by Michael Bond
Note from Madame Pamplemousse (attached to magazine).
Letter marked ‘Privé et personnel’.
Fotocopie of entry in Monsieur Duval’s diary as requested.
Some extra P189’s as requested.
He tore open the envelope containing the note from Doucette. It was brief and to the point.
‘I hope you want this for the article on page three and not the one on page eleven. D.’
It sounded as though the euphoria of their evening out had already worn off. He opened the magazine in order to refresh his memory. The first article, coincidentally, was A JOURNEY THROUGH THE LOIRE VALLEY by L’excursioniste. That would be Guilot from Dijon. He had a weight problem and was always going on long hiking holidays, coming back worse than when he’d set out. Most of the article was devoted to Savonnières and its soapwort – still used in preference to modern soaps for cleaning old tapestries. It was followed by a long list of eating places.
The second article was his own. APHRODISIACS: DO THEY WORK OR IS IT ALL IN THE MIND? by A. Pamplemousse. It was longer than he remembered it.
He resolved to send Doucette a postcard. A picture of the Loire Valley. Perhaps he would get one while he was still at Villandry. It would make a change from the usual one of whatever hotel he was staying at and there probably wasn’t one of the Hôtel du Paradis anyway.
Putting the magazine aside for future study, he scanned the photostat. It was of a handwritten entry. The background was dark, presumably because the ink had faded and the copy had needed more exposure. The writing was neat and scholarly, as befitted the Founder of Le Guide; an ascetic figure whose portrait adorned the wall of the Director’s office, viewing all who entered with a stern eye, especially at annual interview time. He looked at the date – August 30th, 1899 – a year before the Michelin Guide had been born. History recalled that in those days the Founder did most of his journeyings by boneshaker, an early Michaux. It was incredible to think that he might have travelled all the way from Paris on such a machine. No wonder he had a fanatical glint in his eye. His obsession with Le Guide must have been quite frightening, particularly as circulation would have been strictly limited in those days.
He began to read: ‘Friday night. Days still hot – but nights getting cooler. Hotel crowded. My room overlooks the square. It is comfortable although the plumbing leaves a lot to be desired.’ Some things never changed. ‘However, it delivers an adequate supply of scalding hot water of a brownish colour.’ Perhaps they did. ‘Unfortunately there is a pissoir below my window. Neither the sight nor smell can be deemed pleasant.’ That, at least, was one thing which had improved. ‘Tonight I dined off huîtres, deux douzaines, truite saumonée berchoux …’ He racked his brains. That must have meant it was stuffed with pike forcemeat. The salmon had probably been caught somewhere in the Loire estuary, pink from gorging itself on prawns. ‘Lapin aux pruneaux and tarte bourdaloue.’ That would have been apricots in millefeuille pastry. ‘The lapin was over-salt, promoting a strong thirst. Otherwise excellent. A repeat of the previous night. Wine …’ He went on to list some local names.
Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to picture the scene. They might even have sat at the same table. The Founder would have wanted to be near the window so that he could keep an eye on what was going on outside. He wondered if there had been a Madame Terminé in those days, whisking his plate away before he’d had time to wipe it clean with his bread. More than likely. There had been Madame Terminés all through history.
As for Monsieur Hippolyte Duval himself, he marvelled at his stamina. Two dozen oysters, followed by salmon trout, rabbit, and apricots in pastry – no doubt he’d eaten an equally large lunch that same day, and yet in his portrait he looked the picture of health, as slender as a bean pole. Perhaps it was all the cycling he did. Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered for a moment if he ought to invest in a bicycle and then rejected the idea. Pommes Frites would not take kindly to following on behind.
He glanced down at the sheet of paper and as he did so his senses quickened. He read the words again.
‘I wonder if tonight I shall taste once more the ambrosial delights of the Elysian fields, or was it all a dream?’ Something else had been added and then scratched out, making it unreadable.
