by Michael Bond
He suddenly realised Tante Louise was talking.
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Of course not.’ He wondered what he’d let himself in for. ‘I shall be only too happy.’
‘It seems a strange thing to ask of a guest and you must say if it interferes with your writing, but perhaps it may give you some ideas.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. He’d forgotten about his ‘writing’.
‘Once this week is over things will settle down again.’
‘Yes. Er, what would you like me to do?’ He put on his thoughtful look, the one he assumed when he was weighing pros and cons.
‘Just to be there and offer advice really. I wouldn’t expect you to do any manual work, but the more time goes by the more I realise there are so many things I don’t know about. I want so much to succeed. The Hôtel du Paradis has been in the family for generations. To lose it now would be like breaking faith with all those who have gone before. Mama, Papa, Grand-mère … that’s her picture on the wall.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse followed the direction of her gaze and dwelt on a gilt-framed picture hanging on the wall beside the bar. He’d noticed it without paying a great deal of attention over dinner the night before. He saw what Tante Louise meant. Grand-mère did not look the sort of person one would wish to break faith with; not if one believed in an afterlife and possible recriminations. Even in repose there was a firm line to the jaw and an upward tilt to the head which denoted strength of purpose. With Grandpa away on safari for months on end she’d probably had plenty of time to develop it.
‘Sometimes everything seems to be going well and then, for no reason at all, it comes to nothing. We have been in guides and out of them again. I do not understand the reason. I have a niece who is married to someone very important in Paris – an old family friend in fact. I have written to him several times, but he is always too busy. He sends messages to say he is in conference.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse knew the feeling. ‘Once, a little while ago, there were some men from Paris. They arrived one night in a large, black American car and made offers. When I refused they threatened.’
‘What sort of offers?’
Madame Louise blushed. ‘Offers I would not wish to repeat.’
‘And then?’
‘I put something in their soup. They never came back.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wiped his plate carefully with some bread and then speared the last remaining crust of the potato with his fork. It was the best part, crisp and earthy to the taste, wearing its goodness on its sleeve. Despite her slightly helpless manner, Tante Louise had obviously inherited some of her Grand-mère’s toughness. She would be a force to be reckoned with. Yet again, he was reminded of the Director’s words.
‘If those men come again,’ he said, ‘tell them Pamplemousse sends his regards.’
Before there was time to reply he rose to his feet, removed the serviette from his collar and dabbed at his lips. ‘Now I must leave you. I have to go into Tours. Thank you for the meal. Although I say it myself, a King could not have eaten better.’
‘And I feel like a Queen. It was delicious.’
He paused at the door, a twinkle in his eye. ‘If I am to be your consort, may I offer some advice?
‘For a village fleuri – a village moreover which is about to be en fête, your rooms are singularly lacking in colour. Flowers are like women; they are not born to blush unseen.’
Conscious that his step was a little lighter than usual, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards the front door, then changed his mind and headed towards the back entrance. He may have emerged the victor in his encounter with the local inhabitants earlier that morning, but there was no sense in tempting fate.
The old woman he’d seen in the yard outside was no longer there. She must have finished her chores. The paving had been washed down, the table scrubbed. Two bowls and a bucket were placed neatly on a shelf, ready for the next day.
After the shade of the dining-room the sunshine was dazzling. He glanced in at the first stable. The door was still open but the old woman’s son was no longer there. As he neared the second stable his pace quickened. Pommes Frites would be awake by now, wagging his tail with pleasure at seeing him. He wished now he’d managed to save some of the lunch for him. The previous night’s activities would have whetted his appetite. If his total score bore any relation to it he must be starving. It would be no use pretending he hadn’t had any lunch. Pommes Frites’ sense of smell was too good for that. In any case he knew from past experience it would be impossible to look him straight in the eye without registering guilt.
Taking a deep breath, Monsieur Pamplemousse paused in the doorway so that he could take full advantage of standing with his back to the light, preparing himself for the onslaught of the fifty or so kilograms of welcome he expected to receive.
But if to expect nothing is to be blessed, then conversely Monsieur Pamplemousse’s chances of entering the Pearly Gates at that moment would have received a severe jolt; the whistle that had formed on his lips died away as, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee before him, answer came there none. The normally ubiquitous Pommes Frites was conspicuous by his absence.
Idiotically, he almost found himself looking for some kind of note. Reaching down he felt a compressed patch in the middle of the pile of straw. It was cold to the touch. Tucked away inside it lay a half-eaten bone.
Whatever had caused Pommes Frites’ absence must have happened some while ago and been of an unexpected nature. It took a lot to part Pommes Frites from a bone once he’d got his teeth into it. To abandon one altogether pointed to something very pressing indeed.
Perhaps he’d had another of his uncontrollable urges. Worse still, perhaps he was stuck with them. Like some kind of migraine they would keep coming back without warning. His heart sank at the thought. Doucette would not take kindly to the idea, nor would the eighteenth arrondissement.
