by Michael Bond
‘Nota Mamma Mia, my wife,’ said the owner unhappily. ‘Justa Mamma mia!’ For some reason he seemed to be losing command of his French. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.
He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder towards the hatch. From somewhere beyond it there came an impatient clattering of pans. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that they were being handled with a considerable amount of undue force. Others in the room sensed it too and looked round to see what was going on.
‘Isa good. You try.’ Taking Monsieur Pamplemousse’s fork, the owner began disentangling the letters, arranging them into a more becoming pattern. Seizing the opportunity, the waitress brought another opened bottle of wine and filled the glass.
Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed. The Italians did many strange things with pasta, but this had to be the limit. Having said that, hunger began to get the better of him. He picked up the spoon again.
‘It is made with the best pastino, signore.’
‘From a box?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. He realised now what the boy must have been carrying. At least he hadn’t been given a child’s portion.
He tried a spoonful. It was rather better than he had expected. If the basic component – the pastino – was factory made, the other ingredients tasted as though they were fresh from the market; vegetables and red beans, tomatoes, celery … some pesto. He began to warm to the idea.
As a small boy he had once been taken as a treat to Madame Barattero’s Hôtel du Midi in Lamastre. It had been a family occasion, a celebration of some kind – the reason escaped him – but what he remembered most about it was not the pain d’écrevisses for which the restaurant was famous, but the fact that Madame Barattero in person had presented him with a dish all to himself. For his special benefit, letters had been added to the broth from a pot au feu. It was the first time he had ever come across such a thing, and the first time he realised that food – even in such a revered establishment as the Hôtel du Midi – could be fun. It had sown the seeds for what he was destined to become in later life. Much to everyone’s delight he had picked out the words MERCI BEAUCOUP and as a reward had been allowed some red wine out of a glass which was almost too big for him to hold in both hands; the largest he had ever seen at that time.
Lost in a wave of nostalgia, Monsieur Pamplemousse began playing around with the letters, laying them out one by one along the rim of the bowl.
In no time at all he had formed the word GRANDE.
It gave him a certain amount of added pleasure that his actions were clearly causing irritation on either side of him. The two men were watching his efforts with ill-disguised contempt.
‘Does he have nothing better to do?’
‘Perhaps he thinks we will grow tired of waiting?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored both the comments and the wave of garlic that accompanied them. He was enjoying himself. Clearly, immediate company excepted, he was giving pleasure to others as well. Every so often the owner beamed at him through the hatch, giving the thumbs-up sign whenever their eyes met. Once he was even joined by his wife, who echoed his satisfaction with a nod and a beatific smile. Monsieur Pamplemousse warmed to the couple. You could say what you liked about the Italians, they really appreciated the simple things in life.
After some ten minutes or so he ended up with LU GRANDE MALAISE. It wasn’t, perhaps, quite as good as MERCI BEAUCOUP, and his old school teacher would have had something to say about the definite article, but at least it used up another letter and as a definition it summed up his present feelings to a tee: unease, discomfort, unrest.
Spooning up the remaining letters, Monsieur Pamplemousse disposed of them before tucking into the broth. The deed was automatic; it was the Capricorn in him. Neatness came naturally.
The pastino felt hard and unyielding, as though it had been baked in an oven. He was glad to have got it out of the way.
Looking up, he realised the owner had joined him. Disappointment, perhaps even a hint of alarm was writ large over the man’s face as he gazed down at the half empty bowl.
‘There is something wrong?’ inquired Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Non, non, signore. Nothing that can not be put right. It is like a game. The permutations are endless. Messages can be made.’ Reaching over, the owner began rearranging the letters of the word GRANDE to form DANGER. Then he attacked the others, ending up with ALLE U MA IS.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the result of the manoeuvrings. In the circumstances DANGER seemed a somewhat redundant word: a case of stating the glaringly obvious. As for the rest …
‘What kind of message is ALLE U MA IS?’ he demanded. ‘I do not wish to sound complacent, but I feel my arrangement was infinitely preferable. I agree the genders left a lot to be desired, but that is a minor point. At least it made sense …’
He broke off as the owner began poking a finger in what was left of his soup.
‘You have lost something?’ he inquired apprehensively. ‘A cuff-link perhaps? A collar stud?’
The man looked puzzled. ‘There should be some more pastino, signore.’
‘An “R”, a “Z”, I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘A couple of “A”s – plus a couple of figures – I have forgotten what they all were. It so happens that I have eaten them, but I fail to see …’
‘You have eaten them? Christabella, Santa Maria!’ The owner gazed at him in horror. ‘Signore! You not supposed to eat the pastino.’
‘Faut pas manger le pastino?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse in a loud voice. ‘What kind of a restaurant is it where the patron tells you not to eat the food? I see now why there is no mention of your establishment in Le Guide. Why should I not eat it?’
‘Because, signore …’ Conscious that in the wake of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s outburst the other diners – particularly the ones in closest proximity – were hanging on his every word, the owner desperately groped for the right phrase, ‘because eating is like music, it is like listening to a symphony. Every note has its place – every quaver – every semi-quaver – remove but one tiny element and you spoil the whole; the message is lost. In this case the message was in the pastino.’
