by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own worst fears were realised when he saw the Director’s normally immaculate desk littered with newspapers.
As for Monsieur Leclercq, worry lines were etched on his face and he looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink all night. His first words confirmed it.
‘Pamplemousse – at last! I have hardly slept a wink all night!’
One by one he held up the journals. ‘MORT À MONTMARTRE,’ he intoned, picking them up at random. ‘MYSTÈRE CHAVIGNOL… HOMICIDE À HUITRE… PAMPLEMOUSSE RIDES AGAIN!’ (The last from the New York Herald Tribune)
‘They make unhappy reading, Pamplemousse.’
A feeling of déjà vu came over Monsieur Pamplemousse as he found himself staring at variations of his own likeness appearing beneath the banner headlines. Most were flatteringly old.
‘At least Le Monde doesn’t carry photographs, Monsieur.’
‘We must be thankful for such mercies,’ said the Director gloomily, ‘however small they may be.
‘Monday evenings will no longer be the same,’ he read. ‘Chavignol was a one-off… A professional to his fingertips… He will be much mourned.’ He sounded bitter, which was unlike him.
‘This is bad news,’ he continued. ‘Your identity is now common knowledge, Pamplemousse. Remember our motto. The three A’s: Action, Accord, Anonymat.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, those precepts have not been breached. There is nothing to link me to Le Guide. It is my past affiliations the media are interested in, not my present ones. I venture to suggest that even after seeing the photographs many of those in the trade, waiters, restaurateurs, will not recognise me. Memories are short. People have their own problems.’
Monsieur Leclercq looked doubtful. ‘You know what the media are like. Once they start digging into things there is no knowing what they will turn up.’
‘I have no secrets to hide, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. The response seemed to go home. ‘Lucky Le homme who can say that, hand on heart, Aristide,’ said the Director fervently.
‘That apart, the whole unsavoury business will do a great deal of harm to the oyster industry. Already there have been complaints from Locmariaquer. Despite there being an “R” in the month, both Le Dôme and La Coupole have reported a falling off in trade.’
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that for some reason best known to himself the Director was either clutching at straws, or failing to grasp the nettle. ‘It didn’t do much forMonsieur Chavignol either,’ he added drily.
‘There is good in everything, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director. ‘In Chavignol’s case the best you can say is that it is good riddance to bad rubbish.
‘The man was a monstre of the very worst kind. Un salaud… une vache…vielle pouffiasse… merdaillon… scélerat… It is hard to find words to describe him.’
‘You are doing very well, Monsieur,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Worst of all, Aristide,’ continued the Director, ‘the man was a charlatan; a disgrace to his chosen profession.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, the world of catering doesn’t exactly enjoy a spotless reputation at the best of times. You have only to read the book written by that American chef, Monsieur Bourdain, to see what I mean. It is on all the bestseller lists. The public loves reading about these things.’
‘What chefs get up to within the confines of their own workplace is a matter between themselves and their colleagues,’ said the Director. ‘Fornication behind the dishwasher is one thing, but when such behaviour and worse spills over into their home life it is another matter.’
‘There is a Madame Chavignol?’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘From all I have heard…’
‘There is indeed!’ said Monsieur Leclercq grimly.
‘Hélas!’ He sat down heavily in his chair and gazed out of the window. ‘It is about Madame Chavignol that I wish to confer with you.’
‘But if her husband was all that you say he was, Monsieur, then surely…’
‘Then surely she must feel relieved. Is that what you were about to say, Aristide?’
‘It would seem to follow, Monsieur. However, I long ago ceased to wonder about the way people react in times of stress. Human nature is very complex; at times it is wholly unpredictable.’
Monsieur Leclercq came back to earth from wherever he had been.
‘Things are not always as they seem, Aristide.’ He glanced nervously towards the door leading to the outer office in case Véronique hadn’t taken his advice. ‘The story I have to tell you is not a pretty one…’
‘Is it about an oyster?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse, seeking to help the Director out.
Monsieur Leclerq stared at him. ‘No, Pamplemousse, it is not! It happened a few weeks ago when my wife and I were attending a party at the Chavignol’s home in the 7th arrondissement.
‘It was a warm summer evening and there was a string quartet playing in the garden. I was dancing with the hostess on the patio when I happened to pass some innocent remark about how nice it was to see such a happy couple. I was thinking of her husband, of course, who I must say had been the perfect host; exuding bonhomie to all and sundry.
‘Madame Chavignol stopped on the spot and looked me straight in the eye. Having suggested we sit the next dance out, she fortified herself with a glass or two of Roederer Crystal champagne.
‘At this point I would ask you to bear in mind that there are two sides to every story. I am simply relating the facts of what transpired in chronological order. What she had to tell me made Casanova’s memoirs pale by comparison.
‘I felt it my duty to console her. She needed a shoulder to cry on. I didn’t mention it to Madame Leclercq at the time because for some reason she had taken a violent dislike to our hostess. You know how women can be on such occasions… although in retrospect I have to admit she showed remarkable prescience. As far as I was concerned there was nothing to it, of course…’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised both hands heavenwards. ‘Of course, Monsieur. Not for one moment did I think otherwise.’