Feeling deflated and suddenly very much alone, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced towards the entrance to the car park, noted with relief that the street outside was deserted, and then made his way slowly towards his car. It was time he set out for Tours. No doubt all would be revealed in due course. It usually was with Pommes Frites, and it was no good being impatient.
Pressing the starter he put the 2CV into gear, let in the clutch and began moving off Almost immediately he became aware that something was amiss. There was a lack of response and the steering felt sluggish. It took a matter of seconds to absorb the facts, marshal them into some kind of logical order and reach a solution. He drew up by the side of the road.
Climbing out again he did a circuit of the car, gazing at the wheels with a mixture of mounting anger and frustration. ‘Sapristi!’ Intended to run with a pressure of 1.4 kilograms per square centimetre at the front and 1.8 at the rear, all four Michelin X tyres were as flat as the proverbial crêpe.
He looked around for help, but St. Georges-sur-Lie was closed for lunch. The boulangerie on the other side of the road was shut, its blinds drawn to keep out the sun. The van which was normally parked at the side was nowhere to be seen.
Faced with such a situation, lesser men might well have resorted to violence of one form or another, kicking the wheels, attacking the bonnet with their bare fists, or even bursting into uncontrollable tears.
Monsieur Pamplemousse did none of these things. Calmly and methodically he removed the keys from the dashboard, selected the second one on the ring, and after unlocking the boot, withdrew a large metal cylinder, little realising as he did so that he was setting in train a series of events which later that same week would save him from a particularly shocking and unpleasant demise.
5
SWINGS AND ROUNDABOUTS
Fifteen minutes later, tyres inflated, hands and nails freshly scrubbed following a visit to his room, camera equipment on the back seat in case he came across a particularly rewarding view – one that would merit a jacinthe or a pair of binoculars
in Le Guide – Monsieur Pamplemousse set off in the direction of Tours, joining the N152 near Langeais so as to hug the north bank of the Loire. Chameleon-like, its luminous colours reflected the mood of its surroundings and the sky above as it sparkled its way towards Saumur. Watched over by sand martins diving to catch the occasional fly as it wound its way lazily in and out of the dozens of golden sandbanks exposed by the low water, it was still a river to respect. It might have seen grander days but it was a river of sudden whirlpools and currents. You took it for granted at your peril. The occasional tree root sticking up out of the water acted as a reminder that in winter, when heavy rain fell over the Massif Central, it could become a raging torrent in a matter of hours, with anything up to six thousand cubic metres of water heading westwards towards Brittany and the Atlantic Ocean every second of the day.
As he slotted himself into the stream of traffic heading east Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected, not for the first time, on the wisdom of a belt and braces approach to life he’d acquired through his years in the Paris police.
Tubeless tyres were undoubtedly a great invention – until they went down, when blowing them up with a foot pump was an impossibility. All the same, the carrying of a cylinder of compressed air was a needless extravagance in many people’s eyes. Madame Grante’s, for example. How often in the course of a lifetime did one have need of it? Nevertheless, without it he would still be sitting outside the Hôtel du Paradis waiting for a garage mechanic to turn up.
For the time being at least he preferred to gloss over the fact that the prime reason for carrying a cylinder was so that he could blow up Pommes Frites’ inflatable kennel when he went to bed at night. Doing it by mouth was hard on the lungs; worse than blowing up a packet of balloons at Christmas. Pommes Frites’ kennel was a large one – king size. He wouldn’t be best pleased if he knew his cylinder was empty.
It seemed strange driving along by himself. It was the kind of outing Pommes Frites would have enjoyed, and Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself keeping a weather eye open for likely spots where they might have stopped while he took photographs and Pommes Frites had a run. On the other hand Pommes Frites would probably have ignored the danger signs and gone in for a swim. That would not have been a good idea. Some of the invitingly white sandbanks – the sables mouvants – could be death traps.
One thing was certain. If Pommes Frites had gone in for a dip the heat inside the car would have dried him off in no time at all. Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to roll back the roof and then thought better of it. In his present condition the hot sun on his head would not be a good idea.
One way and another there was a lot to think about. Paris suddenly seemed an age away. It was hard to believe that it was only three days since he’d sat listening to the Director pouring out his tale of woe, and watched Elsie pour out the Armagnac. He wondered if she was still surviving or whether she had moved on. Elsie would probably survive wherever she went. She was one of nature’s survivors. He could have done with her help at the hotel, for already a plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind. It was a plan which he knew would tax his culinary powers to their limit, for he was only too well aware that his job for Le Guide was merely that of a critic. More often than not it was a case of the legless trying to teach an athlete how to run. No one ever erected a statue to a critic, still less a food inspector.
Buildings came into view, followed by a road junction. Turning right at the Place Choiseul he joined the line of north–south traffic crossing the river by way of the Pont Wilson and entered the rue Nationale. Another day, another time, he might have turned left and booked a table at Barrier just up the hill, the coolness of the courtyard with its fountains would have been a welcome relief.
