by Michael Bond
One by one the others emerged from beneath their hoods. Mrs Van Dorman was next. The heat had brought a flush to her cheeks. The beauty patch on her cheek seemed to have slipped slightly. It was probably one of the hazards of the period. He reached up and felt his beard to make sure it was still in place.
Feeling that some kind of comment was due, he called across to Elliott. ‘My compliments to the chef. Brillat-Savarin was right: “One becomes a cook, but one is born a roasting cook.”’
Mrs Van Dorman looked at her own plate. ‘I have a feeling I’m not going to make the finishing line,’ she whispered.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced round the table. ‘I think you are not the only one.’
‘You do this kind of thing every day? For a living? How do you manage it?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘All occupations have their hazards. I rarely accept second helpings. Sometimes I follow the example set by one of our rivals – Monsieur Christian Millau. He insists on being given half portions wherever he goes. When it is possible, I drink a glass of fresh carrot juice half an hour before a meal. It is very effective provided it is fresh – not bottled. And since I started reading Alexandre Dumas I have taken to carrying raisins for afterwards.’
‘And they work?’
‘I will tell you tomorrow. In between I rely on Pommes Frites. He never lets me down.’ He was about to amend that to ‘rarely’, then thought better of it.
Mrs Van Dorman looked past him. ‘I know one person who’s enjoying himself. He hasn’t been so quiet all evening.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced to his right where a waiter was hovering behind the one remaining guest still wearing a shroud. Catching the man’s eye, he gave a brief nod. Others bearing trays laden with sorbets were already waiting outside the door, and he could sense Elliott’s impatience at the hold-up. No doubt he was anxious to reach the high spot of the evening – the Rôtie á l’Impératrice.
Neatly and deftly the waiter undid the knot holding the napkin in place and with a barberlike flourish shook it free. As he did so, almost as though he had withdrawn a cork from a bottle, there came an unearthly groan which sent a shiver round the room. For a moment there was total silence as the rest of those around the table stared aghast, then someone – it must have been Madame de Sauvignon – let out a scream.
Jumping to his feet, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out, but he was a fraction of a second too late. With a crash which sent china and glass flying, Spencer Troon hit the table and lay motionless where he had landed. The dribble of blood which oozed from his lips mingled with the half-eaten remains of the Ortolans á la Landaise, giving the effect not so much of a classic dish of days gone by, but nouvelle cuisine at its most macabre.
With a sense of timing perfected over the years, Pommes Frites chose that particular moment to return from his wanderings. Taking in the situation at a glance he lifted his head and added his mite to Madame de Sauvignon’s scream of horror. As a howl, it was not so much one of alarm or grief, but rather of indignation. The indignation of one who felt that if only he had been consulted earlier all this might not have happened.
5
THE LONE STRANGER
‘Of all the Goddamn crazy things!’ Elliott looked as though he was about to burst a blood vessel. Monsieur Pamplemousse had seldom seen anyone so furious. He was positively white with rage.
‘And what’s with all the tomato ketchup?’
Spencer Troon, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, looked bloody but unbowed.
‘How the hell should I know? I haven’t worked that bit out yet. Anyway, if you want to know, it isn’t tomato ketchup. I got it from a joke shop in town.’
‘I haven’t worked that bit out yet,’ mimicked Elliott. ‘Typical! It’s like everything else you do.’
‘These things take time,’ said Spencer. ‘You should know that. Maybe I had a poisoned bone. Like that story Aristide here told about the feather.’ He turned to Monsieur Pamplemousse for help. ‘What was the guy’s name? That Emperor … the one who ate too many mushrooms?’
‘Claudius?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse was still recovering from his surprise – he wouldn’t have admitted to the word shock – at finding Spencer return from the dead as it were. The whole episode had a strange surrealistic feel to it. One moment he’d been lying sprawled across the table looking as though he had breathed his last, the next moment he’d jumped to his feet uttering a triumphant cry as though nothing had happened. The others seemed to share Elliott’s irritation, and he had to agree with them. In the circumstances it seemed a particularly tasteless joke to play.
