by Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse was aware of a certain excitement in his step as he left the Director’s office. He couldn’t wait to show the brochure to Pommes Frites.
Waving goodbye to Véronique, he caught a whiff of XS and wondered for a moment whether he should put the Director’s theory to the test and try it out on Madame Grante, perhaps even take a shortcut to her office via the typing pool, waving to the girls as he went?
Reason prevailed. He slowed down as he made his way along the corridor. His inner warning system was already hard at work. Thinking back on the meeting it seemed too good to be true. In retrospect, the conversation – the champagne on ice – the little tidbits of information dropped in here and there – had all felt too pat, too carefully rehearsed.
By the time Monsieur Pamplemousse reached the lift he had a growing presentiment that watching out for ‘best boys’ might well turn out to be the least of his problems in the days to come.
2
DINNER WITH A BANG
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s caravan manifested itself in the shape of an American custom-built Star Wagon trailer of vast proportions, some twelve metres in length by perhaps two and a half metres wide. It was one of a number parked beneath a row of plane trees on the lower slopes of Les Baux-de-Provence. They were all of a luxury beyond anything he could have imagined.
Having turned off the A7 Autoroute du Soleil at Cavaillon, hot and tired after the long drive from Paris, he had approached his destination via St Rémy and the D5. His first sighting of the film company’s location came as he rounded a bend in the twisting road which skirted the old town of Les Baux. The detritus of previous days’ filming awaited collection – a discarded city of partly dismantled sets, façades of buildings, transport of all kinds – bullock carts, carriages of various shapes and sizes, a chariot or two, plus a motley collection of vans, lorries and cars. Beyond that lay sundry pieces of film equipment – camera cranes, lighting gantries, switchboards, generators spewing out thick cables in all directions. In the distance, although there was no water to be seen, was what looked like the carcass of a large boat left high and dry by a tide which had long since receded never to return.
Monsieur Pamplemousse braked sharply and a crowd of spectators sprawled across barriers set up at the side of the road turned their heads as his car ground to a halt.
A buzz of excitement went up as someone registered an official sticker on his windscreen. Faces peered in through the open windows as others parted to let him through. Autograph books appeared as if by magic. Fingers pointed towards the passenger seat. Never one to miss a trick, Pommes Frites assumed a faintly regal air while his master conferred with a uniformed man at the entrance to the site. Cameras clicked as a barrier was raised and they were waved on their way.
Monsieur Pamplemousse drove a short distance along a track indicated by the guard. He parked his 2CV in the shade of an olive tree and then set about unloading their belongings from the back seat. Cameras went into action again as Pommes Frites climbed out after him, stretched, and then obeyed an urgent call of nature. Photographically speaking, it was clearly a case of grasping at straws. In the fullness of time albums the world over would testify to the fact that until their arrival action had been thin on the ground. Entering into the spirit of things, Pommes Frites turned his best side towards the cameras.
Entering the trailer by what turned out to be the back door, Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself in a make-up area. Behind the make-up table itself there was a large mirror lit by rows of small, unshaded light bulbs along the sides and top. The reflection showed he had already caught the sun.
Laid out on a towel in front of the mirror were the tools of the trade; a selection of brushes in sanitised wrappings, tissues, sponges, eyebrow pencils, mascara, a jar of cleansing cream. On the other side of the room there was a telephone, and a colour television.
A curtained-off area to one side of a large wardrobe revealed a marine-style toilet and a full-size bath. The temptation to take a cold shower was hard to resist; the last 100 kilometres or so of the journey down had been like driving through a furnace. Air-conditioning was not one of the Deux Chevaux’s optional extras – unless you counted having the roof rolled back.
Curiosity got the better of Monsieur Pamplemousse. Opening a full-length mirrored door beyond the bath, he found himself in a kitchen area complete with a Westinghouse refrigerator, a Sharp Carousel II convection microwave oven and a gas cooking hob. Alongside the hob was a stainless steel double sink unit. On a tiny shelf to the left of the oven stood a copy of Barbara Kafka’s Microwave Gourmet Healthstyle Cookbook – an all-embracing title if ever he’d seen one, but a welcome sight nevertheless. The word microwave was banned chez Pamplemousse and the whole process remained a mystery to him.
