by Michael Bond
‘In my small way,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I help to keep the flag flying. On the balcony of my apartment I have six window boxes. I use them to grow herbs in.’
The gendarme looked at him with renewed respect. ‘You are to be congratulated, Monsieur. There is hope for France yet.’
‘You are from the Auvergne?’ suggested the Peugeot owner.
Monsieur Pamplemousse confessed that he was.
‘I thought as much. With respect, I detect a streak of stubbornness. Also the interest in food.’
‘Auvergnats play an integral part in the history of Paris brasseries,’ agreed the latest arrival. He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Have we not met somewhere before?’
‘I think not,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I never forget a face,’ said the man. He stared at the figure hunched in the passenger seat. ‘The dog, too. He looks very familiar.’
Pommes Frites gazed back at him unblinkingly.
‘He is much the same way,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly. ‘He never forgets a face either, and I see no signs of recognition.’
‘Once you’ve seen one Afghan, you’ve seen the lot,’ said the Peugeot owner. Unclipping his pen the interviewer made another entry on his form.
‘Afghan?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. He avoided catching Pommes Frites’ eye again for fear of what he might see. There were certain key words that met with instant disapproval. Afghan was probably one of them.
‘He is a Bloodhound.’
The man gave a shrug. ‘Ah, well. Be that as it may. It is just that you sound as though you have a professional interest in food, Monsieur, and I happen to be in the business.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal reply. If he said he worked for Le Guide, the oldest and most respected gastronomic bible in all France, the floodgates would open. Given the combined interest in food of his present company, he would never get away.
‘I merely mention it because I happen to have a ticket for the Claude Chavignol show tomorrow evening,’ said the man. ‘His new series has just started. Monsieur will know him, of course. Now, there is a cook for you.’
‘I know of him,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse guardedly. ‘In fact, I often pass the studios where the programme is made. They are not far from where I live…’
‘Then it must be meant.’ The man felt inside his jacket and withdrew a strip of pasteboard.
‘Here. It is a shame to waste it. My brother gave it to me. He knows someone who works there. I’m sorry it is for one person only but I shall be away, so I am unable to make use of it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He had no wish to hurt the other’s feelings, but the programme went out on Monday evenings and if he watched television at all he opted for CANAL +, where there was often a good film on. Also, according to all the rumours he’d heard, Claude Chavignol, noted gastronome and television personality, didn’t actually know one end of a carrot from the other. One of his colleagues, Bernard, who also knew someone who worked on the show – a cousin twice removed who was a cameraman – maintained that a minion actually made an incision along the length of any root vegetables so that Monsieur Chavignol would know exactly where he should place his implement.
‘Have you noticed that part is never shown in close-up?’ Bernard had been only too anxious to air his inside knowledge. ‘They always cut away to a shot of the audience. Even then they have a nurse standing by in case the knife slips.’
‘Now you mention it,’ the man from the census broke into his thoughts. ‘I have a feeling I’ve seen you somewhere before too… I have been racking my brains…’
Monsieur Pamplemousse crossed himself ‘Treize, douze, onze, dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un…’ he said, anxious to change the subject.
‘Are you all right, Monsieur?’ asked the official.
Removing his hat, Monsieur Pamplemousse bowed in the direction of the man’s hut before replying. ‘I thought I saw a magpie perched on the roof. Where I come from to see one magpie is considered bad luck. It is worse than crossed knives. Reciting the numbers one to thirteen quickly in reverse order is a kind of talisman. My mother, God rest her soul, always swore by it. And she lived to a ripe old age.’
‘I can’t see it,’ said the man.
‘There you are!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Already it has taken fright.’
‘They are solitary birds,’ the gendarme broke in. ‘All the same, I agree it is not a good sign. The magpie is said to be a hybrid of the raven and the dove, which means that when Noah released those two birds from the ark, the magpie itself was never baptized in the waters of the flood.’
‘It is not a happy bird,’ agreed the Peugeot driver. ‘If a single magpie croaks near a house it is said that one of the occupants will die.’ He gave a chuckle as he looked at the interviewer. ‘I wouldn’t fancy having your job.’
Hearing a veritable symphony of protesting horns from further down the road, the gendarme terminated the conversation.
He saluted. ‘Pardon, Messieurs…’
From the expression on his face as he set off towards the line of cars, he was about to throw the book at their owners. The prospects for getting away in a hurry didn’t look good. Excessive exhaust fumes would be noted. The depth of tyre treads measured. Papers checked.
‘It is very kind of you. It so happens I am starting a week’s holiday…’
Accepting the ticket as a means of making good his own escape, Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped it into an inside pocket next to his wallet and tendered his goodbyes. After handshakes all round and with sympathetic cries of ‘bonne chance’ ringing in his ears, he resumed his journey.
Glancing in the rear view mirror before pulling out he derived a certain amount of satisfaction when he saw the official, having set off towards his hut, pause to gaze up at the sky as though having second thoughts.
Looking back over his shoulder, Pommes Frites saw what was happening too and clearly felt the same way.
