by Michael Bond
Beaseley made a face. ‘The path of true love never did run smooth. Mangetout doesn’t take kindly to the sight of a three-year-old infant mewling and puking in its nurse’s arms. The dreaded child has been banished along with Miss Sweden to another caravan. Brother Angelo has taken umbrage. That was the cause of all the fuss yesterday evening.’
‘Mangetout and Brother Angelo? But she must be old enough to be his mother.’
‘Even worse,’ said Beaseley. ‘She’s the mother of the child.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stopped in his stride. ‘That is not possible.’
‘That’s probably what they thought at the time. Medically speaking, the odds must have been very much against it. A minor miracle in itself – one for The Guinness Book of Records. I looked it up and the last incumbent for the Oldest Mother entry was a Mrs Kistler of Oregon, who was a mere 57+. Brother Angelo and Mangetout aren’t exactly in an Abelard and Heloïse situation, but it does make for an interesting subplot in the circumstances. It adds a certain air of incest to the casting. Ron’s sponsors would skin him alive if they knew, not to mention the fans. Talking of which, we shall be blessed with several thousand of them over the next few days.’
‘They are being allowed in?’
‘It’s one of Von Strudel’s happier thoughts. In some ways it is a stroke of genius. Having Brother Angelo play the lead means Von Strudel has immediate access to his fan clubs and as many extras as he needs. Tomorrow they descend on us ready to line the streets of Les Baux for the filming of the Crucifixion. They would probably carry out the deed for free as well if they knew the truth.’
‘All for the sake of a bottle of XS!’
‘All for the sake of a bottle of XS. I’ll tell you something else about the perfume business. On the one hand it is a very precise science and on the other hand it is an extraordinary hit and miss affair. Enormous risks are taken. Rumour has it that when XS was first presented it was one of some thirty samples. The owner of the company – he whose name on a product causes women’s hearts to beat faster and men to reach for their wallets – blanched at the sight of so many bottles laid out before him. He could have cried out Sacré bleu! or even Nom d’un nom, but instead he threw up his hands, pointed vaguely in the direction of the twenty-third bottle, and uttered the immortal words c’est excessive! Which is how it got its name.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘It’s a nice story – the kind of story you want to believe. Repeated often enough – and it will be if the Press Office are doing their stuff – it will become true.
‘Anyway, it’s in the best Coco Chanel tradition. She is reputed to have chosen No. 5 out of ten sample perfumes because it happened to be her lucky number. She lived on the royalties until the day she died.’
As they reached the viewing theatre, Gilbert Beaseley ushered Monsieur Pamplemousse up some steps and into a large air-conditioned room. Some ten or a dozen velvet-covered armchair seats faced an uncurtained screen on either side of which were two enormous loudspeakers. At the back of the room there was a small sound console and behind that a projection booth. There was a cabinet in one corner on top of which stood an espresso coffee machine and a jug of iced water. The walls were lined with velvet drapes. The ceiling was faced with non-reflecting material and there was thick carpet underfoot. Not surprisingly, voices sounded muted. More than half of the seats were already occupied and Beaseley performed the introductions.
There was hollow laughter when Monsieur Pamplemousse gave the official reason for his presence. An American sound engineer suggested he might start by advising the unit caterers. The second unit director echoed his agreement.
‘When I leave here I’m gonna have ratatouille withdrawal symptoms.’
The subject of Monsieur Parmentier’s letter came up. Various theories were propounded. Anne-Marie, the key make-up artist – dark, green-eyed and unmistakably French – suggested it might be the work of a rival perfume company. Láslo, the Hungarian art director, threw up the thought that it might be one of the local growers who’d been done out of a contract. More and more distilleries were turning to the Middle East for their flower crops. The French director of photography, Jean-Paul, was convinced it was the work of a religious group – possibly Christian fundamentalists. The continuity girl – who could have been German – disagreed. It was the Jews. In a matter of moments a multilingual argument was in full spate.
