by Michael Bond
‘All I can say is watch your back when you get in the car.’
‘I don’t have the car with me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I came by Metro.’
‘Then get Pommes Frites to act as a lookout,’ said Jacques. ‘You need eyes in the back of your head these days, Aristide.’
‘For once, I don’t have him either,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I’m on my own. I must phone you again when I need cheering up,’ he added, breaking the silence that followed.
‘Feel free,’ said Jacques cheerily. ‘Always happy to oblige. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I won’t place a firm order for the flowers yet.’
Undeterred, Monsieur Pamplemousse carried on for a while longer until the Métro had stopped running. Quite frankly, he was off his normal beaten track and had lost his bearings. Had Pommes Frites been with him he would have automatically left his own personalised mark at regular intervals so that he would have had no difficulty whatsoever in retracing their steps. The great Designer in the skies had seen to it that canine’s bladders were uniquely formed in order to cope with such situations. But he wasn’t available and there was no point in wishing otherwise.
By the time he got back to the 18th arrondissement his apartment block in the Place Marcel Aymé was plunged into darkness, and none of it felt more so than the corridor on the seventh floor. Lourbet, the gardien, must have been in one of his public-spirited ‘save on electricity’ modes, so it was doubly pleasurable to find Pommes Frites waiting for him just inside the front door.
It would have been hard to say who was the most pleased by the encounter. Tails wagged, licks were distributed, fur ruffled, whispered greetings exchanged.
A small table lamp had been left switched on, presumably for Pommes Frites’ benefit, and underneath it there was a note, decidedly not intended for his friend and companion. It said, quite simply: ‘Please try not to make too much noise’.
Worn out from his perambulations, more than a mite dispirited by receiving such an uncharacteristically crisp message from his wife, overcome by an overall sense of failure, Monsieur Pamplemousse slumped down in the nearest armchair, closed his eyes, and with Pommes Frites at his feet, they were both soon fast asleep.
The next thing he knew was a familiar hand on his shoulder shaking him awake.
‘Wake up,’ said Doucette. ‘I have so many things to tell you. First of all, Monsieur Leclercq needs you in his office urgently, only this time it really is an Estragon situation. He’s phoned twice, so it must be serious.’
‘What!’ Rubbing his eyes, Monsieur Pamplemousse leapt out of the chair, immediately thinking the worst. ‘I must go at once …’
‘Oh, no, you don’t, Aristide!’ said Doucette firmly. ‘You can’t go anywhere until you’ve had a wash and brush-up and a change of clothes. You look as though you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. Besides, it didn’t sound to me as though it was life-threatening and I have lots of other things to tell you over breakfast.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue, and it was a little over half an hour before he reappeared, freshly groomed, and ready to face the world again. Even Pommes Frites looked impressed by the change in his master’s appearance as he eagerly led the way into the kitchen. Clearly, he had some important news to impart.
Although forewarned, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t have been more surprised by the change that had taken place during his absence. There were packets, boxes, tins and bottles everywhere … it was like the inside of a grocery store.
‘You were absolutely right about the Bon Marché, Aristide,’ said Doucette. ‘They couldn’t have been more helpful …’
‘But …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was at a loss for words.
‘Would you like to hear the list?’ said Doucette. She unfurled a long sheet of flimsy paper. ‘Take cheese … there’s Parmesan, mozzarella, ricotta and Gruyère. Then there is Arborio rice for risottos … they have so many different kinds … tinned tuna, nutmeg … according to the assistant who was serving me they use nutmeg in practically everything, and he was Italian, so he should know. Prosciutto … porcini mushrooms (dried) … fagioli beans … lasagna al forno. Pancetta and Parma ham … panettone …’ She pointed at the table. ‘That’s an all-purpose cake. It keeps forever.
‘My friend said that more than any other cuisine, Italian is only as good as the quality of the ingredients, and theirs is as good as they come. He says Bologna is the richest gastronomic region … I think that’s where he comes from. But he suggested I have a good selection of various kinds of pasta, along with the sauces to go with them.’
Among some bottles of wine on one of the shelves Monsieur Pamplemousse caught sight of a familiar Black Rooster insignia on one indicating a Chianti Classico; alongside it there was another familiar bottle.
‘And Marsala?’ he asked. ‘We don’t normally have any need for that.’
‘I’m told it is indispensible in a good many Italian dishes,’ said Doucette. ‘Stews and ragouts … marinating veal … that kind of thing.
‘He was very enthusiastic. It was hard to resist. Do you think I have bought too much, Aristide? It did include free delivery.’
‘I only hope you’ve got a receipt for it all,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘This is it,’ said Doucette, unfurling more paper.
‘The Director will have a fit when he sees it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘He knows already,’ said Doucette. ‘I used my credit card to pay, but I needed a guarantor, so I telephoned him. He couldn’t have been nicer. And he’s cleared it with Madame Grante in Accounts.
