by Michael Bond
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pommes Frites watching his every movement. The worried expression had returned. Clearly, he was of the opinion that his master was suffering from another relapse; possibly permanent this time.
‘Look here …’ Unbelievably the salaud was still attempting to bluster his way out.
Monsieur Pamplemousse pointed towards the rue de Rivoli. ‘Waiting there are three van loads of CRS. One more peep out of you, my friend, and I shall hand you over. They have been doing nothing all day and they will enjoy a little diversion; a chance to flex their muscles. It will be like feeding time at the zoo. They are not gentlemen like me.’
It did the trick, as he knew it would.
With considerable ill grace, the driver reached for his wallet.
Monsieur Pamplemousse grabbed hold of the man’s jacket lapels and slammed him against the side of the coach. His action triggered off another series of photographs, this time from inside the vehicle. White faces pressed against the inside of the glass as they waited for their flash-guns to recharge.
‘Imbecile!’ He took the note from the man and slipped it into his trouser pocket. ‘Never do that in the open. People will think the worst.’
He pointed to the café. ‘Wait in there. I will see what I can do, but I warn you – 100 francs will not go very far.’
As the man disappeared, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and waved to Caterina. ‘Quick! Get everyone into the coach.’
Ignoring the flood of girls pouring out of the house, he went round to the front and climbed into the driving seat. Compared with his 2CV it was the ultimate in sophistication; more like the cockpit of a jumbo jet. He made a stab at some switches. The windscreen washer came on, the sound of soft music filled the air, and the interior lights went out. A murmur of oriental approval rose from behind.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Caterina boarded the coach and slid the door shut behind her.
‘Where do you think?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘To the Gare de Lyon.’
He peered at the controls and made another stab at starting the engine. This time he struck lucky. It roared into life.
As they moved off, Pommes Frites stationed himself behind the windscreen alongside his master and Caterina picked up a microphone. She switched it on. ‘What would you like me to say?’
‘Anything,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘How about “The safety instructions are in the back of the seat in front of you” or “Be careful when you open the overhead luggage compartments. Heavy objects might fall out”? No-one is going to know any different.’
Seeing the exit he was heading for was temporarily blocked, he made a snap decision to go round the Place des Vosges a second time. Apart from anything else, it would give him a chance to familiarise himself with the controls. He mopped his brow. The interior of the coach was like an oven.
‘Try turning off the heating,’ hissed Caterina. ‘The Marais,’ she continued, for the benefit of those behind, ‘is a maze of squares, many of which in time begin to look exactly the same.’
‘Tell the girls to lie down,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he completed his circuit and began making a second approach. ‘Whatever happens they must not be seen.’
Caterina switched off the microphone. ‘I do not think that will be necessary.’
Something about the wistful tone of her voice made Monsieur Pamplemousse look round. He saw what she meant. Feet rather than heads protruded above the top of the seats. His knowledge of Japanese was non-existent, but what little sound he could hear above the music seemed to be registering pleasure rather than complaints.
As they turned the corner leading to the eastern exit of the square, he gave a loud blast on the horn and slid open his window.
‘S’il vous plaît, monsieur. S’il vous plaît.’
The gendarme nearest the coach tapped on one of the windows, registered an inscrutable face staring back at him, and having received a blinding flash straight in the eyes for his pains, uttered an oath and hastily waved them on.
Monsieur Pamplemousse breathed a sigh of relief as he accelerated away. At least he would have more room to manoeuvre once they reached the safety of the Boulevard Beaumarchais. The possibility of their becoming inextricably jammed between a couple of bollards, or worse still, wedged in one of the many arcades had never been far from his mind.
It was as they joined the never-ending stream of traffic circulating round the central column in the Place de la Bastille – the very moment when he needed all his concentration – that Caterina suddenly broke off from her commentary and shrieked a warning into the microphone. It was accompanied by a loud growl from Pommes Frites as he launched himself into space.
Monsieur Pamplemousse braked sharply. Aware of a commotion going on behind him, but surrounded on all sides by fast-moving traffic, he accelerated again, switching off his mind to all but the task in hand as he jockeyed for position in order to enter the rue de Lyon before the lights changed.
At one point he felt a draught of cold air down the back of his neck, and heard renewed squeals of brakes behind them, but by then he was long past caring. Never had the lights above the Gare de Lyon seemed more welcoming.
Ignoring rumbles of discontent from waiting taxi drivers, he parked the coach as close to the main entrance as it was possible to get and climbed out of his seat.
‘Wait here.’
The clock in the tower still couldn’t make up its mind as whether it was midday or four-twenty. His own watch said twenty-one thirty-seven. He dashed into the station and was outside again by twenty-one thirty-nine. Caterina was waiting for him by the open door of the coach.
‘There is a train to Rome leaving at twenty-two hundred hours. You will need to change at Milan. Hurry – there isn’t much time.’
‘Have you enough money?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked inside the coach. It was a redundant question. Large quantities of notes seemed to be changing hands all round.
