by Michael Bond
‘If you cut me do I not become more beautiful? If you uproot me, I am hurt. But only if you destroy me completely do I die.’ Somehow it summed it all up.
Lingering for a moment by a bronze relief map of the Luxembourg Gardens, erected for benefit of the blind, Doucette ran her fingers over the raised characters. The only sound came from the distant click of metal against metal from the nearby boules area.
‘We are really very lucky.’ She took one last look round the gardens as they went on their way. ‘Perhaps there are parallels to be drawn, Aristide. One must always believe that in the end the good things will triumph over the bad, but patience is needed.’
‘Patience,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and a belief in truth, justice and humanity. It is sometimes a lot to ask.’
Pommes Frites, another living monument to patience, was waiting for them outside the small building housing the headquarters of the apiarists of Paris. He looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and for once he seemed to be taking note of the warning signs, not only keeping well clear of the hives, but a nearby notice that had a picture of a bee on it.
Greetings exchanged, they beat a hasty retreat into the rue Vavin and took refuge in the first café they came to.
Monsieur Pamplemousse ordered a citron pressé for Doucette and a pastis for himself. He felt in need of it.
‘Did you know Mr Pickering had a tracking device hidden in his guidebook?’ asked Doucette, after their order had arrived. ‘He managed to attach a transmitter to the hearse. That’s how he knew where they had taken you.’
‘Nothing surprises me about Mr Pickering,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was a stroke of genius on his part to call out the Pompiers-Sapeurs. As I told you, Couscous, they are always there when you need them.’
‘What makes you think he called them, Aristide?’
‘If he didn’t, then who else would have? I can’t picture Todd doing it. Being in a foreign country and given the circumstances, both would have needed to tread warily. It is a question of territories.’
‘I was not in a foreign country, Aristide,’ said Doucette quietly.
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked up from the delicate task of adding water drop by drop to his drink.
‘You!’
Doucette nodded.
‘But what did you say?’
‘I simply told them there was a man locked in a room at the top of the school building and that if they wanted their ball back they should get there as quickly as possible. I think they found it all rather more than they had bargained for, but it didn’t stop them.’
‘It takes a lot to stop Les Sapeur-Pompiers,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They are not called the “Soldiers of Fire” for nothing. But how did you know I was in the tower?’
‘I had a telephone call from someone at the school.’ said Doucette. ‘She sounded desperate. Her name began with a K …’
‘Katya. I must write and thank her.’
‘She told me you had tied one of her handkerchiefs to something called a flotteur, whatever that may be.’
Sensing he was on dangerous ground, Monsieur Pamplemousse drained his glass and signalled for l’addition.
‘It is a simple float,’ he said, as they made their way down the rue Notre Dames des Champs. ‘It is shaped like a ball and it shuts the water off when a cistern is full. I needed something not too heavy, just enough to stop it being blown away and perhaps land in a tree. Fortunately the one in the school’s toilet was made of copper rather than plastic, so it was exactly right – it landed right in the middle of the play area. Removing it also meant that in the fullness of time water began coming out of the overflow pipe, so when the Sapeurs-Pompiers arrived they knew exactly where to go.’
‘I understand all of that,’ broke in Doucette impatiently. ‘What puzzles me is how you came to have the girl’s handkerchief in the first place.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘Ah, now, Couscous,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you asked me that!’ Feigning temporary deafness due to the noise from traffic in the busy boulevard Raspail, he took hold of his wife’s arm again and hurried her across the road towards the Metro entrance on the central reservation.
Following close behind, Pommes Frites wore his enigmatic expression: a mixture of admiration and anticipation. He enjoyed listening to his master’s stories, not so much because he knew what they were about; most of the time he didn’t. But he liked seeing the effect they had on other people.
As far as he could remember there were thirteen stops between where they were and home, which meant there would be plenty of time. He hoped the train wouldn’t be too crowded.
With luck there might even be a man squeezing a box and making music come out. It had happened to him once before and he had never forgotten it.
It was nice there were so many things in life to look forward to.
Read on for an extract from
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint,
the most recent book in Michael Bond’s
Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites series …
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
MICHAEL BOND
CHAPTER ONE
Véronique put a finger to her lips before gently opening the door. ‘If I were you,’ she whispered, ‘I would keep it low key. We’re a bit edgy today …’
Murmuring his thanks, Monsieur Pamplemousse signalled Pommes Frites to follow on behind as they tiptoed past the Director’s secretary into the Holy of Holies.
Glancing quickly round the room, he seated himself in a chair standing ready and waiting opposite Monsieur Leclercq’s vast desk. Pommes Frites, meanwhile, hastened to make himself comfortable on the deep pile carpet at his feet.
Clearly, Véronique had not been exaggerating. All the signs suggested that if anything she was understating the situation.