The following entry, a part of which had been included at the bottom of the page, simply said: ‘On to Saumur where I visited the stables of the École de Cavalerie. Must return to Paris soon!’ There was no mention of what might or might not have happened the two previous nights. No hint of remorse or of hope for the future.
When he’d said ‘a repeat of the previous night’ did he mean he’d actually eaten exactly the same meal, or was there some hidden meaning? Were the Elysian fields similar to the ones Bernard had discovered, albeit behind the hotel and sans the schoolgirls, or was it simply a flight of fancy brought on by a good meal and all the wine. From what little he knew of Le Guide’s Founder, he wasn’t given to flights of fancy.
The entry put a whole new complexion on things. It could be that the latest happenings were simply a matter of history repeating itself. In which case he must look for a deeper reason. Perhaps there was something in the water? If that was so, why didn’t the whole village run amok?
One thing was for sure: the hotel had been vastly more popular in those days with Tante Louise’s Grand-mère in charge than it was now.
He picked up the envelope marked ‘Privé et personnel’. It was creamy in colour; the handmade paper rough to the touch. Even without opening it he knew whom it was from. The writing was a mixture of styles – on the one hand heavy and sensual, with blotched and corrugated strokes, and yet with very definite repeated loops in the letters ‘o’ and ‘d’ indicating deceit. There was no indication as to whether it had been sent to his home address first or had gone straight to the office. Whichever way, if he was the Director he would watch out.
‘Cher ange gardien.’ He wondered how long it had taken her to think that one up. How much time had been spent weighing up the pros and cons of what to call him; rejecting the over-familiarity of Aristide and the formality of Monsieur; trying to find the right phrase. ‘Ange gardien’ – he liked it. He wouldn’t at all mind being her guardian angel, playing eternal footsies under a table in some heavenly garden. He’d never been called a guardian angel before.
‘Please forgive my writing to you but I feel you are the only one to whom I can turn. Please, please, can you do something about Elsie? Henri is besotted with her. He has even taken to singing “Rule Britannia” in his bath, and if we have any more of that dreadful pudding I shall scream. Please can you help? It will make me very happy. Chantal.’
From a personal point of view it was a thoroughly non-committal note. Although there were a number of lines between which messages might have been read, he searched in vain. There was no hint that she had read his own note. Perhaps that was as well. Perhaps it would never, ever be mentioned. One day it would be found tucked away in a box and people would wonder. At least he hadn’t signed it. He consoled himself with the thought that she wouldn’t have written at all if she hadn’t felt some kind of rapport.
He stood up. Trying to read between lines would get him nowhere. There was work to be done. Time for a quick wander and a few photographs for Le Guide’s reference department while he was there.
He looked around for a suitable vantage point and decided to climb some steps leading up to the second level where a herb garden was laid out. Even there his 24mm wide-angle lens failed to take in all he wanted. He backed along a path overlooking the main garden, trying to frame a picture with the pergola on one side and the Château on the other. It really needed a helicopter to do it justice. He shifted his position slightly, trying to maintain the verticals and at the same time bring an overhanging branch into shot for foreground interest. As he checked focus on the split image in the centre of the picture his pulse quickened. Towards the middle of the gardens, near
where he had been sitting a few minutes before, was a familiar figure.
Slowly and deliberately he lowered the camera and crouched down behind the balustrade. Undoing his bag he took out the narrow angle lens, clipped a tele-extender to it, and changed over from the wide angle. At something like forty metres the nine degree angle of view should give him what he wanted. Switching the exposure to a two hundred and fiftieth of a second to counteract any camera shake, he set the exposure mode to automatic aperture and using the end pillar as a support, stood up, focusing as he went. For a moment he had difficulty in finding what he was looking for then it swam smoothly into view. He realised where he had seen the man before and why he hadn’t immediately recognised him. People outside their normal environment and wearing different clothes always took longer to place, even allowing for the beard. Without his white hat he looked just like anyone else. It was the hands that gave it away. The one shielding his eyes from the sun as he scanned the gardens was large and purposeful; a hand made large by the work he did – the constant kneading of dough. It also explained the blue van. It must be the same blue van he’d seen parked near the side entrance to the boulangerie the day he’d arrived.