‘You were wonderful,’ said Caterina. ‘Papà would have been proud of you.’
‘Merci.’ It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as a dubious compliment, but he suddenly realised the tour leader was trying to address him.
‘Excuse, please … s’il vous plaît.’
‘What is it?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse impatiently. He seemed fated not to say a proper goodbye to Caterina.
‘Hope we did right thing with strangers in coach.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the man in bewilderment. ‘Strangers? What strangers? Where?’
‘Two men dressed in black. Not part of tour. All right now. They gone.’
‘Gone?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘We make them offer they cannot refuse.’ For a split second the semblance of a smile crossed the other’s face.
‘What happened?’
‘They refuse offer. Great shame.’ The man made a throat-cutting gesture.
‘But where are they?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse impatiently.
The tour leader made a gesture towards the back of the coach. ‘Make use of emergency exit. Much traffic in Paris this time of night. Especially round what you call Place Bastille. They will not bother you again.’
Looking back down the centre aisle, Monsieur Pamplemousse realised to his horror that the Issue de Secours window was wide open. It was no wonder he had felt a draught down the back of his neck. Inscrutable faces gazed back at him and cameras were raised yet again. There was a series of flashes. First one, then another. It was followed by a whole barrage.
‘We have saying in Japan – “It is good when man’s deeds express his thoughts.” We take quick vote and our thoughts all as one. By same token, sometimes best to be saying nothing afterwards.’
‘The Japanese have much wisdom,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have already forgotten our conversation.’
‘Family are happy for you.’
‘The Family? You do not mean …’
‘No, not what you are think
ing. Not the Yakuza – not Japanese Mafia. Family of brothers from company sports club. We all black belts. It is our reward for highest output ever – one week in your wonderful city. Already we have seen Folies Bergère, Lido, Moulin Rouge and many night spots. This part, with lovely young hostesses best of all. Come as big surprise – not included in itinerary. Round things off and no mistake.’
The tour leader handed Monsieur Pamplemousse a hat. It felt heavy.
‘We offer many thanks in gratitude. Have no need of loose change any more.
‘Staff of Nagihuku return to lathes happy men. Output go up.
‘Best part of holiday. Better holiday than last year – three weeks in Saigon. Men wonder what will happen to them next year.’
At a given signal, cameras flashed again and there was a polite round of applause.
Monsieur Pamplemousse acknowledged it with a bow. As he did so a feeling of guilt came over him. ‘Were you planning to visit any other nightspots?’
‘No. We all worn out. Only nightspot we visit now is bed.’ Again there was a flicker of a smile. ‘Leave for Japan by early flight in morning.’
‘I will telephone the café,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and arrange for the driver to return you to your hotel.’
‘All good things come to end,’ said the tour leader. ‘But we return home with good memories.’
‘You must take care of them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In France, we have a saying: Les bons souvenirs sont des bijoux perdus – Good memories are lost jewels.’
He looked towards the station entrance, but Caterina and her friends had long since disappeared.
‘Nice girl,’ said the man.
‘Very,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
10
LE TRAIN BLEU
Monsieur Pamplemousse paused at the foot of the marble staircase leading up to Le Restaurant Train Bleu. He hesitated, wondering whether or not to take the plunge. The tables and chairs outside the brasserie on the main concourse below the restaurant were crowded with people aware of trains to catch. The Grande Salle would be a much more leisurely affair. The other diners would mostly be there for the food, not because they were going anywhere. Pommes Frites decided for him. He bounded on ahead as though the matter were a foregone conclusion.
‘Deux personnes, Monsieur?’ One of several black-suited maîtres d’hôtel came forward and took in the situation at a glance.
‘Is it possible to have a table in the window? One with a view of the quai.’
The man made a sucking noise through his teeth.
Monsieur Pamplemousse did something he had never, ever done before and probably never would again – the Chief would throw a fit if he knew – but he suddenly felt too tired to care. Besides, without making heavy weather of it, he wanted to be absolutely certain Caterina was carrying out his wishes.
‘Le Guide would consider it a great favour.’
It did the trick. It wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome of his report, of course, and anyway he would meet that hurdle when it came.
An elderly waiter arrived with the menu, then a young commis brought a bread roll. The first waiter somehow went with the restaurant. But then, looking around, so did most of the staff. Much more so than the Echiré butter, wrapped in gold foil.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out of the window. He hadn’t long to wait. A crocodile of demure looking schoolgirls appeared from somewhere out of the depths and wound its way towards a waiting train. Whoever was hearing confession on the morrow was in for a busy time.
Was it his imagination or did the girl at the head of the file turn and look up? He would have given anything to have had his Leitz Trinovids with him so that he could bring the whole thing into sharp focus. He resisted the temptation to rush down the stairs and say a last goodbye. Not with others around. Caterina probably wouldn’t thank him for it.
The first waiter reappeared with pad and pencil at the ready. He looked as though he was anxious to get home and rest his feet.
‘It is sad when they have to go away, Monsieur.’
