by Michael Bond
Clearly there were undercurrents at work in the Director’s household. Undreamed of depths yet to be plumbed.
Suddenly, he came back to earth with a bump, aware of a silence. A question had been posed; an answer was awaited.
‘We have only a small flat, Monsieur,’ he began, ‘and Madame Pamplemousse is not, I fear, the most understanding of persons when it comes to such matters. Besides, there is Pommes Frites to be considered. He is somewhat set in his ways. I doubt if he will take kindly to moving out of the spare room …’
He tried to picture Doucette sharing her kitchen with Elsie, but try as he might he couldn’t bring it into any kind of focus.
‘Pamplemousse,’ the Director had assumed his slow, ponderous voice; the one he reserved for children and idiots. ‘I am not asking you to share your flat with anyone. That is not at all what I have in mind. Besides, I doubt if anything short of an earthquake will move Tante Louise.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt a certain dizziness. He wondered if he had heard aright. Perhaps the Armagnac was a mistake; he should have said ‘when’ earlier.
‘You doubt if anything short of an earthquake will move Tante Louise, Monsieur?’ he repeated, playing for time.
‘Does the name St. Georges-sur-Lie mean anything to you, Pamplemousse?’
‘St. Georges-sur-Lie? Is it not somewhere in the Loire region? Not far from Saumur?’
Why did the words ring a faint but persistent bell in the back of his mind? He had a feeling he’d heard the name mentioned only recently. Someone in the office had been talking about it.
He closed his eyes, glad to be on safe ground again. The Loire, cradle of French literature and cuisine. The Loire, where they spoke the purest French. He had come to know it relatively late in life. In his younger days he had avoided the area because of the picture it conjured up; all those coachloads of tourists with their cameras. The loss had been his.
‘I see asperges pickers at work in the fields; champignons grown in caves that were hollowed out in the cliffs along the river bank in the days when the great Châteaux were being built; I see walnuts and honey, pâté from Chartres, rillettes and rillons made from pigs raised in Angers …’
Getting into his stride now that he was on his own territory, confident that his recollections couldn’t fail to be a plus when it came to increment time, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave full rein to his imagination. ‘I see freshwater fish too; perch and barbel, poached and served with beurre blanc; matelotes made with eel caught in the Loire itself; I see tarte tatin and pastry shells made of pâte sucrée – a layer of pastry cream flavoured with liqueur, then filled with apricots or peaches, ripe and freshly picked, the colour of a maiden’s blush, still warm with the sun’s rays and decorated with almonds …’
He paused for a moment as the memory of an almond-filled tart he’d bought one Sunday morning after Mass in Pitheriens came flooding back.
‘There is a small restaurant in Azay-le-Rideau where they serve a most delicious Gigot de Poulette au pot au feu. It goes well with the Bourgueil of the region. Michelin have given them a star; perhaps it deserves another visit. A reappraisal. I would be happy …’
‘Forget all that, Pamplemousse.’ The Director’s unfeeling voice cut across his musings like a hot knife through butter. ‘Close your eyes again and consider instead a small hotel in St. Georges-sur-Lie. A hotel where they serve pastry so hard it would tax the ingenuity of a woodpecker. Bœuf so overdone it would bring a gleam to the eye of a cobbler awaiting delivery of his next consignment of leather, and Îles flottantes so heavy they make a mockery of the very name as they sink to the bottom of the dish.’
The Director’s words had the desired effect. He remembered now where he had heard the name. One of his colleagues – Duval from Lyons – had been reminiscing and had described how he’d broken a tooth while staying there. It had given rise to much mirth at the time. Madame Grante in Accounts had had to retire to the Dames.
‘Does it have a mention in Michelin?’
‘Nothing. Not even a red rocking chair, although God knows you couldn’t find a quieter spot.’
‘Gault Millau?’
‘They gave it a black toque two years ago and then promptly dropped it. It hasn’t appeared since.’
‘And no others?’