He pressed a button on the base of the camera, allowing the motorwinder to take over while he concentrated on holding the figure in the centre of the frame. Luck was with him. If he’d asked his subject to provide him with a variety of poses he couldn’t have been more helpful. Back view, side, fully frontal; the camera clicked inexorably on, recording them all.
The next moment he had gone. Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered the camera, but the baker was nowhere to be seen. It was probably of no consequence anyway. There was no reason why he shouldn’t spend his day off as he chose. On the other hand, the Châteaux of the Loire Valley were for tourists, not for the people who lived in the area and saw them every day of their lives.
He began dismantling his equipment, replacing the standard lens, changing the film. If Pommes Frites had been there he would have sent him off to investigate. Pommes Frites liked nothing better than a good chase. He wondered what he was doing. Even more important, where he was doing it.
As it happened, Pommes Frites was at that moment having similar thoughts, only in reverse. Pommes Frites was wondering what had happened to Monsieur Pamplemousse. He had several important matters he wanted to convey to him. How he was going to communicate them was another matter again, but given the fact that his master was nowhere to be seen the problem didn’t really arise.
Having noted the fact that his car wasn’t there either, Pommes Frites put two and two together and decided to retire to the stable for the time being where he could finish his bone and bring himself up to date with his thoughts.
There were some, Philistines all, who might have jibbed at the idea of comparing Pommes Frites’ brain with a computer, but those who knew him well would have seen the parallels at once.
Admittedly, size for size, there was no comparison. Pommes Frites had rather a large head; a micro-chip would have been but a flea on its surface. Nevertheless, both worked on similar principles, that of reducing everything to a series of questions to which the answer was either ‘yes’ or ‘no’. If the answer to a question was ‘yes’ it was allowed through. If the answer happened to be in the negative then no amount of knocking, or protestation, or crawling, or appeals to better nature, or name-dropping would allow it through to the next compartment. Pommes Frites had a lot of compartments in his brain and some doors opened more easily to the touch than others, but in the end, as with his man-made counterpart, it was all a matter of correct programming.
That morning, the big programmer in the sky who looked after Pommes Frites’ thought processes, had fed him with a great deal of information, all of which had to be absorbed and digested and mulled over before any sort of logical print-out could be obtained, hence the bone.
Given a sudden fall in the electricity supply even the most sophisticated of computers had a habit of printing gobbledygook; lack of bones produced a similar effect in Pommes Frites.
Trails was the subject under analysis. Trails, their origins, destinations and meanings. Pommes Frites had followed quite a few trails that morning. Upstairs and downstairs, in and out of buildings, round and about the village; trails of various kinds, strong ones and faint ones – trails that criss-crossed and merged. There was one trail in particular, reminiscent of a scent he’d picked up outside the Sanisette the night of his master’s accident, that was giving him considerable food for thought. There were certain aspects of it which didn’t for the moment make sense, and were therefore causing a blockage en route as it were, giving rise in turn to a not inconsiderable piling-up of other, lesser pieces of information, each of which had to await its turn in the queue.
Pommes Frites swallowed the remains of the bone, gave a deep sigh, lowered his problem-filled head carefully between his paws and closed his eyes. In his experience brains, like computers, often worked best when they were left to get on with the job.
Some twenty or so kilometres away, in Saumur, Monsieur Pamplemousse was also having to wait. In his case it was outside a high-speed film processors near the Place de la Bilange. It was a kind of limbo. Unlike Monsieur Duval, Le Guide’s Founder, he had no wish to visit the one-time Cavalry School, now the National School of Equitation. If all the posters were anything to go by they were probably getting ready for the annual Equitation Fortnight. Anyway, horses frightened him – he much preferred a wheel at all four corners. For the same reason the Museum of the Horse lacked appeal. The mushroom museum a little way out of town would have been more in his line, but there was hardly time. In the end he decided to go for a wander in the market.