‘Very sad,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Mademoiselle is going far?’
‘To Rome. Possibly beyond.’
‘Beyond Rome!’ The man made it sound like a journey to the moon.
Perhaps realising the fact, he gave a sigh. ‘It is nothing nowadays. In my day, Lyon and the Mediterranean seemed far away and magical. Then there were trains with romantic names like Mistral; in July the quais would be full of wives going south for the long summer holidays – or to their lovers. Husbands would wave goodbye and go back to their offices and their mistresses until August came.’
‘It is hard to picture now,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The young go everywhere. It is the modern way.’
‘Everything is the same – like Eurosucre,’ said the waiter. ‘We, too, have been modernised. The new kitchens are … poof!’ He waved towards the service area. ‘What shall I say? It is like comparing a luxury coach with a 2CV.’
‘That, of course, depends on the driver,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Some are adept at both.’ He picked up the menu and made a pretence of studying it.
The waiter leaned over to help. ‘I can recommend the assiette gourmande “Train Bleu”, Monsieur. Foie gras, melon, saumon fumé, rillette de saumon, salade.
‘Afterwards, perhaps I might suggest fresh leg of lamb roasted the Forézienne way, with mushrooms and diced potatoes sautéd in butter and truffles. It has always been a speciality of the restaurant.’
Truffles again! Monsieur Pamplemousse gladly surrendered the decision-making to another. Compared with the ones he had eaten the other evening they would be only a token gesture – discarded peelings probably, but nonetheless welcome for that. From now on he would always think of Caterina when he ate them. Perhaps he should have asked her mother to pay him in ‘black diamonds’? A whole lorry load! Except he knew he was being facetious.
‘And to drink, Monsieur?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned the menu over and consulted the wine list on the back.
‘A Côte Rotie “Les Jumelles”.’ He had more or less begun with a Côte Rotie; it would be fitting to end with one. Although, once again, he doubted if it would equal his own bottle. At least he would be able to give it his full attention this time round.
‘Parfait!’ The waiter beamed his approval. ‘An excellent choice, Monsieur. You will not be disappointed.’ He spoke with the authority of one who seldom drank anything else.
‘Monsieur would like some water?’
‘An eau de Vichy,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It will be good for my digestion.’ He was tempted to ask for one of the Director’s dry martinis, but he thought better of it and ordered a Kir instead.
‘Vin blanc, Monsieur, or Royale?’
‘Royale. No, on second thoughts, leave out the cassis. Make it a straight champagne.’ Why not? He was suddenly feeling very flat and the champagne would give him a lift.
As the waiter disappeared, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his notebook. It was back to work again.
He looked around at the setting. Built at the time of the Paris Exhibition of 1900 and now classed as a National monument, the whole restaurant was a memorial to the carefree life of la Belle Époque; overwhelming in its extravagant decadence. The Baroque gilded pillars supporting the vaulted ceilings were a riot of rococo, scantily clad, Rubenesque female figures – not a straight line among them. The ceiling itself and the surrounding walls, all newly restored, had been covered by artists of the day with murals depicting romantic scenes of the times: men wearing straw hats and women in long, frilly dresses, or views which might be seen from the windows of Train Bleu itself by those who were taking the route to the sun and the Côte d’Azur.
Everything about it was sumptuous. The rich, buttoned leather banquettes and dark red hanging drapes, the chairs and the tables with their spotless white linen cloths, the vast chandeliers overhead, the ornate coat
stands surmounted by lamps, the heavy polished brass, all served to remind those using the restaurant of a bygone age. Eating in Le Train Bleu was as much an architectural as a gastronomic experience. Le Guide’s symbols would be stretched to their limit.
Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly became aware of a shadow materialising beside him and he felt a kiss on the back of his neck. It sent shivers down his spine.
‘I must run,’ said Caterina. ‘It is only to say thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘And bonne chance – whatever you do – wherever you go.’
‘I will write!’
‘That would be nice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. But he knew she wouldn’t, and it might be just as well.
The waiter arrived back carrying a bottle of wine.
‘Monsieur’s daughter?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Not even a Goddaughter … I’m afraid.’ He almost added ‘yet’ as an afterthought.
‘Aaah!’ It was the long drawn out response of one who had seen many things in his time. ‘Young men have visions, Monsieur. Old men have dreams.’ He withdrew the cork, sniffed it briefly, and with an air of approval placed it in a dish alongside the bottle, pocketing the foil. Then he poured a little of the wine, swirled it round the glass, and placed it back on the table.
‘Monsieur?’
It was, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, arguably the best Côte Rotie he had ever tasted. Soft, heady, assertive and surprisingly mature for its age, with plenty of body, fruity … But then, didn’t that go to prove his long-held theory: wine, a living thing, tasted of many things besides the grapes that went into its making, not least being the company you kept and all that went with it.
He placed the hat he had been given on the table in front of him.
‘You may keep the change,’ he said grandly. ‘In the meantime, please look after the table. We shall be back in a moment.’