‘There was a brief mention in a guide published by one of the English motoring organisations. I believe they awarded it five stars. But even they seem to have had second thoughts.
‘Strictly speaking it should be Bernard’s territory this year, but as you know he is not available for the time being.’
‘How is Bernard, Monsieur? It was a bit of a shock.’
‘Still waters, Pamplemousse. Still waters.’ The Director reached for the cognac. ‘He is tending his roses in Mortagne-au-Perche awaiting trial. He denies everything, of course, but I understand his wife has left him. It is all most unfortunate. Rather like your affair with those chorus girls, only not on such a grand scale. I am having to pull strings.’ He seemed anxious to change the subject.
Monsieur Pamplemousse stirred uneasily in his chair. He always felt worried when the Director brought up the matter of his early retirement from the Sûreté. It was usually a prelude to some kind of demand; a reminder that but for Le Guide he, too, might be tending his roses.
‘Perhaps, Monsieur,’ he began, ‘a visit from your good self would put an end to speculation …’
The Director gave a shudder. For some reason the words seemed to have struck home.
‘That, Pamplemousse, is the very last thing that must happen.’
‘Forgive me, Monsieur, but given all the facts as you have related them to me, I cannot see why …’
The Director put a finger to his lips. ‘Walls, Pamplemousse, walls!’ Crossing swiftly to the door he opened it and peered outside to make sure no one was listening, then turned back into the room. In the time it took him to complete the operation he seemed to have aged considerably, like a man possessed of a great weight on his shoulders.
‘The Hôtel du Paradis in St. Georges-sur-Lie,’ he said gloomily, ‘is owned by my wife’s aunt Louise.
‘It is a problem beside which the one with Elsie is but a pin prick, a mere drop in the ocean, a passing cloud in the weather map of life.
‘As a child I remember some terrible experiences at the hands of her mother with whom I used to go and stay – she was a family friend. She smoked a great deal, which was unusual for a lady in those days, and she had a habit of bathing me with a cigarette in her mouth. The ash used to fall all over me.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture the Director sitting in his bath covered in ash and failed miserably.
‘Now her daughter, Louise, has inherited the hotel and wishes it to be included in the pages of Le Guide. I have told her, the Guide does not work that way, but she refuses to understand.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter for a moment or two. ‘If that is the only problem,’ he said slowly, ‘would it not be possible to stretch a point for once? You say that in the past views have been divided. Clearly, there is room for manoeuvre …’
‘Never!’ The word came like a pistol shot.
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his increment in jeopardy as the Director fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘Le Guide is like the rock of Gibraltar; immovable, incorruptible. It has always been so and while I am in charge that is how it will remain.’
‘I am sorry, Monsieur. I was only trying to be of help.’
‘I understand, Aristide. It is good of you. I apologise.’ The Director put a hand to his brow. ‘But you must understand, Le Guide is my life. Suppose we “stretch a point” as you suggest and the connection is discovered. Think what a field day the press would have. The reputation so painstakingly built up over the years and nurtured and cared for, would be gone for ever. The climb upwards can be long and arduous, the fall a matter of seconds.’
‘But with respect, Monsieur. She is, after all, your wi
fe’s aunt.’
‘When things go wrong, Aristide, she is my aunt. I cannot afford to take the risk. Remember, too, if Le Guide falls, we will fall.’ If the Director had substituted the word ‘we’ for ‘France’ the effect could hardly have been more dramatic.
Monsieur Pamplemousse fell silent and allowed his gaze to drift out of the window. He was just in time to see his right shoe go past. Or rather, to be strictly accurate, he saw Pommes Frites go past carrying it in his mouth. Merde! He bounded to the window and to his horror watched both disappear into the shrubbery at the side of the long driveway. Pommes Frites not only looked as if he was enjoying himself, he wore the confident air of a dog about to bury his favourite bone in a place where no one else would ever find it.