‘I made my first real Italian dish yesterday evening,’ she continued proudly. ‘Tomato soup with pasta shapes.’ She pointed to a bowl on the table. ‘All it needed was a tin of chopped tomato, some chopped onion, carrot and celery. Sugar to taste, along with hot vegetable stock, and a handful of basil leaves from our pot on the balcony. There’s some left over. You can have it now if you like.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Tomato soup with pasta shapes in it was the last thing he fancied for breakfast.
‘No brioche?’ he said.
‘Pommes Frites had the last one,’ said Doucette. ‘There’s plenty of panettone. Try that. There is an old Russian proverb. “A mouthful of seawater gives you a taste for the ocean.”’
‘Ah,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, non-committally.
Cutting a slice of the Italian bread, he placed it in the toaster. It was so light he hastily drew back in case it caught fire.
As he did so he caught sight of the contents of the bowl and having spotted a neat row of pasta x’s half submerged across the surface, he immediately felt bad at having declined the offer. It was no wonder Doucette had gone to bed early. Left on her own with what was probably meant to be a surprise homecoming for him gone to waste, what else was there for her to do?
‘I daren’t hang around, Couscous,’ he added, by way of apology. ‘Save it for tonight. My only hope is that it doesn’t all come to nothing,’ he added, buttering his toast. ‘If it does we shall be eating pasta for a month of Sundays.’
Doucette stared at him. ‘I really don’t see why it should, Aristide.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. He had no wish to go into the reasons as to why it might very well turn out that way. He would cross that bridge when the time came.
‘Estragon calls!’ he said. ‘I really must go.’
And having kissed his wife goodbye he was on his way with Pommes Frites, now fully recovered after his sleep, hard on his heels, before Doucette had a chance to say any more.
‘Thank goodness you’ve made it,’ said Véronique, as he entered her office. ‘And Pommes Frites! Is he feeling better now? I haven’t got anything for him, I’m afraid.’
‘He’s recovered from whatever it was,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He has already had a brioche, thank you very much. We stopped on the way in.’
‘Parisienn
e or Nanterre?’
‘Nanterre,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It’s his favourite.’
‘Mine too,’ said Véronique. ‘I admire his taste.’
‘In Pommes Frites’ case I suspect it’s because it happens to be the bigger of the two,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The thing is, he’s had something on his mind, and when that happens his ears begin to sag and he can look very lugubrious.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Véronique. ‘Well, he’s come to the right place. We’re all pretty lugubrious this morning.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Hortense swears the object in the waste bucket next door is a hand grenade and she refuses to have anything to do with it.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘With all due respect to Monsieur Leclercq’s cleaning lady, when did she last see a hand grenade?’
‘Apparently her father was in the Resistance during the war,’ said Véronique. ‘He still keeps a row of them on his mantlepiece in case things ever take a turn for the worse. If they do, he’ll be ready and waiting.’
‘And that merits being classed as an Estragon situation?’
Véronique lowered her voice. ‘You know the Director. You haven’t heard the half of it yet. When Hortense first went into his room to empty the bucket, she put her head inside it and swore she could hear ticking, but I think it must be that dreadful wristwatch she insists on wearing.’
‘The freebie she was given when she took out a year’s subscription for an American magazine she never reads because it isn’t in French?’
‘The very same,’ said Véronique. ‘She passes it on to me now and I don’t read it either, but for a different reason. It’s all to do with big business.’
‘Hand grenades don’t tick,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘I told her that,’ said Véronique, ‘and what do you think she said?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.
‘Famous last words!’
‘They do seem to be a remarkably gloomy family,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I think Pommes Frites and I had better go next door and see it for ourselves.’
‘I wish you would,’ said Véronique. ‘She keeps telling me it has to do with what les Anglaise call Health and Safety, and I keep telling her we have the same thing over here only we don’t always abide by it like they do. Life is too short. We’ve reached an impasse. They do say that in England at Christmas time even Papa Noël has to wear a seat belt when he is doing the rounds on his sleigh.
‘Apart from that, the Director keeps ringing through wanting to know if the Bomb Disposal Squad have arrived yet. I daren’t tell him I haven’t even phoned them …’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Bonne chance,’ said Véronique. ‘Hortense’s last bulletin was “Mark my words, if the smell is anything to go by that grenade must have fallen in some merde.”’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was about to signal all systems go to his assistant, but Pommes Frites beat him to it. Clearly, he was only too eager to get down to work.
‘Aristide!’ exclaimed Monsieur Leclercq, as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered his office. ‘I thought you were never coming.’
Looking slightly embarrassed, he removed an old tin hat he was wearing. ‘A precautionary measure,’ he explained. ‘I must admit it has been an unhappy experience. I haven’t been able to get to my drinks cupboard all the morning for fear of setting off some kind of fiendish clockwork mechanism.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took in the rest of the scene at a glance. The far end of the Director’s office was cordoned off by a length of yellow crime-scene tape, and the waste bucket, still upright, was in much the same position as he remembered it.
‘Careful!’ called Monsieur Leclercq, as Pommes Frites made a beeline to it. ‘We don’t want him blown sky high.’
