by Michael Bond
‘For legal reasons, the femmes de chambre would be unpaid, but hopefully they would be lavishly tipped for their services. By any yardstick it has to be better than what I understand to be the latest haunt of the oldest profession in the world: day and night service from camper vans parked near the Périphérique in Saint-Ouen.’
‘What about the Brigade Mondaine?’ said Doucette. ‘The so-called Paris Vice Squad. What were they doing at the time? Sitting on their backsides waiting to form a queue?’
‘I got there before they did,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘Besides, prostitution is still legal in France, provided you aren’t caught moving while you tout for custom. The clampdown on smoking has dealt that kind of thing a blow. “Have you got a light?” provided a ready excuse to waylay any passing man and engage him in conversation. As for brothels, they no longer trade as such. Most of them simply have a little plaque by the door calling themselves Villa this or Villa that. Whatever springs to mind …’
‘All that nous from a sixteen-year-old. It couldn’t have come through reading Vogue,’ said Doucette. ‘She sounds a strange mixture and no mistake. I’m looking forward to meeting her even if she is no longer a teenager.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was beginning to wish he hadn’t told Doucette. Perhaps Monsieur Leclercq had a point after all.
‘She’s a simple girl at heart,’ he said. ‘I daresay when she hears what her father has planned she will get her culottes in a twist at the very thought of meeting you.’
‘If she is wearing any,’ said Doucette.
‘Couscous!’ exclaimed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘How could you possibly say such a thing?’
‘You can’t take anything for granted these days,’ said Doucette. ‘You only have to think of that PIP scandal which was headline news while it lasted. Hordes of women going around Paris flaunting their balcons like nobody’s business, and the implants turned out to contain waste factory material all the time.’
‘I would rather not, Coucous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse primly. ‘There are enough disappointments in life as it is without adding to them.
‘Why don’t you come with me to the Gare de Lyon to meet the train?’ he added, testing the water. ‘We can have lunch in Le Train Bleu. The Director suggested I might give it a quick check before Le Guide goes to press.’
He knew he was pushing his luck, but it was infinitely better to take the bull by the horns while he had the chance and make a point about how much Caterina had changed since he last saw her.
Opening up Le Guide’s issue case with the view of getting down to more serious business, he removed a Fujifilm X-Pro1 camera. He had been keen to get his hands on it. On the cutting edge of current design, it was the Director’s latest essay into the realms of photography – presumably before his cost-saving plans had taken root.
Doucette shook her head. ‘Pommes Frites will have to move out of the spare room and I haven’t even started on that yet,’ she said. ‘The last time it was properly aired was after he had his friend to stay …’
‘It wasn’t his friend,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was your doctor’s schnauzer and they didn’t get on at all well. As I recall it was badly in need of a bath and it kept us awake all night.’
Ignoring the interruption, Doucette paused and gave a sniff. ‘Talking of which, I can smell something strange, Aristide. Can you?’
‘I’m afraid a truffle went down the wrong way,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At least, we think that’s what happened. We’ve rather lost track of its whereabouts.’
‘That’s what comes of bolting your food, Aristide,’ said Doucette.
Monsieur Pamplemousse caught Pommes Frites’ eye, but mention of truffles sent Doucette off on another track. ‘I must get some Italian food in …’ she said. ‘Where is the best place to go? You’re the expert.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had to confess he didn’t know the answer off the top of his head. ‘All I can tell you about Italian food is there are as many different shapes and sizes and kinds of pasta as there are days in the year. I could ask Loudier. Since he got near to retirement he’s been dealing mainly with the Paris area. Or you could ask any Italian restaurant. Better still, why not go to La Grande Épicerie de Paris in Le Bon Marché. They stock practically everything in the food line … over 30,000 items at the last count as I recall.’
‘At a price,’ said Doucette.
‘The Director can pay,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s his problem after all. But make sure you keep any receipts.’
He took a quick glance at his watch. ‘If you can’t come with me, I had better go. I’ll leave Pommes Frites to mind the apartment for a change. He’s had a bit of a setback and could do with a rest.’
From his position on the sidelines Pommes Frites registered his approval. Not so much because he needed a rest, but because he had ‘things’ on his mind; mostly to do with his experience in the Director’s office. It was really a matter of a major breakdown in communication. It seemed to him that so far both Monsieur Leclercq and his master had been getting hold of what he had often heard them call ‘the wrong end of the stick’, and he needed time to consider what to do about it.
He wasn’t sure if it had to do with the smell or the taste, or perhaps a bit of both, but it needed an explanation. And with that thought uppermost he made for the balcony.
Unaware of what was going on in Pommes Frites’ mind, Monsieur Pamplemousse was somewhat relieved at having the problem of what to do with him while he was meeting Caterina’s train taken out of his hands for the time being.
Automatically slipping his own Nikon Coolpix S710 into a jacket pocket, rather than take Le Guide’s somewhat bulkier camera, he set off down the hill to the nearest Métro station at Lamarck-Caulaincourt and the Line 12 train heading south.
