by Michael Bond
‘It is only a few minutes’ tram ride away from where he was dropped off, but since he would have no idea which one to take or how to pay for a ticket, most likely he would have set off on foot following the signs. In which case, he would have had a good twenty minutes’ walk ahead of him.’
‘Perhaps it’ll teach him to stick to pocketing ashtrays in future,’ said Amber. ‘How about we do a quick recce of the hotels near the station when we get there?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. It showed a little after 17.30.
‘It is late in the day for that kind of thing.’
He looked out of the train window. The picturesque scenery showed signs of giving way to more commercial activities … present day Caen was home not only to a flourishing steel industry, but also electronics in its many forms. The number of lines and waiting train sets grew more noticeable by the minute.
‘I think we should keep a low profile for the time being. We don’t want to trigger off alarm signals. Who knows? Truffert may come up with something.’
‘Isn’t that kind of a long shot?’
‘Long shots are better than nothing at all,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘and I am all for letting other people help do some of the work for us if they can.
‘There isn’t a police force in the world that doesn’t rely to some extent on what are euphemistically called “informers”, but they are paid according to market value. In most other fields people are only too happy to do it for free. They love a good gossip. You want to know about the latest fashions? Go shopping in the Avenue Montaigne in Paris. Clocks and watches? Visit the Horloge area of Paris. They all have their own grape vines, and the hotel world is certainly no exception.’
‘Not even a little recce in the meantime?’ asked Amber, fluttering her eyelashes.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘Assuming Corby is heading for Mont St Michel, our best bet is to be at the gare in good time for the 16.43 tomorrow afternoon. You can bet your life on one thing. If he has gone to all this trouble to avoid being found we don’t want to frighten him off at this stage and lose him altogether.’
‘I must say I could use a bit of space,’ said Amber reluctantly. ‘Somewhere with an overnight laundry service wouldn’t come amiss.’
‘That being so …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse opened up his copy of Le Guide, ran his eyes down the list of possible options, and marked two with outstretched fingers.
‘Your choice.’
Amber closed her eyes and ran a hand lightly down his arm. ‘As the saying goes, it isn’t exactly rocket science, but …’
Reaching his hand, she carried slowly on down to his forefinger and pressed the tip.
‘Pommes Frites will be pleased,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Chiens are welcome. The other one doesn’t take dogs, which would be a major problem because his inflatable kennel is still in the boot of my car.’
‘Don’t tell me I’ve missed my chance yet again …’ sighed Amber, as they drew into the arrival platform.
While she disappeared to freshen up after the journey, Monsieur Pamplemousse rang the hotel to make sure they had rooms.
Having received an affirmative, he moved behind a pillar and signalled Pommes Frites to take up a position some distance away in order to divert her attention. For no particular reason, but purely on a whim, he had it in mind to take a photograph of Amber in an unguarded moment.
It might appeal to the editor of l’Escargot, Le Guide’s house magazine. There were those among his colleagues who would appreciate such a variation to pictures of the ‘dishes of the day’, which so often graced the front cover.
‘I tell you one thing,’ said Amber on her return, blissfully unaware of his machinations, ‘that bathroom is palatial with a capital P, the best 20 cents worth I’ve had in a long time.
‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ she continued, as they headed for a taxi rank in the Place de la Gare. ‘I see what you mean about the wide-open spaces. Jay’s going to love this place like a hole in the head.’
The hotel was at the city end of the Avenue du 6 Juin; as near to the spot where Corby had been dropped off as it was possible to be. Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t comment on the fact in case Amber took it into her head to dive straight in, but it was also close to the Tourist Agency.
He suddenly felt in need of thinking time.
It struck him quite forcibly that the situation was reversed. Until now, it had been a case of the hunters and the hunted. Helped by a head start, Corby’s constant movements and counter-movements, motivated as they were by the strongest of all forces – self-preservation – had successfully kept him ahead of the game.
Were Monsieur Pamplemousse in his shoes, he would be keeping a weather eye open for any pursuers.
Given Pommes Frites’ stage appearance coupled with his previous success in the Director’s food tasting exercise, Corby was almost certain to recognise him. It would be a miracle if he didn’t. But as far as he, personally, was concerned, they had met face to face only very briefly at the tasting. In any case, he could well be in Caen as part of his work for Le Guide, so he wouldn’t necessarily constitute a serious threat.
Amber was another matter. If Bernard’s report of the way Corby had greeted her at the Leclercqs’ party was anything to go by, she would certainly come under the heading of those he would rather not see. Maybe he was frightened she might give the game away when she got back to the States …
‘I suggest that after we have checked in, you have a bath and relax. We can meet up in the lobby and go somewhere for a drink before dinner,’ he said, as they alighted from the taxi.
‘Set that to music,’ said Amber, ‘and it could make the Top Ten anywhere in the world. Right now, a bath is my number one. How about you?’
‘Certain among us are in need of a promenade,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
Pommes Frites pricked up his ears, and sure enough, no sooner had they checked in to the hotel than they were on their way out again, heading not towards a nearby stretch of water, which would have been his own first choice, but to a shop of some kind.
