by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a non-committal response, wondering what could possibly be coming next and fearing the worst.
‘Cast your mind back,’ continued the Director, ‘and you may also recall the very first question on the list.’
‘As a member of France’s premier food guide, what are the three things uppermost in your mind at all times?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
In spite of himself, the Director looked impressed. ‘That is correct, Pamplemousse. Which makes your answer, “Sex, money, and still more sex,” singularly disappointing, even by present day standards.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But …’ half rising from his chair, he held out a free hand, ‘may I see that form, Monsieur?’
The Director smoothed the piece of paper carefully on a blotting pad before handing it over. ‘I must confess, I was so incensed by your answer I screwed it into a ball and threw it into the waste bin. Unfortunately, my hand was trembling so I missed the target and it landed in a vase of flowers. The cleaning lady retrieved it for me later that day and left it on my desk to dry.’
‘Where would we be without the cleaning ladies of this world?’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, sinking back into his chair. ‘Hortense is a treasure and no mistake.’
‘Is that her name?’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Speaking from experience,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, savouring a minor victory, ‘I venture to suggest the answer which so upset you probably reflects the view of the vast majority of the French population, the younger ones in particular. It is a characteristic of our nation that its citizens take the business of living and all its many and varied ramifications seriously.’
Holding the paper up to the light, he studied it carefully. ‘Having said that, I must inform Monsieur that this is not my handwriting …’
‘Not your handwriting, Pamplemousse?’ boomed the Director. ‘If it is not your handwriting, then how did it come to grace a form which has your name at the top?’
‘That,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly, ‘is a question I shall address as soon as possible.’
A joke was a joke, but there were limits. He strongly suspected Glandier. The schoolboy in him was never far away. Blessed with a distorted sense of humour, his colleague’s prowess as a performer of conjuring tricks at staff parties all too often extended itself to other forms of trickery when he was at a loose end.
‘I accept what you say, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘albeit with a certain amount of reluctance.’
‘It is an area where there are those who say I am accident prone,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Prone you may be while it is happening, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq sternly, ‘but more often than not I fear it is no accident.
‘That is why I fell victim to a jest that was in very poor taste. I am relieved to hear my faith in you is not entirely misplaced. The correct answer, as I am sure you will agree, is first and foremost the well-being of Le Guide, closely followed by carbon footprints and global warming.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. He wondered how many of his colleagues lived up to such high ideals. As ever, the Director was out of touch with reality. Speaking personally, pleased though he was to know Monsieur Leclercq’s faith in him had been restored, he could barely lay claim to always observing the first item on the list, let alone the other two.
‘The phrase “carbon footprint” does seem to be on everybody’s lips these days,’ he said, non-committally. ‘Next year it will doubtless be something else. These things tend to have a limited shelf life. The journals seize on whatever is currently in vogue and work it to death.’
‘All creatures, no matter what their size, leave a carbon footprint,’ said Monsieur Leclercq reprovingly. ‘Whether by accident or design, it is a God-given fact of life and it is something that will not change. One must never forget that, Aristide.
‘Centipedes, ants, earwigs, even the humble escargot … they all have their place in the scheme of things. They arrive on this earth hard-wired from the word go.’
Picking up on the phrase ‘hard-wired’, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. The words had a definite transatlantic ring to them. It suggested Monsieur Leclercq had just returned from one of his periodic trips to the United States. They often boded ill.
‘I grant you,’ continued the Director, ‘that given its overall dimensions in terms of height, length and width, an escargot’s carbon footprint alongside that of, say, an elephant, is hard to evaluate.’
Pausing to sweep the pile of papers to one side, he leant back in his chair.
‘However, it brings me to another matter currently exercising my mind, and which happens to be one of the reasons why I summoned you here today.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear. Le Guide’s logo – two escargots rampant – was a constantly recurring concern of the Director and there was little more he could contribute to the subject. Leaving aside the use of the words ‘hard-wired’, the phrase ‘one of the reasons’ was also unsettling. It sounded as though there might be a whole catalogue of them.
Monsieur Leclercq picked up a silver paperweight cast in the shape of the subject under discussion.
‘Apart from the fact that, strictly speaking, our logo is no longer politically correct, in many respects it no longer reflects the kind of dynamic image we need to project in this day and age, when the emphasis everywhere is on speed. This is particularly true when it comes to our readers on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. In my experience, they are mostly blind to the humble helix pomotia’s virtues as a delicacy. Following considerable research, I have yet to see escargots feature on any American menu.
‘However, that is by the by. The inescapable truth is that sales of Le Guide in the United States of America have plummeted over the past year.’
To prove his point he held up a graph showing a long red line which not only dipped alarmingly as it neared the right-hand edge of the paper, but disappeared entirely before reaching it.