Normally a model of sartorial elegance, the Head of France’s premier gastronomic guide looked in a sorry state; his Marcel Lassance tie hung loose around his neck, the jacket of his André Bardot suit was draped higgledy-piggledy over the back of a chair, and although one sleeve of the Eglé bespoke shirt was neatly rolled back above his elbow, the other looked as though it might have been involved in a close encounter with a lawnmower … perhaps while adjusting the blades, although that was highly improbable.
Unlike the past President of France, Monsieur Jacques Chirac, who was credited with having once operated a forklift truck in an American brewery following a spell at Harvard University, Monsieur Pamplemousse doubted if the Director had ever got his hands dirty in the whole of his life. The generally accepted opinion was that he probably laid out the ground rules at an early age; demonstrating clearly to all and sundry that even such mundane tasks as changing a typewriter ribbon were beyond his powers, making sure that letters dictated during the course of the day arrived without fail on his desk ready for signing at the appointed time that same afternoon. The licking of envelopes would have been someone else’s responsibility, thus allowing his taste buds to remain unsullied by close contact with gum mucilage.
Discretion being the better part of valour, it was probably far better to hold his fire until a suitable moment arose. After what seemed like an eternity, and aware of a certain restiveness at his feet, he could stand it no longer.
‘You sent for us, Monsieur?’ he ventured.
‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director distantly. ‘But it was you I wished to have words with first of all.’
Pausing as he riffled through the pile of papers, he glanced pointedly at the figure on the floor.
‘Would you prefer it if Pommes Frites waited outside?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘No, no,’ said Monsieur Leclercq gruffly. ‘It’s just that … well, to put it bluntly, Aristide, you are rather earlier than I expected and I have important matters to discuss. My mind is in turmoil and it is hard to concentrate when your every move is subject to scrutiny by two pairs of eyes
rather than one.’
Ever sensitive to the prevailing atmosphere, and sufficiently conversant with the use of certain key words, Pommes Frites settled down again and, with his tail at half-mast, pretended to busy himself with his ablutions, although clearly his heart wasn’t in it.
‘Your message sounded urgent,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That being the case, we came as quickly as we could. It just so happened the traffic lights were green all the way. Such a thing has never happened before.’
‘Aaah!’ His words fell on deaf ears as an exclamation from the Director indicated he had at long last found what he had been looking for.
He waved aloft a crumpled form between thumb and forefinger. ‘As you will doubtless remember, Pamplemousse, I recently issued a questionnaire to all members of staff.
‘I had in mind ascertaining their views on various matters of importance. It was all part of an exercise in reappraising our current position in this difficult world of ours. Running an operation the size of Le Guide is a costly exercise, and from time to time, in common with most large companies, we have to take stock of the most expensive item of all: namely, manpower. It was our accountants who first posed the question. Are we, they asked, always getting value for money from those who work in the field?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse essayed a non-committal response, wondering what could possibly be coming next and fearing the worst.
‘Cast your mind back,’ continued the Director, ‘and you may also recall the very first question on the list.’
‘As a member of France’s premier food guide, what are the three things uppermost in your mind at all times?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
In spite of himself, the Director looked impressed. ‘That is correct, Pamplemousse. Which makes your answer, “Sex, money, and still more sex,” singularly disappointing, even by present day standards.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. ‘But …’ half rising from his chair, he held out a free hand, ‘may I see that form, Monsieur?’
The Director smoothed the piece of paper carefully on a blotting pad before handing it over. ‘I must confess, I was so incensed by your answer I screwed it into a ball and threw it into the waste bin. Unfortunately, my hand was trembling so I missed the target and it landed in a vase of flowers. The cleaning lady retrieved it for me later that day and left it on my desk to dry.’
‘Where would we be without the cleaning ladies of this world?’ mused Monsieur Pamplemousse, sinking back into his chair. ‘Hortense is a treasure and no mistake.’
‘Is that her name?’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Speaking from experience,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, savouring a minor victory, ‘I venture to suggest the answer which so upset you probably reflects the view of the vast majority of the French population, the younger ones in particular. It is a characteristic of our nation that its citizens take the business of living and all its many and varied ramifications seriously.’
Holding the paper up to the light, he studied it carefully. ‘Having said that, I must inform Monsieur that this is not my handwriting …’
‘Not your handwriting, Pamplemousse?’ boomed the Director. ‘If it is not your handwriting, then how did it come to grace a form which has your name at the top?’
‘That,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse grimly, ‘is a question I shall address as soon as possible.’
A joke was a joke, but there were limits. He strongly suspected Glandier. The schoolboy in him was never far away. Blessed with a distorted sense of humour, his colleague’s prowess as a performer of conjuring tricks at staff parties all too often extended itself to other forms of trickery when he was at a loose end.
‘I accept what you say, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘albeit with a certain amount of reluctance.’
‘It is an area where there are those who say I am accident prone,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Prone you may be while it is happening, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq sternly, ‘but more often than not I fear it is no accident.
