by Michael Bond
The Director stared up at him. ‘It might have become detached while we were going along!’ he exclaimed. ‘What then?’
‘Oh, no, Monsieur. Once it is shut it is shut. It is when anyone tries to open it that trouble begins.’
The Director rose to his feet and dusted himself down. ‘I trust it doesn’t happen en route to Vichy. I shall never forgive myself if Mrs Van Dorman is deposited on the autoroute. The repercussions if she happened to be struck by a passing camion do not bear thinking about.’
He turned abruptly on his heels and waited by the entrance long enough for Monsieur Pamplemousse to carry out the necessary repairs, then led the way into the hotel.
‘Henri!’ As they entered the foyer a tall, elegant woman in her late thirties rose to greet them. Monsieur Pamplemousse caught a whiff of perfume, strong and assertive. It was not one he recognised; probably one of her own manufacture. He was aware, too, of an unexpectedly healthy tan enhancing a smile which revealed whiter than white, slightly protruding teeth. Dark sunglasses rested on a pile of blonde hair, cut to within an inch of the collar of an immaculate two-piece suit. It was not what he would have chosen for a long journey in a 2CV.
The Director was already into his ‘Welcome to France’ routine; an essay in Gallic gallantry. The meeting of the eyes, the slight bow, the delicate clasping of the fingertips as he raised them to his lips; the uttering of the single word ‘Enchanté’ in a tone half an octave lower than normal. Mrs Van Dorman looked as though she had encountered it on previous occasions, but wasn’t averse to a repeat performance.
As he was carrying out the latter part of his routine the Director gave a slight start.
‘You are prepared for the journey I see.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced down. In striking contrast to the rest of her outfit, Mrs Van Dorman was sporting a pair of brightly coloured designer sneakers.
‘I use them when I travel. I went for an early morning jog round the Tuileries. It makes a change from Central Park. It’s like I always say, a healthy body is a healthy mind.’
‘I hope you are listening, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director pointedly.
‘Comment?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best to suppress a shudder as the Director introduced him to their guest. ‘I am afraid my Eenglish is, ’ow do you say? a little covered in rust.’
Conscious that the Director was glaring at him across Mrs Van Dorman’s shoulder, he was about to emulate the other’s welcome when he thought better of it. Instead he contented himself with a brief handshake. It was reciprocated coolly but firmly. As he let go, he gave a quick glance round the foyer, half expecting to see Doucette lurking behind a potted palm. He wouldn’t have put it past her. His edited version of all that had passed between himself and the Director had not gone down as well as he had hoped; the seeds of suspicion had been sown. Given the fact that Mrs Van Dorman didn’t match up in any way whatsoever with his description, the quicker they made their getaway the happier he would be. Better safe than sorry.
‘I am sure you will have things to talk about with Monsieur Le Directeur,’ he said. ‘If you will allow me I will supervise the loading of the luggage.’
The Director eyed him approvingly. ‘A good idea, Pamplemousse. And … bonne chance. I shall await your report with interest.’
Not quite certain how to take the last remark, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way out of the hotel to the side door in the rue Boissy d’Anglas, where the baggage of the rich and famous normally came and went.
His heart sank as he took in a pile of monogrammed valises waiting on a trolley just outside the entrance. They looked like an advertisement for a complete set of round-the-world baggage. He knew even before he saw the initials on the side whom they belonged to. Already he could see problems with Pommes Frites.
The porter’s eyes said it all as Monsieur Pamplemousse led the way back into the place and stopped by his car. The commissionaire, his white gloves streaked with black oil, studiously turned his back on them. Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet. In a world where most things had a price he felt he could be in for an expensive time.
He became aware of the perfume again and turned to find Mrs Van Dorman standing just behind him.
‘Do we have to go to all this trouble?’ she asked. ‘There must be an easier way. Can’t we get the Car Jockey to bring the motor here, or else ask the Bell Captain to organise the porters to take the baggage straight to the car? It can’t be that far away.’
