving the game away. There followed a desultory chase, with the female gendarme giving up long before the end of the first lap and her colleague following suit shortly afterwards. Neither looked in the pink of condition.

  ‘Hurry, Couscous.’ Grab
bing his wife’s arm, Monsieur Pamplemousse beat a hasty retreat. Bypassing the area given over to pedal operated go-carts, skirting round the tennis courts, he stopped just short of the adventure playground – its slides, roundabouts and climbing frames positively teeming with small figures, and branched left towards the south-west corner of the gardens and safety.

  Over the years he had come to think of it as ‘Monks Corner’, mostly on account of the monastic pursuits taking place there: long-term projects such as beekeeping and the planting of fruit trees.

  It was the part he liked best of all: a haven of peace, a sanctuary given over to the tending of some six hundred different varieties of dwarf apple and pear trees. Meticulously trained on espalier frames, with labels recording the date of planting, the variety, the names of their many different shapes –simple and double U, trident, cordon, pyramid and goblet – it was a living monument to orderliness and the infinite patience of man. At this time of the year each individual fruit was painstakingly encased in a protective wrapping of plastic or paper to protect it from the birds.

  He paused by a board to read once again the story of the most famous tree of all: a Louise Bonne d’Avranche. Planted in 1867, not long after the formation of the Third Republic, it had taken fifty years to train its nineteen vertical branches to their full height. In its maturity it had yielded 100 kg of pears annually until its death in 1978 at the age of 111.

  ‘To think, Doucette, it was just a tiny plant when the massacres of the Paris Commune took place. Since then, France has survived two World Wars, Presidents have come and gone … undreamt of things have happened: the coming of the aeroplane, television, man landing on the moon …’

  ‘It is very reassuring to know that some people are still prepared to spend their days working on things they will never live to see and enjoy, simply for the benefit of their fellow man,’ said Doucette.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse gave her arm a squeeze.

  Nice suddenly seemed far away. And yet, if Nice was anything to go by, despite wars, famine, cholera, and everything else that had been thrown at it over the centuries, the cicadas were still singing; and doubtless the olive tree outside the school would survive being struck by lightning. It took a lot to kill an olive tree. What was the old proverb?