The Director glared at him impatiently as he hobbled back to his seat. ‘What is the matter with you this evening, Pamplemousse? Are you having trouble with your foot? You seem to be walking in a very strange way all of a sudden.’
‘It is nothing, Monsieur. An old war wound.’ It wasn’t a total untruth. He had once injured his foot doing rifle drill, bringing the butt down with considerable force on his big toe instead of on the parade ground. It still ached from time to time during inclement weather.
The Director looked suitably chastened. He cleared his throat in lieu of an apology.
‘I was about to say, Aristide, it isn’t simply a question of Le Guide. That in itself would be bad enough, but there is my position in local government to be considered. It is only a minor appointment, but the office carries with it certain advantages. Next year I may be Mayor. One whiff of scandal, and poof! You understand?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse understood all too well. A man in Monsieur le Directeur’s position thrived on power. In the end it became a raison d’être.
‘I am being assailed on all sides, Pamplemousse. Here at home. In the office. The only real peace I have is when I journey between the two and even then the car telephone is always ringing. Yield to Tante Louise and my way of life is in jeopardy. Refuse and it will be made a misery. Either way the outlook is dark.
‘Elsie is one problem, but in the end it will go away; Tante Louise is another matter entirely. When you meet her you will find that in most respects she is a lovely lady; thoughtful and gentle, kind to animals … but take my word for it, Pamplemousse, when the female of the species looks you straight in the eye and says “I am only a poor helpless woman, all on my own with no one to turn to for advice and I don’t understand these things,” watch out!’
‘When I meet her, Monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his heart sink. He sensed trouble ahead.
The Director drained his glass. ‘Pamplemousse, I want you to leave for St. Georges-sur-Lie tomorrow morning. I want you to go there, reconnoitre, make notes and afterwards translate those notes into action. Either the Hôtel du Paradis must be raised above its present abysmal level so that it can be considered for future inclusion in Le Guide – and there your expertise will be invaluable – or Tante Louise must be brought to her senses, in which case you will need to draw on your well-known powers of persuasion.
‘Take as much time as you like; two weeks … three … but remember from this moment on you will be on your own. There must be no communication with Headquarters. While you are away your flag will be removed from the map in the Operations Room. You will be visiting a sick aunt in the country; a white lie, but in the circumstances a justifiable one. Tante Louise is undoubtedly sick – no one could be such a diabolical cook and remain in good health. Also, you will be in the country.
‘We will meet again on the occasion of your annual interview. I trust you will be the bearer of good news.
‘Remember, Pamplemousse, the three A’s; Action, Accord and Anonymat. No one outside these four walls must know what is happening.’
Having delivered himself of an address which would have brought a glint of approval to the eyes of General de Gaulle himself had he been alive to hear it, the Director hesitated for a moment as if about to enlarge on the subject. Then, hearing the sound of voices approaching in the corridor outside, he hastily changed his mind.
‘Remember Bernard,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Remember Bernard, and don’t let it happen to you. We cannot afford to lose two good men in one year.’
‘Two?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘I really do not see …’
The Director put a finger to his lips. ‘Anonymat, Pamplemousse,’ he hissed as the footsteps stopped outside the door. ‘Above all, anonymat.’
2
A FRUITFUL JOURNEY
The journey home was not the happiest in living memory. Whereas a larger, faster car might have coped, the deux chevaux was not at its best. The brief given by Monsieur Boulanger to his team of designers when they set about building the first Citroën 2CV was to produce a vehicle for all seasons and all occasions; status and speed were to have low priority. More important was the ability to carry a farmer and his basket of eggs across a ploughed field on a Saturday, allowing him to arrive at market with his wares uncracked, yet have sufficient room to enable him to don his hat and best suit the day after in order to transport his entire family to church. Above all, it had to be cheap and reliable; cheap to buy, cheap to run, and requiring the minimum of attention.
