by Michael Bond
Long after the other had gone, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat lost in thought. One thing was certain. If it had been Brother Angelo in the Cathédrale he wouldn’t have risked staying there. He would have moved elsewhere, possibly meeting up with his lady love at a pre-arranged rendez-vous.
Time and again he went through the other clues he had found in the trailer; Daudet’s Letters from a Windmill, the tourist brochure for Fontvieille marking the Massif de la Sainte Baume in the guidebook, the book matches from the restaurant in Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. The three places formed a rough triangle on a map of the area … all were within relatively easy reach …
Halfway through tidying the kitchen the telephone rang. It was the hospice. The patient admitted in the early hours was asking to see him.
There was some confusion over their names. For some reason the girl at the other end had them transposed. It sounded urgent – more of a command than a request – so he didn’t bother correcting her.
‘Oui. Tell him I will be there as soon as possible …’
‘Oui, that is true. He can be a little difficult …’
‘Oui, mademoiselle …’
Glad of a diversion, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his car keys. It sounded as though the Director was beginning to feel better.
8
PATIENT PROBLEMS
The Director emitted a loud groan. ‘Please do not think I am being ungrateful, Aristide, but I am hardly in the mood for cerises at the present moment.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced around for a chair, but the room was sparsely furnished in the manner of other hospices he had visited over the years. Establishments where the kindness and dedication of the nuns who tended the sick necessarily took priority over the meubles department. Finding nothing suitable, he perched himself on the side of the bed.
‘I am sorry, Monsieur.’ He gazed at an embroidered figure of an angel hanging above the bedhead. ‘It was difficult to know what to bring you. I had thought of flowers, but then it occurred to me that the pollen might bring on a sneezing fit, which I’m sure would be painful. Oranges are difficult to eat without getting sticky. You would probably not welcome the presence of biscuit crumbs between the sheets. Cherries seemed to be a good compromise. They are a clean fruit, easy to eat, and I am told the variety known as Bigarreau are particularly sweet and succulent at the moment …’
‘I daresay,’ the Director winced as Monsieur Pamplemousse reached across the bed in order to help himself from a brown paper bag and in so doing compressed the mattress causing it to rise on the side furthest away from him. ‘However, if you will forgive my saying so, food is not uppermost in my mind. I did not drive all the way down to Les Baux only to end up in a hospital bed watching you eat cherries.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the point. ‘Molluscs are not at their best during the summer months, Monsieur, otherwise I would have brought you some oysters. The ancient Romans set great store on their healing powers. Who knows? A kilo or two might even bring about some restoration of life in that part of your anatomy which I am told bore the brunt of last night’s attack.’
The Director gave a shudder. ‘Oysters are the very last thing I need, Pamplemousse.’ He motioned despondently towards a large mound in the centre of the bed. ‘I doubt if I shall ever feel the need to eat one again.’
He sighed. ‘What am I going to tell Chantal when we retire for the night? She is not a demanding person, but neither does she lack powers of observation. Rather the reverse. She will be the first to ask why I have need of a cage to support the bedclothes above my nether regions. I am told it may be several weeks before I can dispense with some form of protection. I need a story, Pamplemousse. I need a good one and I need it quickly.’
‘You could say you had your mind on other things, Monsieur – the departure of some rare species of bird for cooler climes, perhaps – and you accidentally walked into a bollard. It would accord with your injuries.’
‘In the middle of the Camargue?’ said the Director gloomily.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out of the window. The hospice was on the outskirts of Arles and the Director’s room afforded a view across the Grand Rhône to the city itself. The Pont de Trinquetaille was packed with traffic; lorries and cars nose to tail moving at a snail’s pace. Arles was a notorious bottleneck. He could see the Amphitheatre in the distance and some way to the left of that the railway station.
He glanced back at the Director. ‘It is strange to think, Monsieur, that we cannot be very far from the spot where Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear in a fit of madness and presented it wrapped in paper to a prostitute called Rachel.’
The Director glared at him. ‘That is a singularly unfortunate remark in the circumstances, Pamplemousse,’ he boomed. ‘I trust you are not suggesting I should follow his example. I must say that if the purpose of visiting the sick is to bring them courage and good cheer, then you are signally failing in your task.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent. He was doing his best, but when the Director was in one of his difficult moods he was an impossible man to please. He didn’t envy the nurse on duty.
‘I would have come sooner, Monsieur. However, when I telephoned early this morning I gathered you were in intensive care.’
‘You gathered correctly,’ growled the Director. ‘I was in intensive pain as well. I am extremely lucky to be alive.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached across for some more cherries. They were too good to waste. ‘I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you go past my trailer last night. It was like watching a ship at sea. An ocean liner caught in a storm.
