by Michael Bond
If Ananas recognised himself in Monsieur Pamplemousse he showed no sign, but then he probably didn’t encounter the same problems. On occasion even the simple act of eating in a restaurant became something of a bore, with its routine of pretended mistaken identity, while other diners tried to make up their minds whether or not they were in the presence of the real thing.
Croissants, toast, confiture and café arrived with lightning speed, and by the time they were passing through Brétigny he was sipping a glass of jus d’orange and feeling better.
He wondered idly where Ananas might be going at this time of the year. Perhaps his television programme was having a break. He was too sharp an operator and had too much at stake to let someone else take over while he was away. For all their present loyalty, the public were a fickle lot and he would be well aware of the double risk of having either a stand-in who was more popular than himself or someone a great deal less so. Either way he could stand to lose.
Ananas had first appeared on the scene some years before as ‘Oncle Hubert’ on a children’s television programme. ‘Oncle Hubert’ had a ‘way’ with children. Particularly, as things turned out, with little girls.
Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told his many fan clubs a thing or two. There had been a near scandal which, in the less liberal climate of the time, would have meant the end of his career had it ever come to light. As it was, strings must have been pulled by someone on high, for ‘Oncle Hubert’ had conveniently disappeared for a while, ostensibly suffering from nervous exhaustion due to overwork.
When he resurfaced under his adopted name, it was as Chairman of a particularly infantile afternoon panel game, which by some quirk of fate caught the public’s imagination. In a relatively short space of time the viewing figures rocketed to the top, carrying Ananas with them and the accolade of a prime spot two evenings a week. From that moment on he had never looked back. Almost overnight he became that strange product of the twentieth century – a ‘television personality’ – whose views on matters of moment were sought and listened to with awe. Without doubt, Ananas would be careful not to court disaster again.
At eight twenty-five they reached the start of the twenty kilometres or so of concrete monorail north of Orleans – test-bed for an Aerotrain that never was. By then the sun had broken through and Pamplemousse’s mood was lifting. Even the sight of Ananas at a table further down the restaurant car didn’t dampen his spirits. Like royalty, Ananas never soiled his hands with money, even when the need arose – which wasn’t often, so the bill was being paid by his companion. A good deal of his income came from payments in kind. He was careful to endorse only those products which would enrich his own life – shoes, shirts, suits, the furnishings of his several houses; all were of the very best. Cars met him wherever he went, doors opened at his approach. The story was told that when he did pay for something by cheque it was seldom cashed, the recipient preferring to have it framed as a souvenir, hoping it would increase in value in the fullness of time.
Settling back preparatory to paying his own bill, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down and fondled Pommes Frites’ head. He received an immediate response in the form of a luxurious and long drawn out stretching of the legs and body. It started at the tips of the forepaws and ended up some moments later at the tail. Pommes Frites liked travelling by train; there was far more room than in his master’s car, and it wasn’t subject to sudden and unexpected swervings, nor bouts of thumping on the steering wheel by the driver. At least, he hadn’t heard any so far. He was also badly in need of reassurance, and reassurance had been very thin on the ground so far that morning.
The fact of the matter was, Pommes Frites felt in a state of utter confusion. He didn’t know for sure whether he was coming or going. Or, to put it another way, he knew he was going somewhere, but he had no idea where or for what reason.
Normally it wouldn’t have troubled him. Normally he looked forward to journeys with his master and he didn’t really mind where they went, but the present trip seemed different. Ever since Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived home the previous afternoon he had been acting very strangely. First of all there had been the business with the glasses. No sooner had he got indoors and taken his shoes off, than he’d put on some dark glasses, darker, much darker than the ones he sometimes wore when he was driving his car; so dark you couldn’t even see his eyes. Then he’d started groping his way around the apartment as if he couldn’t see where he was going – which wasn’t surprising in the circumstances. Madame Pamplemousse hadn’t been at all pleased when he’d knocked over a vase full of flowers, particularly when they landed on the same patch of carpet he, Pommes Frites, had been in trouble over only a few days before.