Something about the way the man was staring at him, enunciating each and every word with the utmost clarity, caused Monsieur Pamplemousse to stifle the retort he had on the tip of his tongue. Alors on a compris! The penny suddenly dropped.
‘The message was in the pastino?’ he repeated.
‘Sì, signore. In the pastino.’ The relief on the patron’s face was like a burst of sunshine after a storm. He mopped his brow. ‘It needs to be savoured, and thought about, and acted upon.’
‘In that case,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘perhaps you should bring me another bowl?’
‘Sì, signore. Pronto. Immédiatement. At once.’ He bustled off in the direction of the kitchen only to return almost immediately with a face as long as a stick of grissini.
Monsieur Pamplemousse said it for him.
‘You have no more soup?’
The man nodded his head miserably. ‘It is all gone – and the shop will be closed.’
‘That makes it very difficult for you.’
‘Impossible, signore.’
In desperation, Monsieur Pamplemousse half rose and glanced towards a sign saying TOILET over a door beyond the kitchen.
Following his thoughts, the two men on either side of him did likewise.
Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse regretted the absence of Pommes Frites. At least Pommes Frites would have stood guard outside the door, stopping the others from following him inside. There might be a window he could climb through, or a chance to pick up some kind of message en route. Anything would be an improvement on his present situation. As it was, the two men were watching him like a hawk.
He sat down again. They had him by the short and curlies and no mistake.
‘How about the ossobuco?’ he asked the owner.
‘Sì, signore. I will bring it.’
The man shrugged. It was a gesture of defeat.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was made of sterner, more imaginative stuff. Wild ideas of messages inscribed on the bottom of the plate entered his mind. He wondered if the paint would come off with the heat, and if so would it spoil the ossobuco. The ink from a felt-tipped pen most certainly would.
Inspiration struck. Thoughts of ossobuco reminded him of Pommes Frites and that in turn combined to trigger off a third possibility.
‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have changed my mind. I have had enough. I would not eat here again if I found myself starving to death in the middle of the Sahara desert. The food here is fit only for my dog.’
The owner looked at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. ‘But, signore …’
‘I will pay for the rest of the meal,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse slowly and distinctly, ‘but I would like to take it home in un petit sac pour mon chien: a doggy-bag.’
‘Ah! Sì!’ After a moment’s hesitation the owner’s face lit up again. ‘Sì, sì, signore! I understand.’ Removing the remains of the first course, he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Avoiding the gaze of the men on either side of him, Monsieur Pamplemousse poured himself another glass of wine.
He hadn’t long to wait. The prospect of his imminent departure acted as a spur to the speed and quality of the service. He hardly had time to dispose of his wine before the owner reappeared clutching a plastic carrier bag. It felt warm to the touch.
Leave-taking formalities were reduced to a minimum. Offers to pay the bill were waved to one side. The waitress appeared with his coat, holding it open for him as he squeezed his way out from behind the table.
With cries of ‘ciao’, ‘buona notte’ and ‘buona fortuna’ ringing in his ears, Monsieur Pamplemousse left Mamma Mia’s, closely followed by the two men. Ignoring their presence, he made his way up the street to where his car was parked. The men’s car – a black Chevrolet – was parked almost opposite the restaurant. The fat one climbed into the driving seat, started the engine and reached over to open the passenger door so that Il Blobbo could join him.
Monsieur Pamplemousse went through a pantomime of searching for his keys, then switching on his side-lights and traffic indicators. He made equally heavy weather of extricating his car from its parking space, playing for time as he tried to decide what to do next. Size was on his side; when it came to manoeuvrability his 2CV would win against the other’s Chevrolet any day, but once they reached the main boulevards he wouldn’t stand an earthly. He turned the rear-view mirror at an angle so that it afforded a clear view of what was going on behind him.
Suddenly, he saw what he had been praying for – lights from an approaching car nosing its way slowly along the narrow street, the driver clearly looking for somewhere to park. Seeing a car was about to leave, he accelerated past the Chevrolet, then pulled up a few metres behind Monsieur Pamplemousse, effectively blocking the way for anyone who might be following.
Monsieur Pamplemousse seized his chance. Switching on the main beams, he put his right foot flat down on the floorboards and wrenched the steering wheel to the left. Clearing one of the iron bollards on the opposite side of the street by a matter of millimetres, he wrenched the wheel to the right again. With a shriek of protesting metal the car bounced off the edge of the kerb and, weaving from side to side, hurtled on its way. Braking sharply at the end, the deux chevaux rocked as he made a sharp right turn, then it miraculously righted itself.
In his wake he could hear the sound of blaring horns. It was a very satisfactory noise. The driver of the car wanting to make use of his space looked the kind of person who would take great delight in being as bloody-minded as possible if he were pushed too far.
