by Michael Bond
Nothing sinister happened, so he began checking the rest of the shopping with his list. Butter, eggs, parmesan cheese, asperge, flour, baguette, saucisson d’Arles…
Already he was feeling better. The episode in the Cathédrale seemed like a bad dream. Nevertheless, it had left him feeling shaken. Cooking would be good therapy.
The pinging of the timer brought it all back. He couldn’t think what had come over him. Shouting out had been an act of sheer bravado: a momentary mental aberration. Telling anyone else about his actions would be embarrassing in the extreme. He certainly couldn’t picture trying to explain to the local police what had happened. It made him blush even to think of it.
Taking the potatoes out of the oven, he halved them both and scooped out the middle from all four sections. Then he took a potato masher from the rack and beat the pulp until it was smooth. Adding around thirty grams of butter and an egg, he carried on beating. The heat of the potato caused the egg to cook slightly and helped thicken the mixture. Adding some flour, he carried on beating until it was firm enough not to stick to his fingers.
If there had been anyone else around in the cave he wouldn’t have dreamed of behaving as he had. One thing was certain – it was the very last time he went on an expedition like that without Pommes Frites at his side. If Pommes Frites had been there to protect him it would not have happened. He should never have agreed to their being parted in the first place. It had been a moment of weakness on his part and now he was regretting it. For all he knew Pommes Frites could be thinking the same thing. The sooner their relationship was restored to normal the better.
He weighed out sixty grams of the parmesan cheese, grated it and added it to the mixture, beating it again. Then he added some pepper and salt and a pinch of nutmeg.
Leaving the mixture to cool, Monsieur Pamplemousse began preparing his first course – boiled eggs with asperge; the eggs lightly done so that he could dip the tips of the asperge into the yolk – having first coated them with melted butter, of course – and naturally having seasoned the eggs with pepper and salt.
Another thing was certain. If it had been Brother Angelo hiding in the cave – and he couldn’t for the moment see any other reason for the unprovoked assault – then almost certainly he would have been well and truly scared away.
The table laid, Monsieur Pamplemousse put a large saucepan of salted water on the hob to boil, then spread some flour generously over the working surface above the base unit cupboard. Having first checked that his mixture had cooled sufficiently, he took a handful and rolled it into a long, thin sausage about two cm across. With a sharp knife he cut the sausage into sections, each one as long as it was wide.
Dipping a fork into the flour, he set about flattening the pieces, working each one with the prongs until resembled a sea shell.
The thing was, if it had been Brother Angelo, and if he had taken flight, where would he have gone to?
Adding the shells to the boiling water, he turned down the heat and left them to simmer for ten minutes or so. This was the tricky part; overcook them and they would become like curdled milk.
Perhaps it was as well Pommes Frites wasn’t with him. He wouldn’t take to all the preparations that were going into the meal. Waiting around for things to cook when he was hungry was not what he was best at.
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered again about the things he had found in Brother Angelo’s trailer. Daudet’s Letters from a Windmill in Provence was an old English translation. It had been published in 1922 by a London firm – Arthur H. Stockwell. It looked as though it might well be a collector’s item. If that were the case then Ron Pickles must have brought it with him. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to buy it in Fontvieille. That suggested a more than passing interest in the subject.
The gnocchi had started to rise to the surface. Using a fish slice, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed the first batch from the water, allowing it to drain before arranging the shells in a buttered ceramic baking dish. Sprinkled with grated cheese and melted butter and baked in the oven until golden brown, they would, along with a green salad, be a perfect accompaniment to the saucisson d’Arles.
And if Brother Angelo had been hiding out in the Cathédrale, was he also responsible for the various acts of sabotage on the lot? If so, why? For what purpose? Did he dislike Von Strudel so much? It couldn’t be anything to do with money. When it came down to it, he must be getting paid a pretty hefty sum for doing very little.
