by Michael Bond
‘Merde!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts raced ahead as the doctor’s voice droned on. Clearly Pommes Frites had had an attack of the Bernards. A bad one by the sound of it. But why? To the best of his knowledge they had eaten precisely the same thing. Perhaps it was a question of quantity? On reflection, out of purely selfish motives he had been more than generous with the tourte au lapin. But that would have been more likely to bring on an attack of indigestion rather than the other. Perhaps it was a matter of certain ingredients affecting only certain metabolisms. What was sauce for the goose was an aphrodisiac to the gander. He resolved to have a quiet word with the vétérinaire to see if he could recall any similar happenings in the past. In view of the amount of custom Pommes Frites must have generated for him he could hardly refuse to give an opinion.
‘I will go and put the potatoes in the oven.’ Madame Louise turned to leave.
‘Thank you. And please …’ He suddenly felt embarrassed at criticising everything she did, but there were certain things that needed to be said. ‘Would it be possible to have some proper bread with it?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘I will send out for some.’
‘Don’t worry. I will go.’ He sensed a sudden constraint and realised that for some reason he was treading on dangerous ground. In any case it gave him an excuse to visit the boulangerie. One way and another it was getting high on his agenda.
As he said goodbye to the doctor and stepped outside the hotel a woman with a red setter on a lead waved at him from the other side of the square. Monsieur Pamplemousse quickened his pace. The dog appeared unwilling to go anywhere near the hotel and the woman had to drag it along the pavement, so that he reached the boulangerie before her. For a moment or two he thought she was going to follow him inside.
‘Une ficelle, s’il vous plaît.’ A baguette would really be too painful a reminder.
While the girl was reaching up for his bread he cast an eye over the window display, hovering between a tarte aux pommes and a tarte aux fraises. Through the glass he could see a small crowd beginning to collect outside. Word must have travelled fast. He ordered two tartes aux pommes.
‘Is Monsieur in?’
‘Non, Monsieur.’ The girl wrapped the tartes quickly but expertly into a pyramid-shaped parcel, as if they were a Christmas present. ‘He has finished his second baking. Besides, today is Wednesday.’
It was said without offence but the inference that he should have known these things was unmistakable.
Thanking her, Monsieur Pamplemousse paid for his purchases, collected the change, then took a deep breath as he turned towards the door and braced himself for the onslaught to come.
‘Assassin!’
‘J’accuse!’
‘Poofs’ and cries and counter-cries greeted his exit from the shop.
‘Treize! Treize chiennes in one night.’ A man with a golden labrador pushed his way to the front. ‘It is répugnant. He is a menace to society. He should be coupé.’
‘And his owner with him!’ shrieked a woman who looked as if she couldn’t wait to carry out her threat personally.
Monsieur Pamplemousse drew back and held up his hand. ‘I protest!’ he exclaimed. ‘What right have you to say such things? It could well be a case of mistaken identity. How dare you make accusations based on évidence circonstancielle.’ Privately the thought crossed his mind that thirteen was an unlucky number. Perhaps Pommes Frites had run out of targets.
‘Évidence circonstancielle! Évidence circonstancielle!’ The man looked for a moment as if he was about to have a fit.
‘In the dark,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly, ‘one dog is very like another.’
‘In the dark, Monsieur, oui!’ The man reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a photograph which he held up and waved triumphantly for all to see. ‘But by flashlight, non! There is nothing circonstancielle about that one’s membre. Substantiel would be the word, and for the use to which he is putting it!’
A murmur of approval went round the group.
‘May I see that?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reached out and took the picture from the man. As he looked at it his heart sank. The clarity of the polaroid image was such that it would have brought tears of joy to the eyes of its inventor, Doctor Land. On the reverse side of the coin it would have caused even the most skilled of defence lawyers to furrow his brow in dismay had he been unfortunate enough to undertake the case of Pommes Frites versus The Rest.
