Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

by Michael Bond

  ‘I believe anything in this day and age,’ said Glandier. He was about to hold forth when he paused. ‘Talking of global warming, something very eco-friendly has just floated in.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and gazed at the transformation. He could hardly believe his eyes at the speed with which the girl had changed. Even Pommes Frites looked taken aback.

  The rest of the room simply lapsed into stunned silence as the vision in white paused momentarily in the manner of a model about to execute a turn on the catwalk.

  Before anyone had a chance to speak she blew a kiss, first of all in the direction of Monsieur Pamplemousse, then for some reason at another of his colleagues – Bernard, and finally towards Pommes Frites as he hurried across to greet her.

  ‘Did anyone see what I saw?’ asked Allard, as she went on her way.

  ‘That was a conversation stopper and no mistake,’ said Truffert. ‘How about that wiggle?’

  ‘Awesome,’ said Glandier. ‘Talk about a derrière to die for.’

  ‘Her name’s Amber,’ said Bernard.

  ‘Who told you that?’ asked Allard.

  ‘She did.’

  ‘It’s like those traffic lights they have in the UK,’ said Glandier. ‘Somewhere between red for danger and green for go ahead.’

  ‘I know which I’d plump for,’ said Allard dreamily. ‘Did you see the way she vibrated when she walked? Revving on all eight cylinders; yet all sweetness and light.’

  Remembering the outburst in the changing room, Monsieur Pamplemousse stayed silent. You never could tell with people once they were roused.

  Feeling slightly put out, he stared at Bernard. ‘You seem to know a lot about her.’

  ‘That’s the way it goes,’ said Bernard airily. ‘Some people have it, some don’t. If you must know, I happened to be around when she arrived and I gave her a hand. She had just what she called “fast-tracked in” from New York, armed with a Louis Vuitton Keepall no less.

  ‘It reminded me of that shot in M*A*S*H when Hot Lips arrived at their camp in a helicopter. Remember, everybody rushed forward to help her out? Except in this case she was climbing out backwards and the lazy so and so of a taxi driver couldn’t even be bothered to get out and open the door for her. So I beat him to it.’

  ‘Serves him right,’ said Allard. ‘It must have been a sight for sore eyes.’

  ‘You can say that again. I can tell you something else about her. She was a dancer at the Crazy Horse until she failed the doudounes test.’

  ‘Failed it?’ repeated Allard. ‘That’s not possible!’

  ‘The distance between nipples must not exceed 27 cm,’ said Bernard. ‘Hers were over the limit.’

  With his recent brief encounter still fresh in his mind, Monsieur Pamplemousse scotched the very idea of anything about the girl falling short of sheer perfection.

  ‘It must have been a cold day,’ said Bernard. ‘It’s like rubbing them with an ice cube. It can have that effect.’

  ‘You should know,’ said Allard.

  ‘The Crazy Horse has strict rules on these things,’ continued Bernard, airing his knowledge. ‘No tattoos. No Botox or any other artificial enhancements. Weekly weight checks …’

  ‘I thought all that might have changed since the Founder died,’ said Truffert. ‘Didn’t the sons take over?’

  ‘It sounds a bit like the Director,’ broke in Glandier before Bernard had a chance to reply. ‘Remember the time when he was on one of his health kicks and he had that tailor’s dummy standing in his office …’

  ‘Alphonse,’ said Allard. ‘It was his idea of the ideal inspector. He’d had all the details fed into a computer. Weight 76.8 kilos …’

  ‘A cold bath every morning,’ said Glandier. ‘And no more than 2.6 mistresses during the course of a lifetime. I doubt if Alphonse would have admitted to 0.6. He was just too good to be true.’

  ‘As I recall,’ said Allard, ‘I wasn’t the only one who failed the test.’

  ‘At least it didn’t include the distance from the belly button to the pubis like they do at the Crazy Horse,’ said Bernard, anxious to get back to the subject in hand. ‘Max 13 cm; that’s what makes their butt stick out – not that our friend needs any help in that area.’

