by Michael Bond
‘The world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is getting vastly overcrowded. The very things people travel miles to see are spoilt before they even get there.’
‘How true. Anyway, one day I was doing some research up in the old town when I happened to get into conversation with the producer of this epic at a moment when writers were suddenly thin on the ground. One had gone into a home. Another is reputed to have joined the Foreign Legion. The other three simply walked out and haven’t been seen since. On the strength of an old copy of Sandcastles I just happened to have with me and a CV I concocted on the spur the moment, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Voilà … here I am.
‘I said to him – you’ll have to take me as I am. If you don’t like what you find, just tell me. I know when I’m not wanted.’
Replenishing his glass, Gilbert Beaseley pushed the bottle across the table. ‘I’m talking too much. Tell me about yourself.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to lean forward when he thought better of it. He was also momentarily distracted by the sight of Pommes Frites hurrying back up the slope away from the boat. From the way he kept peering over his shoulder it looked as though he could be in disgrace about something. Guilt was writ large all over his face.
‘I am here as a food adviser.’
‘A bit late in the day isn’t it? I mean, there’s only the Last Supper and the Crucifixion to go. No one will get very fat on that, least of all you. There won’t even be any leftovers worth speaking of.’
‘That is not what I was given to understand.’
Gilbert Beaseley shrugged. ‘You may well be right. Things change from minute to minute. The Red Sea was all set to part three days ago – or the Red Sea as represented by a local stretch of water – but it never did. The Etang de Vaccarès turned out to be part of the Réserve Naturelle. All hell broke loose. They’re very hot on conservation down here and no one had got permission to part it.’
Pommes Frites arrived back panting and settled himself under the table. For some reason he was soaked to the skin. Monsieur Pamplemousse also couldn’t help noticing there were several small white feathers stuck to his chin.
Gilbert Beaseley glanced down. ‘Did you distract the nasty lady, then? Mr Strudel will be pleased; so will the crew – they’re all on double-time. I only hope you didn’t bite her. You could wake up with lock-jaw.’
He turned back to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Mrs Noah’s being difficult. She has but three lines to say – “Hurry along there”, “Two at a time” and “Don’t push – there’s room for everyone” – not the kind of deathless prose I wish to be remembered by, but at a thousand dollars a word, who’s complaining? Besides, in a forty-five-second commercial simplicity is all. Now she’s demanding a dialogue coach.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared towards the boat. ‘Von Strudel is down there?’
‘I doubt it. It’s the second unit working on some fill-in shots for the Ark sequence.’ Beaseley read his thoughts. ‘Anyway, I should stay where you are. You’ll have plenty of time to see him in action. If you’re working on the project there are two things you should know. One: speed is not Von Strudel’s middle name. Two: he may be the greatest living authority on biblical films, but to say he is a little out of touch with the stark realities of making television commercials is the understatement of the year. His first shooting script lasted over an hour. That’s when they began bringing other writers in, and one by one they have gone – all except for me. He still insists on using his original megaphone.’ Beaseley cupped his hands in the shape of a horn. ‘Do you vrealise it vas through zis very megundphone zat I called Dietrich eine Dummkopfe! If you ask me he’s a little bit bonkers.’
‘Comment?’
‘Bonkers. Round the bend. He’s been living by himself for too long.’
‘Can they not get rid of him?’
‘I wouldn’t like to be the person who tried. Besides, it would cost too much and the films are vastly over budget as it is. He’s getting paid more than the rest of us put together. At his age he doesn’t need the money, but he’s no fool. Salaries establish the pecking order in this ego-intensive industry. Besides, you know what they say. If you owe someone a thousand dollars you don’t sleep at night; make it a million and they don’t sleep at night. I’ll wager Von Strudel sleeps like a log. Apart from that, to fire him would be counter-productive. Time is running out. It could raise all kinds of problems and leave them even worse off.’
‘In what way?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was finding it hard to follow the logic.