‘Wave upon wave of undulating flesh passed by my window. A great tide of pubescent womanhood moving as one, moaning and groaning as though possessed of the devil. In the moonlight and with Les Baux silhouetted against the night sky, it reminded me of a Disney cartoon – something from Fantasia perhaps; the inevitability of Mickey Mouse as The Sorcerer’s Apprentice coupled with Moussorgski’s Night on a Bare Mountain.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around for somewhere to place his accumulation of stalks and stones and drew a blank. He settled for the top of a bedside cupboard. ‘It would have made a wonderful series of photographs, but unfortunately by the time I had reloaded my camera your trailer had disappeared from view.’
The Director stared at him. ‘You were reloading your camera, Pamplemousse?’
‘It needed a faster film, Monsieur. Madame Grante would not have been pleased if she found I had wasted all thirty-six exposures, as I undoubtedly would have done had I used the reel which was already in the camera. Besides, it was Kodacolor and the scene cried out for black and white.’
‘At a time like that you were worrying about whether to use colour or monochrome?’ The Director sank back on to his pillow. The strain was clearly telling on him. ‘Did it not cross your mind, Pamplemousse, to come to my assistance?’
‘Certainly, Monsieur. That was my very first thought. Then it occurred to me to wonder what one person could possibly do against so many.’
A shudder ran through the Director’s frame. It was quickly suppressed. A look of pain crossed his face. ‘Please do not remind me, Aristide. For as long as I live. I shall remember the moment when the trailer door burst open and that drug-crazed, sex-starved mob entered.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, they may have been high on drugs, but from all I have seen I doubt if they were starved of sex. Appetites whetted beyond their control, perhaps …’
‘Allow me to be the judge of that, Pamplemousse,’ boomed the Director. ‘I can still feel their hot breath as they descended on me, shouting and screaming, tearing off their garments, casting them right, left and centre. Those lascivious lips, those hands, searching, all the time searching. Fortunately their sheer weight caused the vehicle to fall over on to its side and I was able to seek refuge beneath some kind of wall cabinet. It was not a moment too soon. My pyjama jacket was in shreds; the trousers had been ripped from my body. I cannot think what pos
sessed them.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse contemplated the Director. All manner of possible replies jostled for position on the tip of his tongue. He suppressed them. It must have been a terrifying experience; one he would have had no wish to undergo himself. The nearest equivalent in his own experience had been the time in St Georges-sur-Lie when he had been attacked by the girls of the Drum and Fife Band led by Miss Sparkling Saumur, but that had been nothing by comparison. On the other hand, there was a corner of his mind which couldn’t help but ponder other aspects of the affair. Why the Director? What possible reason could there have been? Could it have had to do with something he had eaten earlier that evening? Some ultra powerful aphrodisiac he had accidentally stumbled upon. Something peculiar to the region. Perhaps, whatever it was had combined with the heat and the night air. Had he added a dab or two of XS before retiring? The Director was reputed to be partial to such bedtime extravagances. If it had been a field trial then it had succeeded beyond its maker’s wildest dreams.
Suddenly realising he was being watched, Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. Speculation as to the reason for the Director’s sorry state was a waste of time at this stage. The fact of the matter was it had happened. Perhaps Beaseley was correct in his assumption that the fans had simply been after souvenirs. If that were the case finding an occupied bed in what they must have mistakenly assumed to be Brother Angelo’s trailer would have seemed like a Heaven-sent bonus.
‘Undoubtedly it was a horrifying experience, Monsieur. There must have been three or four hundred females, all of whom had clearly totally lost control of themselves. Their emotions must have reached a peak and then snapped like a ship’s hawser strained to breaking point. There was no stopping them.’
‘Four hundred and twenty-three, Pamplemousse.’ The Director assumed the self-satisfied air of a company auditor putting the final touches to the firm’s annual accounts after an exceptionally prosperous year.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at his chief with admiration. ‘You were counting, Monsieur? The journaux put it at over 500.’
‘You know as well as I do they always exaggerate,’ said the Director. ‘Editors hate untidy figures. Give a journalist an odd sum and he will immediately round it off in an upward direction …’ He broke off. ‘Did I hear you use the word journaux?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse corrected himself. ‘The journal, Monsieur. So far it has only appeared in a local paper. One of their reporters happened to be passing at the time. It was clearly something of a scoop for him and he made the most of it. I was hoping to bring you a copy but unfortunately the first edition has sold out.’
‘This is terrible news, Aristide. Publicity is the last thing I wish for.’
‘It will be hard to avoid, Monsieur. The activities of a film company are always good copy and given the temporary closure of Les Baux – which I am told has given rise to a great deal of local discontent – any incident such as the one last night will be seized upon.’
‘Pamplemousse, I charge you with making certain it goes no further.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked dubious. ‘I will do my best, Monsieur. But it is the kind of story Paris Match would give their eye teeth for. They are almost bound to pick it up. Besides, if news about Brother Angelo’s disappearance has leaked out – as I am sure it will have by now – they will be hot-footing it here anyway.’
He looked the Director in the eye. ‘I have no doubt the Paris boys are on a plane bound for Marseille at this very moment. Those that aren’t will be on the TGV.’
‘Then you must intervene. They must be stopped at all costs.’