At Madeleine he changed on to Line 14, with its state-of-the-art automatic driverless train. Although it had been up and running since 1998, he had never travelled on it before. Wedded to his car, as were nearly all his colleagues by the very nature of their work, he suddenly felt a schoolboyish excitement at the thought.
Ronald (call me Ron) Barnaud, Le Guide’s newest recruit to its corps of inspectors, officially gaining unpaid work experience with Loudier, although others thought there was more to it than that, had lost no time in extolling its virtues over a glass of champagne when he had cornered Pamplemousse in the canteen bar. Quite why he had made the change from a supposedly flourishing career in the electronic industry no one knew. But then most of the inspectors had come from other walks of life. Truffert was ex-Merchant Navy. Bernard had been in the wine trade. Guilot had written travel books, and still did on the side.
Given to wearing sunglasses even when he was indoors, despite the time of year, had already earned Barnaud the nickname of Karl after the German couturier Karl Lagerfeld, who was rarely seen without them.
Guilot reckoned it was heliophobia.
‘Indoors?’ said Truffert. ‘This time of the year?’
But there were other similarities to Monsieur Lagerfeld. The stiff, highly starched high collar shirts for a start, like city figures of old. And, as with Muslim ladies’ veils, being unable to make eye-to-eye contact meant it was almost impossible to tell what Ron was thinking, although he more than made up for it by his enthusiasm and willingness to help others. He was into everything.
When Monsieur Pamplemousse, exercising his special relationship with the Director, tackled him on the subject on behalf of the other inspectors, he was suitably elusive.
‘It was a chance encounter,’ he admitted. ‘Much as when you and I met, Aristide, except in your case our paths had crossed once before when you had rendered me a small service.
‘With Barnaud it was the dark glasses he insists on wearing. He very nearly knocked me down as I was about to cross the road to my car, and since he was hovering on the edge of the pavement I thought I would do my good deed for the day. The sun was shining and I suppose I was in a
sunny mood myself.
‘It turned out he hadn’t wanted to cross the road, but it broke the ice so I offered him a lift by way of recompense.
‘When I asked him what he did for a living, he was somewhat circumspect. He let fall the fact that he was working for a government department engaged in top-secret electronic molecular research, whatever that might be. Apparently it is so hush-hush it hasn’t even got a name, only a number and he wasn’t at liberty even to give me that.
‘He kept looking out of the back window, and at one point asked if I would mind doing a U-turn just in case we were being followed. I was so taken by surprise, I obliged, of course. I could hardly do anything else. And as my car went into a four-wheel drift I happened to say that by comparison my own work was very humdrum.
‘He asked me what it was, and much to my surprise when I told him he suddenly became all ears. It transpired he was looking for a career move at the time and when I happened to mention our plans to widen the scope of Le Guide he grew quite excited and said it was just up his street.’
‘And that was when you gave him the job?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Not straight away,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘During the course of our conversation I asked him all the usual questions. Why should I hire him? What were his biggest failings? Where did he picture himself in ten years’ time? What would be his favourite meal were it the last one in his life?’
‘And he satisfied you on every count?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘How about his CV?’
‘We shook hands on it,’ said the Director simply. ‘Again, much as you and I did. In my experience face-to-face encounters are often worth all the CVs in the world. Job applicants tend to glorify their past exploits on a CV. Office boys become office superintendents on paper. Very few people start off at the bottom of the ladder these days, and even if they do they are ashamed to admit it.’
At the time Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear. He could hardly question the Director’s judgement in the circumstances. He had been born and brought up in a world where such things as a CV were unknown.
‘Another point in his favour,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘He happens to speak very good English, which could be of use if we ever branch out and produce a guide to English restaurants along the lines of Michelin. Slim volume though it might be.
‘But in truth, even if Barnaud is only with us for as long as it takes to get the new programme under way it will have served its purpose.
‘Between ourselves, as a cover I have let it be known that he is on a learning attachment with Loudier, but he has his own office and can come and go as he wishes.’
‘And that has worked so far?’
‘So far so good,’ said the Director. ‘There was only one little hiccup soon after he arrived. He said it was essential to have a list of all the changes to the new edition and when I said that was impossible he very nearly threw in the towel.’
But he didn’t, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse as he changed trains, and here I am.
By Barnaud’s reckoning the unique sound of the Météor’s rubber-tyred arrival and departure in a station was music to the ears, and he could see at once what he meant. The smooth way it stopped in exactly the right spot so that the double layer of doors, those on the platform for the safety of the waiting passengers, and those on the train itself, could open and close in unison was, in his opinion, poetry in motion; a tribute to its designers, as was the ability to walk the entire length of the train down the central aisle while it was on the move at 40kph or more. At times – when it was on a particularly straight stretch – it could, if necessary, reach a speed of 80kph … all controlled automatically by sensors on the track!
The fact of there being a complete absence of a driver’s compartment at both ends of the train meant there was an unobstructed view ahead, whichever way it was going: a gift to any small boy (and for Ron too, by the sound of it), enabling them to play at being a driver to their heart’s content.
