Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot

by Michael Bond

  ‘It is not necessary. In your case it is far from necessary. It is like gilding the lily.’

  He felt a hand on his knee. ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘I am only speaking the truth.’

  ‘It is good for my ego. The soutien-gorge, I mean.’

  ‘What is good for the ego is sometimes bad for other things. Egos are like stomachs – they often grow too fat for comfort.’

  Fräulein Brünnhilde looked down at herself. ‘You think I should lose my egos?’

  ‘I know you should. People are what they are. I have never met anyone yet who didn’t want to change themselves in some way; a larger nose or a smaller one, or one which is straight, or to be thinner or fatter, or taller or shorter. And for what reason? It is like buying a book by a film star telling you how to become as beautiful as she is. It is pointless. If she thought for one moment that there was any possibility of it happening she would withdraw it from sale. Why should people always want to look like someone else? Everyone is different; that is part of the joy of life.’

  ‘I shall keep them as a souvenir. You would like my egos as a souvenir?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head, ‘It would not be a good idea. Madame Pamplemousse would not be pleased.’

  ‘Ah!’ Fräulein Brünnhilde fell silent again.

  It would certainly not be a good idea. Doucette wouldn’t be at all happy if she came across a pair of inflatable doudounes tucked away in his bottom drawer. Explanations would be tedious, prolonged and utterly unbelieved.

  Again he felt a hand on his knee, lighter this time. ‘I think Madame Pamplemousse is a very lucky person. Does she think she is a lucky person?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse weighed the question in his mind. It was hard to say. You could live with someone half a lifetime and still not know their true feelings.

  ‘I cannot answer that,’ he said at last. ‘She looks forward to my coming home, that I know. But then, I think sometimes after a few days she looks forward to my going away again.’

  ‘And you? Do you look forward to going home?’

  ‘Yes. But then I also look forward to going away again. It is a good arrangement. We are not unhappy. It is the need to go back which is important. That, and the need to be wanted back.’

  Another two corners and they were nearly there. As the perimeter fence came into view he pulled in to the side of the road and switched off the engine.

  ‘Tell me.’ Fräulein Brünnhilde took the photograph from her handbag and looked at it. ‘Is it because you have no children that you are interested in this girl?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the question carefully before replying. It was true in a way. Without his realising it and without ever having spoken to her, he felt he knew her and wanted to protect her. ‘It is certainly not for the reason you might think.’

  ‘That is all right then. I would not have liked that. I will help you.’

  ‘Good.’ He took the photograph from her. ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘Precisely.’ She went over his instructions again.

  ‘Excellent. You had better pack some things. Ask the girl to do the same. As for the other – we will work that out later.’ He looked at his watch. It said 18.52. That it had survived the buffeting on the mountain was something of a miracle; a testimony to its makers – Capillard Rième. He might write to them. Except that it would be impossible to explain all that had actually happened. They would never be able to use it as advertising material.

  ‘You had better check your own watch. I will be back here at 20.00 precisely.’

  ‘I am sorry. My watch has stopped. It has 14.12.’

  ‘In that case you had better borrow mine. I have my car clock. It is important that you are not late.’

  He slipped the watch off his wrist and suddenly felt naked without it. Second only to his pen it was the personal possession he treasured most. As he slipped it over Fräulein Brünnhilde’s wrist and began doing up the strap she gave a shiver.

  ‘You are cold?’

  ‘No. Suddenly a little lonely. That is all. After tonight I will not see you again.’

  ‘If all goes well I will see you in Paris.’

  ‘That will not be the same.’

  No, it would not be the same. The cobbled streets of the Butte Montmartre would not lend themselves to such goings on. Doucette would be keeping a watchful eye on him as well.

  ‘It is always unwise to try and go back; to repeat the unrepeatable.’

  She gave a laugh. It was a good sign – the first time he had heard it. ‘I have been thinking. I do not even know your name.’