‘That’s the one,’ said Spencer. ‘Claudius. He had a poisoned feather with his number on, right? So – in my case it was a bone. Like with Norm. Norm’s number was called. That’s why he’s up there working away at the Great Word-Processor in the sky, right?’
‘Jesus!’ said Harman. ‘Why can’t you just say he’s dead. How many different ways are there of not saying it?’
‘You name it,’ broke in Paul Robard, ‘they come up with it. “Non-viable condition”; “negative patient care outcome”; “paying a call on the perpetual rest consultant”; “patient failed to fulfil his wellness potential”. They’ve got a million.’
‘You’re right there,’ conceded Harman. ‘Anything to pass the buck. You know, I even read the other day of a guy who took an overdose and put himself into a “non-decision-making mode”. Can you beat that? The poor sap tries to end it all and what do they call it? A “non-decision-making mode”. Decisions don’t come any bigger than wanting to do away with yourself.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Harvey Wentworth.
‘They botched the treatment. Some intern took a decision for him and it just so happened it was the wrong one. He suffered a “negative mortality experience”. In other words, same as Norm. He died.’
‘What the hell?’ said Spencer. ‘I had you all fooled there for a moment and somebody had to be runner-up. I know one thing, though. If Norm is working away at his word-processor, the rest of us are going to suffer “inventory shrinkage” when it comes to stock-appraisal time.’
Elliott gave a deep, deep sigh as he rose to his feet. ‘I suggest we change the subject. I refuse to allow the evening to be spoilt because of a petty, childish prank.’
He crossed to the sideboard where the sommelier had placed a lighted candle behind the neck of the bottle held in the decanting machine. The cork had been drawn some time previously. A row of seven glasses arranged alongside the machine provided an answer to another of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s earlier unspoken questions. The thespians were having to do without. He could hardly blame Elliott. Considering what the wine must have cost it would be carrying generosity a bit far to share it amongst the whole table, although from the look on one or two of the actors’ faces it was not a view shared by all. Alexandre Dumas in particular had so far forgotten his role that he was looking most aggrieved. Method acting was obviously not his particular forte.
‘Anyway,’ Elliott bent down and cranked the handle very gently until almost imperceptibly the bottle, already some ten degrees or so off the vertical, began to tilt still further, ‘we’re all wasting our breath. The contest is null and void.’
‘What do you mean – null and void?’ exclaimed Spencer. ‘I chipped in the same as everyone else.’
‘Ssh!’ Aware that the sommelier was casting a critical eye over his right shoulder, watching his every move, Elliott was not disposed to argue.
‘Do what the man says,’ broke in Harman. ‘Can’t you see he’s busy.’
While all eyes turned to watch Elliott at work, the sorbet arrived, replacing the absinthe of Dumas’ day.
‘It is a lemon granité, Monsieur,’ whispered the waiter with evident approval. ‘It is made with the addition of a little anisette.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Paul Robard as he took a mouthful. ‘What are they trying to do – poison us?’
Monsieur Pamplemouss
e tasted a little. Judged simply as a palate cleanser it was undervaluing itself. A confirmed alcoholic would have been kept happy for days; a furniture restorer would have looked no further for some polish remover. No wonder the waiter’s hand had been a little shaky.
He pondered over the conversation that had just taken place, wishing once again that his command of the language was better. It was hard to tell what the others were thinking; the dialogue might well have been lifted out of any of their books – delivered in a brittle, poker-faced fashion. But beneath it all he sensed undeniable nuances and undercurrents, the true meaning of which escaped him for the moment. He resolved to question Mrs Van Dorman later. In the meantime he broke off a piece of bread and chewed it for a moment or two in order to take away the taste of the granité.
‘I suggest we all do the same,’ said Elliott approvingly, as he returned to the table and stood hovering like a mother hen over her chicks while the waiter distributed the glasses.
Monsieur Pamplemousse studied his own offering for a moment or two, almost afraid to touch it in case the contents of the glass disappeared or he shook up some vital element which would cause the wine to break up. Elliott had done a good job. Not only had he managed to extract seven moderate servings from the bottle, but the liquid was crystal clear with no tell-tale traces of murkiness which would have occurred had any of the sediment been disturbed during the pouring.