There was a cupboard with a range of pots and pans and a shelf of dry foodstuffs. To his left was an alcove with a small face-to-face dinette. In the centre of the built-in table stood a glazed pottery bowl containing sprigs of broom; a gathering of golden butterflies.
Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the refrigerator door. Someone had done their job well. It was replete with fruit and vegetables; soft drinks – fruit juices and mineral water – tins of beer and a supply of local wine – Terres Blanches and some Listel gris-de-gris.
There was red wine in a rack above the working surface – some Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a bottle or two of Cabernet-Sauvignon: Mont Caume from the Bandol. Alongside it was a rack of culinary implements. They looked unused.
On an upper shelf stood an unopened tin of black olives from a Monsieur André Arnaud of nearby Fontvieille.
Having filled a bowl with some ice-cold water from a tap attached to the refrigerator, Monsieur Pamplemousse helped himself to an equally cold Budweiser while Pommes Frites noisily slaked his thirst.
Another door led to the main living-room. The beige carpet, striped with bars of sunlight filtering through a venetian blind covering a picture window at the far end, felt thick underfoot. An elevated area beneath the window supported a double bed.
Closer inspection revealed a second colour television receiver, a larger one this time – a Mitsubishi with a matching B82 video recorder – a Sony stereo cassette player, yet another telephone and a FAX machine. He could hardly complain of being cut off from the world.
After the canvas front seat of his Deux Chevaux the bed felt deeply luxurious. From somewhere overhead came a welcome draught of cool air. It accounted for the faint hum of a generator which he’d heard on entering the trailer. Come night-time it would probably be the usual toss-up between being kept awake by the noise, or open windows and the risk being bitten. Nearby Arles was reckoned to be the mosquito capital of France. No doubt they had plenty of relatives in the surrounding countryside. The news of fresh arrivals from the north would travel fast.
Monsieur Pamplemousse lay where he was for a moment or two, then he reached across and parted the blind. Dotted here and there were signs of civilisation – the odd patch of terracotta roof tiles or an occasional scattering of sheep or goats left behind for whatever reason while the rest of the flock enjoyed a summer diet of wild herbs in the surrounding uplands – but mostly the limestone terrain was bare and forbidding. Val d’Enfer – Hell Valley – wild and unruly; in the old days it must have earned its name. The light was dazzlingly clear. No wonder Van Gogh had been drawn to the area. A thermometer leading from an outside sensor was nudging 32°C. The thermometer inside the trailer showed a pleasant 19°C.
Pommes Frites came into the room, padded silently round on a tour of inspection, sniffed and went out again.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took the hint. He got up and began unpacking his bags, most of which were filled with reference books he had literally thrown in at the last moment; the Director’s copy of Apicius, and as many other books relating to the subject as he had been able to lay his hands on at short notice. They took their place among a scattering of others on a mahogany shelf at the end of the bed.
Lea
ving the rest of the unpacking for the time being, he fed the cassette player with the tape Truffert had returned to him. As the sound of Billy Strayhorn’s ‘Chelsea Bridge’ filled the air he squeezed a tube of Eau Sauvage gel into the bath and turned on the taps.
Anxious to share the news of his good fortune, he lay back in the foam for a while, composing a fax to the Director, then rapidly amended it. There was no point in making life sound too attractive. If Madame Grante got wind of it she would go through his expenses with a fine tooth comb. Something along the lines of ‘TEDIOUS JOURNEY DOWN, BUT ARRIVED SAFELY. DESPITE INTENSE HEAT, WORK GOING ACCORDING TO PLAN’ would suffice. If he dispatched it as late as possible before going to bed that night the automatic recording of time of origin might earn him Brownie points.
