Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution

by Michael Bond

  It had happened more than once over the years. Those he had been wont to describe as a ‘pretty little thing’, taking pity on them because they were sitting in a corner all alone at a party, were invariably doing so because others around them recognised the signs and were all too aware of the fact that pretty little things were not necessarily to be trusted.

  ‘She let fall the fact,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘that by a strange coincidence she had attended a similar course to mine. She intimated that she was acting as a financial advisor to the Vatican.’

  ‘The Vatican?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In Rome?’

  ‘There is only one Vatican as far as I am aware, Pamplemousse. I do not think it has branched out.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pursed his lips and let out a sucking noise. It emerged rather louder than he had intended.

  ‘You do not approve?’ asked the Director.

  ‘Dealing with the higher echelons of the Catholic Church is not without its dangers, monsieur.’

  ‘You are thinking of what happened to that man who became known as God’s Banker?’ said the Director. ‘His name escapes me …’

  ‘Roberto Calvi,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He ended up hanging from a bridge over the river Thames in London. Half of his pockets stuffed full of foreign currency – mostly dollars and Swiss francs; the other half, as I recall, were packed with stones, presumably meant to weigh him down.

  ‘The bridge was called Blackfriars. Rather apt considering Calvi was a member of P-2 – an association of freemasons that has since been outlawed by the Italian authorities. Blackfriars also happens to be the registered name of a Masonic lodge; the washing of feet is part of their symbolic ritual. Presumably, whoever lowered him into position was hoping that would happen when the tide came in.’

  ‘I did mention his demise in passing,’ admitted Monsieur Leclercq. ‘The young lady professed total ignorance of the affair. Clearly, she had led a sheltered life. I suspect she was embarrassed to think such things could take place in this day and age. In Naples, perhaps, where I am told the Mafia is showing signs of a resurgence, but not London.

  ‘It only served to confirm what a nice person she was, although having said that, after what occurred later I doubt if she will be in line for promotion to higher echelons of the ecclesiastical profession …’

  Monsieur Leclercq paused again as though reliving the moment. ‘… She had the white skin one associates with many of her calling … and her accent was intriguing … I assumed at first it was Italian, but when I essayed a few apposite phrases she clearly didn’t understand a word I was saying. However, it was her eyes that caught my attention most of all. Partly because she had perfected the trick of crossing them from time to time, seemingly at will, but also because they matched the grey leather strap belonging to her watch; a Baume & Mercier – one that has the dial actually concealed beneath the strap on the inside of the wrist. You may have seen them advertised. I had been thinking of getting my wife one for Christmas, but I have since had second thoughts. In view of what transpired, she may put two and two together. In any case, she prefers gold to silver.’

  ‘Perhaps the young lady finds it helpful when she is carrying out her devotions,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, feeling some encouragement might be due as Monsieur Leclercq went quiet again. ‘It probably enables her to keep a surreptitious eye on the time.

  ‘I once sat next to a nun,’ he mused. ‘It was on a Greek aircraft flying from Athens to one of the many islands in the Mediterranean, and it was not a happy experience. She began counting her worry beads as soon as the “fasten your seat belt” sign came on and she didn’t stop until the man at the top of the disembarkation steps tapped on the aircraft door to signal it was safe to emerge. I have tried to avoid nuns ever since.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘In my experience, conversation with ladies of the cloth is mostly limited to basic pleasantries. You can hardly say “have you read any good books lately?” since one assumes the Good Book is a necessary part of their daily devotions.

  ‘One thing you can safely count on when travelling Première Classe is that on the whole passengers share a common interest in the food, a subject that hardly seems appropriate to someone living in a nunnery. Although having said that, despite her slender form she did ample justice to everything that came her way.

  ‘I thought at first she was rather standoffish, and I didn’t doubt she felt the same way about me. Having exchanged the usual pleasantries when we boarded … I was occupying 1A as usual, and she was in 1B, I suppose we were each doing our own thing before take-off. She was looking out of the window and as soon as we were given clearance I used my mobile to telephone Chantal and say I was on my way. The Première Classe seats on the Airbus 330 get wider and further and further apart these days …’

  ‘I have seen pictures of them in flight magazines,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘When I have had enough room to turn the pages, that is. If you are seated in the back of the plane and have the misfortune to be sandwiched between two passengers who are what your American friends would call “horizontally challenged”, it is not always easy.’

  Monsieur Leclercq stared at him suspiciously for a moment or two. ‘Is that so, Pamplemousse? I find that hard to picture.

  ‘Shortly afterwards,’ he continued, ‘our glasses of Dom Perignon ’90 were replenished, along with a serving of caviar as an appetiser; a foretaste of things to come. I remember being impressed by the fact that despite all the talk of trade embargoes, it was still Beluga. From its taste, undoubtedly the product of an older sturgeon which, as you know, produces the best quality roe. Perhaps the helping was rather less generous than one has grown accustomed to over the years, but that is by the by …’

  ‘I have noticed the complementary bags of peanuts are getting smaller too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It makes them difficult to open. The less space you have at your disposal the harder it is. If you are not very careful, the bag bursts and they go everywhere.’