Following a similar, but parallel, route to the one Pommes Frites had taken earlier in the evening, Monsieur Pamplemousse slowed down to a more leisurely pace. Seeing some traffic lights at red in front of him, he took the first turning right and doubled back into the rabbit warren of streets which made up that corner of Paris.
He was only just in time. As he pulled up behind a lorry making a late-night delivery, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a black Chevrolet shoot past the end of the street. For once he almost wished he drove something slightly less conspicuous than his 2CV. If it had been his pursuers and they were looking the right way they must have seen him. He would be thoroughly boxed in, with no chance of escape.
On the principle of taking no chances, Monsieur Pamplemousse slammed his car into reverse and shot back the way he had come.
Regardless of oncoming traffic swerving to avoid both him and each other, ignoring other drivers hooting and gesticulating at his seemingly imbecilic behaviour, he crossed the busy boulevard Sebastopol at speed.
Reverting to his head level with the dashboard mode of driving, he carried on until he found a suitable turning, then he made good his escape. Only then, as he slowed down to open the side window and let in a welcome draught of cold air, did he realise he was sweating like a pig.
On the corner of rue de Turbigo a gendarme reached for his portable radio.
‘It is the phantom deux chevaux again!’
‘C’est la vie!’ That was the way it went. Sometimes you spent hours doing nothing. Then everything happened at once. First a driverless car going backwards up a main artery. Then, even as he spoke, he saw another one approaching. It was doing exactly the same thing – only this time he could see both driver and passenger.
The second car had a Rome registration, so what else could you expect? Fortunately he was able to give the girl at the other end both sets of numbers.
9
CATCH 22bis
Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the telephone handset and stood for a moment or two staring out of the kiosk, lost in thought.
The conversation had been short and to the point. As short and to the point in its way, as had been the message contained in the doggy bag. Wrapped in silver foil to protect it from the ossobuco and with the missing letters inserted, it had spelled out the words: DANGER: ALLEZ AU MARAIS. Underneath it there was an address in the Place des Vosges.
It was yet another case of reason flying out the window. The Marais was the last area of Paris where he would have chosen to look: the Place des Vosges at that! Unarguably, with its central fountain and its carefully tended symmetrical gardens, it was one of the most beautiful squares in Paris. The perfectly proportioned town houses surrounding it on all four sides, with their arched stone arcades at ground level and their dormer windows and steeply pitched slate roofs above, gave it an air of discreet respectability. It was hard to picture ‘goings on’ behind the elegant red-brick façades of the upper storeys. Or was it? Perhaps that same air of respectability would add a certain cachet. It would undoubtedly up the prices!
Below the message telling him where to go there was a hastily scrawled telephone number: first the 19 code for International, then 39 for Italy, followed by a Sicilian number, with instructions to dial it at 20.00 precisely.
A woman had answered, almost before the first ring was completed. She must have had her hand poised on the receiver. She had spoken quickly and clearly, and from her manner and tone of voice Monsieur Pamplemousse formed the opinion that she was in fear of being overheard. It had sounded like a cry from the heart, an act of desperation on the part of someone who had swallowed her pride and knew there was no going back.
Conscious of all that, and aware that after his long conversation with the Director when he had telephoned from the Gare de Lyon there weren’t many units left on his télécarte, he had listened and taken careful note, interjecting only when it was absolutely necessary.
‘Were you responsible for “springing” me after I was arrested?’ he inquired.
‘You are the only one I can turn to or trust. Caterina has spoken of you to my cousin at the restaurant, who phoned me.’
It was said as though it had been the simplest problem in the world, but he couldn’t help
wondering how she had got to hear of his plight so quickly. It was no time to go into details.
‘Mamma Mia is your cousin?’
‘Maria is my cousin. I would not wish either her or her husband to be involved any more than they have been already.’
‘How can you be sure that what you have told me is true?’
‘Because Caterina is my daughter, and I know her – perhaps better than she knows herself. Besides, I am a woman and I am from Sicily. Women in Sicily are told nothing, yet we know everything.
‘It has always been so. Our men have protected us. Their wife, their family, it is the most important thing in their life. They say they know what is best.’
‘I, too, have someone who is dear to me and who is often told nothing, but who knows all,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, in an effort to establish a common bond.
‘It is not the same,’ said the woman. ‘Believe me, it is not the same. Your wife has her freedom. In Sicily that is not so.
‘In Sicily, the men can do as they please provided they are not found out. But things are changing slowly. Women here are starting to rebel. They want to go out into the world too.
‘I have always had everything I could possibly wish for in the way of money … clothes … everything except freedom. That is the most precious thing of all, and that is what I want for Caterina.’
‘But it has to be used wisely?’
‘Exactly. It is not good to run before you can walk. That is why I need your help. You must do whatever it costs.’
‘There is no price, signora. I will simply do my best. That is all I can do.’
‘Grazie. I will tell you …’ She was in the middle of speaking again when there was a click and the line went dead. It was the moment of truth and no mistake.
Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed back into his 2CV and switched on the engine. Heading south and using back streets as far as possible, he drove slowly through the relatively deserted 3rd arrondissement while he considered his next move.