‘The whole thing has to be seen in perspective. This series of commercials may have a bigger budget than Ben Hur, but in relation to the potential gross income from the product it is but a drop in the ocean. World-wide we are talking in space-programme terms.’
It occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse that either he was very low in the pecking order or Le Guide must be doing exceptionally well out of him on the quiet. Draining his glass, he made a mental note to tackle the Director on the subject when he had a chance.
‘Help yourself,’ said Beaseley. ‘It’s on the house. Von Strudel may be a shit, but at least he’s generous with other people’s money.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse declined. He was already beginning to feel the effect.
‘If it is all so bad, why did you take the job on?’
‘A question I ask myself every time I open my eyes in the morning. The sordid truth can be summed up in three words – money, money, money. Also the experience. When it’s all over I shall write a book about it. The fact is, ducky, there’s more material here than I shall use in a lifetime.’
Gilbert Beaseley looked as though he was about to develop his theme still further but at that moment a loud bang like a pistol shot rang out from somewhere behind them. It was followed by a series of high-pitched bleeps. Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and was just in time to see the gowned figure of a man carrying a large bundle wrapped in a white sheet disappear into one of the trailers. A second loud bang echoed round the clearing as the door slammed shut, but not before he managed to catch a momentary glimpse of a round, whiter than white face surmounted by a mop of curly black hair and behind that, just inside the trailer, a girl whose hair, in striking contrast, was long and ash blonde. She looked as though she was wearing a nurse’s uniform.
‘Sapristi!’ He was glad he had resisted the offer of another Ricard. ‘Who or what was that?’
‘That,’ said Gilbert Beaseley, ‘was Brother Angelo. The girl is what is euphemistically known as an au pair – Swedish version.
‘We do sound in a tizz today. It’s a good thing he’s wearing his bleeper.’
‘Brother Angelo?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked puzzled. ‘He is also an adviser?’
Beaseley gazed at him in amazement. ‘You must be joking. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Brother Angelo? Late of “The Friars” – before he went solo.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘The only thing Brother Angelo could advise anyone on is where to get their next shot of coke. Brother Angelo – whose real name, by the way, is Ron Pickles – is the Pavarotti of the pop world. The one big difference being that Pavarotti doesn’t end his act by urinating on an electric guitar. Come to that, neither does Brother Angelo any more. He did it once too often at a concert in Manchester. There was something wrong with the wiring and he received what he fondly calls “a packet up his privates”. He could neither let go, nor could he stop peeing. In the end his trousers parted under the strain and a certain HRH who happened to be present complained. Not even his laser-controlled halo could save him from being arrested for indecent exposure. He was lucky not to end up being sent to the Tower.’
‘I am afraid I am a little out of touch with the pop world,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The last concert I went to was with my wife. Jean Sablon was top of the bill. “Sur le pont d’Avignon” was all the rage that year.’
‘But was it numéro un?’ said Beaseley.
‘I don’t think they had numb
ers in those days,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was done alphabetically. But it was a very good song. It was on everyone’s lips.’ He stared at the closed door of the trailer. ‘So what is the secret of his success?’
‘Perfectly simple. Despite everything, our Ron looks the picture of innocence. Innocence radiates from every pore. It’s that black, curly hair. Women the world over – that is to say, girls of thirteen plus – all want to mother him. Mind you, I wouldn’t care to be the one who got to do it. She would be torn limb from limb by the rest of the mob. In some ways, casting him as Our Saviour was a stroke of genius, but it is not without its problems.’
‘You mean … Brother Angelo – Monsieur Pickles – is playing Christ?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked aghast at the thought. ‘It is not possible.’
‘You could do a lot worse. Can’t you just see him in the part?’
‘If you want my opinion,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the very idea is so grotesque it will offend many people.’
‘Undoubtedly. That’s one of the reasons why Von Strudel was engaged in the first place. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. At least it will get the product talked about. Strudel has spent his whole life offending people. His films are monuments to bad taste, but they are beautifully made. The grammar is immaculate. Nothing tricksy. Long shot, medium shot, close-up. No playing around with the sound perspective. You always know exactly where you are.