On a sudden impulse he stopped by a poissonerie and bought some oysters; four dozen. There was no sense in doing things in a half-hearted way. In Roman times they would have eaten that many with their aperitifs. Casanova was reputed to have eaten fifty or more every evening with his punch. He began to wish he’d ordered more.
Fired with enthusiasm he called in at another shop on his way back to the film processors and bought five kilos of pruneaux. If they worked at all it would be enough to inflame a whole regiment.
His enthusiasm for the project in hand lasted as far as the other side of the Loire when he remembered Pommes Frites. Pommes Frites hadn’t eaten any oysters. Neither for that matter had Bernard. They wouldn’t have been available in August. In Paris, maybe, but highly unlikely in St. Georges, where they would be more conservative about the lack of an ‘r’ in the month.
Seeing a telephone box, he pulled in at the side of the road. It was time he phoned Bernard.
‘What did I eat?’ There was a long pause. ‘Nothing special. It was a hot day. I was more thirsty than anything. I had a salade frisée. That made it worse. The bacon was much too salt. Then I had a grossly overdone entrecôte, with some abysmal frites and some more salad, followed by a dreadful tarte aux pruneaux … hello … are you there?’
‘I’m sorry. I was thinking.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse came back to earth. ‘I am working on a theory that it was something you ate. The pruneaux, perhaps.’
There was a snort from the other end. ‘If you laid prunes all the way from here to St. Georges-sur-Lie and I ate every one of them it would not account for what happened that day.’ Bernard sounded aggrieved at being reminded of it all.
‘Courage, mon ami.’
‘That’s all very well. Courage doesn’t pay the bills. My reserves are diminishing rapidly. Already I am having to drink my ’75s.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt at a loss for words. Bernard was a Bordeaux man, something of a connoisseur. His background was the wine trade and he had connections. If he was drinking his ’75s he must be at a low ebb. A thought struck him.
‘What did you drink that day?’
‘It’s funny you should ask. Do you know …’ Bernard’s voice perked up. He’d obviously struck a chord. ‘I ordered a half bottle of St. Emilion and when it
came – you won’t believe this – it turned out to be a Figeac. Beautiful it was too; I remember making notes at the time; soft and velvety and big with it. Much too good for the food and nowhere near the price it should have been. If you ask me they don’t know what they’re sitting on and most of the people who go there wouldn’t know a Mouton-Rothschild from a Roussillon even if the label looked them straight in the eye.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. I don’t like having too much wine at lunch time. It makes me sleepy. Besides, I didn’t get much chance to look at the list. It got whipped away from me by some battle-axe of a female.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse smiled to himself. He wondered what Madame Terminé would think if she heard herself referred to that way.
‘I must go now. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir. And thanks for calling.’
Bernard sounded much more cheerful than when he’d first picked up the phone. Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he could say the same. He felt like a drowning man clutching at straws. Instinct told him that his theory had to be right. Experience told him that finding the answer would mean a lot of hard work. A lot of hard work and a good deal of luck. But luck was something you had to recognise and use when it came your way. Lots of people had their share but failed to capitalise on it.
He put his foot hard down on the accelerator, anxious now to be back. It was almost five o’clock and if he was to put his plan into action in time for the Fair he would need to deliver the shopping with all possible speed. He would also need to be up early the next day. That evening he would have to study his article more fully and refresh his memory. He would need to make out a detailed chart.
Not far from St. Georges-sur-Lie he overtook a long line of caravans and lorries; a travelling circus-cum-fair from Bordeaux. Dark-skinned children watched impassively as he overtook them. The drivers neither helped nor impeded his progress, absolving themselves of all responsibility.