Doubtless all the possible permutations such a wide brief encompassed kept Monsieur Boulanger’s minions awake for many a night as they added an inch or two here, or mentally removed a superfluous nut and bolt there in a search for a solution which in the end turned out to be both eccentric and ageless.
What none of them probably included in their calculations, bearing in mind that the computer had yet to be invented and in those days one had to draw the line somewhere, was the possibility of their brainchild being driven by a man wearing only one shoe and with the back seat occupied, not by a basket of eggs, but by a large bloodhound. A bloodhound moreover, who wasn’t in the best of moods and who steadfastly refused to co-operate by leaning with the bends, as would most normal passengers, but on the contrary made driving as difficult as possible by putting all his weight very firmly in the opposite direction whenever they tried to negotiate a corner.
Had Monsieur Boulanger envisaged such a possibility he might have extended his original brief, instructing his designers to add a non-slip pad to the accelerator pedal and to modify the otherwise admirable suspension, perhaps even adding a reinforced hand-strap for the benefit of those passengers who, like Madame Pamplemousse, were of a nervous disposition.
As it was the occupants sat, or rolled about, in complete and utter silence, each busy with their own thoughts. Madame Pamplemousse, her eyes tightly closed, was in a world of her own. Monsieur Pamplemousse, in the few moments when he was able to relax, kept going over the evening’s conversation, trying to recall if he had at any time acceded to the Director’s request.
The Director had clearly assumed his answer would be in the affirmative – it had been a command rather than a request – but he couldn’t remember a point where he’d actually agreed. Certainly the word ‘oui’ had never passed his lips.
One way and another it had been a strange evening, what with Elsie and then the business with the Director’s wife. It needed thinking about.
Pommes Frites’ silence was due to the fact that he was in a bit of a huff; a huff which wasn’t improved by having to travel in the back of the car. He much preferred sitting in the front alongside his master, even if it did mean wearing a seat belt. At least in the front you could see where you were going rather than where you had been, and you weren’t subjected to other indignities.
He stared gloomily out of the rear window at the following traffic, treating the waving and flashing of lights from other late-night revellers with the contempt they deserved. There were times when the behaviour of human beings was totally beyond his comprehension. The same people who would pass him by on the street without so much as a second glance went berserk if they happened to
catch sight of him looking out of the back window of Monsieur Pamplemousse’s car, pointing at him and nudging each other as if they had never seen a dog before.
As they joined the Périphérique at Porte de St. Cloud and entered the tunnel under the Bois de Boulogne, Monsieur Pamplemousse came to a decision. He would make an appointment with the Director first thing in the morning and reject the whole idea. It might not go down too well; his annual increment would be put in jeopardy and the kitchen needed redecorating, but that was too bad. He could hear little warning bells in the back of his mind, bells which all his past experience told him one ignored at one’s peril.
The matter decided, the road ahead wide and clear, he settled back in a more relaxed mood.
‘You are being very quiet tonight, Doucette,’ he ventured, glancing across at his wife. ‘Is anything the matter?’
Madame Pamplemousse opened her eyes for a moment and then allowed her hand to rest on his. ‘I was thinking. Do you still find me attractive, Aristide?’
Taken aback by this unexpected remark, Monsieur Pamplemousse played for time. ‘Of course I do, chérie. What a strange question. Why do you ask?’
He received a shy look in return. ‘It’s just that … if you do, I suppose others must too. Earlier this evening I felt someone playing with my foot. It must have been the Director because at the time you were leaning across to pass the wine. I was quite taken aback. I didn’t know which way to look.’
Narrowly missing a lorry-load of vegetables on its way to Rungis, Monsieur Pamplemousse changed lanes and negotiated the exit at Porte Dauphine with a sense of outrage. To think, all the time he’d been listening to the Director’s ramblings, treating his words like pearls of wisdom, giving them his undivided attention, he was being cuckolded under the table! It only served to confirm his decision. He would definitely not be going to St. Georges-sur-Lie. For two pins he would telephone him that very night and tell him so.