‘Short of sabotage, Monsieur, I doubt very much if that will be possible. There is an hourly service at peak periods.’
There was a knock on the door followed by a rustle of cloth as a nurse in nun’s attire entered the room. Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet as she came towards them holding a thermometer in her right hand. Brushing past him, she thrust one end into the Director’s mouth.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse, you are very naughty. We can hear your voice right at the other end of the corridor.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the girl’s back. ‘Mademoiselle, I hardly think …’
He was about to remonstrate in no uncertain terms – if anyone had been raising his voice it had been the Director – but he broke off as a gurgling noise issued from the depths of the pillow. For a moment or two it looked as though his chief was about to have a fit. His head was rolling from side to side: his eyes were large and imploring.
A fit? Or was he trying to convey some kind of message? Monsieur Pamplemousse waited for the answer. He was glad help was at hand. There was something infinitely reassuring about the unflustered way the nurse was handling the matter. Had he been there on his own he would undoubtedly have pressed the emergency call button.
‘There now! Just as I thought.’ She removed the thermometer and looked at it with professional disapproval. Her worst suspicions confirmed, she entered the figure on a chart at the end of the bed. ‘I do not want to hear another word, Monsieur Pamplemousse,’ she said severely. ‘Otherwise I shall have to tell the Mother Superior.’
Turning away from the bed, she assumed her addressing of visitors tone. ‘Cinq minutes, Monsieur. That is all. Cinq minutes. Not a second more.’
As the door closed behind her, Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director.
‘Monsieur …’
The Director placed a finger to his lips. ‘You heard what the good lady said, Aristide. Silence. Défence de parler.’
‘Monsieur. Why did she call you Pamplemousse?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit that the Director did have the grace to colour slightly.
‘I was about to tell you, Aristide – just before the nurse came in. When I was admitted here last night I was delirious. I hardly knew what I was saying. The simple fact is that when they asked me for my details your name sprang to mind.’
‘My name, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse could still hardly believe his ears.
‘I could scarcely give them my own. A man in my position has to watch out for these things, Aristide. Recognition would be disastrous. It would undermine the authority of Le Guide; an authority which I need hardly remind you has been painstakingly built up over the years. Our illustrious founder, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval, would turn in his grave. That apart, there is Chantal to be considered. She wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace ever again.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him.
‘What about my peace, Monsieur. Supposing Doucette gets to hear?’
‘She is used to your philanderings, Pamplemousse. It would come as no surprise. One more escapade is neither here nor there.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his hat.
Alarm was written across the Director’s countenance. ‘You are not going already?’
‘You heard what the girl said, Monsieur. Défence de parler.’
‘Please, Aristide … Stay a few minutes longer. There’s a good homme. I have been thinking …’
‘I, too, have been thinking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse coldly. ‘My thoughts tell me it is time I returned to Paris. My work here is done, if indeed it ever began. Such culinary advice as I was able to offer has been totally disregarded. No one is in the slightest bit interested. I was sent here under false pretences …’
‘Aristide, I know you of old. Had I told you the real reason why I wanted you to come down here, imagine the fuss you would have made. You would have dreamed up all manner of excuses. The truth is, when, over dinner, I heard that subversive deeds were afoot, I volunteered your services on the spur of the moment. I should have consulted you first, of course, but the offer was accepted with gratitude. I then found myself on the horns of a dilemma. There was no going back.’
‘We all have our problems, Monsieur.’
‘Aristide, you cannot mean this. You cannot be serious. You cannot abandon me. At any moment the reporters ma
y burst into this room. I am hardly in a state to defend myself. They will be like a pack of wolves. There will be photographers …’
‘Are you suggesting, Monsieur, that I should by some means or other spirit you away?’
‘You know about these things, Aristide. There must be somewhere I can hide … just for the time being … until I am able to walk again?’
The Director looked around him desperately, as if searching for inspiration. ‘As I said a moment ago, I have been thinking … on your way back to Paris why don’t you take your time. Pay a visit to Bocuse. Make a little detour via Troisgros at Roanne. But before that there are other three-Stock-Pot establishments en route. There is Pic at Valence. I need hardly tell you …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had a feeling of déjà vu. If it was shared by the Director, there was no outwardly visible sign. The conversation in his office only a few days earlier might never have taken place. He hesitated. Deep down, now that his feeling of indignation had subsided, he knew there was no question of his not coming to the rescue. On the other hand it would do no harm to let the chief ramble on for a while. It would be interesting to see what other goodies he would dream up.
‘There is a little restaurant north of Orange you could visit. I called in there myself on the way down. The patron is known locally as the King of the truffles. His concoctions, Aristide, are out of this world; omelettes which are baveuse in the oeuf department, but filled with great crunchy chunks of the noble fungus. He is also a compulsive buyer of wine from the Rhône valley. The only criticism one might level at him is that his list is too eclectic. It is overpowering in its vastness. It makes the choice difficult. But that is a fault on the right side. I would welcome your views.’