There were times when it was hard to follow the working of his master’s mind. Once inside, Monsieur Pamplemousse went straight up to a large counter in the centre, removed a picture from his wallet, and showed it to a girl. She shook her head, and having shown it to several of her colleagues, all of whom reacted in the same way, she pointed to some shelves lining the walls.
Having waited patiently while his master looked through various bits of paper, rejecting some, keeping others, much to Pommes Frites’ relief they retraced their steps towards the venue of his choice. Why they couldn’t have gone straight there in the first place was beyond him.
The central part of the vast Quai Vendeuve fronting the south west side of the equally spacious Bassin St Pierre was reserved for the parking of cars, and it was more than half full, but from a dog’s point of view the rest of the area had a lot going for it.
The far side was lined with boats, and in his experience people on board boats were often more than generous to anything on four legs. Then again, on the near side there were lots of small restaurants, many of which were either open or were getting ready for the evening rush.
Sniffing the air, Pommes Frites licked his lips at the thought of the many possibilities that lay ahead. The nicest part of all, of course, was having his master to himself. Not that he was of a jealous disposition. The bond between them was as firm as a rock, but he was only too well aware that the two of them together was one thing; adding a third could make it totally different, especially when the newcomer was female. At such times his master’s attention was apt to wander. He always came back in the end, of course, but the bit in the middle could be a worry.
Unaware of Pommes Frites’ thought processes, and having registered the fact that the Quai was rather quieter than he remembered it – probably because it was holiday time and many of the 30,000 or so students at Caen’s an
cient university must be absent – Monsieur Pamplemousse was keeping an eye open for the restaurant Truffert had recommended. Dinner that evening could be the last good meal they would enjoy for a while, and he already had a place in mind, but it would be no bad thing to have somewhere in reserve.
For reasons he would have found hard to explain to anyone else, he sensed a change in Amber. Something was amiss. A certain hardness just below the surface had crept in, almost as though she were running on auto pilot.
Loudier would have put his finger on the cause straight away: lack of proper communication. In his opinion it was one of the major problems in today’s world. Despite all the means people had at their disposal, or perhaps because of them, there was no such thing as a real conversation.
People automatically make the dangerous assumption that what they are saying is crystal clear to whoever it is they are talking to, whereas more often than not they are on an entirely different wavelength, their minds elsewhere, or, worse still, they’ve got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick.
He was fond of instancing Lawrence Durrell’s ‘Alexandria Quartet’, where the four leading characters became involved in the same series of events, but when it came to be their turn to relate what had happened, each of them saw it in an entirely different light.
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided that, had he been awarding himself marks under the heading of ‘communicating with Amber’, 5/10 would have been a fair assessment, with the added comment ‘must try harder’.
Not for the first time he found himself wondering if perhaps underlying it all Corby meant more to her than she was prepared to admit. It was a subject he was determined to bring up over dinner that evening.
At which point he registered the first of some heavy spots of rain, and with Pommes Frites leading the way, they hurried back to the hotel.
Both literally and metaphorically it put a damper on things. Neither he nor Amber were remotely prepared for it.
Having abandoned the idea of a pre-dinner aperitif followed by a leisurely stroll to a restaurant awarded a Stock Pot in Le Guide, his insistence on all three of them sharing the hotel’s sole remaining umbrella didn’t help matters.
‘Goddamn cows!’ said Amber. ‘If Caen is so ahead of the game in everything else, why can’t they make use of them as part of an early warning system?’
‘It doesn’t work that way,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘For a start they wouldn’t want to lie down on the sidewalks, and anyway, it’s a chicken and egg situation—’
‘Don’t tell me they get in on the act too,’ said Amber.
‘You’re not really a country person, are you?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Too damn sure I’m not,’ said Amber, as she stepped in a puddle.
‘This could be our last good meal for a while,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We would be well advised to make the most of it.’
‘Mont St Michel is not on your preferred list?’
The flourish of the hand accompanying his heartfelt ‘Non!’ while he paused to shake the worst off the umbrella before entering the restaurant didn’t help matters.
Dodging one of the spokes, Amber stepped in another pool of water.
‘So what’s wrong with Mont St Michel?’ she asked when they were seated.
‘Once upon a time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘there was a wonderful young lady called Annette Poulard, who was to become world famous for her omelettes. It was said that there was nothing quite like them. Some vowed it was because they were made with fresh cream, others maintained she beat the yolks and the whites separately before combining them in the pan. Pillars of society flocked to La Mère Poulard: the British Royal Family; the American and French Presidents of the day; the Rothschilds and the Rockefellers …
‘She died in 1931, taking her secret with her to the grave and, gastronomically speaking, Mont St Michel has never been quite the same since.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Let us just say the world itself has changed. Nowadays the restaurants tend to cater for the tourist trade. Most people are only there for the day and they prefer to spend their time sightseeing rather than eating.’
