by Michael Bond
Brother Angelo, too. He hadn’t heard or seen a sign of him since his brief appearance. The trailer he’d entered was dark and silent, the curtains tightly drawn.
He wished now that he had asked about Mangetout. From all he had heard she led the life of a recluse these days. Garbo had nothing on her. No doubt Beaseley would fill him in if he asked. It would be something to tell the Director.
‘For you, I add a little curaçao.’
A dish of sliced strawberries macerating in orange juice floated before his eyes and he suddenly realised the chef was talking to him.
It was ‘Erdbeeres Von Strudel’ time. The combination of fruit and liqueur seemed overpoweringly heady in the night air. The smell reached out to him and then faded as the dish was whisked away to a nearby table.
‘Then … a touch of crème Chantilly.’ The strawberries vanished under a mound of cream.
‘Then I add some pepper. Not too little … not too much. It is how Herr Strudel likes it.’
Watching Montgomery wielding the giant mill, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what would constitute too much. It looked a lethal amount. No wonder Beaseley had warned him against it.
‘And then … just for you’ – Montgomery made his way quickly to the stove, glowing red in the twilight – ‘I pass it under the grill … like so …’
The words had hardly left his mouth when there was a flash like a sheet of lightning. It was followed a split second later by a loud explosion. A cloud of black smoke rapidly enveloped the stove, momentarily obliterating it from view.
Monsieur Pamplemousse picked himself up, but in his haste to see what had happened to Montgomery, who had borne the full brunt of the blast, he tripped over Pommes Frites, lost his balance and landed on the ground again. It was only then, as he gazed up at the back of the chair he had been sitting in a few moments earlier, that he realised whose seat he had appropriated.
Stencilled across the canvas back were the words VON STRUDEL – DIRECTOR (KEEP FOR SERIES).
As he registered the words it occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse that given Von Strudel’s advanced years, had he been performing his party piece that evening, they might well have had cause to replace KEEP FOR SERIES with the letters RIP and yet another chapter in the history of the cinema would have been closed for ever.
3
A STAR IS BORN
‘It is good, Herr Strudel, that you have managed to assemble such an agreeable cast.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hadn’t intended using the word agréable. It slipped out. He had meant to say distingué, but at the last moment he’d wondered whether Von Strudel’s French was up to it. So far there had been no indication that it might be. Conversation had been minimal: a one-sided series of guttural grunts.
He could hardly complain, however, at not receiving an immediate reaction to his attempt at breaking the ice.
Reaching for his monocle, Von Strudel screwed it firmly in place over his right eye and glared at Monsieur Pamplemousse as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. What was clearly a long-perfected trick of closing his other eye at the same time only served to intensify the effect.
‘Zer is no such thing as ein actor who is agréable,’ he barked.
‘No actor is agréable. Zey are all Dummkopfs. Eisenstein vas right. You can do zee same thing mit eine dummy. Better! Every one of zem is ein Dummkopf.’
Having delivered himself of what he clearly considered to be the final word on the subject, Von Strudel placed the thumb and forefinger of both hands together to form an oblong frame. Peering through the opening, he turned his back on Monsieur Pamplemousse. A squeak which sounded uncannily like two pieces of unlubricated wood rubbing against one another arose as he pivoted on his right leg whilst endeavouring to pan across the pine-clad hills in the far distance.
It was a long pan, for the view from the top of Les Baux afforded an unbroken view of an horizon which seemed to stretch on and on to infinity. Fearful that he might unwittingly be the cause of Von Strudel losing his balance, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed him round.
‘Vy do you say zey are agréable?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was rapidly reaching the stage of fervently wishing he’d never mentioned the word. In fact, more than ever he regretted not having postponed delivery of the Director’s letter until later in the day. He looked around for a friendly face, but there was no one else in sight. Even Pommes Frites had taken himself off somewhere immediately after breakfast.
Petit déjeuner, taken at a white wooden table beneath a parasol which Montgomery had set up outside his trailer while he was still asleep. It had been a delicious meal. A petit déjeuner to be enjoyed at one’s leisure and remembered in tranquillity. Closing his eyes while he silently counted up to dix, he could still taste it.
Fresh jus de orange.
Fromage blanc with cream.
Wild strawberries.
A jug of hot café.
Honey and two kinds of confiture.
A bowl of cherries.
A wicker basket containing croissants, two kinds of toast and a selection of home-made brioches.
Beurre.
A white honey-scented buddleia nearby had been alive with bees. Taken in the morning sunshine, they were the ingredients which made it good to be alive. Had such a meal been presented to him at an hotel during the course of duty, there was no question but that he would have marked the establishment down as being worthy of three Stock Pots in Le Guide.
And all because he’d been anxious to locate Von Strudel before work started for the day, he had hurried over it!
Life was full of regrets. He should have made the most of his good fortune while it lasted; savoured every mouthful. Given his reception, he was sorely tempted to retrace his steps down through the old town of Les Baux, where he had eventually tracked down his quarry, climb into his car and drive back to base in the hope that he could go through it all again at a more leisurely pace.