‘That is why I fell victim to a jest that was in very poor taste. I am relieved to hear my faith in you is not entirely misplaced. The correct answer, as I am sure you will agree, is first and foremost the well-being of Le Guide, closely followed by carbon footprints and global warming.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse remained silent. He wondered how many of his colleagues lived up to such high ideals. As ever, the Director was out of touch with reality. Speaking personally, pleased though he was to know Monsieur Leclercq’s faith in him had been restored, he could barely lay claim to always observing the first item on the list, let alone the other two.
‘The phrase “carbon footprint” does seem to be on everybody’s lips these days,’ he said, non-committally. ‘Next year it will doubtless be something else. These things tend to have a limited shelf life. The journals seize on whatever is currently in vogue and work it to death.’
‘All creatures, no matter what their size, leave a carbon footprint,’ said Monsieur Leclercq reprovingly. ‘Whether by accident or design, it is a God-given fact of life and it is something that will not change. One must never forget that, Aristide.
‘Centipedes, ants, earwigs, even the humble escargot … they all have their place in the scheme of things. They arrive on this earth hard-wired from the word go.’
Picking up on the phrase ‘hard-wired’, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank. The words had a definite transatlantic ring to them. It suggested Monsieur Leclercq had just returned from one of his periodic trips to the United States. They often boded ill.
‘I grant you,’ continued the Director, ‘that given its overall dimensions in terms of height, length and width, an escargot’s carbon footprint alongside that of, say, an elephant, is hard to evaluate.’
Pausing to sweep the pile of papers to one side, he leant back in his chair.
‘However, it brings me to another matter currently exercising my mind, and which happens to be one of the reasons why I summoned you here today.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear. Le Guide’s logo – two escargots rampant – was a constantly recurring concern of the Director and there was little more he could contribute to the subject. Leaving aside the use of the words ‘hard-wired’, the phrase ‘one of the reasons’ was also unsettling. It sounded as though there might be a whole catalogue of them.
Monsieur Leclercq picked up a silver paperweight cast in the shape of the subject under discussion.
‘Apart from the fact that, strictly speaking, our logo is no longer politically correct, in many respects it no longer reflects the kind of dynamic image we need to project in this day and age, when the emphasis everywhere is on speed. This is particularly true when it comes to our readers on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. In my experience, they are mostly blind to the humble helix pomotia’s virtues as a delicacy. Following considerable research, I have yet to see escargots feature on any American menu.
‘However, that is by the by. The inescapable truth is that sales of Le Guide in the United States of America have plummeted over the past year.’
To prove his point he held up a graph showing a long red line which not only dipped alarmingly as it neared the right-hand edge of the paper, but disappeared entirely before reaching it.
‘We are not alone, of course. Michelin have had their problems too, although they are fighting back. As you know, their logo has recently been updated. Monsieur Bibendum has shed a roll of fat and is looking all the better for it. He is now a leaner, fitter image of his former roly-poly self; and in so doing he has become an example to us all.’
‘That kind of thing can backfire,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘My understanding is that many people in America set great store by rolls of fat. They call them “love handles”.’
‘Is that so, Pamplemousse?’ said the Director distastefully. ‘I am happy to take your word for it.
‘Be that as it
may, our chief rival in the United States is a publication called Zagat, a guide that relies for its information on reports sent in by readers, who offer up their experiences when dining out. Given that more often than not they dwell on the size and quantity of fried potatoes, it is little wonder many of them have a weight problem.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his pulse begin to quicken. Could it be that the Director was dangling a promotional carrot before his eyes? Head of the long-mooted American office, perhaps?
There would be snags, of course, but it was an exciting prospect. Pommes Frites would probably need to have a chip listing all his relevant details implanted somewhere or other on his person before being allowed into the country … that could be why the Director was choosing his words with care. He would know, of course, that Monsieur Pamplemousse would never contemplate going to America without him. It must also be the reason why he had been invited along to the meeting.
That apart, he wasn’t at all sure how his wife would take the news. Knowing Doucette, she would be worried about what to wear for a start.
He tried dipping his toes into the water. ‘For some while now Pommes Frites and I have been metaphorically girding our respective loins ready for our next assignment …’ he began, hastily cutting short what he had been about to say as he realised the Director was still dwelling on the subject of snails.
‘I fear the worst, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Storm clouds are already gathering on the horizon for the gastropods of this world.’
‘They come ready equipped to withstand any amount of sudden downpours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It is not that aspect of it which bothers me,’ said the Director. ‘It is our image.’
‘In that case,’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘could we not generate a little more publicity? A spectacular win in the field of international sport, perhaps? In Grande-Bretagne they hold an annual World Championship Race for snails. Last year’s winner completed the 33cm course in 2 minutes 49 seconds and won a tankard full of lettuce leaves.’