Laying aside the menu, Amber gave him the go-ahead to order for them both. Clearly, from the way she was clutching her evening bag, her mind was on other things.
‘I suggest we begin with cocquilles Saint-Jacques D’Étretat,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is made with mushrooms, shallots, crème fraiche and Calvados.’
‘Does everything you eat in this country get named after someone or something that happened God knows how long ago?’ said Amber.
It wasn’t a good start. It would serve her right if he had ordered tripe and given it another name.
‘Whenever possible,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is what sets places apart from each other and engenders a feeling of pride. It isn’t a case of living in the past, but rather of not forgetting it. The whole history of a town is often laid out for you in its street names; not just battles and the generals who fought them, but the Edith Piafs of this world get remembered as well. They are all part of our heritage.
‘One of the longest avenues in Paris is named after Antoine Parmentier, who popularised the humble potato. There is a marble statue of him on the Metro station bearing his name. He is clutching a basket of potatoes under his arm while offering one to a passer-by. Crêpes Suzette, Poire Belle Helene, Pêche Melba … they are all a form of celebration.’
‘But does it make things taste any better?’ asked Amber.
‘No, but it adds enormously to my enjoyment,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘One of the great joys of working for Le Guide is that it has enabled me to get to know my own country. When I open a bottle of wine it isn’t simply the name on the label, or the year, it is the very land itself which sets my taste buds throbbing; the terroir. As for this dish … what do you think of it?’
Amber had to admit it was delicious.
‘Étretat is famous not simply for its shellfish,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but also because over the years its huge arched cliffs have been an inspiration to so many writers: Maupassant, Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo, André Gide …
‘In much the same way, Cabourg is renowned not simply for its wonderful beach, but because it is where Proust spent his holidays watching the world go by, and where he wrote A la Recherche du Temps Perdu.’
‘I bought a Madeleine the other day,’ said Amber. ‘It came in a plastic wrapper I had to tear open with my teeth. I wonder what he would have thought of that?’
‘I imagine it would have confirmed his belief that we should cherish things past,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It was in a New York deli,’ said Amber.
‘Ah!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
He paused while the table was being prepared for the main course: a coil of boudin noir resting on a bed of golden brown apples. Doused with a glass of Calvados, it arrived wreathed in flames.
‘No doubt the boudin is from Montagne-au-Perche,’ said Amber dryly. ‘Isn’t that where the pigs feed off windfall apples?’
‘Bonus points!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In the old days every town and village had its specialities, and not simply in the way of food. Lyons was famous for its locksmiths, Normandy for its horse dealers; Thiers became noted for cutlery, Meru for making dominoes out of cows’ tibias; Barthelemy-d’Anjou cornered the market in public urinals … I could go on …’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Amber. ‘It might put me off the boudin.’
For the second time Monsieur Pamplemousse took in the way she kept reaching for her evening bag. That he didn’t have her undivided attention was patently obvious.
‘Does finding Corby mean so much to you?’
She relaxed her grip, but didn’t let go of it.
‘I’m sorry. I’m being an ungrateful bitch. It’s just that I hate the uncertainty of it all. I guess I can’t come to terms with the possib
ility that even now he might be somewhere around. On the other hand, you said yourself that Caen is a transport hub. He could have taken a boat to England, a plane to almost anywhere, a train—’
‘It would take a team of investigators to sift through all the options,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, with rather more conviction than he actually felt. ‘All we can do at this stage is keep playing hunches built on our assessment of where he wouldn’t go and hope they are right.
‘For example, taking a boat isn’t as straightforward as it might sound. I checked up soon after we arrived here. As for flying anywhere … he’s had ample opportunity to do that from day one, but he hasn’t taken it up.’
For dessert, he had ordered a warm concoction made up of alternate layers of quartered pears and confectioner’s custard in a brioche case.
‘It is called timbale Brillat-Saverin after the famous chef,’ he explained.
‘You don’t give up, do you?’ said Amber.
‘It is the Capricorn in me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Scorpios may not change their mind, but Capricorns get what they want in the end.’
‘You sound like a Canadian Mountie,’ said Amber. ‘Following that line of thought. What do you reckon my star sign is?’
‘If there were such a body,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it would be an Enigma. You are a definite enigma.’
‘Why is it that other people’s lives are so much tidier?’ asked Amber.
‘Perhaps they aren’t really,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They just seem to be.’
Amber glanced down at Pommes Frites. Somehow or other he had managed to acquire a lump of confectioner’s cream on the end of his nose.
‘If there is such a thing as a second life and I have any choice in the matter, I wouldn’t mind coming back as a mutt.’
‘You could do far worse,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Would you take me for walkies occasionally?’ asked Amber.
‘I might. It would depend very much on the weather.’
‘You could keep a cow in the back yard,’ said Amber.
‘The nicest thing about Pommes Frites,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is that he is a dog for all seasons and not just a fair weather friend. True unquestioning love and devotion is what sets animals apart from humans, although you have to earn their respect first.’