As he put some more shells to boil, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel more relaxed; at least it had taken his mind off his headache. Rubbing the bruise with the back of a spoon had worked wonders. He poured himself a glass of wine, checked the cooking time for the asparagus, and set the microwave oven again. It was a whole new world. No liquid – cooking by weight – no loss of vitamins. He put the eggs on the hob to boil.
Doucette would not have approved of the pile of washing up in the sink. He had used up almost the entire armoury of saucepans, but then he usually did.
There was a knock at the door. It was not the sound he most wanted to hear.
‘Entrez.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the start button on the oven, then looked round.
It was Gilbert Beaseley.
It would have been churlish not to invite him in, but his heart sank nevertheless. He had been looking forward to eating on his own.
‘Ciao.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s invitation was accepted with alacrity.
Beaseley looked around as he entered the kitchen. ‘The Galloping Gourmet strikes again!’ He peered in the saucepan. ‘I see we’re going all Italian.’
‘Gnocchi de pommes de terre is a Provençal dish,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Even the name comes from this part of the world – “inhocs”.’
‘You learn something new every day. You’re sure I’m not intruding?’
‘On the contrary.’ Putting a brave face on the situation, Monsieur Pamplemousse took two more eggs from the carton.
‘You’ve heard about the business last night, of course?’ Beaseley settled himself down in the dinette. ‘I have to admit I slept through it all. I’m glad they didn’t pick on my trailer. I suppose they must have been after souvenirs. I don’t even know if there was anyone inside it or not.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent as he poured another glass of wine. He was perfectly happy to let the other make the running while he carried on with the cooking.
Beaseley took the glass from Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You know what they’re saying now? There’s a rumour Ron’s disappearance heralds the Second Coming. I suspect the Publicity Department of cashing in. They’ll probably let it simmer away for a while on what they quaintly call the back boiler – dreadful expression – then they’ll make an official announcement.
‘Von Strudel is beside himself – his favourite position – “Dos zis mean ve hov to wait three days before ve see him again?”’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help smiling. It was a larger than life imitation, but true or not, he could picture it. The oven timer started to ping.
‘You’ve no more news, I suppose?’ said Beaseley.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a grimace. ‘I went back with Pommes Frites last night, but by the time we got to the cave it was too late. He picked up a scent inside the tomb, but it was impossible to follow – too many people had been trampling around. No doubt he has stored it away for future reference. All I got for my pains was a lecture from the vétérinaire for removing him without permission. He’s supposed to stay in under observation for another day.’
‘I expect the vet’s lonely, poor chap,’ said Beaseley. ‘Apart from a few odd doves I doubt if he has any other patients.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse put a large knob of butter into the last remaining saucepan and ignited the gas. Then he removed the eggs from the saucepan and added two more before serving Beaseley. The asperge had lost none of its colour. One up to the microwave.
‘It would be an odd twist of
fate,’ said Beaseley. ‘If our hero really has undergone some kind of Heavenly metamorphosis.’
‘Ron Pickles?’
‘I must admit it isn’t a name I would have chosen. Ron Pickles of Sheffield doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Jesus of Nazareth.
‘The Anglican church has been making valiant efforts to be “with it” in recent years, but being “with it” is one thing … Ron Pickles reeks of desperation … Mind you, I don’t trust Romans either. He could be in the pay of the Vatican.’
Watching the smoke rise from the butter as it began to melt, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered whether or not to come clean about his morning adventure. He decided against the idea, at least until they were through the first course. Everything was happening at once, and the timing of the boiled eggs was critical to their enjoyment.
‘Perhaps he has been spirited away.’
‘Carted away more like it,’ said Beaseley. ‘Did you see the look on the face of some of those girls during the filming yesterday? Talk about wetting their knickers with excitement – those that had any on. Given half a chance they would have been up there with him.’ He broke off a piece of baguette and spread butter over it. ‘I say – this asperge is good. In England we like it white and thick. It comes from always wanting to cover things up.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse prepared the dish of gnocchi, sprinkled some grated cheese over the top, covered it with cling film and decided to take a chance on the oven timing.