  ‘My friends call me Aristide.’

  He felt the barest touch on his forehead; a butterfly of a kiss. Then the door opened.

  ‘Thank you, Aristide. I shall leave my watch where it stopped. It will always remind me of a very happy afternoon in the mountains.’

  He allowed her to walk a little way down the road before starting the engine, then caught up with her just as she was disappearing through a gap in the bushes. He fielded the second kiss in mid-air and mimed putting it into his pocket, then she was gone.

  Pommes Frites gave a loud yawn and began moving about restlessly on the back seat. Monsieur Pamplemousse took the hint and stopped for a moment to allow him into the front. It still felt warm from Fräulein Brünnhilde. A moment later they were on their way again, each busy with their own thoughts.

  It was late when Monsieur Pamplemousse finally entered the dining-room of Les Cinq Parfaits. The tables were full; the ceremony of the raising of the domes was in full swing; there was a buzz of animated conversation.

  He was walking somewhat stiffly; joints were beginning to seize up, muscles making their presence felt, rebelling against doing even the simplest of day-to-day tasks like moving his legs. Even a long, hot bath hadn’t persuaded them to behave otherwise. He paused by the window separating the cuisine from the restaurant. The scene on the other side of the darkened glass was reminiscent of the performance of a modern ballet. The commis-poissonnier partnered Gilbert in a pas-de-deux over some truite, sprinkling almonds over it like confetti with all the masculine delicacy and authority of a Nureyev. The commis-rotisseur and Edouard were limbering up in front of an oven, preparing themselves for their own particular moment of truth. Alain was just disappearing offstage with a large bowl.

  There was a new face where Jean-Claude would normally have been; perhaps the commis-pâtissier was enjoying his big moment as a stand-in. He glanced at his watch. By now Jean-Claude would be well on his way to Paris. All around the cuisine the corps-de-ballet moved swiftly and with precision, gathering up dishes with lightning speed, conveying them to the sous-chef for final inspection and checking before handing them over to the waiters and thence to the diners in the other room. Of Albert there was no sign. Turning round, he caught sight of a white hat at the far end of the restaurant. He must be doing his rounds.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards his table. It was the cue for action. Again, it was akin to a ballet. Waiters preceded him. Greetings were exchanged in the correct pecking order. His chair was moved back and carefully replaced, the moment judged to a nicety. The napkin was whisked away, shaken open and placed on his lap. He ordered an apéritif – a Kir made with framboise; the house speciality.

  The menu materialised, along with a bottle of the ubiquitous Evian – one more out of the six hundred million which left the factory every year. The carte des vins was placed discreetly within his reach, a plate of hot friandises appeared on the table as if by magic – slivers of sausage encased in the lightest of pastry. He tried one; it positively melted in his mouth. Jean-Claude’s stand-in was making the most of his opportunity. The cast withdrew, leaving him to his friandises and his ponderings on the evening’s events.

  Doucette had taken the news that she was about to be invaded remarkably well, entering into the situation with brisk efficiency. Rooms would be aired, beds would have to be remade. No doub
t she would rush out and buy some flowers. There was no telling. Perhaps she’d sensed the urgency in his voice. Perhaps it was simply a need to feel wanted. As soon as he got back to Paris he would have to make other arrangements. Dinner accompanied by long, hot glances from Fräulein Brünnhilde would not go down well. There would be language barriers with the English girl. On the other hand, they might all get on like a house on fire. You never could tell.

  First things first. He turned his attention to the menu. In all probability it would be his last meal at Les Cinq Parfaits. He must make the most of it. Tonight there would be no face at the window to spoil his appetite.