That problem out of the way, he had to admit to a feeling of unease. Even the music, far from giving him the lift it normally did, had a reverse effect. The sheer professionalism of the way Mulligan and Webster played together sowed seeds of doubt in his mind about his own capabilities for the task ahead. Despite his performance in the Director’s office, all he really knew about the period he was supposed to advise on could have been written on the back of a spoon. He had to admit with a sense of shame that he didn’t even know the date of the crucifixion. As for what had been eaten at the last supper … the few books he had glanced through conveniently glossed over the subject.
It was another hour and a quarter before Monsieur Pamplemousse finished his ablutions. Allowing the last soulful strains of Ben Webster’s rendering of ‘Blues in B Flat’ to die away, he looked at his watch. It showed nearly seven o’clock. There was a click as the machine switched itself off.
Emerging from the trailer he had an immediate reminder of just how hot the Camargue could be in July, even at that time of the day. It was as though he had opened an oven door. At least the Mistral wasn’t blowing.
An immediate reminder of Pommes Frites’ whereabouts came via a loud bang from inside the trailer.
Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to go back up the steps, and as he did so he had a pleasant surprise. If only Doucette could have been there to see it too – she would have been very proud. He reached up to touch the name board screwed to the top of the door. The ‘M’ on M. PAMPLEMOUSSE still felt slightly tacky. Flecks of dust had stuck to the white paint. A salutary warning, Hollywood style, that nothing is for ever, least of all in the world of make-believe. A few strokes of a brush and he would cease to exist. He wondered how many other names had graced that very same board, and whose for that matter?
‘Hullo there! Comment ça va?’
Looking round, Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted a lone figure sitting at a table beneath a large sunshade advertising Ricard. There was a matching bottle on the table, together with a jug of water and some glasses.
‘Bien, merci.’ Returning the wave, he followed Pommes Frites along a path worn by the occupants of the neighbouring trailers. On his way he stole a glance at the names on some of the doors. Mostly they meant nothing to him. Brother Angelo – he guessed he must be an adviser of some kind; Gilbert Beaseley – the name rang the faintest of bells; he spotted Mangetout’s quarters a little way back from the others. Alongside it were two other unmarked trailers. All three had their blinds drawn.
The person who had called out the greeting rose to his feet as Monsieur Pamplemousse drew near. He was wearing a white shirt, the long sleeves of which were folded back rather than rolled, a cravat, immaculately pressed beige trousers and suede boots. If Monsieur Pamplemousse hadn’t already guessed from the accent, his nationality radiated from every pore. He was clutching a half empty glass in long, thin fingers. From his demeanour it looked as though it wasn’t the first that evening.
Monsieur Pamplemousse accepted the proffered hand. That, too, was droopy. ‘Gilbert Beaseley …’ The greying quiff of hair casually tossed to one side matched his eyes. ‘You may have heard of me. Writer. Go anywhere. Do anything. Distance no object. Masonics and biblical films a speciality.’
‘I have seen your name.’
‘I saw yours being put up, too. Welcome to Babylon.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse’s suit was noted with approval. ‘I see you haven’t gone native yet. Good chap. Must keep up the standards.’
‘I came away in a hurry,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. It was all too true. Thoughtlessly, he hadn’t even bothered to pack any short-sleeved shirts. Doucette would raise her eyes to Heaven when she found out.
‘Would you care to join me in an apéritif?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘You look as though you are expecting company …’
‘Not expecting … hoping. There is a crisis Ark-wise and I have been deserted.’
Refusal being clearly impossible, Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered himself into the remaining chair. As he did so he gave a start. Surprise gave way to embarrassment. The noise was loud, clear and unmistakable.
Gilbert Beaseley looked away, made a languid effort at swotting a passing fly and edged his own chair slightly away from the table.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shifted uneasily. The noise was repeated.
‘Pardon.’ The word came out automatically: an admission of guilt where none existed.
‘Not at all.’ Beaseley beamed at him. ‘Are you taking anything for it?’