He opened a bottle of red Domaine de Trèvallon from Eloi Durrbach. It was labelled Coteaux d’Aix en Provence, Les Baux. An anomaly of the French wine laws, since Aix and Les Baux were some hundred kilometres apart. Expecting it to taste of bauxite, he was pleasantly surprised.
‘So you don’t subscribe to the Second Coming theory?’ asked Beaseley. ‘On the third day and all that …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘If I did I would have to say that Monsieur Pickles’s sense of timing has deserted him.’ It seemed a good moment to bring Beaseley up to date.
For once Beaseley heard him out without a single interruption.
‘You think Ron’s disappearance was engineered all by himself?’ he said at last.
‘I am sure of it.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse rubbed the back of his head. ‘Aided and abetted by someone who turned out the lights. It would only have taken him a second to get out of the cave by himself. The “rock” was only a prop. It weighed next to nothing.’ He recalled calling Ron’s name in the Cathédrale.’ He paused. ‘Since when I suspect he has been hiding out in the Cathédrale d’Images. That would explain why he made so many visits there and why his refrigerator was empty. He must have been building up a cache of supplies.’
‘So our Ron is trying to opt out of everything,’ mused Beaseley.
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘For whatever reason.’
‘Who needs reasons?’ Beaseley attacked the idea with enthusiasm. ‘Oscar Wilde hit the nail on the head when he said that in this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants. The other is getting it. Brother Angelo has had more than his share of getting what he wants – or wanted. He wouldn’t be the first pop star to find it had all gone sour on him. It’s not always the having that’s fun – it’s the getting. Imagine ending up with life being one long “farewell” tour – your fans growing older and older in front of your very eyes.’
The timer began to ping again as the oven switched itself off. Monsieur Pamplemousse removed the gnocchi. Golden brown they were not. Doucette’s worst suspicions would have been confirmed. He turned the oven grill on to make amends and while he was waiting for it to heat up he sliced some saucisson into a thick Provençal pottery dish. By the time he had finished, the gnocchi had reached a satisfactory colour.
The saucisson had been air-dried for at least six months – or so the shopkeeper had assured him. Pork predominated – coarsely chopped, with hard back fat added, and the beef had been finely minced. It had been seasoned with garlic, ground black pepper and peppercorns.
‘Delicious!’ said Beaseley appreciatively. ‘The poet Ponchon once wrote a work of some ninety-six lines in honour of a saucisson d’Arles. It sounded somewhat excessive. Now I understand why.’ He dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin. ‘How does anyone disappear?’ he continued. ‘I mean really disappear off the face of the earth.’
‘You need to be dedicated. It isn’t as easy as it might sound. We live in a sophisticated and increasingly computerised society. So many things are cross-referenced these days. So many people keep records.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed the dish towards Beaseley. ‘First and foremost you need a new identity. That can be found in any churchyard. Every time there is a bad plane crash or a ship is lost at sea there are bodies which cannot be identified because officially they never existed. People don’t really care who you are so long as you can prove you are who you say you are. If you plan to travel at all you will need a passport. If it is a stolen one you need to be sure it didn’t belong to someone with a record. That can be arranged if you know the right people – at a price – but Brother Angelo could afford to pay.’
‘How about things like bank accounts and credit cards?’ asked Beaseley.
‘Anyone can open a bank account. Credit cards are only a matter of time. Companies are only too anxious to dish them out these days. You would need to change your appearance. Again, that isn’t too difficult. A new hairstyle, a moustache and some plain glasses can work wonders. In the long term there is always plastic surgery.
‘It is easier if you are very poor or very rich. The average person needs to work and on the whole they tend to gravitate towards the things they know how to do. Eventually life catches up with them. Their details get thrown up on a computer screen somewhere and questions are asked.