But things hadn’t ended there. There was also the strange contraption he’d been made to wear. At first he’d thought it was meant for carrying the shopping, something he wouldn’t have minded doing at all. Pommes Frites liked shopping and he always accompanied his master on his visits to the local market. But no, it was obviously meant to serve some other purpose. What purpose he wasn’t sure as yet, except that it had to do with crossing roads. Or rather, not crossing roads.
That was another thing. Normally, Monsieur Pamplemousse took charge when there was any traffic about and Pommes Frites happily followed on behind, secure in the knowledge that if he stuck close to his master’s heels no harm would come to him.
Now his master had taken to hovering, holding on to the new collar and tapping the edge of the pavement with a stick – almost as though he was afraid to venture any further for fear of being knocked down. They had only been out once, but in Pommes Frites’ view, once was more than enough. He’d been glad to get back home again in one piece. One way and another his confidence had been badly sapped.
Last, but by no means least, there had been the encounter with the second Monsieur Pamplemousse; the one he’d caught a brief glimpse of when they boarded the train.
True, on closer inspection the new one was quite different from the version he had known and loved for a number of years. One quick sniff had established that straight away. But outwardly the likeness had been remarkable: the same figure, the same way of walking, the same face, even down to a similar though not so dark pair of glasses.
It was all very confusing and for the time being at least, totally beyond his comprehension. That being so, he had given up thinking about it. Pommes Frites belonged to the school of thought that believed if you waited long enough problems had a habit of solving themselves, and it was pointless losing too much sleep over them.
All the same, he was glad to feel the touch of his master’s hand. It signified that at long last things were returning to normal, and he felt in a much better frame of mind as he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse out of the restaurant car; so much so he scarcely gave the ersatz edition a second glance when they passed his table.
Back in the compartment, Pommes Frites gave the scenery a cursory inspection through the window and then resumed his nap, while his master buried himself behind a journal.
Châteauroux and Limoges came and went unremarked, and as they drew out of Brive-la-Gaillarde, Monsieur Pamplemousse, satisfactorily up to date on current happenings in the world at large, rose and made his way towards the dining car again in order to investigate the possibility of an early déjeuner. He quickly shelved the idea. Ananas was already ensconced at a table, holding forth loudly on the subject of some coquilles St. Jacques which were apparently not to his liking. He was giving the waiter a dressing down in no uncertain terms, much to the obvious embarrassment of the other diners. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected wryly on the aptness of the choice of dishes, for was not St. Jacques the patron saint of money-makers? The episode left a nasty taste in his mouth and quite put him off the thought of eating. He felt relieved he hadn’t woken Pommes Frites; his change of plan would have been hard to explain. It took a lot to put Pommes Frites off his food.
By Cahors hunger pangs had started to set in, and he was begi
nning to regret his decision. It wasn’t until thirteen fourteen precisely, as they entered the station at Toulouse, that there occurred one of those rare events which break through the thickest cloud and cause the sun to shine, restoring at one and the same time one’s faith in the world.
As they drew to a halt they were assailed on all sides by the sound of cheering. Somewhere towards the front of the train a band was playing martial music, and as he went to open the door at the end of the carriage he caught sight of a group of men waving a large banner.
Toulouse, for whatever reason, seemed to be en fête, and the arrival of the Morning Capitole was obviously the high spot of the day.
Reacting rather faster than his fellow passengers, Ananas took in the situation at a glance and pushed his way past, waving to the crowds as he went. Donning his sunglasses in order to pay lip service to the pretence of travelling incognito, he paused momentarily to adjust his composure, and then emerged in order to greet his admirers.
The effect was magical. A great cheer went up from the waiting throng as they recognised him and word went round. A moment later he disappeared from view, swallowed up in a sea of admirers, only to reappear again seconds later as he was lifted shoulder high. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that his smile looked somewhat fixed, as though the reception was exceeding anything even he had anticipated.