The possibility that in the days to come there would be many worse matters to occupy their respective minds didn’t occur to either of them. Pommes Frites fell into a state of gloom at the prospect of having cold left-over tripe for his lunch. As for Monsieur Pamplemousse, his mind was on other things.
Once round the first corner, he put his foot down on the accelerator pedal.
So much for taking a short cut in order to save time. He still had fifty or so kilometres to go. On a good day it could take the best part of an hour. On a bad Sunday there was no telling…
That was another thing about Agathe – she didn’t take kindly to people being late. Especially after she had been slaving away over a hot stove. And her with her bad back!
Chapter Two
Monsieur Pamplemousse might have forgotten all about the ticket if Doucette hadn’t come across an item in Le Parisien next morning at breakfast.
She was about to go through the list of planned manifestations for the day – a procession of striking street cleaners in Passy, another involving veterinary surgeons in the Place de la Bastille – when her eye fastened on a piece of traffic news.
‘I see now why you were so late yesterday, Aristide,’ she said. ‘Fancy! A five kilometre tail-back at Porte de Bercy! I must phone Agathe and tell her it wasn’t entirely your fault.’
‘I doubt if she will believe you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, reaching for a second croissant. He resisted the temptation to add that her sister was also partly responsible. As with her tripes à la mode de Caen, it wouldn’t go down well. He produced the ticket instead, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
‘Of course you must go!’ said Doucette. ‘They’re always showing shots of the audience and I haven’t seen you on television for ages. Not since your days with the Sûreté when you were working on a difficult case. You may even get invited to take part.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked dubious. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he said
.
‘Think of Pommes Frites,’ replied Doucette. ‘He has never seen you on the screen.’
‘I doubt if he ever will,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse obstinately. ‘Dogs don’t have the benefit of persistency of vision. I shall be just a blur like everything else…’
‘Don’t you be so sure,’ said Doucette darkly. ‘Pommes Frites sees what he wants to see.’
She was right, of course. Who was to say for certain what dogs could or could not see? They had their own methods. Anyway, there were times when it was best not to argue.
Which was why that same evening found him in the Centre de Télévision et Ciné de la Butte watching a studio clock tick away the final seconds before Cuisine de Chavignol resumed following a break for a filmed item.
Arriving at the last possible moment, hoping for a seat at the back of the audience so that he could make a quick getaway, his plan had misfired. It was a case of the last shall be first and he was ushered into the front row.
Worse still, much worse, although he had no doubt Doucette would be pleased for Pommes Frites’ sake, it meant he could be in line to join the select few Claude Chavignol chose to join him at table for the finale: Dîner avec Chavignol.
The possibility that long before the evening was over he would have a much more pressing reason for being on stage anyway didn’t enter his mind.
Had he been recognised when he took his seat? He felt sure the answer was “yes”. He’d caught a glimpse of the great man in the wings, weighing up the pros and cons of his potential guests. Their eyes had met momentarily. Lips pursed, the host held Monsieur Pamplemousse’s gaze for what felt like an unnecessarily long time, as though filing his presence away in the back of his mind for some reason.
Watching the programme at home, it had always seemed to Monsieur Pamplemousse that Claude Chavignol derived an inordinate amount of pleasure in embarrassing the participants and he had no wish to become one of his victims.
Doucette, who didn’t trust men with fleshy lips, was very down to earth on the subject, maintaining he should never have shaved off his moustache.
Since she didn’t like men with beards either, believing it meant they had something to hide, Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say she couldn’t have it both ways. It was like giving a man two ties for Christmas and as soon he tried one on, asking what was wrong with the other.
As usual, she had the last word. What was it she had said?
“If you stuck a pin in that man’s ego he would flutter around the room like a pricked balloon before finally disappearing up his own derrière.”
Monsieur Pamplemousse had pretended to be mildly shocked at the time. It was unlike her to be quite so censorious, or so earthy.
Although it was his first visit to the studios, he had often caught glimpses of them from the outside when he and Pommes Frites were out for a walk. Situated not far from where they lived, but further down the hill towards the Boulevard de Clichy, it was one of those half-hidden enclaves peculiar to Montmartre. Often bigger than they looked, sometimes put to good use and thriving with activity, as was the present case, but more often than not monuments to a bygone age following years of neglect.
Occasionally he stopped to peer between the wrought iron bars of some electrically operated gates that opened on to a courtyard surrounded on all four sides by ancient buildings. Windows, which at one time had been like eyeless holes in the walls, now sported gleaming white shutters, although he strongly suspected many of the openings behind them were bricked up, concealing the fact that the inside had been gutted. Beneath each shutter there was a window box full of carefully tended flowers.
The courtyard was usually full of parked cars, often including an old Facel Vega Excellence in immaculate condition. In its time it had been France’s answer to Britain’s Rolls Royce and Germany’s Mercedes-Benz, and he took it to belong to Monsieur Chavignol himself, since it was very much a Show Biz car, beloved of American film stars: Ava Gardner, Tony Curtis and Danny Kaye to name but a few, and was always in a special marked area by the main entrance to the studios.