And all of it watched over by staff comfortably seated in the control centre at Bercy, courtesy of a liberal sprinkling of closed-circuit cameras in each of the eight coaches that made up the train’s full complement, thus ensuring the passengers’ safekeeping.
But above all, again according to Barnaud, and not to be missed at any cost, was the sheer scale of the architecture in all the stations one encountered en route. Monsieur Pamplemousse had received his first taste of it at Madeleine as he approached banks of glass-sided escalators before descending into the unknown. Much as it went against the grain to be lectured on the capital’s Underground system by someone from another part of France he couldn’t help but look forward to the experience, and he wasn’t disappointed. Châtelet, par exemple, had been like the setting for a James Bond movie.
It was a shame Pommes Frites was missing out on it all. But he was in no fit state to travel anywhere, let alone eat out. Welcoming glances from other passengers and diners alike would be thin on the ground.
Reflecting that everything in life has its downside, when they arrived at the Gare de Lyon Monsieur Pamplemousse was in too much of a hurry to do more than cast a fleeting glance at the giant tropical rainforest lining the side of the island platform; a scenic surprise which was only revealed in full when his train automatically went on its way towards the Bibliothèque François Mitterrand.
He had to give it to Barnaud. The fact that the whole system had been conceived and built in less than ten years was a miracle in itself, and equally miraculous though it was to see such lush vegetation flourishing so far underground he was too intent on following the signs pointing upwards to the Grandes Lignes to give it more than a fleeting glance.
Then suddenly, as he stepped off the top of an escalator, he took a step back into the world as he remembered it. Ahead of him on the far side of the concourse stood the familiar curved stone staircase leading up to Le Train Bleu.
A monument historique, preserved for the nation thanks to the offices of American food writer M. F. K. Fisher and André Malraux, the French Minister of Culture at the time, France’s leading belle-époque restaurant was as much a memorial to a bygone age as the train he had travelled on was unashamedly a symbol of the twenty-first century. Clearly Ron’s technical wizards hadn’t had things all their own way, and he couldn’t help feeling relieved.
The station itself was far more crowded than he had expected. His old mother, had she been there, would have said ‘I can’t think where everyone’s going’, completely disregarding the fact that her being there at all made her one of the travelling public. Mixed in with it all there were security police with dogs, and a small detachment of men in military uniform – a sign of the times if ever there was one. There was also a sprinkling of SNCF staff wearing red-banded hats, presumably to shepherd any lost souls to wherever it was they wanted to be.
Although he didn’t envy them their task, he couldn’t help feeling another frisson of excitement as he looked up at the clock in the middle of the vast concourse. The hands were at 12.19, which gave him a little over an hour before the train from Milan was due to arrive.
Both sides of two giant display boards on either side of the clock appeared to show departures only, but as he climbed the steps leading up to the restaurant he caught sight of another board marked ARRIVALS high up on a far wall near where he had just entered the platform area. From where he was positioned most of it was obscured by a large hanging advert for cars, of all things. But it was sufficient for his needs. Running his eyes down what was visible in the first column he saw the 13.23 from Milan was already listed as being due to arrive on time. There was no need to look any further.
Having put his mind at rest, he entered the restaurant via a revolving door, and adjusted himself to the fact that it, too, was already more crowded than he remembered it ever being at that time of day, and he was doubly glad he had asked Véronique to book a table. At least it meant he would be seated in the far end of the main restaurant along w
ith others who had made a reservation, while at the same time affording a good view of everything going on around him.
Making himself comfortable, he took cover behind a menu, the vastness of which was commensurate with the almost overpowering size of his surroundings. What was the size of the room? Something like thirty metres long by thirteen metres wide, and some ten or eleven metres high if he remembered aright. Anything smaller in the way of a menu would have been like the proverbial pea on a drum and totally out of place.
That, at least, hadn’t changed and never would, so he spent the next few minutes studying what was on offer.
In the old days the barman was said to mix the best dry Martini in Paris, and saucisson pistaché was all the rage, but even if they were still available it was no time to put them to the test.
Scanning the options, he quickly ruled out both the ‘Menu Dégustation’ … seven courses would be pushing it a bit … as would the ‘Menu Sarah Bernhardt’. Clearly, if the number of alternative dishes listed was anything to go by, the great actress of bygone times had never been in a particular hurry; probably she had been a regular customer when she was nearing retirement and was en route to her favourite watering hole in the country. Apart from the menu, she had even had a cake named after her – a doughnut, cream and chocolate mix, suitably primed with rum.
By process of elimination he settled for something far less complicated and ordered soupe des asperges vertes glacée along with a glass of champagne to begin with, followed by – possibly because his mindset was focused on Italy and the forthcoming meeting with Caterina – cannelloni d’avocat et thon rouge, and a glass of red Chianti.
While he was waiting for the arrival of the first course he sat back and took stock of his surroundings. It was good to relax for a minute or two and dwell on the richly decorated walls festooned with pictures of glamorous ladies and their escorts framed within carved and gilded curlicues.