‘People always tend to think the worst…’
‘That has been my experience, too, Monsieur.’
‘In your case, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director sternly, ‘not without reason I fear.
‘But I ask you this. How would your wife feel if you preferred sleeping with a plastic inflatable nun by your side? How would any normal woman feel?’
‘I cannot speak for Doucette, Monsieur, although she is such a sound sleeper she would probably never know. As for Madame Chavignol, I have never met the lady, but if her husband was all you say he was, it may well have been a blessing in disguise.’
‘It is hard to disguise a plastic inflatable nun, Pamplemousse, and it was not always by his side,’ said the Director meaningfully. ‘As she told the story to me that evening, he was often astride it. Acting, if you will pardon the expression, like the proverbial village pump. There were times when the poor woman lay in fear and trembling that it might explode at any moment.’
‘I sympathise,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But such devices are remarkably resilient these days. Great strides have been made in the field of plastics. Take, par exemple, Pommes Frites’ inflatable kennel. There was the time when you sent us to that Health Farm in the Pyrénées-Orientales – Château Morgue. If you remember it turned out to be a haunt of drug smugglers. With the door flap of his kennel sealed and the inside filled with helium, it lifted him and most of Le Guide’s camera equipment with no trouble at all. And that at a time when he also needed to lose weight. Had I not attached a stout line we might never have seen him again.’
Hearing his name being bandied about, Pommes Frites stood up and wagged his tail.
‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq wearily. ‘I do recall the escapade, although I must admit it happened so long ago the precise details escape me. When I said “poor woman” I was referring to Madame Chavignol, not the inflatable nun.�
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‘I read recently of a carrier that has been developed in order to move transformers on cushions of air between the factory and the power station,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, unwilling to be deflected from his theme. ‘Some of them can support as much as 300 tonnes.’
‘I hardly think Madame Chavignol makes a habit of sharing her bed with a three hundred tonne transformer,’ said the Director impatiently. ‘At the time I felt she was in need of counselling, not electric shock treatment. I have since learnt better.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows and waited patiently while the Director toyed nervously with a propelling pencil.
‘I have an idea I would like to run up the flagpole, Aristide,’ he said at long last. ‘But it must not go beyond these four walls.’
‘You have been to les Etats-Unis recently, Monsieur?’ It was a long established fact that whenever the Director visited America he invariably returned armed with the latest jargon, although by the time he started dropping it into the conversation more often than not it was long past its sell-by date.
‘I have only just returned, as matter of fact. I had to address a seminar at the CIA…’
‘You have been to the Pentagon, Monsieur?’ In spite of everything Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help being impressed. ‘I didn’t know their canteen had been awarded an honorary Stock Pot. If I may offer my congratulations, that is a splendid gesture. It can do nothing but good. Franco-American relations often seem at a low ebb. Only last night Mademoiselle Odette was complaining about the recent flood of hamburger bars in the Champs Elysées.’
‘No, Pamplemousse,’ the Director broke in impatiently. ‘You misunderstand me. I am not referring to the Central Intelligence Agency, but to the Culinary Institute of America. Both, I may say, have equally high standards, even if they differ somewhat in their ideals. The main difference between the two is that whereas the Intelligence Agency are much like our own Direction Général de la Sécurité – they cannot resist placing bugs wherever they go, – the latter spend their time making sure none exist. Food poisoning is ever uppermost in their minds. Cleanliness is certainly next to Godliness with those who attend classes at the school’s premises in New York State. Certificates are not awarded lightly.
‘However, that is not why I wished to see you. I have other matters to discuss. Matters of extreme delicacy.’
Once again, Monsieur Leclercq cast a nervous eye towards his office door. ‘What I am about to tell you, Aristide, must be treated in the utmost confidence.
‘That very same evening, when I found myself one of a party of twelve at dinner, I had a strange experience. In the beginning Chavignol was at one end of the table, his wife at the other.
‘Early in the meal the discussion became rather heated on the subject of Fusion cooking. It began with the first course, which was grenouilles in wonton soup. I had no quarrel with the freshness of the frog’s legs. As one of the other guests, an Englishman, remarked – they were so fresh they were practically doing the breast stroke.’
‘Les Anglais have a bizarre sense of humour, Monsieur. They find it hard to take anything seriously. One has to admire them.’
Monsieur Leclerq brushed the interruption to one side. ‘Nor could I find fault with the cooking. It was simply that it was a clash of cultures and against many of the principles we hold dear in Le Guide. It was not for nothing that our Founder decided to use the symbol of a Stock Pot rather than a wok as a sign of excellence.
‘Much as I admired the skill which went into the dish, it is at such times that I fear for the future of France. Why do we award Stock Pots, if not for the appreciation of French food? If I say the words boudin noir, Aristide, what name springs to mind?’
‘Dijon, Monsieur. It is near there that the annual sausage festival takes place.’
‘Exactly. Our own symbol, the humble escargot, evokes a similar response. Mention it and one immediately thinks of Martigny and their annual snail Festival.’