He decided to try another tack. ‘I have been doing some research on the Last Supper, Monsieur. Clearly, it was not an occasion for a banquet. It would have been a simple meal: some lamb, perhaps, with bitter herbs and other condiments, a little bread, some wine. There would have been a bowl of sauce at Our Saviour’s side for the moment when he dipped his bread and handed it to Judas. It is hard to say what the wine would have been like; most probably white, possibly sweetish. It would have been kept in a two-handled clay jar holding nine litres, which was the official measure at that time, and would then have been served from a pitcher, which may well have been decorated. The Romans were fond of such embellishments. Some of them were very elaborate. If you like, I can show you an illustration of one – it would look very well on film. Four cups of wine would have been drunk during the meal to accompany various blessings. To symbolise the haste with which the Passover meal would have been eaten at the time of the great escape from Egypt, the bread would have been unleavened, that is to say nothing would have been added to produce fermentation. The lamb would have been roasted …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt pleased with his discourse. He had no idea what message the Director had conveyed in his letter, but given the limited time available, he felt he hadn’t done at all badly in establishing his credentials. Beaseley was right; it was necessary to keep one step ahead of the field.
Von Strudel abandoned his pan in mid flight; Arles and the Grand Rhône were left unexplored. Replacing his monocle, he fixed Monsieur Pamplemousse with a basilisk-like glare. ‘Who cares vot zey ate? Actors are not paid to eat. Miming, zey are paid to do. Eatink nein.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to conceal his disappointment.
‘I am afraid I do not understand you, Monsieur. The purpose of an adviser, surely, is to advise. If you do not choose to follow the advice, that is your decision. But if such is the case, then I fail to see the purpose of my being here. You do not call in a doctor and then disregard his advice.’
‘Advice? Advice? I am surrounded by adv
ice. I cannot even go to the Badezimmer without being given advice. I hov advice coming out of mein Trommelfells.’
‘In that case,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I will not bother you any further. I am afraid I must ask you to accept my resignation.’
‘And I am afraid zat I do not accept it. No vun resigns on zis picture! OK?’ Von Strudel glared at him. ‘All I vish to know is hov you discovered who is buggink me?’
‘Comment?’
‘Every day since we arrive here somezing goes wrong. Disappearing ink on mein script. Toads in mein bed. Sand in ze camera vorks. Tyres on mein automobile kaputt. Now, exploding Erdbeeres!’ Von Strudel tapped the Director’s letter. ‘You are here to find ze bugger who is buggink me, is zat not zo, huh?’
‘No, zat is not zo,’ was the reply which immediately sprang to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind, but as light slowly began to dawn he paused. He must be getting old. He should have known better. The Director was up to his old tricks again. No wonder the chief had been so anxious to get the meeting in his office over and done with. Just wait!
His silence was misconstrued.
‘Zat is good. Now ve know ver ve stand, huh?’ Von Strudel beamed bonhomie. Exuding brotherly love, he placed an arm round Monsieur Pamplemousse’s shoulder.
Monsieur Pamplemousse managed a nod.
‘No more of zis talk of resignink?’
With an effort Monsieur Pamplemousse converted the nod into a half-hearted shake. He felt like the victim of some cheap con trick and he didn’t as yet trust himself to speak.
‘Zat is good,’ said Von Strudel. ‘Now zat ve understand each other I vill tell you somezing. You are fired!’
The last Monsieur Pamplemousse saw of his erstwhile employer, he was striding purposefully up the hill, peering once again through his makeshift viewer. There was a bang and a whoosh as low-flying air-force jet suddenly shot past without warning, skimming the rooftops. As the noise died away a cry of ‘Dummkopf’ echoed round the narrow streets and alleyways of Les Baux.
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ said Gilbert Beaseley. ‘Strudel fires people in much the same way as other people offer you a cigarette. He’ll have forgotten all about it by the time you next see him. He really should be fitted with a bleeper like Brother Angelo. As for your advice on the catering arrangements at the Last Supper, I shall accept it with gratitude and all due humility.’
He glanced idly at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘If it’s not a rude question, why did he fire you? It must be something of a record. Most people manage at least one full day.’
‘We had a little misunderstanding.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was reluctant to divulge what had taken place between himself and Von Strudel, least of all to Gilbert Beaseley, who seemed to thrive on other people’s business. He had already said more than he’d intended. Despite everything, and much against his will, he felt himself being drawn into the affair, his appetite well and truly whetted. If he intended taking his mission seriously the least said about it the better. Now that the initial shock of his first encounter with Von Strudel had worn off he had already made up his mind to stay, come what may. ‘A confusion of identities, that is all.’
‘Conversation with Von Strudel is never easy.’ Beaseley took the hint and abruptly changed the subject. ‘I heard about last night’s kerfuffle. No ill effects, I trust?’
‘Some stiffness, that is all. I was sitting far enough away to avoid the blast, and Montgomery managed to roll with the explosion. I saw him at breakfast this morning. Apart from a few strawberry pips embedded in his face, he seemed little the worse for his experience. At some point they will need to be removed.’
‘Rumours of sabotage are rife,’ said Beaseley. ‘It isn’t the first thing that’s happened. If you ask me, I think someone, for reasons best known to himself, is trying to delay the production.’