‘This is the car,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Mrs Van Dorman gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘You know what I thought you said?’
‘Comment?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sought refuge in the language barrier again. ‘I am afraid you will have to talk slowly. Lentement s’il vous plaît.’
‘Oh, God!’ It was hard to tell what Mrs Van Dorman might be thinking behind her dark glasses, now firmly in place over her eyes.
‘As you see,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, rolling back the canvas roof, ‘the top comes away.’
‘Along with the door?’ The Director had obviously been recounting his experience.
‘It is what we call a deux chevaux.’
‘It looks more like a faux pas to me. In America we call it a roll-top desk.’
Even with the roof open, Mrs Van Dorman’s luggage took up almost the whole of the back seat, rising up through the opening like a miniature Eiffel Tower. Squeezed into what little space there was left behind the passenger seat, Pommes Frites assumed one of his mournful expressions. He kept a stock of them especially for such occasions. Clearly the seating arrangements did not meet with his approval. In Pommes Frites’ opinion anyone who travelled with that amount of luggage should personally suffer the consequences and not visit them on others.
They took the Porte d’Orléans exit out of Paris and then drove via the Périphérique on to the A6 autoroute. Even simple pleasantries like ‘the Director is a nice man’ (a statement which elicited a slightly less than enthusiastic ‘oui’ from Monsieur Pamplemousse) and ‘I should make sure your seat belt is tight in case the door falls off again’ (greeted with even less enthusiasm by Mrs Van Dorman), which had served to break the ice while driving the length of the boulevard Raspail, dwindled away to nothing as heavy lorries roared past on either side of them. For the time being the noise of their engines drowned any further attempt at conversation.
Mrs Van Dorman, who had been growing steadily more restless as time went by, began shifting about in her seat as though she was trying to escape something unpleasant. As they stopped at the toll barrier just before entering the Forest of Fontainebleau she reached down and felt inside a black leather case at her feet.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced across with interest as she produced a Filofax built like a miniature desk which she spread out on her lap.
‘I have a secret compartment in my right trouser leg,’ he said as they moved off. ‘It was made for me by Madame Pamplemousse. You will never guess what I keep in there.’
‘I think I’d rather not know.’
Glancing nervously at the woods on either side, Mrs Van Dorman buried herself in an instruction booklet for a moment or two, then pressed a series of keys. A loud bleep emerged, followed by an electronic voice with Japanese overtones. Monsieur Pamplemousse made out the words ‘Spume, foam, spindrift, meringue and nimbostratus’. It seemed an unlikely combination.
‘Shit!’ Mrs Van Dorman seemed to be expressing disappointment rather than searching for a further synonym.
‘You have a problem?’
‘Why is it you can look up every kind of goddamn eventuality except the one you want. If I go to the dentist and he takes out the wrong tooth I can tell him to put it back in six different languages, but ask it something simple …’
‘What is the word you are looking for?’
‘Dribble.’
‘Comment?’
‘Dribble. Your dog happens to be dribbling down the back of my neck.’
/> Monsieur Pamplemousse narrowly avoided careering out of his lane and into the barrier as he stole a quick glance over his shoulder. Pommes Frites, the lower part of his jaw joined to the nape of Mrs Van Dorman’s neck by a rivulet of viscous liquid, returned his gaze unblinkingly.
‘Mon Dieu!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse regained control of the car. ‘It is probably the heat. In French we use the word dégoutter.’ There were others he could think of. The phrase ‘Every dog has his day’ sprang to mind.
Mrs Van Dorman snapped her case shut. ‘You want to know something? I’m past caring. Right? It feels the same in any language. Right?’
‘D’accord!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt inside his pocket.
‘Would you care for a mouchoir – a handkerchief?’ As he removed a freshly ironed square of white linen from an inside pocket and unfolded it, something round and black fell out on to Mrs Van Dorman’s lap. It looked like a badly squashed beetle.