  The whole operation at the Institut des Beaux Arbres had gone like a dream. In many ways it felt like a dream. Bluff had been the order of the day; borrowing the black boy who had shown him to Jean-Claude’s room on the first evening, a happy thought. It had added the necessary stroke of realism. In the event Madame Schmidt had queried neither his sudden metamorphosis from being the emissary of a prospective student to that of a person of authority, nor the removal of Jean-Claude. Her husband had been more suspicious, asking for papers. He’d had to lean on him a little, adopting his long-practised ‘I’m asking the questions’ voice. ‘Watch it, or it will be the worse for you.’ It worked as it had always worked in the past. Pommes Frites had bared his teeth with great effect at the appropriate moment.

  The taxi driver with his borrowed limousine had behaved magnificently; assuming exactly the right degree of studied indifference – of having seen it all before, leaning against the bonnet picking his teeth until required, his cap at a suitably insolent and rakish angle. He might have abducted people every day of his life. Perhaps he had in the past. The meeting with Fräulein Brünnhilde and the girl had gone without a hitch. Madame Grante would throw a fit when she saw the bill, but that was a minor problem.

  A little way along the restaurant the V.I.P. was holding court. The table had been set very slightly and very discreetly apart from the rest. There were four other members of the entourage, each vying for the privilege of ministering to his wants; no doubt acting as bodyguards as well. He made a joke. Rolls of fat loosely encased in silken robes shook with laughter. It was echoed in turn by an obedient ripple round the table. Watching the scene over the top of his menu, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if one of them missed his cue. He wouldn’t fancy their chances. What was it the chief had said about him?

  ‘A grosse légume whose speed at acquiring untold wealth had not so far been matched by any show of finer feelings towards his fellow man.’

  Behind the laughter there lurked corruption and decay. The black boy had said much the same on the journey up to the Institut. ‘He make Idi Amin look like guardian angel on church outing.’

  Even as he watched there occurred an incident which, although comparatively minor, served to underline the boy’s words. One of the commis-waiters bearing a load of silver domes back to the kitchen passed perilously close to the great man’s elbow and in swerving to avoid a collision inadvertently allowed one of them to fall to the floor.

  The Grosse Légume, the flow of his conversation momentarily checked, half-rose and for a moment Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he was about to strike the waiter. The boy thought so too, and ducking in panic, he allowed the rest of the silverware to slide ignominiously off the tray.

  The crash echoed round the room and for a moment there was a stunned silence. Then someone gave a nervous giggle in the way that people do in restaurants the world over at such moments and the tension was broken.

  The Grosse Légume, sat down again and a broad smile filled his face. But it was a smile without mirth and it left a long shadow. At another time and in another place, it seemed to say, your life would not be worth living. The man was a salaud. Un salaud de première classe.

  ‘Vous avez choisi, Monsieur?’ The maître d’hôtel appeared at his side, pad and pencil at the ready.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse came down to earth. He had already decided against a repeat of the menu gastronomique. It would be like trying to recapture the delights of his experience on the mountainside. On the other hand it was an occasion for a mini-celebration of some kind. What would Holmes have chosen? Oysters and a brace of pheasants, probably, followed by cheddar cheese and syllabub. He corrected himself, the latter two courses would have been in the reverse order in the English manner. He scanned the menu. All four items were conspicuous by their absence.

  Running his eye down the entrées he had a sudden thought. Amongst those listed he noticed a starred dish – soupe aux truffes noires — the one that Bocuse had created specially for President Giscard d’Estaing‘s famous Légion d’Honneur lunch at the Elysée Palace in 1975. He had always wanted to try it. He glanced across at the list of poissons. At the time, Bocuse had called on other chefs to contribute to the menu. Sure enough, the Troisgros Brothers’ escalope de saumon à l’oseille – a creation based on a happy thought by Pierre Troisgros’ mother-in-law, was also listed and starred. He felt a growing excitement. There were more delights – roast duck Claude Jolly. He remembered that in the original lunch they had followed duck with cheese, then the first wild strawberries of the year. Jean-Claude’s Soufflé Surprise probably hadn’t seen the light of day then – but he could make do with some more of the framboises.