He picked up his glass and held it at arm’s length. The wine was a deep amber colour. It showed well against the soft candle-light. The glass was a Riedel Bordeaux – shaped so as to enhance the wine rather than show up its defects, throwing the contents towards the back of the mouth and away from the tip of the tongue and the ‘sweet’ taste buds.
The Director would have envied him, in fact most of those who had wangled their way out of the assignment would have envied him at that moment. It served them right.
He was soon so lost in thought he was hardly aware of the Rôtie à l’Impératrice arriving.
It must have tested the chef to the full; not only in the preparation and the cooking, but in the serving of it as well. It must have been no easy matter to ensure that everyone received their fair share of all the component parts; the porc, the turkey, the pheasant, the partridge, the quail and the lark. The juice came separately in silver serving bowls, along with a simple salad of fresh dandelion leaves; it was exactly right; anything more would have been unnecessary – a case of over-gilding the lily, and the slightly bitter taste would counterbalance the richness of the dish.
‘The next question’, said Elliott, ‘is whether we drink the wine by itself or savour it along with what is, after all, the main event of the evening. Aristide, what do you think?’
Once again Monsieur Pamplemousse had the feeling he was being tested. ‘In my view,’ he said, ‘a wine such as this deserves our full attention. Look at that colour.’ He held the glass to his nose. It was rich and fragrant; spicy. ‘And smell the bouquet.’
He paused for a moment. ‘It is formidable … merveilleux. I think we should, perhaps, do both. Drink a little of the wine by itself first, then test it against the rôtie. In that way we can have the best of both worlds and there will be no argument afterwards.’
The truth of the matter was he would have been more than happy just to savour the wine. It would be a memorable way of rounding off the evening. He had a feeling the Rôtie à l’Impératrice might come under the heading of ‘experiences I have known’ or possibly even ‘experiences I wish I hadn’t known’. It represented the worst excesses of the period. Contemplating his plate, he was reminded of the time when he had taken Doucette to see a film called La Grande Bouffe. They hadn’t wanted to eat for days afterwards. Now the thought had entered his mind he couldn’t rid himself of it, and he was relieved when he felt a stirring at his feet. Even if he had been an avid cinema goer, Pommes Frites would have suffered no such inhibitions.
‘Spoken like a true diplomat,’ said Elliott. ‘D’Artagnan himself couldn’t have put it better. How about the bouquet? Has anyone got any ideas?’
‘I guess I can pick up some kind of spices,’ said Harman. ‘Don’t ask me what.’
‘I get a bit of Eucalyptus.’ said Harvey.
‘A touch of resin, maybe?’ Paul Robard hazarded a guess.
‘I’d go for raspberries,’ said Spencer. ‘Raspberries and currants – fruit anyway.’
‘DiAnn?’
‘I think I would agree about the fruit,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘But there are so many things. Does anyone else get almond? It comes over quite strongly in my glass.’
There was a murmur of dissent from around the table. Suddenly alert, Monsieur Pamplemousse leaned forward.
Mrs Van Dorman raised the glass to her lips. ‘Well someone has to start, I guess.’
‘Attention!’ Leaping to his feet, Monsieur Pamplemousse made a grab for Mrs Van Dorman’s hand. Somehow or other, as she jerked back her head the glass eluded him and flew out of her hand. As it landed with a crash on Elliott’s plate, a rivulet of dark red liquid slowly spread out across the table.
For a second or two everyone sat in stunned silence. Pommes Frites was the first to move. He put his front paws on the table, gave the remains of the wine a desultory sniff, then settled himself down alongside his master to await further developments. They weren’t long in coming.
Elliott rose to his feet. ‘I don’t know what occasioned that behaviour, nor do I wish to ruin what until now has been a thoroughly delightful evening by enquiring into the matter further. I assume you had good reasons for behaving as you did …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse also rose. ‘I can assure you, Monsieur Garner, I had very good reasons, although I would rather not elaborate on them at this moment in time. Please accept my sincere apologies.’