The legs which supported him to such good purpose in the picture would not have kept him upright for more than a second in a court of law. Even a plea of diminished responsibility would have been thrown out on an instant. It was very clear that Pommes Frites knew exactly where he stood with his responsibilities and what he was doing with them. Had he been one for singing, he would undoubtedly have been giving voice to the words of the Hallelujah Chorus.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was suddenly and irresistibly reminded of a remark he’d once heard attributed to that famous English man of the theatre, Noel Coward. It had been made when he’d encountered a similar situation while taking a small godson out for a walk in the country.
‘The one below has lost his sight,’ he’d explained, in one of his flashes of instant wit. ‘And the one on top is pushing him all the way to a home for the blind.’
‘It is no laughing matter, Monsieur.’ The man snatched his photograph back.
‘On the contrary,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘In my opinion most things are a laughing matter when looked at in a certain light. The gift of laughter is what raises man above the beasts in the fields. When did you last see a cow laugh? Or a sheep?
‘As for Pommes Frites,’ he assumed his most conciliatory manner, ‘you are absolutely right. He must not be allowed to go unpunished. Were he able to write I would insist on letters of apology all round. To seek pleasure in life is one thing. To obtain it at the expense of others and without their permission is totally inexcusable.’
Taking advantage of the sudden change of atmosphere brought about by his audience having the rug withdrawn from under their very feet, Monsieur Pamplemousse set about beating a hasty retreat before they had time to reply.
‘Do not be too hard on him, Monsieur,’ a voice called after him as he pushed his way through the crowd.
When he reached the stable at the back of the hotel car park he found Pommes Frites fast asleep in some straw. He might not have received the gift of laughter, but if the seraphic smile on his face was anything to go by it would have been an unnecessary embellishment.
He toyed with the idea of raising his voice in rebuke for the benefit of the others, then thought better of it. That would have been an unnecessary gilding of the lily. He had no wish to tread on Pommes Frites’ dreams. Clearly they were giving him much pleasure.
Closing the stable door carefully so as not to disturb him, he made his way towards the back entrance of the hotel. On his way past a second stable he heard a rasping sound and glancing inside saw someone bent over a bench filing the end of a piece of copper piping clamped in a vice. It was the same person he’d seen dodging out of the way when he’d first arrived. Perhaps he had come to do the plumbing in his room. Just outside the back door to the hotel an old woman sat on a stool, a bucket by her side, head bent, hard at work peeling some vegetables. Like the plumber she offered no response to his greeting. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she was the one who had come out of the toilet the night before. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. She was much too frail. Whoever had attacked him wielded a fairly hefty punch. What used to be known in the force as a bunch of cinqs.
Upstairs in his room again he put the binoculars back in the velvet-lined compartment of the case and then locked it. Although there was nothing in there to connect him with Le Guide, there was no point in taking chances. He hesitated for a moment or two over his notebook and then slipped it into the secret compartment of the trousers hanging in the
wardrobe before making his way back downstairs.
Entering the kitchen he nearly bumped into Madame Terminé who was bustling in the opposite direction carrying a pile of dirty laundry. He held the door open for her. Did his eyes deceive him or was she regarding him in a new light? There was a kind of intimacy in her glance which he hadn’t noticed the night before. Already, although he had only been at the hotel for one night he could sense a change; a feeling of tendrils reaching out and taking root. In normal circumstances it would have been a clear signal to move on. Familiarity was not encouraged by Le Guide. Familiarity could cloud the judgment.
The Director’s aunt was busy by the stove. She, too, looked up and seemed to greet him as an old friend rather than as a client. She was wearing a freshly starched white apron and her hair was noticeably tidier than he remembered it earlier that morning. He judged she was perhaps ten years younger than himself. Perhaps in her mid forties. At times she looked much older.
‘Are you sure these potatoes are what you want? It doesn’t seem a very good way to start the day – especially after what happened.’