For a brief moment Monsieur Pamplemousse felt almost sorry for him. He wondered if it was like that wherever he went. In his time he’d had his own share of public attention, but it had always been a thing of the moment, a brief period of glory when he’d been responsible for solving a particularly juicy cause célèbre. The day after it was usually forgotten, overtaken by other events. Nowadays he was all too grateful for the strict anonymity that his work for Le Guide imposed. Never to be able to go anywhere without such goings-on must be dreadful.
Shortly afterwards Ananas’ aide de camp appeared, struggling beneath a large assortment of monogrammed luggage. He didn’t look best pleased.
Monsieur Pamplemousse began gathering together his own belongings. At least the platform was now clear. He glanced at his watch. They had plenty of time to catch the connection to Perpignan.
Climbing down onto the platform he paused to have a brief word with the attendant.
‘Au revoir. Merci.’ He pressed a small offering into the man’s hand. It disappeared with all the professional skill of one who earned a good proportion of his living by such sleight of hand. But it was worth it. Realising that Pommes Frites was sharing the breakfast the man had been more than generous with the portions.
‘Merci, M’sieur.’ The attendant was looking very pleased about something. After the unpleasantness with Ananas over déjeuner, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t believe he was deriving satisfaction from the latter’s reception.
‘Do you believe in justice, M’sieur?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Most of the time. Although I must admit to a certain wavering when I witness the kind of demonstration that has just taken place.’
The attendant laughed. ‘That is what is known as “rough justice”, m’sieur. It may get even rougher when both sides find out their mistake. It is not a demonstration of love. It is a manifestation. Une grève sauvage, a wild-cat strike. It is over a matter of rosters. We are the last train they are allowing in today.
‘I think it is one product Monsieur Ananas may regret endorsing – especially when his picture appears in the newspapers tomorrow. It could well lose him his free life pass on S.N.C.F.’
He turned and looked at Monsieur Pamplemousse with some concern. ‘M’sieur is travelling far?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘We hoped to reach Perpignan.’
‘In that case you should hurry. The train will be coming into quai trois. They are allowing the connection out because the driver lives in Narbonne, but who knows? They may yet change their minds. It may not take you on to Perpignan, but it will be a start.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him and hurried down the steps and up the other side to where a train from Bordeaux had just arrived at the adjoining quai.
He paused as the attendant’s voice called over to him. ‘M’sieur.’
‘Oui?’
‘Forgive my saying so, but has anyone ever told you …’
‘Oui,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Many times.’
The attendant shrugged. ‘Tant pis. C’est la vie.’
‘C’est la vie!’ The man was right – it was no use minding. He climbed into the waiting Corail. After the Capitole it felt like boarding an aeroplane. He almost expected to be told to fasten his seat belt.
The cheers from the other end of the platform had grown more sporadic; he could detect a note of disillusion. Perhaps Ananas was trying to pour oil on troubled waters while protecting his own position at the same time. He didn’t envy him the task.
As the train moved out of the gare he caught a glimpse of Ananas’ factotum sitting glumly on a pile of luggage. Perhaps they, too, had been hoping to make the connection. If so, they were out of luck.
He settled back to enjoy the rest of the journey, however far it took them. It had been a strange interlude, not without its compensations. Somehow it redressed the balance slightly and made up for all the little indignities he had suffered. He would enjoy relating the tale at the next year’s staff outing.
He was still working it over in his mind – honing the edges as it were – when they reached Carcassonne, looking very benign as it basked in the afternoon sun, the sombre history of the old town buried in shadow. The platform was deserted. In a few months’ time it would be laden with produce from the surrounding countryside.
Soon they were passing through vineyards. Thirty minutes later hills ahead of them heralded Narbonne, and at Narbonne the attendant’s forecast came true. There would be no more trains that day. Passengers would have to make their own arrangements.