‘I think he knows exactly what he is doing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He’s been wanting to tell me something ever since we got back home yesterday. I don’t doubt the patron saint of bloodhounds, St Hubert, will be looking after his interests.’
Following on behind, he removed the offending tape before joining Pommes Frites who had his nose buried in the bucket, his tail fully erect and wagging slightly.
‘I think he’s trying to tell me something,’ he said. ‘I know the signs.’
‘Perhaps we could try that BowLingual device you gave me that time,’ said the Director. ‘I still have it in my drawer.’
‘I think not,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As you know, it’s made in America and dogs speak a different language over there. If you recall, when you shouted “Wuff! Wuff!” at Pommes Frites in the Pommes d’Or Hotel that time, he misunderstood what you were saying and in his confusion he wouldn’t stop barking. He had to be smuggled out in a laundry basket.’
Joining Pommes Frites, he peered into the bucket. ‘I see what Hortense meant. It does smell of merde. It must be the underfloor heating.’
‘Merde?’ cried the Director in alarm. Reaching for the tin hat, he pushed his chair away from the desk. ‘Whatever next, Pamplemousse? Think what might happen to my carpet if it explodes.’
Oblivious to Monsieur Leclercq’s cries of alarm, Pommes Frites removed the offending object from the bucket and presented it to his master, who in turn crossed the room and placed it on Monsieur Leclercq’s blotting pad.
The Director eyed it dubiously. ‘Are you sure it hasn’t been near some kind of noxious substance, Pamplemousse?’
‘I know exactly what it is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Or rather what it was. An excellent example of faux food.’
‘Faux food!’ repeated the Director. ‘You mean such a thing actually exists …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him. For someone who was head of France’s premier food guide, Monsieur Leclercq could be very unworldly at times, but then he probably only ever dined in Three Stock Pot restaurants.
‘It is a long-established industry in Japan,’ he said. ‘I believe that in Tokyo there is a whole street devoted to the products. Normally they are used as window dressing in shops and occasionally restaurants, but most of all as props in stage productions and films, when they have to withstand a lot of wear and tear. They used to be made of wax before World War II, but nowadays they are mostly hand-made from vinyl chloride. No wonder we were all taken in, although clearly Pommes Frites had second thoughts.’
‘Don’t tell me he swallowed this in its entirety,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, taking a closer look at the object.
‘Hardly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Then what was responsible for all the unfortunate noises he was making on his way to the waste bucket?’ said the Director.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a shrug. ‘Various minor bits may have become detached when he dug his teeth into it, causing some kind of chemical reaction. We shall probably never know. The Japanese guard their secrets well.’
‘But the odour,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I would have sworn on oath that it came from a real truffle.’
‘Ah,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Now we are entering another area which has made enormous progress since the war. The world of chemical compounds and the production of aromas. The elite exponents of the art are known as “flavourists”, much as those in the cosmetic industry are called “the nose”. The main difference is that flavour affects the taste as well as the smell. A whole industry has grown up on the back of fast food. The human nose is a powerful interpreter of aromas, and without a suitably attractive scent most of the products manufactured in today’s food chain would die a death.’
‘On the basis that to lose both the taste and the smell at the same time is little short of a disaster,’ boomed the Director.
‘Exactement,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They are the two main essentials which attract people to them in the first place and they need to be introduced by fair means or foul. The downside is
that basically many of the products are responsible for the current growth in obesity.’
‘How do you know all these things, Pamplemousse?’ said Monsieur Lerclercq.
‘It is an important part of my job, Monsieur.’ He felt tempted to add ‘those of us on the road need something to occupy our minds between filling in forms’, but it would have been a waste of breath.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said the Director vaguely.
‘I have to admit that was the main thing that bothered me about Uncle Caputo’s truffle,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The scent was almost too good to be true. Truffles tend to lose their characteristic odour fairly rapidly if they are kept for any length of time without being preserved in some way.
‘On the face of it,’ he mused, ‘a giant truffle could be a profitable investment for a restaurant. As you so wisely said when we first set on eyes on it, one sniff on its round of the customers in a basket is all that would be needed to start the orders flowing.
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘Uncle Caputo realised that fact and having acquired a fake one, wanted to test it out on experts to see if they were taken in?’
‘In that case we must order another as quickly as possible,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Although having said that, it is not a practice we ought to encourage.’
‘I doubt if it will be possible anyway,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Would Monsieur happen to have a penknife in his desk drawer? Mine is in the issue case for safekeeping,’ he added, pre-empting the question as to why he didn’t have it on him. In truth it was so heavy it destroyed any suit pocket practically on sight.
‘Of course,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. Opening a drawer, he produced a Victorinox Champ Swiss Army knife and handed it over.
Selecting a tiny wood chisel out of the thirty-one assorted blades at his disposal, Monsieur Pamplemousse set about probing the remains of the object on the Director’s blotter, and after a moment or two what appeared to be a small red vein was revealed.
‘You see what I mean, Monsieur. It is clearly the work of a master craftsman and these things take time. It is as much like a truffle as it is possible to get, and probably costs as much or more than the real thing.’