‘We are not alone, of course. Michelin have had their problems too, although they are fighting back. As you know, their logo has recently been updated. Monsieur Bibendum has shed a roll of fat and is looking all the better for it. He is now a leaner, fitter image of his former roly-poly self; and in so doing he has become an example to us all.’
‘That kind of thing can backfire,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘My understanding is that many people in America set great store by rolls of fat. They call them “love handles”.’
‘Is that so, Pamplemousse?’ said the Director distastefully. ‘I am happy to take your word for it.
‘Be that as it may, our chief rival in the United States is a publication called Zagat, a guide that relies for its information on reports sent in by readers, who offer up their experiences when dining out. Given that more often than not they dwell on the size and quantity of fried potatoes, it is little wonder many of them have a weight problem.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his pulse begin to quicken. Could it be that the Director was dangling a promotional carrot before his eyes? Head of the longmooted American office, perhaps?
There would be snags, of course, but it was an exciting prospect. Pommes Frites would probably need to have a chip listing all his relevant details implanted somewhere or other on his person before being allowed into the country … that could be why the Director was choosing his words with care. He would know, of course, that Monsieur Pamplemousse would never contemplate going to America without him. It must also be the reason why he had been invited along to the meeting.
That apart, he wasn’t at all sure how his wife would take the news. Knowing Doucette, she would be worried about what to wear for a start.
He tried dipping his toes into the water. ‘For some while now Pommes Frites and I have been metaphorically girding our respective loins ready for our next assignment …’ he began, hastily cutting short what h
e had been about to say as he realised the Director was still dwelling on the subject of snails.
‘I fear the worst, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Storm clouds are already gathering on the horizon for the gastropods of this world.’
‘They come ready equipped to withstand any amount of sudden downpours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It is not that aspect of it which bothers me,’ said the Director. ‘It is our image.’
‘In that case,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘could we not generate a little more publicity? A spectacular win in the field of international sport, perhaps? In Grande-Bretagne they hold an annual World Championship Race for snails. Last year’s winner completed the 33cm course in 2 minutes 49 seconds and won a tankard full of lettuce leaves.’
‘Hardly headline news, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dubiously. ‘In the field of sport it hardly ranks alongside the furore that accompanied the first 4-minute mile.
‘Besides, a lot can happen to an escargot even in that short distance. A passing blackbird could swoop down and make off with it long before it crossed the finishing line, and then where would we be?
‘All that apart, my understanding is that supplies are dwindling. Many now come from as far away as Bulgaria. The climate changes we have been experiencing of late do nothing to help matters. The winters last much longer and they are growing colder. Escargots take anything up to six hours to copulate and even then it is very much a hit and miss affair.’
‘I suppose,’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘for an escargot, life is a matter of swings and roundabouts. Could we not use science to help them along? A little Viagra sprinkled on their lettuce leaves, perhaps?’
‘I think not.’ The Director gave a shudder. ‘Who knows what might be unleashed?’
‘In that case, perhaps it is time we changed our logo?’
‘Change our logo?’ boomed the Director. ‘That is out of the question. Our Founder set great store by it. He would turn in his grave.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to glance at the portrait of Le Guide’s Founder on the wall above the drinks cupboard to his left. Depending on the light, Monsieur Hippolyte Duval had an uncanny way of reflecting the prevailing atmosphere, but for once it offered no clues. Bathed in sunshine streaming through the vast picture window behind the Director, he looked extremely non-committal, almost as though he had washed his hands of whatever it was that was exercising Monsieur Leclercq’s mind.
A passing cloud momentarily threw a shadow across the Founder’s face, causing Monsieur Pamplemousse to decide ‘fed up to the back teeth’ might be a better description. Or, could it be that he was issuing some kind of a warning? It was hard to say. All the same, he couldn’t help but agree with the Director. They must tread carefully.
‘At all costs we must avoid doing anything untoward,’ he said out loud. ‘It would be a breach of faith.’
‘Exactement,’ said the Director, completely oblivious to the other’s thoughts. ‘However, we do have a fundamental problem in that escargots are, by their very nature, slow-moving creatures. From birth they are hardly equipped to exceed the speed limit wherever they happen to be going. They lack the get up and go spirit one associates with our friends on the other side of the Atlantic. Overtaking another escargot is not something that would ever occur to them. Pile-ups would be rife.’
‘Could you not add wheels to the ones on our logo?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Or perhaps even mount them on a motorised scooter? The suggestion of exhaust fumes and the wearing of goggles along with bending over the handlebars would create an illusion of speed. Either that, or you could have them make use of one of those exercise machines with an endless belt. I believe they are very popular in American homes, and such an image could help no end with their carbon footprints.’
‘This is no joking matter, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq severely. ‘However, I do congratulate you for putting your finger on exactly the right spot as always. Mention of exercise machines happens to be particularly apposite at this juncture. I have already been toying with the idea of converting the bar area in the canteen into a gymnasium.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back in his chair. It was all much worse than he had pictured. Such an idea would go down like a lead balloon. Strike action would be the order of the day once word got around.
