by Michael Bond
‘This is disastrous,’ said the Director. ‘Most likely Caterina is charged with its safe return. We cannot possibly wait around any longer than is necessary.’
Sensing a possible opportunity for creating some breathing space, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it was time he took the plunge before Caterina resurfaced. With luck he might be able to turn his unhappy experience to everyone’s advantage.
‘Has Monsieur been to the Gare de Lyon recently?’ he enquired.
‘I am happy to say, Pamplemousse, I have never been in the Gare de Lyon,’ replied the Director, not without a touch of pride.
‘There are hectares and hectares of it to negotiate,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is almost beyond measure. If you culled all the passengers running to catch a train because they were lost and haven’t allowed sufficient time, you would gather enough people to fill a sizeable stadium in no time at all. It isn’t so much a case of losing someone. It is a matter of finding them in the first place. How people ever manage to meet anyone by arrangement is beyond me.
‘I was talking to a member of staff only yesterday, and he quoted an English aphorism to me: “It is worse than looking for a needle in a haystack.”’
‘A typical Albion obfuscation,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dismissively. ‘They are past masters in the art of creating smokescreens in order to divert attention.
‘I must admit I could hardly believe my ears when I first heard the news of yet another failure in your mission, Pamplemousse, but since we are on the subject of Albion attitudes to life it prompts me to paraphrase the words of one of their most famous writers: Oscar Wilde. “To lose one young lady in a railway station may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose the same lady a second time looks like gross carelessness.”
‘As for comparing it to looking for a needle in a haystack, it would be singularly inappropriate to have a haystack in the Gare de Lyon, and once again typical of les Anglais.
‘We are talking of a nation whose inhabitants are supposed to measure the contents of their wine glasses in terms of units. Can you imagine a Frenchman asking a lady friend if she would care for another unit?
‘What was the man doing with a needle in a haystack in the first place? If I were a farmer catching sight of someone exploring my haystack and on being questioned he said he was looking for a needle, I would telephone the local gendarmerie immediately and have him arrested on the spot.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was beginning to wish he hadn’t brought the subject up after all, but he persevered.
‘With respect, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘the phrase is of ancient lineage. Before the nineteenth century it used to be a simple bale of hay rather than a complete stack. It only goes to show the world has become ever more crowded, and the Gare de Lyon is a prime example of that fact.’
Monsieur Leclercq fell silent.
‘I suggest we forget the whole thing, Aristide,’ he said after a suitable gap. ‘All is well that ends well, and the fact that Caterina is safely ensconced with your wife means we can all rest in peace.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director, hardly believing his ears. He was shattered; momentarily struck dumb.
‘She had my telephone number,’ explained Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Luckily I happened to be in when she called, so given that I was in no position to offer her a bed, I gave her your home address.
‘Cheer up Aristide,’ he said, when he saw the look on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face. ‘Wives! They have their funny little ways, like butting in when you are the middle of telling a story with some totally inconsequential comment such as: “It wasn’t a Wednesday morning, darling, it was a Thursday afternoon,” and in so doing they lose sight of the whole. By the same token they keep things to themselves, and when you remind them of the fact they say: “I told you that days ago!”’
‘But …’ began Monsieur Pamplemousse. His mind went back to breakfast that morning. Doucette could have told him then. Perhaps she was saving the best until last and, rushing out as he had, he didn’t give her the chance? He was suddenly filled with remorse as he recalled the row of kisses across the soup. Perhaps they had been from Caterina, not Doucette? From all he could remember, he wouldn’t put it past her.
C’est la vie …
Declining the offer of a Roullet Très Hors d’Age cognac to celebrate the availability at long last of a safe passageway to the drinks cupboard, he bid Monsieur Leclercq au revoir and with the latter’s undying thanks echoing in his ears, beat a hasty retreat into the outer office.
‘Success?’ Véronique looked up hopefully from her desk.
‘Comme ci, comme ça,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is all relative.’
‘Relative enough for me not to phone the Bomb Disposal Squad?’
‘They wouldn’t thank you if you did.’
‘It never occurred to me that they might,’ said Véronique. ‘So where to now?’
‘Home,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘There has been a major breakdown in communications.’
‘Oh, dear, what’s new?’ sighed Véronique. ‘There is either too little communication in this world or there is much too much. And sometimes too little can be caused by there being too many options. Have you heard Bernard’s latest tale of woe?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse confessed he hadn’t. Bernard lived in Mortagne-au-Perche, and when he wasn’t ‘on the road’ he was usually at home tending his roses. Their paths hadn’t crossed of late.
‘As far as Bernard knew,’ said Véronique, ‘his parents enjoyed a blissfully happy married life; some sixty years or more together with never a cross word.
