Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint

by Michael Bond

  ‘I mean a Plan with a capital P,’ said Amber. ‘The kind of road map George Bush used to have for the Middle East.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound sceptical,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but—’

  ‘Look where it didn’t get him? I know.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse paused while Pommes Frites investigated something in the gutter. He seized the opportunity to look around. Everything seemed quiet enough and there was no one else in sight.

  ‘Forgive my asking,’ he said. ‘It’s none of my business—’

  ‘But what’s between Jay and me? Not what you’re probably thinking. He’s in denial about that side of things. His proclivities lie elsewhere. To put it bluntly, he swings whichever way the wind blows, and that’s not my scene.’

  For no special reason he could put into words, Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he felt glad.

  ‘How did you meet up with him in the first place?’

  ‘I was working for an American company, Waist Disposals Inc. They specialise in over-extended girth problems. I started off modelling for their “before and after” adverts and that led to helping with the deportment classes.

  ‘Jay was a dropout from “Overeaters Anonymous”. He thought he would give us a try. We didn’t get very far with his weight problem, but on a personal level it seemed to be working out, so when he gave up on the course he offered me a job as his PA.

  ‘He isn’t the easiest person in the world to work for, but it made a change. In spite of everything, I’m worried about him. Why? Because I’m an idiot, I guess. Besides, it’s my bread and butter and I like the work.

  ‘The downside if you are in any way involved with Jay is that you need to have your bags packed, runway-ready, at all times, and I guess that for once mine were in the closet. The result? He did what you might call a moonlight flit on me.’

  ‘How did you get to hear where he’d gone to?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘They telephoned from the travel agency to make sure his tickets had arrived. It was the first I knew of it, and by then it was too late. He’d gone. And that’s another thing. He must have done the booking himself. My theory is he’d been keeping your Director’s offer in reserve and only made up his mind at the very last moment.’

  And another thing, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse; reading between the lines, it sounded very much as though Corby was doing his best to give her the slip at the same time.

  Reaching a roundabout, he took a half right, heading towards the Place Louis-Armand and the train station. The sooner he found a safe hiding place for his car and an out of the way restaurant where they could eat, the better.

  ‘This is yours?’ said Amber when he stopped by his Deux Chevaux. ‘It must be as old as Deauville itself.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But it was equally ahead of its time.’

  ‘If it had turrets,’ said Amber, ‘it would go with the architecture. It looks like a roll-top desk on wheels, or a tiny tank.’

  ‘Looks had a low priority when it was conceived,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It was designed with French farmers in view. The criterion being it should be able to travel over a freshly ploughed field at reasonable speed with a basket of fresh eggs on the back seat without breaking a single one. Which is more than you can say for a lot of today’s cars. They would have a backseat full of scrambled eggs as soon as they hit the first furrow.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’ve managed to get through life without one,’ said Amber.

  ‘Monsieur André Citroën had his priorities right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Talking of which …’ feeling under the front seat he produced a copy of Le Guide. ‘Before we go any further we must find somewhere to eat and have a good think.’

  Amber reached into her bag and held up an Enprint. ‘If it’s of any help, I have a head and shoulders of Jay.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse took it from her and looked at it dubiously. ‘At least it’s bigger than mine.’

  ‘Jay’s the only person I know who’s pleased with his passport photograph,’ said Amber. ‘This is a copy of it he had blown up. It was in a frame on his desk. Something made me bring it along just in case.’

  ‘He doesn’t look very prepossessing.’

  ‘Nobody, but nobody except Jay, thinks their passport pic does them any favours.’

  ‘That’s because immigration people are on the lookout for other things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The size of the ears … the distance between the eyes … the shape of the head; all these things come under the heading of Recognition Factors.’

  ‘It’s a wonder they let him through in that case,’ said Amber. ‘Mind you, the other nine tenths of him isn’t anywhere near as bad: Reeboks, blue slacks, black button-down open collar shirt; topped by a blazer when there’s a chill in the air.’

  ‘It sounds like the same clothes he was wearing on his last visit to Paris,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It’s his “Take me as you see me. Any questions?” uniform.’

  ‘Not hard to spot in a crowd,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It depends where you are. It hasn’t been any help so far. I tried the railroad station on the way in and drew a total blank, and the staff in the Tourist Centre across the way swore he hadn’t been in there either.’

  ‘Perhaps he got the travel agency to pre-book him in somewhere …’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘I tried phoning them,’ said Amber. ‘Nothing doing. The only thing I learnt was he has an open-ended return air ticket.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her with new respect. She certainly hadn’t wasted any time. He ran his finger down the list of hotels in Le Guide. ‘The three major ones are all part of the same group. If I show the photo to the concierge at any one of them he will be able to get it scanned and circulated to the other two. It will be a start.’

  ‘But will he bother?’ She sounded doubtful.

  ‘If I ask him nicely he will,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Besides, I know the group from my days in the Paris Sûreté and they’re very hot on security.’

  ‘You were in the Sûreté?’

  ‘Was is the operative word,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘although I have to admit there are times since I joined Le Guide when it feels as though I never left.’