Beaseley led the way to two vacant seats at the back of the room.
‘All this is a bit of a waste of time,’ he murmured. ‘They’re giving up on the Ark. I managed to talk them out of it last night.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his companion with renewed respect. There must be more to him than he’d imagined.
‘Have you ever thought about it?’ Beaseley went on. ‘I mean – really thought about it? What the Ark must have been like. All those animals packed in one small boat, crapping and fornicating all over the place. It’s the last setting I’d choose for a perfume advert. You can hardly repeat the “Someone isn’t using XS” gag.’
The buzz of conversation died down as Von Strudel entered with his ‘fixer’ and took his seat in the front row.
‘I am ready for ze Bildmusters,’ he announced.
The fixer clicked his fingers and an unseen hand dimmed the lights.
A leader appeared on the screen followed by a shot of the clapper board. The name of the production, the director and the cameraman filled the top half. The scene and take number were chalked on the bottom section.
‘Has anyone thought,’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that XS wouldn’t even have existed in those days. Distillation wasn’t invented until the tenth century.’
‘Ssh!’ Beaseley put a finger to his lips as the hinged clapper stick came down with a sharp crack, providing a start mark for sound synchronisation. ‘You’ll do us all out of a job. Ours is not to reason why. Ours but to carry out such crumbs of ideas as the agency people throw at us.’
‘So why are we bothering to watch?’
‘Questions. Questions. Quite honestly, I don’t know. There are moments in life when it’s easier to toe the party line.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse sank back into his seat and watched while a succession of shots, each with its separate number, came and went. Water from a rain machine started up. There were shots of the Ark’s prow. Shots of the stern. Shots of the gangway. Close-ups of Noah and his wife. Their three sons and their wives were nowhere to be seen. Retake followed retake. The reasons multiplied. Fluffed lines. Passing aircraft. A flock of birds when there should only have been two. There was enough film to make fifty commercials. The sky grew darker and all the time the rain came down, unremitting in its intensity. Whatever else one might say about Mrs Noah, she was certainly earning her money in one respect. She looked soaked to the skin.
‘What about the animals?’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse.
He felt Beaseley’s pitying glance. ‘This is the cinema. The quickness of the cut deceives the eye. The animals are all over the world. Cairo, Washington, Tokyo – you name it. They get edited in later. Only the Ark is here and that, as we all know, has its problems. Imagine what it would be like if you had animals too.’
‘And the doves?’
‘They belong to one of Jean-Paul’s many cousins.’
‘Of course,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, drily.
‘Halt!’
‘Hold it!’ The fixer, whose sole function appeared to be that of acting as Von Strudel’s shadow, repeating his words and translating them when necessary into an understandable language, echoed the command.
‘Merde!’ Jean-Paul’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘I said to lose that shot.’
The editor apologised.
‘We’re coming to the end anyway,’ said the second unit director. ‘That’s when we ran out of doves. Remember? Fifteen Goddamn doves and they all disappeared!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse, who had been contemplating trying
to catch up on some lost sleep, sat up, the memory of the look on Pommes Frites’ face the night before still fresh in his mind: the look, the feathers. It was no wonder he hadn’t seemed particularly hungry.
‘Umrollen.’
‘Roll back.’
He sank back into his seat as a familiar image filled the screen. Caught during a break in the filming, Pommes Frites was standing on three legs gazing in astonishment at something just out of frame to his right. As the camera zoomed back to a wider angle, a palm tree which had been lying on the ground a short distance away, pivoted on its base until it was in vertical juxtaposition with the principal subject. Through the magic of reverse projection the reason for Pommes Frites’ stance became clear, as a stream of water emerged from the tree and made its way rapidly back to source. The action completed, Pommes Frites replaced his nearside rear leg on the ground and backed out of shot.
‘Halt!’
‘Hold it!’
‘Vroll!’
‘Roll!’