‘On the contrary.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse looked round the kitchen as he spoke, taking it all in; the batterie de cuisine above the long cupboard between the stove and the window – a row of burnished copper pans hanging up, and close to them an array of knives of all shapes and sizes. Beyond that again a selection of marmites and casseroles, some old and richly worked, others new and hardly used. Fish kettles and enamelled iron terrines completed the picture. Whatever else she lacked, Tante Louise certainly wasn’t short of equipment. He suddenly realised he was starting to think of her as ‘Tante’ rather than plain ‘Madame’.
He glanced down at the stove. It looked clean and serviceable if a trifle large for the amount of work it was called on to do. High above it some early eighteenth-century potholders hung from a large beam. They, too, looked clean and dust-free without the greasy surface one might have expected.
‘On the contrary,’ he repeated. ‘The potato is much maligned. Can you think of another vegetable with so many virtues? The potato goes well with everything. It is never assertive. Full of goodness, but never boring. It can be boiled and baked and sliced and fried. Above all, although it is with us the whole year round you never get tired of it.
‘Besides, what I am about to prepare is not just a potato. It is a dish fit for a king. I shall need some butter and cream, nutmeg, ham – preferably lean, and it will need to be finely minced. Breadcrumbs and Parmesan cheese. Then I shall need some eggs for poaching.’
While he was talking he reached up and took a couteau d’office from the rack on the wall, feeling its blade as he did so. It was a Sabatier, five inches of high quality carbon steel, but it was blunt, sadly and undeniably blunt. Not only that but it was badly stained. Cutting into the potato would transmit an unwholesome taste.
‘Do you have any lemon?’
While he was cleaning the blade he felt Tante Louise watching him. ‘You seem very at home in a kitchen. You must do a lot of cooking.’
He sought for a suitable answer. It was true to say he felt at home in a kitchen. His time with Le Guide had not been wasted. He’d lost count of the number of hours spent watching others at work; marvelling at the expert way they dealt with even the most mundane of tasks. In the right hands even the chopping of a carrot became a work of art. But as for cooking itself; Doucette usually frowned on his excursions into a kitchen which was common property most of the time but became hers whenever he used it. Like the Director’s aunt, ownership changed according to circumstances. Accusations of using up every pot and pan within sight were rife and not without reason. In the kitchen he became the gros bonnet; the big hat, the boss of all he surveyed.
He gave a non-committal shrug, wondering how best to broach the subject of sharpening the knife without causing offence. But in the event he needn’t have worried. Tante Louise was only too willing to acknowledge her inadequacies.
Reading his thoughts as he looked around she opened a drawer and handed him a steel. ‘Why is it sharpening knives is always considered man’s work. I have Madame Camille’s son, but he is more of a problem than a help. I wouldn’t trust him with them.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse supposed she must be talking of the man he’d seen earlier. Come to think of it, there was a family likeness. ‘Have you never thought of getting married?’
For some reason the Director’s aunt coloured up. She crossed to the oven and opened the door. ‘The potatoes are ready.’
‘In that case,’ Monsieur Pamplemousse took the hint, ‘perhaps you would be kind enough to prepare two poached eggs.’
Removing the potatoes from their rack, he grasped the newly sharpened knife and cut a hole in the top of each. Scooping out two-thirds of the inside of each potato with a spoon, he began mashing it in a bowl along with the butter and cream, adding salt to taste and then a pinch of nutmeg.
Replacing the mixture in the potatoes, he left a cavity in the top of each into which he poured a teaspoonful of the Mornay sauce and another of the freshly minced ham.
‘Eggs, please. Now some more of the Mornay.
‘Breadcrumbs … grated Parmesan …’ He felt like a surgeon carrying out a delicate operation. ‘Can you put the rest of the butter in a saucepan to melt?’
Adding a few drops of the melted butter he placed the potatoes carefully on to a heatproof dish and put them back into the oven to brown.
‘Ça va.’ He wiped his hands on a cloth, realising he should have worn an apron. It was just like home. At home he always forgot an apron until it was too late. He looked at her shyly. ‘Since I seem to have made free with your kitchen, perhaps you would like to join me? We could share a bottle of Vouvray. It will go well. Unless …’ he decided to leave the ball in her court. ‘Unless you are too busy?’