‘Jesus! What’s that?’ Only the seat belt prevented her disappearing through the open roof.
‘It is a raisin – an aid to digestion. I have been reading Monsieur Dumas’ Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine. In it he recommends eating several large raisins after a meal. They need to be seeded, of course.’
Mrs Van Dorman greeted the news in silence.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a mental note to stick to the main roads. He had entertained thoughts of showing his guest something of France on the way to Vichy, perhaps taking in the cathedral of Notre-Dame at Chartres, or making a detour via the hardwood forest of Troncais which had been laid down by Louis XIV’s farsighted minister, Colbert. But it was no time for history lessons. He decided to stick to the shortest route possible. Pommes Frites had a tendency to feel indisposed if he sat in the back for too long and the signs were not good.
‘The book is full of interesting facts,’ he continued, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Did you know, par exemple, that when the storks fly south for the winter and they rest for the night, the ones who are on guard duty stand on one leg in order to conceal a pebble in their other claw. Thus, if they fall asleep they will relax their grip on the pebble and the sound of it hitting the ground will cause them to wake.’
‘I have to say I didn’t know that.’ Mrs Van Dorman gave him a strange look.
‘Another interesting fact,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is that one ostrich egg is equal to ten hens’ eggs.’
‘I can’t wait to tell my cook next time I ask her to make me an omelette.’
‘There is also an interesting section on bakers and baking,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively. Mentally, he was beginning to agree with Pommes Frites’ summing up of the situation. Since Mrs Van Dorman was helping to organise the banquet, the least she could do was show a little interest in the subject.
His thought waves evidently struck home. ‘Your English is better than you let on,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘Tell me about where we are going.’
‘Vichy?’ Glad to be on firmer ground at last, Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the question for a moment or two. ‘Vichy is … Vichy. It is like nowhere else. You will see when you get there. To me, its one great asset is that it happens to be on the edge of the Auvergne, and the Auvergne is on the edge of another world; part of the Massif Central. Six hundred million years ago there was a cataclysmic upheaval of the ground. In consequence it is a landscape full of strange nooks and crannies. Everywhere you go you will see patches of black lava, and dotted about the countryside there are puys – unlikely peaks formed by the molten lava.
‘People from the Auvergne are renowned for keeping their wealth under the mattress. They also bottle it. All over the area there are spas where the water gushes up out of the ground – sometimes hot, sometimes cold. Ever since Roman times people have gone there for their health; to St Nectaire for the kidneys, Royat for the heart, Le Mont-Dore for asthma and to Vichy for the digestion. There are many more besides. Each town has its speciality.
‘In the spring the countryside is alive with wild flowers; cowslips, celandines, snowdrops and daffodils. You open the car window as you drive along and you can smell their perfume. There are trout and salmon and crayfish in the streams and the hills are covered with yellow gorse. In summer it can be very hot. In the autumn there are crocus and spiraea.
‘But I am prejudiced. It is where I was born.’
‘If it’s so perfect, why did you leave?’
‘For the same reason as everyone else. What I have been describing is only true for part of the year. There is a price to pay for everything – especially perfection.
‘The winters are cold and hard. If you live in a remote village you can be snowed up for weeks on end. There is little work. When the railways came it was hoped they would bring prosperity to the region; instead the men took advantage of it to leave home for the capital. Even the success of the spas turned against them. People began to feel that if they could buy the water at home, why bother to make the journey. Traditionally those who left became restaurateurs; they set up the first bals musettes; Paris became known as the biggest city in the Auvergne.’
‘Have you ever thought of becoming a restaurateur?’
‘Often. Then I go behind the scenes and I change my mind. It is also a hard life. Working for Le Guide I have the best of both worlds.’
They drove in silence for a while, but it was a different silence this time.
‘If there is time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I would like to take you into the mountains.’
‘It makes a change from being asked to look at etchings!’