‘It was more spectacular than lethal. If the speed of the flame which preceded the explosion was anything to go by I suspect some form of poudre brugère– the “black powder” which is commonly used in the fireworks industry. Contained, if I am not mistaken, in the pepper pot.’
Beaseley gazed into the middle distance. ‘In short, a rather upmarket version of the exploding cigar trick. An interesting theory. Now who on earth would want to do a thing like that? Montgomery wouldn’t harm a fly.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at Gilbert Beaseley speculatively. He sounded genuinely sorry, and yet …
On his way back from the abortive meeting with Von Strudel, he had idly straightened the chair he had been sitting in the night before. It was the Capricorn in him. Something made him look under the seat cover and there he’d come across a small rubber cushion. The name of the maker was emblazoned across it: The Whoopie Joke Company, Chicago, Illinois. Relief had been tinged with mortification at being taken in by such a crude joke. He decided to store the information for the time being.
‘I doubt if it was meant for Montgomery,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Apparently it was the first time he had ever made the dish. Normally Von Strudel insists on finishing it off himself. It is his party piece and he is rather proud of it. I suspect Montgomery was a little heavy-handed with the mouli.’
Pointedly picking up a copy of a child’s version of the Bible he had been reading, he removed a bookmark and opened it at a point where the Easter Story was about to begin. Despite the news that his services as Food Adviser were to all intents and purposes redundant, professional pride made him want to go over the details of the Last Supper one more time.
‘Would you care for an up-to-date run-down on today’s latest piece of gossip – as at 09.55 this morning?’ It was a rhetorical question. Without leaving time for a reply, Gilbert Beaseley pulled up a chair. Monsieur Pamplemousse heaved an inward sigh as he lowered his book again. He gave a non-committal shrug. He had enough on his mind as it was without worrying about the problems of others.
‘If you think I am up to it.’ He caught sight of some ants on the ground near his feet. One of them was carrying off a breakfast crumb. Relatively speaking it must have weighed a ton; the size of a caber.
‘The “Golden Proboscis” has received a nasty letter. It came with this morning’s mail.’
‘Le Nez d’Or?’
‘Monsieur Parmentier, parfumier extraordinaire; inventor of XS. A rare bird indeed. A man of exquisite taste and possessor of a very unique talent. A man blessed with the ability to remember and identify something in the region of 3,000 different odours. There are only about a dozen others like him in the whole world. Their names never appear on the label, but without them the perfume industry, the top end of it anyway – the part that doesn’t rely on chemical substitutes – would collapse overnight.
‘I consider myself lucky if I manage to identify one smell at a time. Add brandy and Cointreau to my pastis, as is the current ghastly trend, and the old computer in my brainbox goes up in smoke. Utter confusion sets in.’
‘What did the note say?’
‘The very worst. Some person – or persons – unknown is or are threatening to cut it off.’
‘It?’
‘His olfactory organ. That organ without which he would be unable to function. Monsieur Parmentier is very unhappy, as well he might be. If I’d spent all those years nurturing my nose, treating it like some rare hothouse plant, keeping it clear of draughts, never going out of my depth in a swimming pool in case the change in pressure affected my sinuses, spraying it morning and night with lightly salted water instead of having a good old-fashioned wash, and then some idiot appeared on the scene threatening to remove it, I’d feel pretty pissed off. It’s like having an oil well in your back garden and waking up one morning only to find it’s about to run dry.’
‘But is he not insured?’
‘A very down-to-earth, practical French attitude, if I may say so. Naturally he is insured. But what good does that do anyone? The formula for a perfume is not something you can commit to paper.’
‘You mean without M
onsieur Parmentier the whole thing would fall apart?’
‘His loss would be a disaster. Worse than an opera singer losing his voice. The original formula for XS is a closely guarded secret. Chemical analysis may reveal the basic ingredients, but it won’t show how they are put together. Once the current stocks are gone, repeating them will be a major problem. You can’t say “take a ton of rose petals or half a ton of this or that, plus a pound of the other”. Crops vary for all sorts of reasons; the weather, the time of day when they are picked; Jasmine, for example, needs to be gathered early in the day, ideally before dawn. Ensuring continuity is an art in itself.’
Beaseley broke off as a messenger came roaring up on a scooter and handed him a note. He scanned it briefly, then gave a nod. ‘We’ll be there.’
‘Isn’t it delightful,’ he remarked to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Only in the film business would they call a messenger a gofer – “go for this – go for that …” We have received a summons. The “dailies” – yesterday’s rushes – are about to be shown.’
‘I am included?’
‘That’s what it says. I told you not to take any notice about getting the sack. Reinstatement is usually swift and painless.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave another sigh – audible this time. He marked the place in his book and excused himself while he put it in the trailer for safe keeping.
‘It’ll be worth going if only to see a minor miracle take place,’ called Beaseley. ‘I’ll wager there won’t be a car or a telephone pole or an electric cable or a television aerial in sight. Believe me, that isn’t easy. You may think you’re out in the wilds, but take a closer look – civilisation is never very far away.’
As they passed Mangetout’s trailer they heard the sound of raised voices, interspersed with bleeps.