More than once he had seen people queuing for audience shows, never dreaming that one day he would be joining them.
Rumour had it that Chavignol had purchased the site for a song. If that were true, his investment had certainly paid off. It was a case of money making money. Having converted the buildings into a complex of studios at a time when everyone seemed to be going independent, he had never looked back; least of all – again, so it was said – at those whose toes he had trodden on during his progress up the ladder of fame.
His own weekly show, which took place in a simulated theatre with a fake proscenium arch and raked seating for an audience of around 150, followed a set pattern. Fifty minutes of something borrowed, something blue, something old and something new: chat show, game show, the occasional musical item, a touch of magic here and there, plus various cookery items, all rolled into one.
Cynics who took the view that you can never underestimate the public’s taste must have had their fears confirmed, for in many respects it was a combination of all that was worst in television. That said, it was compulsive viewing and regularly topped the charts.
Host, anchorman, magician, raconteur, wit; once Claude Chavignol got going, bons mots culled by his team of researchers flowed in a never-ending stream via the autocue.
“In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, the other is getting it.”
“Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.”
Oscar Wilde might well have consulted his copyright lawyer had he been alive to hear them.
Marcel Aymé (1902–1967) would have joined in. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised “life always comes to a bad end” as being a quotation from one of his more bizarre works for the simple reason that a bronze statue based on his book The Man Who Could Pass Through Walls protruded from a wall outside their apartment block. Pommes Frites had left his mark on it many a time.
Oozing insincerity from every pore, master of all he surveyed, the term “television personality” fitted the programme’s host much like his immaculately tailored, dark blue, buttoned up to the neck, Nehru suit.
Seeing him in the flesh for the first time, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised that in one respect at least the description “manufactured” did him an injustice, for his hands were long and slender and beautifully manicured. They were a magician’s hands.
All that apart, he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to work for him. Those under him probably led a dog’s life. It showed in his choice of warm-up artiste: a little-known comedian who was good, but not so good that he would take the shine off the host. After the first few jokes he had set about drilling the audience in the part they had to play. First the length and volume of their applause, then their enthusiastic echoing of “YUMS” – a word used by the host whenever he tasted one of his own dishes.
So far, the programme had been par for the course.
First, the reminiscing about his childhood: helping in the kitchen. ‘There is nothing like the taste of raw cake mix – scraping out the mixing bowl – licking the spoon clean…’ A chorus of “YUMS” rang round the studio.
Feigning being worn out by it all, Monsieur Chavignol filled a glass jug with water from a tap, took a Paris goblet and poured out a glass of red wine.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what his colleague, Glandier, would have to say about it. Born and brought up in the Savoy mountains, Glandier had often been snowed up for weeks on end and he had an extensive repertoire of tricks he’d perfected as a child.
‘One of the oldest in the book.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could hear his voice. ‘First lace the water jug with some ferric ammonium sulphate, then make sure the bottom of the glass contains a similar amount of sodium salicylate. Add water, and Hey Presto – red wine! There’s nothing to it.’
All the same, performed with practised style, as it had been on this occasion, it never failed.
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br /> The hot tip of the week: what to do if a sauce Béarnaise goes wrong – had followed.
‘Never add warm water to a warm sauce. Add lukewarm water if the béarnaise is cold. Add cold water if it is tepid…’
Brief and to the point, the filmed insert only lasted a couple of minutes, but during that time a group of scene hands invaded the kitchen area, assembled a cabinet the size of a telephone kiosk, placed it in position on a pre-marked spot, then vanished as fast as they had come. It was practically poetry in motion.
Their place was taken by a scantily clad girl – extremely small, and more flesh than sequins. Having attached a large round clock to a lighting stand, she made sure all three hands were set to 12.00 o’clock, then turned it to face the audience.
During that time Chavignol had changed into a regular two-piece suit. With it he wore a Hermès tie that looked as though it been specially designed, for it converted the maker’s horseshoe motif into the double interlocking C logo of the television company. If that were the case it must have cost a bomb.
Brief was not something that could be said for the interview that followed. Having introduced the guest celebrity, Mademoiselle Martine Odette, owner of a chain of health food shops, Monsieur Chavignol had his work cut out getting a word in edgewise. Mounting what was clearly a favourite hobby horse, she launched into an attack on the tyranny of supermarket uniformity, at the same time unashamedly ploughing a well-worn furrow in praise of her own establishments.
‘… each time you enter a Supermarché and buy a packet of genetically modified, chemically adulterated, irradiated food fed by white-clad operatives into some giant machine in the middle of nowhere before being spewed out into plastic containers containing exact pre-set portions, you are guilty of dumbing down not only yourself, but your children too.’
Cued by the floor manager – soft-soled suede shoes, combat trousers – a kind of uniform in which the common thread was a dark blue tee shirt, again with the company logo emblazoned on the front in gold lettering – the audience dutifully signalled their approval.