‘There is no one else for lunch. That would be very kind. I will ask Justine to fetch the wine.’
While she was gone he quickly opened the oven door again, breathing a sigh of relief at what he saw. Despite his air of confidence it was many years since he’d last cooked œufs à la Toupinel. The result was eminently satisfactory, exactly as he remembered it; golden brown and sizzling in its juices. He hoped it would live up to its looks. In the end it was always the simplest dishes that were the best. He’d once conducted a survey among the great chefs, the ones who’d been awarded three Stock Pots, to see what they ate when everyone else had gone home, and they all said the same.
He loaded up a tray and carried it proudly into the dining-room, almost regretting for a moment that it was empty. It deserved an audience. Even Madame Terminé would have been better than nothing; or Pommes Frites. He wondered what Elsie would have thought of his efforts. Somehow he felt they would have met with approval. Pommes Frites would certainly have got up to have a closer look. For a moment he toyed with the idea of fetching him in, but decided against it. If there was any left over he would take it out for him afterwards. Apart from anything else he wasn’t sure if Pommes Frites would totally approve of his little tête-à-tête; jealousy might creep in, although given the events of the previous night he could hardly kick up too much fuss. All the same, it was better to be safe than sorry.
A table had been laid for two just inside the door, as far away from the window as possible. The bread, freshly sliced, was in a basket in the middle alongside an empty flower vase. No doubt the Director’s aunt didn’t want the whole world to know she was lunching with one of the guests; with the only guest in the hotel.
Tante Louise made a grimace at the other tables as she entered carrying a wine bucket with an already opened bottle clinking against the ice inside. ‘It will be different later in the week – I hope. Friday is the day of the annual Foire à la Ferraille et aux Jambons and the village will be en fête. There will be a parade and lunch outside in the garden so that everyone can watch. I hope you will still be here.’
The Iron and Ham Fair apart, Monsieur Pample
mousse felt sure he would still be there. The way things were going the Fair would have come and gone long before he’d even begun sorting things out.
He broke off a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth while he was serving. It had the characteristic, slightly sour taste of a genuine pain au levain. The inside was airy and cream coloured, slightly chewy. The village baker must be one of a sadly dying breed who cared enough for his art to use a chunk of dough from the previous day’s baking as a starter, rather than do it the easy way with yeast. He probably used stone-ground flour as well. No wonder the shop was often crowded.
The Vouvray was a contrast in taste; fruity and yet bone dry, with an underlying firmness which came from the Chinon grapes. Overall there was an acidity suggesting a year which lacked sun. It should have been drunk and not kept. Compared with the wine he’d been served the night before it was disappointing. A glance at the label confirmed his suspicions.
‘I know what you are thinking. I’m afraid I know nothing of wine.’ Tante Louise took the glass he had just poured. ‘I have to rely on the judgment of others. I inherited the cellar from my father, and he inherited it from his father before him, but I’m afraid neither of them passed on their taste buds when they died. They both spent most of their time abroad and when they came home they always made up for lost time, squandering what was left of the family fortune – if it ever existed. Grandma swore it did, but no one ever found it.’
The words were said without any trace of bitterness, but Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears, adding a visit to the cellars to his growing list of things to do at the earliest opportunity. It sounded intriguing.
Photographs of an imposing, moustachioed figure – presumably the grandfather – adorned the walls wherever you looked. He seemed to be for ever posing against a tropical backcloth with a glass in one hand and an outsize rifle in the other, his right foot placed firmly on whatever animal had been unfortunate enough to cross his path. Size had clearly been no passport to mercy; large and small, all were doomed to an untimely death. No wonder the local taxidermist had flourished. He wondered how they’d all been transported home. Come to that, how he’d managed to travel with such an enormous cellar. Had the Chablis been served at jungle temperature? And had the champagne exploded after all the shaking about? Or had there been hordes of native bearers weighed down by some gigantic ice box?