‘Anyway, let’s not be stuffy about it. By all accounts Christ was one of the people, with the power to draw the multitudes. That describes Ron Pickles down to a tee. It’s the “in” thing – identifying a well-known person with a perfume. It began in England. The pulling power of Henry Cooper persuaded British men that wearing Brut could be macho; Chanel called on Jack Nicholson when they launched L’Egoïste. They didn’t get him, but they called. Besides, who is it going to offend? Not the people who buy XS. They are hardly likely to be offended by anything – and certainly wouldn’t admit to it even if they were. Those who might be offended are unlikely to buy it.
‘The main trouble lies with Brother Angelo. They have come up against one tiny snag. He suffers from acute coprophalia …’
‘Qu’est que c’est?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s command of English was beginning to desert him. He felt his concentration going.
‘Coprophalia? It is an uncontrollable desire to be foul-mouthed. For years he has been totally unable to construct the simplest sentence without using the word “fuck”. That may have been all right in the Sheffield steelworks where he first started out, but it doesn’t go down too well in the world at large. He’s been fitted with a bleeper attached to his voice-box. A kind of early warning system. It is programmed to obliterate certain key words. Luckily the Anglo-Saxons are sadly deficient in the oaths division, so the electronics are comparatively simple. Had our Ron been born in Italy the technical problems would have been immense. It would have needed an entirely new chip. As it is he sometimes sounds like a walking cash register. Fortunately Our Lord was a man of few words and it makes writing the script that much easier.’
‘Excusez-moi.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the bottle. He suddenly felt in need of a drink.
‘Whoever said “you don’t have to be crazy in this business, but it helps” knew what he was talking about.’ Gilbert Beaseley glanced in the direction of the boat. While they had been talking the lights had been struck and everyone had disappeared. Filming was over for the day. He lifted a wrist and focused on his watch.
‘Delightful though it is, I’m afraid we shall have to continue this conversazióne some other time. There is an emergency script conference at the Oustau de Baumanière in less than an hour’s time.’
‘You will not be eating first?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s taste buds were beginning to register the smell of food from somewhere nearby. Pommes Frites was getting the message too. Every now and then he sat up, nose twitching.
‘Sadly, no. I may cook myself some sardines on toast later. The muse is calling. Or, to put it another way, I feel it may be expeditious to work on a stand-by script for the Last Supper. Something tells me it should be possible to do better than “someone isn’t wearing you-know-what, pause, all but one turn. Cut to BCU of Judas Iscariot. Dissolve.” I feel like a schoolmaster, trying to keep one step ahead of his class. I can’t stand it when everyone looks at me for an answer and I haven’t got one. It makes me feel terribly lonely.
‘But as for dinner, far be it from me to tell a food adviser where to eat, but if you take my advice you’ll skip the unit caterers, Ratatouilles et Cie. Take advantage of Mr Strudel’s absence and dine Chez Montgomery.’
He directed his thumb towards an olive tree some fifty or so metres away, beneath the branches of which a figure in white shorts and a white chef’s jacket and toque was busying himself over a field kitchen.
‘Montgomery is Von Strudel’s personal chef. An unlikely name for an Egyptian, but he was born at the time of El Alamein, so he was named after one of our generals.’ Beaseley shrugged. ‘If things had gone the other way I suppose he would have ended up as Rommel. Only one word of warning. Montgomery is a splendid fellow and he cooks like a dream, but he is given to occasional excesses. Given your problem, I should steer clear of his version of Strawberry Romanov. It goes under the name of Erdbeeres Von Strudel. I’ve heard tell it is positively lethal.’
Gilbert Beaseley paused as he turned to leave. ‘Technical question: if comedy is unreal people in real situations, and farce is real people in unreal situations, what do you call unreal people in unreal situations?’
‘Dummkopfs?’