‘When his mother died, his father used to come and stay with his son and daughter-in-law from time to time, and it became very noticeable that he was extremely keen on biscuits. So much so, that when Bernard’s wife was doing her shopping at the local supermarché prior to one of her father-in-law’s visits, a girl on the cash desk, catching sight of all the packets in her shopping basket, said: “Your father-in law must be coming to stay.”
‘Bernard thought this was rather funny, and he repeated the story to his father.
‘“Ah,” was the answer. “But you see, your mother never knew I liked biscuits, so I’m making up for lost time!”
‘Can you imagine?’ said Véronique. ‘All those years together and he never once told his wife he was partial to a biscuit or two, and in all those years she never asked him if there was anything special he would like.’
‘I think my problem is a bit more complicated than that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But on that happy note …’
‘Perhaps I should call the Bomb Disposal Squad after all!’ said Véronique. ‘Would you like me to give them your address?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have enough problems as it is.’
CHAPTER FIVE
On the way home Monsieur Pamplemousse turned Véronique’s sorry tale over in his mind.
Bernard’s parents may have been blissfully happy, and there was a good deal of truth in the old saying ‘ignorance is bliss’, but it was a classic example of a total lack of communication; or perhaps more accurately, a lack of total communication. And who was the most to blame? The father or the mother?
Had they still been alive, Bernard would have been only too pleased to communicate his father’s love of biscuits to his mother, but then his father probably hadn’t mentioned the fact to anyone else, including Bernard, or they would have willingly done it for him.
Come to that, if he liked biscuits so much, why didn’t he ever go out and buy some for himself?
One thought triggered another. Was it possible he and Doucette were in danger of going the same way? Could their own communication, or lack of it at times, be at fault, like that of Bernard’s parents?
Monsieur Pamplemousse sincerely hoped not. Partly it had to do with his work, of course. Being away a great deal, often for weeks at a time, meant that when he was back home, apart from taking Pommes Fri
tes for his morning walk, he often wanted nothing more energetic than to put his feet up. But then, Doucette must often feel that way too.
Other occupations threw up much the same problem. In his experience chefs were among the very worst off. Working for hours on end over a hot stove, day in day out, arriving home after midnight tired out, could undermine even the happiest of relationships. Musicians, too, were often away for long periods at a time when they were on tour …
But other people’s problems were academic and beside the point. He must deal with his own first of all.
That was easily enough said. When was the last time he had offered to help in the kitchen? Or make the bed? Or do the ironing? To say that Doucette was so much better at all these things than he was and he didn’t like to interfere was stretching things a bit. The fact was, as in most households, such matters had fallen into place early on in their marriage, almost as part of the natural order of things.
‘Start as you mean to go on,’ his old mother would have said. ‘To each his own.’
To that end he tried out a few well-chosen platitudes on his audience of one, but for once he might just as well have saved his breath. Pommes Frites had his mind set on other things. He pricked up his ears every time he heard the word ‘biscuits’ mentioned, but when nothing edible was forthcoming he settled down again. However, he couldn’t help noticing the key word was usually accompanied by a shrug.
Once or twice his master took both his hands off the steering wheel in order to make some meaningless gestures while he shouted Sacrebleu! at the top of his voice; a phrase he usually kept for other drivers who for one reason or another had upset him.
‘Une connard’ was another of his favourite expressions when someone tried to cut him up, especially when they succeeded, but that was conspicuous by its absence, so things couldn’t be all bad.
In any case, for the time being they were of little moment. His own thoughts were still centred on the matter of the truffle, and clearly his master’s words were meant for someone else. To his way of thinking it was all a matter of communication, or lack of it.
Monsieur Leclercq must have thought it was a real truffle, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered it to him on a plate, and certainly he had seemed most upset when he, Pommes Frites, had taken him at his word. Perhaps he should have regurgitated it onto his desk there and then, instead of into the waste bucket?
There was no telling with humans. Sometimes they said one thing when they meant quite the opposite. Often they didn’t even tell you what they wanted. He wouldn’t have changed places with another dog for all the bones in the world, but there were times when even his master occasionally fell short in that respect.
A good example was the occasion when, without so much as a by-your-leave, he had attached a small object to Pommes Frites’ head. Admittedly he had gone to the trouble of making a special harness so that it wouldn’t fall off, but it was undignified to say the least. Worse still, he had been sent out wearing it while they were staying at a hotel in the Auvergne on one of their trips. Luckily it was after dark.
The fact that it was a tiny television camera didn’t mean anything to him at the time, nor would it have done even if he had been told, so how could he have possibly known his cavortings with another hound he met up with quite by chance would be seen by anyone else who happened to be in the area? In colour as well! Besides, to a dog, even if they did move, pictures without any kind of smell attached to them meant nothing at all.