  ‘It’s an ethnic thing,’ agreed Truffert. ‘They have a head start over the rest of us, if you forgive the comparison.’

  ‘How do people land these jobs?’ mused Glandier. ‘I suppose it’s a case of being in the right place at the right time with a tape measure at the ready.’

  ‘It’s tough work, but someone has to do it,’ agreed Bernard. ‘It’s what’s known as job satisfaction.’

  ‘I expect it’s like top flight concierges,’ said Loudier. ‘Hotels don’t pay them. They pay the hotel. It works both ways; a good fixer is worth his weight in gold to the hotel, and if the guy is good at his job it’s worth a premium for all the tips and backhanders that come his way.’

  ‘When I suggested she might be good bunny material, she pooh poohed the idea,’ said Bernard. ‘She said she wouldn’t want to risk getting myxomatosis.’

  ‘I like a girl with a sense of humour,’ broke in Glandier.

  ‘She’ll need it in her present job,’ replied Bernard. ‘If you ask me, she and Jay Corby are an item. Not that you’d guess it from the look he gave her when they met up. You’d think she was some kind of pond life someone had dragged up by mistake. He went as white as a sheet.

  ‘Anyway,’ he pulled a handkerchief smeared with lipstick from a jacket pocket and held it up for all to see. ‘Good works have their just reward!’

  ‘I thought you said she was worried about catching myxomatosis?’ exclaimed Glandier.

  Bernard ignored the remark. Instead, he waved the handkerchief pointedly at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Funny thing, Aristide. It matches your shirt collar. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I saved her from a fate worse than death,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply.

  ‘You mean you let her pass,’ interjected Boulet, amid renewed laughter.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It seemed a suitable moment to call a halt. ‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘Transport leaves in five minutes.’

  A chorus of groans greeted his words, but it petered out as an announcement over the loudspeakers heralded the arrival of a small fleet of specially chartered coaches to take everyone to their destination.

  Monsieur Leclercq had thought of everything, but for the majority of his guests the news came as a complete surprise. It was hard to say how many might have been tempted to plead an urgent appointment that afternoon had they got wind of the plan. However they were nipped in the bud by a further announcement from the Director.

  Couched in ringing tones, it brooked no argument. Napoleon addressing his troops before the battle of Waterloo could hardly have been more eloquent, and if any of those present inwardly hoped the outcome would be more successful than the Emperor’s had been, they wisely kept it to themselves.

  Not so the members of the Fourth Estate. Having been kept under wraps, wined and dined behind the scenes, they were already seated in the last of the coaches. Cameras at the ready, they could hardly wait for the word ‘go’.

  As the convoy, led by the Director’s black Citroën CX25 carrying the hosts and their guest of honour, passed through the gates and headed for the village, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that, seen from above, perhaps from the small plane still circling overhead, it must look for all the world like a rather grand funeral cortège. The pilot confirmed it a moment later as he dipped his wings in salute.

  The general tone of conversation in the coach was certainly funereal. Muted bonnes chances were exchanged with increasing regularity as they drew near the hall, until Trigaux, Le Guide’s Head of the Art Department, who came from a theatrical background, could stand it no longer and delivered a lecture on the fact that among superstitious thespians such words only had the reverse effect.

  ‘In the world of the re
al theatre,’ he announced, ‘in order to avoid tempting Gods of ill fortune, it is considered necessary to say, “Break a leg!”’

  ‘You’re having us on,’ said Glandier accusingly.

  ‘Not at all.’ Trigaux warmed to his subject. ‘The true origin is lost in the mists of time, but a popular theory is that it goes back to 1865 when President Lincoln was assassinated at the Ford’s theatre in Washington. The man who did it, a little known actor called John Wilkes Booth, jumped on the stage immediately after he had committed the crime and broke his leg, thus sealing his own fate.

  ‘Ideally, it should be said to all the cast by someone other than an actor, the producer, or,’ he added meaningfully, ‘in this case, since the author is with us …’

  ‘Casser un jambon!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse in response to repeated cries from the back of the coach, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  What if the cast were not adequately insured? Finding out afterwards would be too late and everybody, most of all Monsieur Leclercq, would heap blame on his head.