Beaseley laughed. ‘You’re learning.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse watched Gilbert Beaseley as he made his way slowly and unsteadily in the direction of his trailer. He had a feeling he had passed some sort of test, but he wasn’t sure what.
As the other disappeared from view he rose. Instinct told him to follow Beaseley’s advice. No chef likes to be idle. In a profession dedicated to giving pleasure, idleness was like the sounding of a death knell. Never one to miss an opportunity, Pommes Frites followed suit. Although for reasons best known to himself, dinner didn’t appear to be high on his list of priorities, it was clear that he, too, recognised the signs.
They were neither of them mistaken.
As the pair of them drew near, Montgomery’s face lit up. There followed a burst of frenzied activity. Monsieur Pamplemousse’s request for a pastis was brushed aside in favour of a kir.
‘I make it for you specially. For you I add just a touch of honey. Try it. If you no like, then I will bring you a Ricard.’
The kir arrived at record speed along with a bone for Pommes Frites. Monsieur Pamplemousse tasted the former and murmured his approval, adding that it would perhaps need another to offset the taste of his pastis; in a moment or two – there was no hurry. Seeking Pommes Frites’ opinion as to the quality of the bone would have been superfluous. He was managing to force it down.
Moments later a plate of amuse-gueules appeared with a flourish: Caillettes – tiny meatballs made of pork liver and spinach, flavoured with herbs; and some wafer-thin square slices of toast covered with Anchoïade– a combination of anchovies, olive oil, lemon juice and garlic – topped by a slice of fig. The anchovies had been mashed by hand before being blended with the other ingredients and the mixture pressed hard into the toast so that it would absorb the flavour.
After a suitable interval and a second kir, a salad arrived: on a bed of crisp lettuce leaves lay prawns, sliced tomatoes, black olives, crème fraîche to which a squeeze of lemon juice and a little basil had been added, mushrooms and asparagus tips. The vinaigrette dressing was immaculate. Monsieur Pamplemousse helped himself sparingly to some aioli which came in a separate bowl. He doubted if he would be going short of garlic and what was left would keep the flies at bay.
It was a wise move. The monk fish in the Lotte en Broche which followed had been marinated with lemon juice and garlic
before being interspersed between slices of pepper and onion on skewers fashioned out of rosemary branches. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen Montgomery basting it every few minutes with a sprig of rosemary dipped in olive oil as it grilled over a charcoal fire. It tasted divine, the rosemary implanting a wonderfully delicate flavour.
The wine was a Côtes de Provence L’Estandon; young and fresh, suitably chilled and in a ‘serious’ bottle – not one of the traditional fanciful shapes. It was an ideal accompaniment for the spicy food. Fruity, yet with a faint hint of acidity about it.
Rather like Gilbert Beaseley. Beaseley had a touch of acidity. Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t sure whether he liked him or not. That was probably the way most people felt. He must go through life treating it as an arm’s length transaction. Perhaps he’d suffered some great tragedy or disappointment which made him shy of getting too close to people.
The cheese was a banon, a small disc-shaped piece covered in chestnut leaves bound with rafia. With it came a glass of red Côtes du Ventoux. The bottle was left on the table. He examined the label. It was from Jean-Pierre Perrin. Once again, a perfect choice. It would accord well with the mildly nutty flavour of the cheese.
Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his canvas chair feeling at peace with the world. He didn’t envy a soul, not even those who by now would be dining in state at the Oustau de Baumanière. It was a pleasant change to have someone else choose his meal, nicer still not to feel obliged to sit down and write copious notes about it before he retired to bed.
The smell of lavender mingling with that of burning charcoal and rosemary reminded him of the reason for his being there. What a strange world it was, the world of perfume and haute couture. XS was a very apt name for one of its products. It summed it all up.
While he had been eating, it had grown dark and lights were twinkling like fireflies around Les Baux. He wondered how Beaseley was getting on. Probably rewriting an abridged version of the Bible. To all intents and purposes it had been written by committee anyway, and then amended down the centuries.