Elliott gave a brief nod. ‘I think we are all a little on edge this evening.’
‘I hope …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his own glass and handed it to Mrs Van Dorman, ‘I hope Madame Joyeux will accept this in recompense.’ It was the least he could do.
‘I won’t say no to sharing.’
Elliott left the table. ‘If you will excuse me … I must go and wipe myself down. Please carry on.’
Suddenly you could feel the relief in the air as Elliott left the room.
‘If that was me,’ said Harman Lock, ‘I’d be wanting to squeegee my pants into the nearest glass.’
‘There’ll be a third thing,’ said Paul darkly, as he speared a mouthful of meat with his fork. ‘Any guesses as to what it’ll be?’
There were no takers.
It was, to all intents and purposes, the end of the evening. For all its uniqueness, the Rôtie à l’Impératrice came as something of an anti-climax. There were no takers for a second helping.
By the time Elliott returned, most of the guests were either ready for the next course, or only too willing to do without it. The peaches in wine had few takers. Sadly, Monsieur Pamplemousse watched his pears with bacon begin its journey back to the kitchen, untouched even by Pommes Frites. The cheese board followed swiftly in its wake. Coffee was a muted affair. The farewell speech by Elliott and the vote of thanks by Mrs Van Dorman, were both mercifully brief.
‘What did you make of all that?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse as they took their leave of the others and headed towards the door.
‘I thought Elliott took it remarkably well. I felt so sorry for him. Do you know how much that bottle cost? They say he nursed it all across the Atlantic. Sat with it between his knees and wouldn’t let it out of his sight. It’s almost as bad as that time at the Four Seasons in New York when a waiter hit a bottle of 1787 Château Margaux with his tray. Remember? Over four hundred thousand dollars of wine disappeared into the carpet.’
‘Indeed I do.’ It wasn’t what he’d meant, but clearly Mrs Van Dorman was blissfully unaware of the fact that for a moment he had feared for her life.
‘What came over you? I couldn’t believe my eye
s.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he should tell the truth – it was hard to know how she would take it – but as they were about to leave the house she abruptly changed the subject.
‘Oh, God! I’d completely forgotten. We have a reception committee.’
‘I have been wondering,’ said the photographer, ‘if perhaps we should try something in contre-jour. Madame could stand exactly where she is … perhaps a little further out … so that she is framed in the doorway with the light behind … a handkerchief in her hand to stem the tears as she waves goodbye. Monsieur can be in the foreground, mounting his charger.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the idea for a moment. He could think of no very good reason why d’Artagnan would have wished to leave his mistress at that moment – unless, of course, another adventure called. On the other hand, flushed with good food, awash with even better wine – the memory of his share of the Lafite ’84 still lingering in his mouth – he felt in an obliging mood.
‘Whatever you suggest. Pas de problème!’
Mrs Van Dorman opened a small purse she had been carrying all the evening and searched for something suitable to wave. ‘Do be careful, Aristide. Remember what happened last time.’
‘This time,’ said the groom, ‘I have brought a montoir – a mounting block.’
‘You see,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he accepted the other’s outstretched hand. ‘It is as I said … pas de problème.’
‘I have also taken the precaution of fitting Le Diable Noir with blinkers so that he cannot see you,’ said the man. He sounded anxious to get to bed.
Pommes Frites did a double-take as he joined Mrs Van Dorman in the doorway and contemplated the scene before him.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the photographer. ‘The finishing touch! Ne quittez pas, s’il vous plaît!’
In assuming that Pommes Frites had taken up the pose of a hunter ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice simply because he wished to be in the picture, the photographer was doing him a grave injustice. Pommes Frites was not so much riveted to the spot for artistic reasons as glued to it because he could hardly believe what was going on. Although in the normal course of events Monsieur Pamplemousse could do no wrong in Pommes Frites’ eyes, if questioned on the subject he would have been forced to admit that there were moments when in his humble opinion his master came very close to pushing his luck a bit too far. Patently this was one of those occasions.