‘As you are well aware, Pamplemousse,’ continued the Director, ‘this is not the first time I have had to draw your attention to the fact that your own carbon footprint leaves much to be desired. As for Pommes Frites … his paws appear to have reached danger level. I hate to think how many units of wine he consumes on his travels.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. How could he?
‘With respect, Monsieur,’ he said, taking up the cudgels on behalf of his friend and mentor, and with dreams of a temporary posting to America fading fast, ‘dogs do not recognise units. I doubt if Pommes Frites knows the meaning of the word. As for the size of his paws; may I remind you that they are attached to his legs and he has four of those in all. That being so, and notwithstanding the size of the whole, I venture to suggest his carbon footprint must compare favourably with the average escargot. It is like the old Citroën Light Fifteen. That, too, had a wheel at each corner and was much prized by the Paris Police for its weight distribution—’
‘Legs … paws …’ broke in Monsieur Leclercq, ‘they are both problem areas and neither of you are alone in that respect.
‘It is another area that is of concern to the accountants. The group insurance rate for our inspectors is the highest for the whole organisation. Only the other day, Madame Grante reminded me of the fact that according to the Association of Insurance Actuaries, the life expectancy of an average food inspector is less than that of a garbage collector in Outer Mongolia … her memo made depressing reading.’
‘Most of Madame Grante’s memos make depressing reading,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, it is all very well for her. She hardly eats more than a mouse on a diet; her own carbon footprint doesn’t bear thinking about. It must be the size of a flea’s.
‘As for those of us out on the road, sampling dishes across the length and breadth of France, I grant you weight is an occupational hazard. Two meals a day, week in and week out, may sound like a dream occupation to most people, but it can be quite the reverse. I count myself fortunate in having Pommes Frites always at my side, in a state of constant readiness to help out when required.
‘Furthermore, if I may say so, the Association of Insurance Actuaries fails to take account of the fact that the “Silent Forks” column of our staff magazine, commemorating those who have passed away, has, over the years, been entirely made up of staff who were desk-bound. Since I joined the company no inspector has yet shed his mortal coil during the course of duty.’
It was a long and spirited speech, and even Pommes Frites looked up admiringly at his master when he finally came to an end.
‘Yet is the key word, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq mildly.
‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘in order to ensure I am not the first, I should, for the second time in my life, take early retirement.’
Clearly, he had struck a nerve. The Director went pale at the thought.
‘You mustn’t even consider it, Aristide,’ he said. ‘Certainly not at this present juncture. I would hate anything to happen to you, and I am only speaking for your own good. Which is why …’ he began playing nervously with the logo, ‘which is the main reason why I have called you in at this early hour.’
The fact that from time to time Monsieur Leclercq had been using his given name hadn’t escaped Monsieur Pamplemousse’s notice. It was an old ploy. Get rid of various irksome matters first, undermine the opposition’s confidence with threats of possible reprisals over minor matters, leaving them wondering what would happen next. Then, and only then, soften your approach. The Director was a dab hand at it. Not for nothing
was he a product of a French grande école.
If past form was anything to go by, the true reason for their being summoned was about to be revealed.
‘What is the best thing that ever happened to you, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq, settling back in his chair once again.
Momentarily thrown, and sensing he might unwittingly be trapped into doing something he didn’t want to do, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave careful consideration to his response.
‘Leaving aside the obvious things, like meeting my dear wife, I would say the moment when I retired from the Sûreté and they gave me Pommes Frites as a leaving present.’
‘And the worst?’
‘The day in the South of France when he disappeared into the Nice sewerage system and I thought he was lost for ever. If you remember, Monsieur, Doucette and I were taking a holiday in Juan-les-Pins. We had been planning to spend it in Le Touquet, but you very kindly suggested the change in return for picking up a painting in Nice on behalf of Madame Leclercq.
‘It got off to a bad start when we had to witness a performance of West Side Story, given by the mixed infants at a nearby Russian School. Then, you may recall, that very same night a dismembered body was washed up outside our hotel, and from then on it was downhill all the way.’
Monsieur Leclercq gave a shudder. ‘Please don’t remind me, Pamplemousse,’ he said. ‘There are some things I would much sooner forget.’
‘When Pommes Frites finally emerged,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘he wasn’t exactly smelling of roses.’
‘May I ask what is the second thing which springs to mind, Aristide?’ asked Monsieur Leclercq casually.
Sensing the other’s disappointment and putting two and two together, Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a stab in the dark. ‘Undoubtedly the day when, quite by chance, we bumped into each other in the street,’ he said. ‘That, too, came about through Pommes Frites. We were taking a walk together.’
Monsieur Leclercq looked relieved. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years, Aristide,’ he said simply. ‘It was a happy chance that led us to meet as we did.’