  Catching sight of the expression on his master’s face, Pommes Frites, who had been doing his best to follow the conversation, but apart from picking up on the word jambon had failed dismally to get the gist of it, let out a howl.

  Given the circumstances, it was as good a summing-up as Monsieur Pamplemousse could have wished for.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the event, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s worst fears failed to materialise. The reaction of everyone around him both during and after the play said it all.

  When the final curtain fell the audience erupted into a standing ovation. Cries of ‘Bravo!’ rang out from all sides as he found himself being led onto the stage by his colleagues.

  He felt embarrassed, for it had been very much a team effort.

  All the same, from a personal point of view, he couldn’t have been more delighted. Seeing his hard work come to life on stage exceeded his wildest dreams and he couldn’t wait to hear Doucette’s reaction.

  Granted, most of the audience were well and truly fortified by the food and wine laid on by Monsieur and Madame Leclercq, and as a result they were in an expansive mood. Even so, the almost continuous laughter, not just by friends and relations of those taking part – which would have been understandable – but by the hard-bitten seen-it-all-before press corps, and the normally taciturn local inhabitants invited to fill the remaining seats, had been music to his ears.

  Saint François de Sales had not deserted him after all. The patron saint of writers must simply have been keeping a low profile, temporarily tied up with his other charges; journalists and deaf mutes.

  The source of his inspiration went back to an occasion many years before, when he had been to see the film version of Kaufman and Hart’s play The Man Who Came to Dinner.

  Starring Monty Woolley as the irascible Sheridan Whiteside – man-about-town, theatre critic, wit – it told the story of how the Great Man, having slipped and broken his hip on the doorstep of a luckless family in Vermont, was forced to take up temporary residence as an uninvited guest, wreaking havoc on their simple lives in consequence.

  That, too, had been a hilarious evening. A classic of its time, it had remained indelibly etched in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind.

  For a brief while, during the worst moments of his ‘writer’s block’, he had even wondered in desperation whether the stage rights were still available, and if they were, would it be beyond the scope of his colleagues’ talents to resurrect it?

  The very worst scenario would have been to come up with something so banal Corby would have taken the next plane back to America, vowing never to return. Any possibility of his reviewing Le Guide in a favourable light would have left the country with him.

  Then, one morning, returning home from a walk with Pommes Frites, Monsieur Pamplemousse happened to take another look at Marcel Aymé’s statue and the seeds of an idea entered his mind.

  Supposing … just supposing … instead of having a character like Sheridan Whiteside – said to have been based on the acid-tongued theatre critic Alexander Woollcott – what if the play was an entirely original concept about a young couple who buy a derelict property in order to open a restaurant, only to find it was haunted by the ghost of a long-departed despot of a food critic?

  In reality, the ‘ghost’ could be a down-and-out squatter with a gift of the gab who was determined to do everything in his power to rid the property of its new occupants, and by making use of a series of hidden trapdoors, was seemingly able to disappear and reappear at will – which must, of course, have been the secret behind Marcel Aymé’s character in The Man Who Walked Through Walls.

  Once the idea had taken root, the play almost began to write itself. Restaurants were in effect much like stage productions, with the cast assembling prior to opening time, ready to receive their last-minute notes on the dishes of the day before taking up their allotted positions.

  The joy of it was that, steeped as they were in what went on behind the scenes, there was no need for any of his colleagues to have prior acting experience; they simply played themselves.

  It was the equivalent of having a ready-made supply of staff and customers at his disposal, a cast, moreover, blessed with the built-in advantage of their arriving ready-armed with a plentiful supply of ancient ‘Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup’ jokes. Honed to perfection by constant repetition over the years and retold with relish to a captive audience, they had taken full advantage of the situation and milked it for all it was worth.

  If there was a certain amount of ad-libbing it was only to be expected and only added to the fun.