‘Where else, Monsieur?’
‘By the same token, I shudder to think what the members of the Confrérie des Taste Cuisses de Grenouilles de Vittel would have to say about a dish which consisted of frogs legs in Chinese soup. I’m afraid I became rather heated on the subject.
‘However, things calmed down and by the time we reached the fromage stage, it was suggested – I think by Madame Chavignol herself – that we should all change places in order to get to know each other better. Little did I guess what was in her mind!
‘Soon after we resumed eating I was talking to a lady on my right who worked for the Banque de France – we were discussing the state of the economy, about which, I have to say, she seemed remarkably ignorant – when I felt something crawling up the inside of my right leg. I daresay you have heard of people playing what is known in some circles as faire du pied?’
‘It is a game for two, played beneath the table, Monsieur. I believe the English call it footsie.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. It is yet another side to les Anglais. They equate everything in terms of sport. But this was something else again. Whatever it was, it moved in snake-like fashion, slowly and inexorably up the inside of my leg until it could go no further. It was only then, when it began to wiggle, that I realised it was a toe. I will leave you to guess the sex.’
‘Was it a digit of the female persuasion, Monsieur?’
‘It was, and it needed very little persuading.’
‘The big one?’
‘The size is immaterial, Pamplemousse. Although I have to admit that by then whoever it belonged to must have realised it hadn’t had as far to travel as she might have anticipated, and the distance was getting less with every passing moment. I hesitate to say it had been met halfway, but it had, metaphorically speaking, hit the buffers.’
Monsieur Leclercq paused for a moment to mop his brow. There was the sound of lapping water as Pommes Frites, who had been hanging on the Director’s every word and gesture, made the most of the opportunity.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his boss. It must be costing him dearly to bare his soul in this way.
‘I know what you are thinking, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘You are thinking if this ever gets out the reputation of Le Guide will plummet.’
It was, in fact, the last thing on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind, but he could see why the Director might be worried. A scandal could have severe repercussions in financial circles.
‘By then I had quite lost the thread of the conversation with the lady from the bank. I must have been sweating like a pig, for I remember her asking me if I was feeling unwell.
‘I looked around the table and by process of elimination decided that even though Madame Chavignol was engaged in animated conversation with her neighbours on either side, the foot could only belong to her. No one else at the table had legs that long and even she must have been stretching hers to their fullest extent.
‘Shortly afterwards, a second pied began to make its presence felt. Having established a foothold as it were, it set about manoeuvring my left leg into a complimentary position on her side of the table. And there it stayed, locked in a vicelike grip between her thighs for the rest of the meal.
‘When we eventually rose there was a thud and I realised my shoe had become detached. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to discard its companion, otherwise my limp might have given the game away.
‘Worse was to follow. My wife was taking a stroll in the garden with one of the other guests, and I had just asked Madame Chavignol if she had read any good books lately – one has to keep up the charade in these situations, when she took me by the arm and led me towards some kind of outbuilding clearly reserved for the laundering of garments – there was a distinct odour of disinfectant in the air; it quite negated the smell of the scented candles outside. As we entered I detected the sound of machinery. She appeared to be nervous. On the way there she kept looking at her watch.
‘When I complained that the s
mell was giving me a headache she produced a tablet from a gold locket she wore round her neck. She said it would do me the world of good.’
‘Do you know what it was?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It had a strange name. Rather like that famous American waterfall – Niagara…’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. For all his worldliness, he had moments of quite breathtaking naivety.
‘And you took it, Monsieur?’
‘Of course. I could hardly refuse. In fact, she gave me three. I must confess I sensed a certain amount of impatience on her part. They proved most efficacious. Almost immediately I began to feel better.
‘It was at that point that she suddenly began uttering cries of ‘Vite! Vite!’ Seating herself on one of the machines, she kicked a box into place by my feet and drew me towards her. I felt her legs encircle my body. Strictly between ourselves, Aristide, I can hardly claim it was an unpleasant sensation. It was also considerably enhanced by the soft vibration of the machine itself. But that was as far as it went until suddenly, almost as though it had taken on a life of its own and had become imbued with the spirit of the occasion, the motor sprang into life. The speed increased some tenfold. It was like being in a ship at sea in a severe gale.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a whistle. ‘It sounds as though it could have gone into the spin-drying mode, Monsieur. At such times washing machines can reach a speed of anything up to two thousand revs a minute. They sound like an aeroplane about to take off.’
Privately he couldn’t help but admire Madame Chavignol’s split second timing. It was no wonder she had kept on looking at her watch.
‘By that time two revs would have been more than sufficient,’ said the Director feelingly. ‘I had to hold on to Madame Chavignol for dear life! Just at the moment critique there was a blinding flash. At first I thought the machine had given up under the strain, then I realised it was someone with a camera. It was coitus interruptus with a vengeance!’
‘These things happen, Monsieur.’
‘They may well happen to you, Pamplemousse, but I have certainly never experienced anything like it either before or since. I tell you, it is one thing talking about it in the cold light of day, but it was quite another matter on a sultry autumn evening in the 7th arrondissement.