Pommes Frites re-entered the picture, eyed the palm tree for a brief moment, then lifted his leg and stood contemplating his immediate surroundings while he obeyed the call of nature. As the tree began to topple over he did a double-take. The camera zoomed in again to show him registering a mixture of alarm and disbelief.
‘So much for papier-mâché trees,’ said someone. ‘They’ll never replace the real thing.’
Láslo, the designer, gave a groan.
‘Not a very good advert for the local water,’ murmured Beaseley. ‘It confirms my faith in Ricard.’
They watched as Pommes Frites continued on his way. Recovering from the shock, he gave the fallen tree a tentative sniff. Then, having ignored what was obviously a genuine almond tree in favour of conserving his supplies for another occasion, he headed towards the Ark. Whether by accident or design, he was halfway up the gangway when the rain machine started up again.
‘Halt!’
‘Hold it!’
‘Beleuchten!’
‘Lights!’
A large digital clock above the screen showed that from beginning to end the whole sequence had lasted no more than a minute and a half, but during that time Pommes Frites had run the gamut of his emotions. Dignity in repose had given way to alarm and bewilderment. Guilt became friendly interest, then on an instant changed to shock as the rain came down. Disappointment and disgust with mankind in general had permeated his visage as he made his final exit down the gangplank. It was Lewis Milestone’s Judge Hardy combined with the natural elegance of Ronald Colman. It was Olivier at Agincourt. At moments it recalled both Edward G. Robinson and W. C. Fields. Edward Everitt Horton sprang to mind; there were shades of Walter Matthau.
Only reproach and a desire for revenge were absent from his face, neither qualities being part of Pommes Frites’ make-up, but by the time he had disappeared from view the house lights were on and Von Strudel was addressing the others.
‘I vant zat hund.’
‘But …’
‘No buts … Zat hund has star quality. I vant him in ze picture. Zat hund is ein genius.
‘So ve write him in, huh?’ He glared across the room at someone who’d had the temerity to point out a basic problem with his thinking.
‘Here we go again.’ Beaseley looked gloomy. ‘I knew it was all too easy. Never write for films. It’s like throwing your nearest and dearest to the wolves. If you don’t like watching your brain child being butchered first thing every day, forget it.’
An argument broke out near the front over the ethics of using a dog in a biblical scene.
‘Wait till the network committees back in the States get to see it!’
‘It’ll be hacked to pieces.’
‘You won’t even have to go that far. How about the agency?’
Von Strudel’s voice overrode them all.
‘Who says Christ did not have ein dog? Ver is it written in the Bible that Christ did not have ein dog? Show me ver it is vritten. Zat hund vill provide the missing link. He vill bind ze whole thing together. Ve vill have him appear in every episode. Zer vill be continuity.’
‘Bloodhounds weren’t around then.’ It was clutching at straws time on someone’s part.
‘Send him to make-up. Tell them ze problem. By the time zey have finished with him no one vill know him from ein Wiener Schnitzel.
‘Vat is his name? Ver can we contact him?’
‘His name is Pommes Frites!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt it was high time he made a contribution, however slight.
‘That’ll have to be changed.’ The fixer added his mite to the argument. ‘You know what that means in America? French fries. That’s something you get on the side.’
‘Who cares what he’s called?’ said a voice. ‘It’s a commercial. There won’t be any credits.’
‘What about when he goes up for his awards?’ It was hard to tell whether or not Láslo was being serious. Monsieur Pamplemousse suspected not.
‘What awards?’
‘Who knows? He could get his paw-mark in the cement outside Grauman’s. You can’t say it was made by a Pommes Frites.’
‘Think of Lassie.’ It was the second unit director. ‘Lassie started off as a Laddie and before that he was called Pal.’
‘How about Pommes Nouvelles?’
‘Or Duchesse? It doesn’t have to be a he.’
‘In that case, how about Dauphine? Dauphine would be great.’
‘Does he have a ten percenter?’
‘Ja! Ver is his agent?’ Von Strudel gazed around the room.