As he joined the throng of disgruntled fellow travellers pushing their way along the subway towards the exit, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it might be a good moment to give his accessories another airing. Perhaps the good people of Narbonne would be more sympathetic to his plight than they had been in Paris. He had happy memories of his last visit when he’d dined at a delightful little restaurant where they played a tape of the Hallelujah Chorus to herald the arrival of the dessert ‘chariot’. He glanced at his watch. The restaurant was due for another test and it might not be too late.
Leaving Pommes Frites in charge of the luggage trolley, he took hold of his white stick, had a quick look round in order to get his bearings, then donned the dark glasses.
Blackness descended, and once again he felt the awful hopelessness being struck blind must engender. Heaven alone knew where the Director had found them. Perhaps Madame Grante had produced them – getting her own back for some of his expense accounts. As he groped his way along the outside of the gare he decided that another time – not that there would ever be another time if he had any say in the matter, but if there were – he would insist on attending some kind of training course first.
Screwing his eyes round he spied the OFFICE DE TOURISME through the side of the frames. It was closed.
On the far side of the forecourt there was a large sign marked TAXIS but the area in front of it was empty. In fact taxis were conspicuous by their absence. They must all have been taken by the fleet of foot and were probably heading for destinations many kilometres away by now.
His heart sank and he was about to give up when he heard a voice. Raising his glasses, he saw a man in a chauffeur’s uniform detach himself from the bonnet of a large, black Mercedes and approach him. ‘Pardon, Monsieur, you are going to the Château Morgue?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘That is what I had hoped to do. It is not easy.’
The man motioned him towards the car. ‘I am here to take you. We had word of the manifestation. Herr Schmuck sends his compliments.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rapi
dly revised his view of Narbonne. It was a city he remembered fondly – the birthplace of Charles Trenet, singer of love songs. The way he was feeling, the man’s words could have been set to music – another contender for the hit parade. The Director must have done his stuff. He pointed towards the spot where Pommes Frites was waiting patiently. ‘That is very good news indeed. I have my luggage over there.’
The chaffeur followed him. ‘I had not expected Monsieur would be accompanied,’ he said, eyeing Pommes Frites unenthusiastically. ‘I was not told.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse unhitched the lead. He was not disposed to enter into an argument at this stage. ‘It has all been arranged,’ he said firmly.
The man gave a grunt as he picked up the valise and led the way towards the car. Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed his unexpected benefactor thoughtfully as he followed on behind. His manner wasn’t exactly unfriendly, unforthcoming was perhaps a more accurate description. When he spoke it was with a touch of arrogance, rather as though in the normal course of events he was the one who was used to giving the orders.
A moment later curiosity gave way to something rather stronger. As the man bent down to open the boot, Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed a distinct bulge high up on the left side of his jacket. It could have been a well-filled wallet. On the other hand, instinct told him it was not.
He felt for his own wallet. ‘Do you happen to have change for a two hundred franc note? Two one hundreds, perhaps?’
‘Non.’ There was no question of looking. He consigned the fact to his memory for possible future use. It had been worth a try.
The Mercedes had the kind of luggage compartment, spacious and spotlessly clean, that made his valise look inadequate and shabby, rather as one felt standing in front of a tailor’s mirror being measured for a new suit.
Aware of the odd look the man was giving his white stick, Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened his grip on the handle, adjusted his glasses, and slipped back into his role as he climbed unsteadily into the car. He was pleased to see there was a dividing glass between himself and the driver. With a hundred or more kilometres still to travel, conversation might have flagged a little. As he settled himself down alongside Pommes Frites he felt something hard beneath his right buttock. It was a case containing a pair of sun-glasses, Bausch and Lomb, of the type with photochromic variable density lenses which change according to the light. In the circumstances they were like manna from heaven. By the time the chauffeur had climbed into his seat the change had taken place. If he noticed anything different about his passenger he wasn’t letting on.