‘Comment?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m being crabby. The truth is I have bad vibes about this trip.’
‘Vibes? I am sorry. I do not understand.’
‘Vibrations. Feelings. Have you ever tried acting as nursemaid to six authors? Individually they’re fine. But together … yuch!’
‘Is that why you are not travelling with them? As tour leader should you not be with your troops?’
‘Are you kidding? I don’t mind laying on the feast; it’s good publicity and we can go to town on it in the next issue. But before and after it they can look after themselves. On the surface everything is sweetness and light, but underneath it all they’re as jealous as hell of each other. Do you know something? Before I left New York we had a meeting in my office. I happened to have a book written by one of them on my desk. One of the others threw it in the trash can. He made it seem like a joke, but I caught the look on his face.’
‘Why do they go then?’
‘Search me. I guess it’s one of those things – they’ve been doing it for years and once you start a thing it’s hard to stop. Anyway, they’ve all been in Annecy on some kind of mystery writers’ festival. They’re coming on to Vichy under their own steam.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘What do you know?’
‘I know only their names.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt in a folder below his seat. The Director had given him a list that morning during the briefing.
Without taking his eyes off the road he handed a sheet of paper to Mrs Van Dorman. She scanned it briefly.
‘Harvey Wentworth specialises in culinary mysteries.’
‘Don’t they all?’
‘To a greater or lesser extent. But Harvey’s hero is the only one who is actually a chef. He solves all his mysteries over a hot stove. The Case of the Sagging Soufflé, Stool-pigeon Pie, Dinner for Two and a Half, Mayhem with Mustard. His restaurant has such a high casualty rate you wonder why anyone ever goes there. He’s a reviewer’s delight; they can let loose with all the puns in the book. On the other hand, he knows his onions, if you’ll pardon an unintentional one. He often writes for our magazine under the pseudonym of Harvey Cook.
‘Then there’s Harman Lock. His hero is a classical conductor who happens to be a mixture of gourmet cum detective on the side. Schubert’s Third was all about a little old violinist called Arnold Schubert who had just one in
curable weakness: little old ladies. He used to invite them up to his room to hear him play “Air on a G String”, wait until they had their eyes closed, then garotte them.’
The last service area before the D7 spur beyond Nemours came and went. Monsieur Pamplemousse sensed Pommes Frites’ disappointment. Pommes Frites was good on autoroute signs – especially those that had to do with food. He could recognise a set of crossed knives and forks a kilometre away. The car swayed slightly as he shifted his weight to look back the way they had come.
‘Ed Morgan, on the other hand, writes tough gangster novels full of one-liners, with as many dead bodies to match. They have to run a shuttle service to the morgue at the end of every book while the hero goes off to a lay his current girl-friend after a good homespun all-American cook-out of clam chowder followed by planked charcoal-grilled porterhouse steak, washed down by ice-cold Budweiser. His speciality is the dressing that goes with the salad. The girls can’t refuse it. He has the knack of making the simple act of opening a tin of sweetcorn and stir-frying it in a saucepan sound like heaven.’
‘That takes more than a knack. That takes genius. I wish I could do that.’
Mrs Van Dorman looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’
‘I am being totally serious. I never knock other people’s success. If I had that kind of talent it might help to sell more copies of Le Guide. Except the Director would never allow it.’
‘When Ed Morgan writes about food, I get hungry.’
‘You are hungry now?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. Maybe we could pull in off the autoroute somewhere and grab a snack. Or get something for a picnic?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have my table and chairs with me. I had to leave them out otherwise we wouldn’t have got all the luggage in.’
‘Do we need a table and chairs? Can’t we just find a patch of grass somewhere. I could do with a good stretch.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the spur road. ‘Only corrupt people – like the Romans and the Ancient Greeks – or those who don’t care about their food lie down to eat. I know of a restaurant not far from here. It is nothing special, but for many years it has earned itself a bar stool in Le Guide.’