  Monsieur Leclercq removed a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

  ‘We all have our problems, Pamplemousse,’ he said shortly. ‘The point I am leading up to is that that was when it happened …’ He paused yet again, as though searching for exactly the right words before continuing.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse hazarded a guess. ‘The plane hit an air pocket and you cut your mouth on the tin of caviar? Or did the plastic spoon go in your eye?’

  It would account for the dark glasses.

  Monsieur Leclercq stared at him. ‘As always,’ he said stiffly, ‘the caviar was served on Limoges china, and that in turn was resting on a bed of ice. The spoons, I may add, were made of horn rather than plastic, as indeed they should be.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you were poisoned, monsieur. These things happen … one can never be sure what goes on in the backstreets of Russia – especially those adjacent to the Urals. Corruption is rife since the Mafia became involved … also the more one hears about pollution of the Caspian Sea … You may have been mistaken for a mid-European diplomat, or presidential material. Remember what happened to that Ukrainian president before he was elected.’

  Monsieur Leclercq stared at him. ‘The caviar was from Petrossian,’ he said simply. ‘Their name is synonymous with the very best, their choice of sturgeon second to none, approved of by connoisseurs the world over. I enquired of the cabin crew. They all swore they ate nothing else. In any case, it had nothing to do with food poisoning. Would it were that simple.’

  Once again, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the Director was unusually ill at ease; the mopping of his brow had become more frequent.

  ‘I’m not quite sure how it came about,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq after a short pause, ‘but my travelling companion appeared to be having trouble arranging the contents of her tray, and whilst trying to render assistance, somehow or other our heads collided. Vodka and caviar went everywhere – mostly over her habit
.

  ‘Unfortunately, the galley was behind us and the cabin staff had drawn the curtains across the aisle so that they could enjoy their own meal in peace. As I recall, following the caviar, whole fresh black Perigord truffles encased in pastry featured on the menu. The smell was already starting to permeate the cabin but alas, it was not to be.

  ‘Not wishing to create a fuss and spoil their meal, my young neighbour covered her confusion admirably.

  ‘We joked about how the good Dom Perignon, he who is credited with inventing champagne in the first place, might have reacted to the debacle.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to suggest the good Dom might have been extremely cross had it been his first and only trial bottle, but the Director was by now in full spate.

  ‘At the same moment as I reached down to retrieve her napkin, which had become detached from her bosom and fallen to the floor, I couldn’t help but notice the top buttons of her habit were undone, revealing what I assumed at the time to be virgin territory. Her mandarines, Aristide, were in full view, each pointe de sein erect and protruding as though, despite the ambient temperature in the cabin, she had just stepped out of a cold shower.’

  ‘It is extraordinary the amount of information one can glean in a split second,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  The Director eyed his subordinate suspiciously. ‘It is all part of our training, Pamplemousse,’ he said stiffly. ‘No doubt when you sit down in a restaurant and your gaze alights on the table, you automatically experience much the same reaction: the arrangement of the cutlery; the juxtaposition of the knives, the forks and the spoons; the angle at which the wineglasses are set; the positioning of the condiments.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking the analogy was stretching his imagination more than somewhat, but he tried to look suitably rebuffed.

  ‘I averted my gaze, of course,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘and as I did so she reached for her carry-on bag; a Louis Vuitton Antigua Cabas Shopper. I know, because my wife, Chantal, wants one, and despite the price there is a long waiting list. At the same moment I caught a waft of perfume, which momentarily threw me off guard …’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ essayed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Your heads collided again.’

  ‘Worse that that,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, gripping the edge of his desk as he relived the memory.

  ‘By sheer chance our lips met and she held her own against mine. I cannot tell you what a heady moment it was as her tongue set out on a voyage of discovery.

  ‘Believe me, Aristide, such explorations take on another dimension at 10,000 metres. It felt as though I was suddenly soaring heavenwards at the speed of light.’

  I bet it did, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, wondering where the conversation was heading.

  ‘She turned out to be a charming girl,’ continued the Director. ‘She told me her name was Maria. Apparently, she was called that because at the time she was conceived her mother was watching a film called The Sound of Music.’

  ‘On a home video, I trust,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and not in a cinema.’

  Monsieur Leclercq chose to ignore the interruption. ‘I assumed from her manner she was a novice, and I wondered if perhaps she had only recently taken the vow, possibly as the result of an unrequited love affair in her native land, and was now in need of some fatherly advice.

  ‘However, she forestalled me by asking if by any chance I belonged to “The Mile High Club”, and if not, would I care to join?

  ‘It appears to be an exclusive organization; membership is restricted to people such as myself who are frequent travellers, coming and going like ships that pass in the night.’

  “Coming and going” struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as a singularly felicitous way of putting it.

  ‘And did you?’ he asked. ‘Join, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, and no,’ said the Director. ‘Possibly it had to do with her calling – the Vatican has a reputation for bureaucracy, but just as I was working out what the equivalent might be in kilometres, she revealed that it was necessary to undergo some kind of initiation ceremony. Apparently, it involved the use of water, much like a christening, so she suggested we repair to the toilet.