  He glanced at her bag. ‘While we are at it, perhaps I’d better relieve you of my bottom drawer. I would hate you to be accused of shop lifting.’

  Stowing the collection under the front seat alongside his guidebook, Monsieur Pamplemousse made sure they were safe from any prying eyes, then went round to the back of the car and opened the boot.

  Amber looked suitably impressed when he unlocked Le Guide’s case to replace the binoculars.

  ‘Very James Bond,’ she said, peering over his shoulder.

  ‘Everything from a Personal Direction Finder to a gadget for getting stones out of horses’ hooves,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have never had cause to use either, but you never know. There is always a first time.’

  ‘I guess you might meet up with a lame horse that’s lost its way,’ said Amber.

  Removing the top tray, Monsieur Pamplemousse found what he had been looking for.

  ‘As for this …’ he held up a black notebook. ‘This is worth its weight in gold. There are three kinds of chef in France. Those at the top of their profession, holders of three Stock Pots and in command of a kitchen often larger than the dining area and more staff than there are patrons. Then there is the kind of chef who works wonders in an area the size of a cupboard.

  ‘This book homes in on an area somewhere in between. It contains a list my colleagues and I have compiled over the years of all the places we have come across on our travels that deserve to be in Le Guide, but for one reason or another don’t want to be.’

  ‘It sounds like a publisher’s dream,’ said Amber.

  ‘And that’s the way it will remain,’ said Mo
nsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It would break faith with all those mentioned if their names were made public. Most of them haven’t replied to any of the annual questionnaires they have been sent. Why? Because they are not interested in fame and fortune. They are perfectly happy with the way things are, thank you very much.

  ‘Par exemple …’ he flipped through the pages. ‘Here is one of my own contributions. It is a little place in the Midi, not far from Orange, run by a retired bank manager, his wife and their pet dog. The Monsieur is blissfully happy tending his garden, his wife is a natural-born cook, and their dog, Ambrose, watches over it all, lending a helping paw whenever it is needed. The occasional guest provides them with the icing on the cake.’

  ‘It sounds idyllic,’ said Amber.

  ‘In its simple way it bears comparison with Paul Bocuse, not so many kilometres away. Both are run by perfectionists. Both have what is known as “the passion” and want to share it with others. Both will ensure that you leave happier than when you arrived. But one is open to all – at a price – the other to a few passers-by who are lucky enough to be in the know. Both deserve our respect.

  ‘Now, let us see what we can find in Deauville …’

  ‘When you say “we” …’ began Amber.

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that since we share the same objective, it would be sensible to pool our resources.

  ‘I have no wish to spend the night in the car with Pommes Frites. Not only does he take up a lot of room, but he is inclined to snore. I am assuming you will also need somewhere to stay …

  ‘Ah! The very thing.’ He reached for his mobile. ‘It is one of Bernard’s recommendations and I trust his judgement. He has good taste when it comes to looking after number one.’

  ‘Bernard?’ said Amber. ‘Is he the one I met when I arrived? He helped me out of the taxi and made me feel at home straight away. It’s a shame about his problem.’

  ‘Bernard has a problem?’

  ‘Apparently his wife is out most of the time. He sounded terribly lonely.’

  How can you, Bernard? thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Your sins will find you out. Just wait until we next meet up!

  ‘Where is your luggage now?’ he asked.

  ‘I have another bag checked in at the station. Your stage-door keeper got me a taxi and explained to him where to go to pick it up at the Director’s house. Such a nice man. One of nature’s gentlemen. He was tickled pink when I gave him €50.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes heavenwards. It was no wonder old Rambaud had been smiling. May he also be forgiven.

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ said Amber. ‘While you are ringing around I’ll go across and check it out.’

  ‘Two rooms facing the garden,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse when she returned. ‘Diner at 19.00. They eat early in this part of the world, but it still leaves time for a bath and a freshen-up. According to Bernard’s notes, Thursday is Poulet Vallée d’Auge day. He rates it three Stockpots. They don’t come any higher.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Amber.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse held up the photograph of Corby. ‘Before we do anything else, we need to set the wheels in motion. I must get in touch with the nearest concierge. After that I must look for a cash machine.’

  He hated to think what Madame Grante would say when he handed in his P39 claim for expenses. His stock of €50 notes was rapidly diminishing, and not a single receipt! He’d better not mention that one of the beneficiaries was Rambaud. They would neither of them ever hear the last of it.

  For all his faults, Bernard was a good judge of ambience, and his recommendation turned out to be an old house tucked away behind a pair of massive oak doors in a quiet part of town. It couldn’t have suited Monsieur Pamplemousse better. Once the doors closed behind them, they could have been in another world, safe from prying eyes.

  ‘Now this is what I call storybook France,’ said Amber. ‘I could never pass a pair of doors like these in Paris without wondering what lay behind them.’

  If the elderly couple who lived there were in any way fazed by the arrival of such a disparate trio they showed no outward signs as they emerged to greet them.