‘It is nothing …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off. It was too late to deny responsibility even though his conscience was clear. The damage was done. He sat very still.
Pommes Frites eyed his master with interest for a moment or two. Then, before any attempt was made to shift the blame in his direction – as had been known on past occasions – he set off on a voyage of exploration. There were signs of activity down by the boat. Lights were coming on. A solitary dove winged its way low overhead, then turned and flew back again. It all looked worthy of investigation.
Gilbert Beaseley glanced after him. ‘I see you’ve brought your own bodyguard. Very wise. I wish I had. Is he an only one? He hasn’t a friend I could borrow?’
‘It is not as simple as that,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He is unique. I do not know where I would be without him.’
‘Pity. Everybody in this business ought to have a stand-in. You never know.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse forbore to ask why and the subject was abruptly changed as his host reached for the bottle.
‘Forgive me. I’m being neglectful. I’m afraid you find Gilbert Beaseley not at his best. I should make the most of me. I may not last until morning.’ He pushed a stiff measure of pastis across the table. ‘I will leave you to do the necessary.’
‘Merci.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse removed a perforated spoon from one of the glasses, added a knob of white sugar, and began adding water from the jug slowly and carefully, drop by drop, partly for the sake of the ritual and partly because he feared a repeat performance of the dreaded noise. The water was satisfactorily cold and they both watched while the colourless liquid turned a tawny-yellow. Hoping to achieve a classic 5:1 ratio, à la Marseillaise, he was disappointed. It was as he feared; the helping of pastis had been more than generous.
‘So you are a writer? I am sorry, I am afraid I have not read any of your works.’
Gilbert Beaseley sighed. ‘My penetration of the French market is, I fear, fairly minimal. The sad fact is, many of my titles lose in the translation. They had great difficulty with my very first work – Whatever Happened to the Sandcastles I Built when I was Young? It ended up as Châteaux and everyone thought it was a book on doll’s houses. It put them off buying any more. It was a slight work – a mere fifty pages in free verse – but I like to think it caught the mood of the Swinging Sixties in England – the end of it anyway, when people were eager to wallow in nostalgia.’
‘In France,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘we still do. Wallow, I mean.’
‘Would you believe me if I told you I was also Rita Harridge?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. He was unprepared for the question. ‘She
is a writer too?’
‘Was,’ said Gilbert Beaseley. ‘Was. For a while I worked in a joke factory making stick-on phallic symbols for people who can’t draw. Then I found employment in a firm of printers. One day I was typesetting a book and I thought to myself “I could do that”. That’s when Rita first saw the light of day. She had a short life, but a happy one. I think I may say with all due modesty that while she was around Rita caused many a housewife to lay down her feather duster of an afternoon and take to her bed.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She had to be put down, poor dear. She was long past her “sell-by” date anyway. Husbands in Ruislip began to complain about the state of their semis. Pity. I think you would have liked her.’
‘And your castles which were made of sand?’
‘They got washed out to sea, like so much of my life.’
‘So what brought you here?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave an all-embracing wave.
‘Ah, well may you ask. I was indulging in my current obsession – a history of Les Baux in the Middle Ages. I thought it would be nice to write a book which didn’t dwell on all the carnage over the years: episodes like the well-known after-dinner sport called “Making Prisoners Jump off the Castle Walls and Listening to Their Screams as They Fall to their Death”; that kind of thing. I want to concentrate on the romantic side. The days when the City of Baux was a place of love and played host to troubadours and minstrels; when to be accepted, the ladies of the court had to be pretty and high-born. As you may have noticed, I specialise in slim volumes. Alas, if you leave out all the gory bits about Les Baux’s past, there isn’t a lot left. I’ve begun to think that Raymond de Turenne, inventor of the jumping game, was on to something. Every time I go up there and see the coachloads of tourists arriving I think how nice it would be to resurrect it. “Now here we have the very spot where it used to take place. Come a little closer … closer still …” SHOVE. Posing as a guide you could build up a tidy score in no time at all and no one would be any the wiser.’