  The maître d’hôtel nodded approvingly. ‘Monsieur is not in a hurry?’

  ‘I have nowhere to go,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘I have all the time in the world.’ It wasn’t strictly true, of course. But tomorrow was another day.

  He picked up his copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and was about to open it where he’d left off, when Albert Parfait hobbled into view.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up at the slowly approaching figure with a genuine sense of shock. In the space of a few days the patron of Les Cinq Parfaits seemed to have added another ten years to his age. There was a stoop which he hadn’t noticed previously, and his limp seemed more pronounced. But as he drew near he saw it was mostly in the eyes. The eyes were those of a man who had suddenly grown tired of life.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Your son is safe.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a tremble in the other’s hand as he took it, then the grip tightened.

  ‘Merci. I was almost beginning to give up hope.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straight away. Time did not allow it.’

  Even as he spoke the words, Monsieur Pamplemousse knew that they had a hollow ring to them. It was an excuse rather than a reason. An excuse for an inexcusable omission. Deep down he had been avoiding the moment and he wondered why. It left him with a strange feeling; one which he couldn’t entirely rationalise.

  ‘I understand.’ Albert Parfait relaxed momentarily, allowed himself a brief smile, then the tiredness returned to his face. It was almost as though he had been undergoing some kind of inner battle, the outcome of which had already been decided. ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘He is on his way to Paris for a few days. He has been heavily sedated, but he is young and fit – the effects will soon wear off. He will be back here as quickly as possible, but for the time being it is as well if he is not around.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘The girl is travelling with him. She will be staying with Madame Pamplemousse. Pommes Frites is accompanying them on the journey. They will be quite safe.’

  He didn’t mention Fräulein Brünnhilde. It was unnecessary. There would be the girl’s parents to tell too. His heart sank at the prospect.

  ‘I am very grateful. Later tonight we will drink to the occasion.’ Once again there was a distinct tremble in the hand. ‘In the meantime, I will leave you to your reading and to your meal. Bon appetit.’

  Left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his book again and gazed at it unseeingly, focusing his thoughts not on the jumble of words but on the scene around him and on Albert Parfait in particular. He had a strange sense of forebodi
ng. Monsieur Parfait did not look a happy man. The news of his son’s safety had revived his spirits momentarily, but it had been only the briefest of moments. Perhaps he was suffering the responsibility of success and wealth. It must have been a difficult week for him. First the disappearance of Jean-Claude, then the arrival of the V.I.P., whose presence he could hardly have welcomed at such a time. It must be a far cry from the comparatively modest hopes and ambitions he’d nursed when he’d first helped out in his grand-mère’s kitchen. He couldn’t have dreamed in those far-off times that one day he would be hobnobbing with royalty, cooking for Presidents, playing host to the V.I.P.s of the world. All the same, it hardly accounted for his doom-laden manner.

  Once again his thoughts were interrupted. This time by the wine waiter. He picked up the carte des vins and opted for a Hermitage – a bottle of Gérard Chave, one of the most meticulous of vignerons, whose land was so sheer the grape-filled bennes had to be hauled up to the top by a winch at harvest time.

  Again his order met with evident approval. Then, having duly recorded it, the sommelier hovered for a moment, fingering his tastevin hesitantly. Clearly, he had something on his mind. Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘I am sorry about the Château d’Yquem, Monsieur.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the man in amazement. ‘But it was delicious. Sheer perfection. An unforgettable experience. I cannot wait to repeat it.’

  ‘Ah!’ A look of unhappiness crossed the sommelier’s normally dead-pan features. It was the kind of expression he must reserve for those rare occasions when he sniffed a cork and detected signs of the dreaded weevil bug. ‘Monsieur has not been to his refrigerator since this morning?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment. ‘I have, but only briefly. I have been out all day.’ It was true. He’d arrived back so late he’d even resisted the temptation of allowing himself the luxury of a drink with his bath. ‘Why do you ask?’