  Véronique, looking stunning in an outfit specially hired for the occasion, was perfect in the part of the young wife.

  Boulet, Le Guide’s most recent recruit, who made no bones about fancying her, had jumped at the chance of playing the husband, revelling in those moments when she was at her wits’ end and in need of solace. The fact that, according to Glandier, the Director’s ever-resourceful secretary had taken the precautionary measure of overdosing heavily on garlic beforehand proved no deterrent.

  And if Boulet’s ministrations gave rise to the very few longeurs there were in the play, who could blame him? Besides, they came as a welcome relief to the audience after all the laughter.

  Madame Grante was also a classic example of typecasting. Dressed in black bombazine, she was tailor-made for the role of an elderly dyspeptic cashier. Seated at a high desk near the entrance to the dining room, there were times when her grumpy asides, as she dipped into her vast store of real-life grievances, threatened to bring the house down.

  Trigaux, normally the most reticent of people, had surprised everyone with his state of the art electronic sound effects; howling wind, creaking stairs, the eerie cries of a banshee …

  But it was the casting of the Director in the role of the itinerant vagrant that really paid off, exceeding even Monsieur Pamplemousse’s expectations.

  Had the play been put on in a normal theatre instead of a local village hall, he felt sure it would have run and run. He could picture the inscription in lights above the entrance: ‘HENRI LECLERCQ – STARRING IN …’ Or perhaps, in the tradition of so many famous French actors over the years – Raimu, Charpin, Fernandel, to name but a few – simply ‘LECLERCQ’. Undoubtedly, Le Guide’s director would receive even more of a standing ovation than Monsieur Pamplemousse had been granted, when he did eventually put in an appearance – and deservedly so. A frustrated thespian at heart, he had positively revelled in his part.

  Lines that had seemed innocuous enough on paper became like barbed arrows when they emerged from his lips, heading straight for the centre of the target every time. Not for him any suggestion of miming. Everything had to be played for real, each morsel of food set before him was consumed with relish.

  Had the ingredients been stage props, he could have been palming them, whereas in reality everything was fresh from the barbecue. Where he managed
to put it all was hard to picture. It was a bravura performance, and he had seemed to grow in stature with each new appearance on stage.

  As the cast took their ‘final’ bows in front of the curtain for what seemed like the umpteenth time – Monsieur Pamplemousse had lost count of the number – he contrived to search the wings for the star of the show.

  He could, of course, be back in his dressing room removing his make-up, but that was highly unlikely. It would be totally out of character for Monsieur Leclercq to forego the plaudits of the crowd. Appearing in full make-up would be an undoubted plus.

  Having drawn a blank on both sides of the proscenium arch, Monsieur Pamplemousse broke away from the others as gracefully as he could and hurried backstage. Something was clearly amiss.

  Pommes Frites hesitated for a moment or two before following on behind.

  Given the choice he would sooner have stayed with the others, but he staunchly resisted the temptation. In truth, although he’d only been entrusted with a walk-on part, he had caught the acting bug.

  He had certainly done his level best to make the most of it, pausing to leave his mark on a potted bay tree by the entrance to the restaurant whenever he had the chance. As with the simplest of catchphrases, repetition brought its own reward, and the applause that greeted his first appearance grew in volume with each successive visit. In the end it became addictive, and when his normally ample reserves ran out he turned his back on the audience and resorted to miming. It was canine acting of the highest order.

  Hearing a muffled groan as he crossed the set, Monsieur Pamplemousse paused to take his bearings. It was hard to locate the exact source of the sound because of the noise from the audience, but it seemed to be coming from somewhere behind Madame Grante’s cash desk.

  He was about to backtrack when Pommes Frites shot past him, ears facing forward as he homed in on his unseen target. A moment later there was a loud cry: a mixture of alarm and outrage.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s immediate reaction as he joined his friend and mentor was that, apart from being vertical rather than on the slant, Monsieur Leclercq’s stance was almost an exact replica of Marcel Aymé’s bronze statue outside their apartment block.