The way everybody kept going on about it afterwards, you would think such a thing had never happened before. When his master was talking about it, he had said something about Pommes Frites meeting up with a ‘dog of the opposite persuasion’, whatever that might mean. But his new acquaintance certainly hadn’t needed any persuading. She had entered into the whole thing with a gusto the like of which he hadn’t encountered for a long time. The whole episode had been mutually agreeable.
Even the other dog’s owner had seemed more than pleased, shouting and blowing a whistle as though urging them on to make the most of the encounter. It wasn’t often you met up with such an understanding owner, so both parties did as they were bidden, and were all the better for it.
Pommes Frites closed his eyes as he relived the moment, and he didn’t come out of his reverie until he found himself standing alongside his master in the lift when they arrived home.
‘Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as they entered the apartment together. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’
‘I might,’ said Doucette. ‘It all depends on what you have done to merit forgiveness.’
‘Neglect,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Neglect of the very first order. Putting work before everything else, as ever.’
Doucette gave a sigh. ‘I told myself a long time ago that’s what comes of marrying a policeman. There has never been a truer saying than “Once a flic, always a flic”, and this morning’s call-out was a good example. What was all the fuss about? You’ve been gone for hours.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse dived in as quickly as possible with a rundown on all that had transpired since he and Pommes Frites had left the apartment that morning.
‘Hardly an Estragon situation,’ said Doucette, when he had finished. ‘All that fuss over a truffle, and a fake one at that!’
‘You know the Director,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He may have been born into a stratum of society that is automatically endowed with many advantages, but in some respects it might just as well have taken place on the moon. It bears little relation to your world or mine.
‘As for his cleaning lady, she is living proof of the fact that truth is stranger than fiction. I doubt if Hortense has ever seen a truffle, let alone one large enough to be mistaken for a hand grenade. It is no wonder she thought the worst had befallen her.
‘Do you know what the Director’s last words to me were before I left him?’
‘“What kept you, Pamplemousse?”’ suggested Doucette.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘No. “You are an extraordinary homme, Aristide. The way you remember other people’s names. I wish I had that faculty. I shall forget my own name one of these days.” He probably sees Hortense every working day of his life, too!’
‘There are times when I wonder how you stand it …’ began Doucette.
‘I know, I know,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But nobody is perfect, and I must admit I had other things on my mind. Par exemple: at this moment in time there is nothing I would like better than a biscuit.’
Doucette gave him a strange look. ‘You only have to ask, Aristide,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you some as soon as I go out. What sort do you fancy?’
‘Your choice,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Just as long as you get me some. You will never know how happy it will make me.’
‘You are in a funny mood,’ said Doucette.
‘It must be catching,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I was expecting the Director to blow his top over my having messed up on meeting Caterina at the Gare de Lyon. It was hardly my fault, but even so I was prepared for the worst and he took it remarkably well.’
‘You should have had a piece of cardboard with her name written on it in large letters,’ said Doucette. ‘You could have held it up in the air like taxi drivers do when they are meeting someone off a train. I wish I had thought of it before you left. It wouldn’t have taken five minutes.’
‘A fat lot of good that would have done,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I might just as well have been back home with you. I would have needed a rocket-propelled taxi to get me to the correct platform in time.’
‘Think how poor Caterina must have felt when she arrived and there was nobody there to meet her,’ said Doucette. ‘Not that she complained to me. I tried phoning you back, but there was no answer.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the interruption. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when Monsieur Leclercq told me she had been here all night.’
‘And prior to that, for most of the evening while we were waiting for you to come home,’ said Doucette. ‘She was tired out after her long journey, so in the end we gave up. As soon as we had had our dinner she went to bed. As you may have gathered I put her in Pommes Frites’ room. You got my message, I hope?’
‘The one under the lamp telling me not to make too much noise?’
‘And the one in the soup,’ said Doucette. ‘I used up all the x’s there were in the packet of alphabet pasta. Don’t tell me you didn’t see them.’
‘It is one of the reasons why I didn’t eat it up there and then for breakfast,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse virtuously. ‘I wanted to leave it just as it was before it went soggy.’
It only went to show how careful one should be about these things, and that one should not put two and two together too hastily and end up making five.
‘She turned out to be such a nice girl,’ said Doucette. ‘Not at all as you described her. Really very attractive, I thought.’
‘It’s a long time since I last saw her,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily.
‘Even so, I can’t picture her getting up to all the things you told me about.’
‘Still waters run deep, Couscous.’
‘There was nothing still about that girl,’ said Doucette. ‘It almost felt as though she was on edge about something. She couldn’t wait to help me in the kitchen, and she was so interesting about her time at school.
‘I have always pictured nuns living on bread and water, but when she talked about quite simple dishes such as the ones they prepared in the convent … things like pumpkins, enriched with chopped pistachio nuts and scented with cinnamon, she made it sound like an ambrosial feast.’
‘It depends to some extent on how hungry you are, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They do say “He who would enjoy the feast should fast on the eve.”