  The inside of the house was no less enchanting. His bedroom, with its whitewashed stone walls, looked out onto a flower-filled garden where a hose was playing softly amongst the shrubs. By contrast, the bathroom was state-of-the-art chrome and glass; like something out of a glossy magazine. Everything he might need was there at hand.

  Looking at his watch some three quarters of an hour later, refreshed and relaxed, he went out onto the landing and knocked on Amber’s door. It opened almost immediately.

  She was dressed in dark blue tailored slacks topped by a close-fitting dark grey knitted sweater with a Nehru style neck. Her evening bag positively reeked Avenue Montaigne.

  ‘Mistress of the quick change,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ruefully aware of his own sartorial failings.

  ‘I’ve had plenty of practice,’ said Amber.

  ‘Prepare yourself for a feast,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as he led the way down the winding staircase and a waft of the good things in store rose to greet them.

  ‘You are in a part of the world where the locals are not simply content with three meals a day; the truly dedicated ones eat a hearty breakfast, then they happily sit down to tripes à la mode de Caen for their morning break. It helps keep them going until lunchtime. Halfway through lunch they pause for a Calvados as an aid to digestion.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing … life,’ said Amber, as they took their seats at a table near the window. She gazed round the room at the ancient furniture and fittings, the lampshades, and the pictures – mostly seascapes – adorning the walls.

  ‘Anywhere else in the world it would be considered kitsch, but here it feels exactly right. Who would have thought it? Less than hour ago I hadn’t the least idea what I was going to do next, or where my next meal was coming from, and yet here we are …’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You happen to be in a certain place at a certain time, then you turn a corner and your whole world changes.

  ‘That’s how things were when I happened to bump into Monsieur Leclercq. Now look at me.’

  ‘What’s your guess for tonight?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that, had he been Bernard, he would have come right out with it, adding another three Stocks Pots for the company, and no doubt asking for the name of Amber’s perfume, professing himself to be overcome by it and leaning forward to drink it in. But that was Bernard.

  ‘In this part of the world,’ he said, ‘think apples, butter, cream and cheese; apples for cider and Calvados, cream and butter with almost everything. For cheese you have Camembert, Livarot, Neufchâtel, and not far from where we were this afternoon, Pont-l’Evêque.

  ‘All along the coast fish abound, perhaps not as they did in days gone by when it was said you only had to lower a bucket into the sea to catch enough to last you a week, but it’s still plentiful enough.

  ‘Mont-Saint-Michel is famous for its succulent lamb that feed off the salt grass and the many plants which grow there when the tide is out. Inland, everywhere you look there are cows grazing. Pigs are also much prized; no small-holding is without at least one, and pork butchers abound with their products.’

  ‘So you believe in the old saying,’ said Amber. ‘You are what you eat?’

  ‘In France, generally, that is true,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but in Normandy they take it one step further. They believe that when it comes to fish and meat, you are what they ate.

  ‘Take Montagne-au-Perche, near Alençon. There the pigs feed off windfall apples, hence it is noted for its boudin noir. Every year, during the third week in March, there is an International Festival.’

  ‘You are wearing your guide hat again,’ said Amber. ‘Now I almost wish I hadn’t asked. I shan’t know what to choose.’

  ‘You won’t be given a choic
e,’ warned Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We shall be eating what the owners are eating and if the Madame’s rosy cheeks are anything to go by, there isn’t much to fear. You should follow Pommes Frites’ example. He takes life as it comes.’

  Hearing his name mentioned, Pommes Frites looked up happily from a large bowl of suitable sustenance put out for his benefit on a place mat. Clearly, he had made friends in the kitchen already.

  The first course didn’t disappoint: a sole à la dieppoise – its rich wine and cream sauce garnished with mussels, mushrooms and crayfish. It was accompanied by a jug of cider, with instructions to have as much of it as they liked; there was plenty more where that came from.

  ‘Home-made,’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Amber.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse filled her glass. ‘It is cloudy – always a good sign. It shows it hasn’t been filtered.’

  ‘That’s allowed?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be the person who tried to stop it. Calvados is another matter. That has to obey the same rules and regulations as Cognac.

  ‘So what is your story?’ he asked, after a moment or two had elapsed.

  ‘I started out as a dancer,’ said Amber. ‘I had my eyes fixed on the ballet, but my background was against me. In England, at that time anyway, there weren’t many coloured girls at Covent Garden, so I moved to France. In those days most of the top chorus lines had their quota of English girls. It was a height thing as much as anything. They all had pet names, and some of them were keen on calling me after a breakfast cereal called Special K, because it contains less than 2% fat, but I opted for Amber and for a while I never looked back.’

  ‘What was it before?’

  ‘Would you believe Du’aine?’

  ‘Du’aine.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse savoured it. ‘Which do you prefer?’

  The girl gave a shrug. ‘I guess I’m used to Amber, although after they told me at the Crazy Horse I had to go I nearly changed it to Egress.

  ‘To fill in I had a spell in the food business. One of the barmen put me in touch with Pierre Gagnaire. Then I had a spell with Ducasse.’