  ‘Afterwards, she explained, I would be issued with a card. She happened to have one in an inner pocket of her habit. It had already been signed by the President …’

  ‘Monsieur Sarkozy?’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director testily. ‘A lady also bearing the name Maria. Maria Monk, president of the club. It would simply require my signature, plus my companion’s counter approval once the ceremony was over. My understanding was that membership entitled one to certain benefits at a chain of Parisian health clubs run by a graduate of the Corporeal Relaxation and Physical Stress Relief Department of the University of Bangkok.

  ‘By then her outer garment required urgent attention – mopping up operations with the vodka and caviar was indicated, and since the cabin staff were still otherwise engaged, she suggested there was no time like the present and we could perhaps kill two birds with one stone by repairing to the toilet.

  ‘She suggested I count up to ten and then follow on behind.’

  ‘And?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself on the edge of his seat. Even Pommes Frites was pricking up his ears.

  ‘As things turned out,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I wish I had made it soixante. Things might have taken a different course had I given the cabin staff time to intervene.

  ‘Once I was inside the toilet, she locked the door in order that we might remain undisturbed. I, of course, averted my gaze while she set about removing her outer garment, which I must admit did seem to be somewhat brief in view of the inclement weather we have been experiencing of late.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘the Vatican are also in the throes of an economy drive.’ But he was wasting his breath.

  ‘By chance,’ continued the Director, ‘I happened to catch sight of her reflection in a nearby mirror. Our eyes met and, turning her back, she edged towards me …

  ‘I didn’t know that nun’s habits have a zip fastener that runs the entire length from top to bottom, did you, Aristide?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he had never had occasion to investigate the matter.

  ‘Well, hers did,’ said the Director. ‘And I tell you something else. When, at her invitation, I gave the catch a tug, it was like pulling the ripcord on a parachute. The garment billowed open, and as it floated to the ground she turned to face me, revealing yet another facet of her calling.

  ‘Before that moment I could hardly have claimed familiarity with a nun’s more intimate garments. Had I been asked for my views on the subject, I would have hazarded a guess at something sensible in calico with a double gusset, but a quick glance proved me wrong.

  ‘I was appalled, Aristide; absolutely appalled. I had no idea they led quite such Spartan lives. The poor girl was singularly ill equipped for the rigours of winter. Apart from a token piece of gauzelike material, culottes were conspicuous by their absence. In short, to all intents and purposes she was as naked as the day she was born! I hardly knew where to rest my eyes.

  ‘The only thing I couldn’t help noticing was that she had a canal boat tattooed on her right amortisseur.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. It was a long time since he had heard the word. He wondered where Monsieur Leclercq had been all these years.

  ‘Perhaps it was a stick-on,’ he suggested. ‘The tattoo, not the nibard.’

  The Director stared at him. ‘What will they think of next?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘By then the poor girl was distraught. I comforted her as best I could, but she kept emitting moaning noises as though in the throes of some ghastly visitation. I even lent her my handkerchief. That was a mistake, of course. When I eventually retrieved it, there was lipstick everywhere.

  ‘I offered to lend her my jacket, but that only seemed to make matters w
orse.

  She gave me another kiss and said she had never met anyone quite like me before.

  ‘This time, when our lips met it had quite the opposite effect to the first occasion. It felt as though we were plunging earthwards.

  ‘Can you guess why, Pamplemousse?’

  ‘You had slipped on some soap, monsieur?’

  ‘Nothing that simple,’ said the Director.

  ‘By then we were both on the floor. She was lying on top me and as I tried to disentangle myself, it happened again.

  ‘I became dimly aware of the Captain issuing an urgent warning over the loudspeaker system to the effect that the plane had entered an area of high turbulence. He was advising everyone to return to their seats.’

  ‘Saved by the bell, monsieur.’

  ‘No, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘As things turned out, quite the opposite. In truth, I would have liked nothing better than to obey his instructions.

  ‘Almost immediately, someone began knocking on the door, calling out to the girl, asking her if she was all right.

  ‘I have to say, Pamplemousse, comparisons are odious, but for all their relative size and luxury, the toilets in Première Classe are as devoid of anywhere to hide as I imagine they must be in at the rear of the plane.’

  ‘I would think even more so,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, trying to picture the scene. ‘I have often noticed that those who have the misfortune to be “girth stricken” have to back out the same way as they went in.’

  ‘A moment later,’ continued the Director, ‘the door flew open and I saw the Chief Steward gazing down at us. I had no idea until then that they have a special key for emergencies. I could tell by the look on his face that he had jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.

  ‘As he helped me to my feet I protested my innocence. Taking a leaf out of your book, Pamplemousse, I sought refuge in that age-old ploy you once apprised me of. I explained that my daughter was backpacking around the world, and I intimated that if any suggestions to the contrary were made I would refer the whole matter to my lawyers. I then lent Maria my mobile and suggested she telephone her mama, telling her there was nothing to worry about and that she was on her way home.