‘I think he means you,’ murmured Beaseley. ‘Now’s your big moment.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet. ‘I think there is something you should all know,’ he said. ‘I am not, as it happens, Pommes Frites’ agent. He is perfectly capable of looking after himself. But I think I know him sufficiently well to speak on his behalf and to say that under no circumstances would he agree to changing his name – let alone his sex. As for his appearing in a film advertising perfume, that is up to him. He may or may not agree to it. If he does not want to take part, then nothing on earth will persuade him otherwise. If you wish to contact me in order to discuss the matter further, you will find me in my quarters. I am at your disposal.’
Utter silence prevailed as Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards the exit. As he closed the door behind him he heard Von Strudel’s voice.
‘Who vas that person? Ver have I seen zat man before? Vy does he keep buggingk me?’
Back in his trailer, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up the telephone and dialled his office number. He was put through to the Director’s office straight away.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse? It is Véronique. Comment ça va?
‘Non, Monsieur … the Director is not here. He left a little while ago for an unknown destination … Oui, une destination inconnue …
‘Non, Monsieur … he did not even tell me …’
There was a pause. ‘Monsieur Pamplemousse …’
‘Oui, Véronique?’
‘Perhaps I should not say this, but before he left he sent out for a bottle of huile de soleil– a large one – and he took with him a case containing his summer clothes. I think it is possible he may be heading south.’
‘Aah! Ah, I see.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked the Director’s secretary and then replaced the receiver.
He picked up his book and removed the marker. It was the beginning of Jesus’ last week on earth. He was about to set out with his disciples on their pre-ordained journey to Jerusalem.
Without being in the slightest bit blasphemous and on a totally different level, Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but sense a parallel in his own life. The news that Monsieur le Directeur had set out from Paris for an unknown destination had more than a touch of inevitability about it too.
It was after midday – Jesus had just acquired a donkey and her foal in Bethfage – when Monsieur Pamplemousse happened to glance up from his book, distracted by
movement outside his window. Halfway between his own quarters and those of Mangetout a man in blue overalls was screwing a name board on to the door of one the spare trailers he’d noticed the previous evening.
Opening Le Guide’s issue case, he removed the Leitz Trinovid binoculars and directed them towards the board. As the man stood back to admire his handiwork, the words POMMES FRITZ swam into sharp focus. So Von Strudel had got his way after all: willingly or unwillingly, Pommes Frites was setting out on the road to stardom, nobbled while his master’s back was turned, and was exchanging his usual sleeping accommodation on the floor for a bed of his own. And he had succeeded in keeping his own name – more or less.
Monsieur Pamplemousse lowered his glasses. He was about to reach for the telephone handset when he hesitated. The whole thing was utterly ridiculous. Talented though he undoubtedly was, there were some things beyond even Pommes Frites’ capabilities. Answering the telephone was one of them.
What was it Beaseley had said? ‘You don’t have to be crazy to work in films, but it helps’? Clearly, as a disease, it was catching.
On the other hand – he checked Pommes Frites’ number against a plan on the wall, then reached for the telephone again – on the other hand, it was tough at the top and already Pommes Frites could be feeling a trifle lonely, wondering perhaps if he had made the right decision. A single ring might well provide a much-needed crumb of comfort; a sign that someone, somewhere, was thinking of him.
4
THE LAST SUPPER
They began to arrive in the late afternoon of the day before the shooting of the Crucifixion; by van, by car and on foot. Some were dressed in shorts and sleeveless tops, others in factory-frayed, cut-off jeans and T-shirts bearing the motto ‘Brotherly Love’ stencilled below a picture of their hero.
The more enterprising, aware of the fact that they would be paid extra if they came in costume, wore the dress of the period. The women were mostly clad in long, plain black or dark-blue gowns, with a wide leather girdle round the waist. They wore a square piece of folded cloth of the same colour on their head, either hanging down behind or used as a turban. Others wore plain, homespun woollen dresses, relieved by coloured handwork at the neck.