‘Loneliness can be a problem. It isn’t always as easy as it sounds … forsaking all that has gone before. Family … friends.’
‘I doubt if he will be alone,’ said Beaseley. ‘Cherchez la femme. It may show me up as a ghastly old-fashioned fuddy-duddy, but I bet whoever has been helping him is a woman. Someone familiar enough with the set-up to know which plug to pull to cause the maximum effect.’
‘Mangetout?’
‘You must be joking. You’ve heard them together. She would be another reason for disappearing.’
‘The Swedish au pair?’
Beaseley shook his head. ‘She may be very beautiful – if you like that sort of thing, but she’s a bit gloomy. Miss Iceberg herself. I don’t think I’ve once seen her smile. If you ask me there’s someone else on the horizon.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was reminded of his night visitor. He would remember her scent for some time to come. A potpourri of a perfume. And she had certainly been no iceberg. He poured some more wine.
‘One thing’s certain,’ said Beaseley. ‘If Brother Angelo has done a bunk for good his sales will rocket sky-high.’
‘You think so? Surely there’s nothing so dead as last year’s pop record. Or last week’s, come to that.’
‘Death establishes a permanent enshrinement. There will be no more, so what is left becomes infinitely more precious. The bad is forgotten, the good lives on. Especially if he’s done a bit of stockpiling. Think of all the Jim Reeves hits there were after he got killed. Sixteen years after his death he was still able to command a single in the top ten. And take Elvis Presley. He died in 1977 and he’s still a thriving industry. His memory is perpetuated in every possible way you can think of. Graceland gets nearly three-quarters of a million visitors a year. It’s second only to the White House as the most visited home in the United States. Each year they have a contest of look-alikes. There’s a torchlight procession to his old home during Death Week. It’s virtually unstoppable.’
‘You’re not suggesting Presley is still alive?’ enquired Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Hardly. But there are those who are only too willing to believe that he is. Anyway, alive or dead, the best in
vestment a pop star can make for his family is to keep back a few tapes which can be “discovered” after he’s gone. If Ron really has opted out and he’s played his cards right he could live in comfort for the rest of his life.’
They sat in silence for a while, each busy with his own thoughts. Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his glass, then wiped his plate clean with the last of the bread. Taking a cucumber, he cut it into large slices and put them on a plate at the bottom of the oven. Then he switched the timer to four minutes. According to Barbara Kafka it would remove all the odours.
‘May I offer you some dessert?’
Beaseley shook his head.
‘I have some fresh peaches. Sliced in half and sprinkled with sugar and a little lemon juice … steeped in some Beaumes-de-Venise …’
‘You’re worse than Montgomery,’ said Beaseley. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘Café.’
‘No, thank you. I must go. I have things to do. I’ve stayed too long as it is. I’m taking advantage of the natural break to do some work on my book. Besides, it isn’t every day you find Les Baux closed to the public. It’s too good an opportunity to be missed. I have reached the point in my narrative when Les Baux must have been at its best: a hundred years before Raymond de Turenne arrived on the scene. It’s hard to picture it now, but in the thirteenth century it was a town of several thousand inhabitants; a highly formalised society – famous as a court of love – where troubadours composed passionate verses in praise of the ladies in return for a kiss and one of these.’
Feeling inside his jacket Beaseley produced a peacock’s feather. ‘One of nature’s miracles. A thing of beauty – a joy for ever. My inspiration.’
He gave a bow. ‘Good luck in your search for the truth. I will leave you with another thought for today: “If a man will begin with certainties he shall end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts he shall end in certainties.” Not me, I’m afraid – Bacon.’
As Gilbert Beaseley disappeared through the door Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed for the first time that there were white marks on the back of his jacket. The kind of marks which might be acquired through leaning against a limestone wall? Not for the first time he decided that Beaseley was someone who needed watching. He had a disconcerting habit of playing his cards very close to his chest.