Spring and late autumn were the best times to visit Tours. Now the atmosphere was humid; a combination of the freak weather and a lack of air brought about by its existence in an alluvial hollow. To the left lay the old city, ahead and to the right the vast area rebuilt after the war. It was hard to believe, sitting in a near-stationary traffic jam on a hot, cloudless day, that nine thousand inhabitants had died during the first bombardment and later during the liberation. Twelve hectares of the city razed to the ground. Hard to believe too that Balzac had once praised the street where he was born as being ‘so wide no one ever cried “make way”’.
The thing about aphrodisiacs, one of the points he remembered trying to bring out in his article, was that in many cases success or failure lay in the minds of those who used them, just as some people set out to get drunk and achieved their objective rather quicker than those who were determined to stay sober. To some extent it was psychosomatic – an association of ideas, moonlight helped, moonlight, roses and the right words.
Joining the queue to turn right into the Boulevard Heurteloup, he found a parking space opposite the P.T.T. and climbed out. As he went to cross the road a small blue van suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, missing him by a hair’s breadth. The driver seemed to be looking for a parking space too, and it was with an uncharitable feeling of pleasure at having commandeered the last one that he eventually reached the other side and made his way into the building.
A large and satisfactorily fat official-looking beige envelope awaited him. On the back was the familiar logo of Le Guide; two escargots rampant. He was glad he’d taken the precaution of having it sent poste restante. The Director’s aunt would have put two and two together and made five in no time at all.
It wasn’t until he was on the outskirts of Tours again, heading westwards along the D7 on the south side of the Cher, that he remembered the cylinder of compressed air. He’d meant to replace it while he was there. He glanced in his mirror to see if there was any possibility of doing an about turn and decided against it. There was a long string of traffic nose to tail, a large Peugeot – all jutting-out mirrors and periscopes, towing an outsize caravan, a lorry laden with sand, two more cars, and … he snatched another quick look and was just in time to see a small blue van nudge its way out on to the crown of the road in an attempt to see if the way ahead was clear for overtaking. It disappeared again. The driver had evidently decided it wasn’t.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around. To the left lay the first of the great mushroom caves of the region, carved out of the soft Tufa rock; to the right, beyond a line of poplars, the Cher. The nearest bridge would be at Langeais, soon after it joined the Loire. He decided to play it by ear, seizing the first opportunity that presented itself.
It came sooner than he expected. At Villandry, a car in front slowed momentarily to avoid a pedestrian crossing the road outside the great Château which dominated the area. Anticipating a gap in the traffic coming the other way, he took his left foot away from the brake pedal and pulled hard on the handbrake, turning the steering-wheel at the same time. The car spun round. It was a trick he’d learnt while on attachment to the Mobile Squad. It looked more spectacular than it actually was. He’d tried it out once before in the Ardèche. Pommes Frites, who’d been asleep in the passenger seat at the time, hadn’t spoken to him for days afterwards. The 2CV rocked as he brought it to a halt in a space between two trees, then it sank back on to its suspension with an almost audible sigh of relief. Horns blared and a succession of irate drivers made gestures at him through their open windows; he could almost hear the ‘poofs’ which went with the shaking of arched wrists and the thumping of foreheads. Children’s faces pressed against rear windows stared back at him as they disappeared from view. The lorry driver, a Gauloise clamped tightly between his lips, tapped his forehead and gave him a pitying look as he drove past. He probably thought the bandage was the result of a previous attempt to do an about turn. Behind them all came the van. It must have been one of millions and yet there was something disquietingly familiar about it. The driver was looking away from him. He relaxed as it went on its way. It was probably nothing, a coincidence … and yet …
The gravelled area outside the Château was crowded with sightsee
rs. The café on the far side looked as if it was about to burst at the seams. Between each gap in the trees on his side of the road there were parked cars as far as the eye could see. Once again he’d been extraordinarily lucky in finding a space.
Grabbing his camera case and the envelope, Monsieur Pamplemousse locked the car and waited for a gap in the traffic, hoping to reach the entrance before a coachload of American tourists.
If Pommes Frites had been with him he probably wouldn’t have bothered. More than likely chiens would be interdits. As he remembered them, the gardens were a dog’s paradise; a wondrous sixteenth-century maze of three hundred year old lime trees and boxwood hedges intermingled with flowers and vegetables and criss-crossing paths forming a mathematically precise and harmonious whole which was quite unique. Above it all stood an ornamental lake feeding innumerable fountains and streams which in turn led to a moat surrounding the Château itself. The sound of so much water would have played havoc with Pommes Frites’ staying powers. The temptation to leave his mark would have been as irresistible as it would have been unpopular.
Once inside, he found an unoccupied arbour near one of the fountains and settled himself down. The contents of the envelope was even better than he’d hoped for. The Director’s secretary had done her stuff. In an accompanying letter she listed the contents.
Copy of L’Escargot. September issue. (I had to obtain this from Madame Pamplemousse as the file copies were missing and there are no back numbers.)