Monsieur Pamplemousse On Location

by Michael Bond

  The last call of the day was again incoming. It was Mr Pickering.

  ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long … Not very good news, I’m afraid. Godspell hasn’t been done professionally in years. It isn’t even published in script form. Due for a revival.

  ‘I can get hold of what they call a “perusal” copy if you like. You can have it on loan for a month if that’s any help.’

  ‘I don’t think I shall be mounting a production,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘No? Well, if you change your mind, you have only to ask. Rum business. You may be interested to know that in England the current odds against a Second Coming are a thousand to one.’

  ‘How about the reappearance of Elvis Presley?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And Ron Pickles?’

  ‘I think the bookmakers are hedging their bets. Hope it doesn’t upset your calculations …’

  ‘Oui. Same to you.’

  ‘Give my regards to Doucette. Bonne chance.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse replaced the receiver and gazed at it thoughtfully for a moment or two.

  He wasn’t sure if it upset any of his calculations or not. He didn’t have many to upset. But if what Pickering said were true, then either Brother Angelo was a congenital liar, or he must have wanted to be in the commercial very badly indeed; badly enough to have enlisted the aid of an accomplice. It would be interesting to know exactly who in the company had suggested him for the part in the first place.

  5

  THE CRUCIFIXION

  It was the last Friday before the start of the August holiday and there were ROUTE BARRÉE signs everywhere. Traffic in both directions on the winding D27A leading to Les Baux was at a standstill. Tempers outside the car park were frayed to breaking point. Coach drivers, their passengers pressing downcast faces against the inside of the windows, shouted at all and sundry as they tried in vain to back their vehicles. Lorry drivers, who had merely been taking a shortcut, sat with folded arms. Car horns sounded. Gendarmes barked instructions. Whistles blew. Bedlam reigned supreme.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse could almost feel the waves of dislike bordering on hatred as he wormed his way up the centre of the only wide section of road and, having shown his pass, was waved on his way by a poker-faced gendarme, oblivious to all but the appropriate signature on a piece of paper. He could hardly blame the other drivers. Most of them had probably come a long way hoping to arrive early and beat the crowds.

  Les Baux was closed to anyone not involved in the filming. Presumably someone in authority had failed to pass on the news far enough afield. To be practical, it was hard to see how they could have done so, given the probable vagueness as to when it would actually take place, but explaining that to those who were being refused entry wasn’t easy.

  He drove straight through the main Porte Mage gate and on up the steep cobbled streets of the restored part of the town until eventually he managed to squeeze into an empty space in the Place St Vincent.

  Normally at that time of day it would have been full of visitors, training their cameras on the sixteenth-century church with its ‘lantern of the dead’ bell tower and its Max Ingrand windows. Today, it was jam-packed with vehicles belonging to the unit.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse continued his journey on foot up the rue du Trencat towards the Ville Morte– the Deserted City – where most of the activity seemed to be. He stepped round a ladder being used by a workman who was spraying grey latex over the side of a building in order to cover up an advertisement. What the shopkeepers were losing on the tourist trade they would be making up for three-fold in disturbance money. Despite that, some of them looked as though they were already beginning to regret the whole idea.

  ‘Oui, Madame,’ shouted the workman wearily. ‘It will peel off again. You will never know it has been there.’ It sounded as though he’d answered the same question many times before that morning.

  Temporary dressing-rooms for the main cast had been set up in the the elegant Mairie. Cables disappeared through open windows. There were lights everywhere.

  Further up the hill, past the ancient bread ovens, the crew were already hard at work setting up their equipment. All the stops were being pulled out to get the filming completed. The shooting of the Last Supper had gone on until late the previous evening. The sets had been struck overnight and now everything was being made ready for the Crucifixion.

  Jean-Paul was supervising the setting up and positioning of the cameras. The platform of a large Louma crane with a remotely controlled camera pan and tilt mechanism rose high into the air, then swung down again as the operators watching a television monitor on the ground below made sure they didn’t show anything untoward, or were themselves in danger of being revealed. Another camera, mounted on a dolly and pushed by two stalwart grips, went past on a set of rails, rehearsing a long tracking shot up the street. The focus puller sat astride the arm, checking his equipment.

  Near the top they branched off to their left and continued the shot on to open ground towards the highest point where the Crucifixion itself was to take place.

  Electricians were busy concealing their cables or laying ramps across them wherever there might be passing traffic.

  Further on up the hill a third camera mounted on a ‘cherry picker’ stood by, ready to get an overall view of the scene – the streets of Jerusalem; a Jerusalem which was half the real village of Les Baux and half the product of the scenery department. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

  An operator with a hand-held Steadicam concealed beneath a voluminous white robe was practising taking close-up shots where those lining the streets would be standing. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that he wouldn’t be the only one ‘mingling’ with the crowd that day.

  Ahead of him the large perpendicular sided, unfenced plateau was packed with extras. The inevitable loud hailer boomed out barely comprehensible instructions, coupled with warnings about not straying too near the edge. The costume department, having set up headquarters beside the ruins of an old windmill, were having their work cut out exchanging T-shirts for more seemly wear. Near the monument to the Provençal poet, Charloun Rieu, make-up were equally busy, adding a beard here, a moustache there. A team of girls was working overtime with jars of skin toning; others were hard at work dressing hair. They all looked tired. There was no sign of Anne-Marie. She must be busy with the principals down at the Town Hall.

  In a far corner of the plateau an assistant director was rehearsing a group in the art of murmuring. It grew more bloodthirsty by the minute. From a distance it sounded like a football crowd baying for blood.

  The dolly came back down the hill, then a moment later reappeared again on its way up for yet another dry run. This time the arm was facing the other way so that the camera could shoot back on itself, following the progress of Jesus carrying the cross.

  ‘Lentement … Lentement …’ The cameraman waved his hand, palm downwards. The men pushing him were only too pleased to obey. They looked worn-out already.

  Jean-Paul surveyed the scene pensively through a viewfinder, checking his findings from time to time with a light meter. The ambient colour in Les Baux changed by the hour according to the position of the sun. Sometimes yellow, often blindingly white; in the evening the stone could take on an almost fiery-red hue. It would need careful exposure. There was a limit to what the laboratories could do when it came to matching shots taken at different times of the day.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted the Director in an area to his left, between the end of the restored section of the town and the ruins of the old. Dressed as a Roman senator, he was standing gloomily beside a canopied barrow laden with nuts.

  His costume, an embroidered silk tunic beneath a voluminous rectangular cloak, looked as though it had been hired from a Paris theatrical agency. So much for his story of ‘happening’ to find himself in the area. It was hardly the garb of an itinerant peanut seller. Clearly he’d had his
sights set on higher things.

  Hoping he hadn’t been seen, Monsieur Pamplemousse took advantage of a passing donkey laden with bread-filled panniers. As it ambled slowly by, momentarily acting as a screen, he made for the plateau.

  It was worse than sale time at Galeries Lafayette. There were queues everywhere.

  He recognised the continuity girl. She had been at the screening of the rushes. She was joined by the script girl and the call boy, both carrying a clipboard. They waved as they caught sight of him. All three looked harassed.

  The call boy reappeared a moment later and took Monsieur Pamplemousse to the front of the costume queue. It was nice having friends in high places. He chose a simple white, high-necked robe and some sandals. There was no sense in trying to compete with the Director. Placing his surplus belongings into a sealed bag, he joined another queue to check them in with Security.

  On his way back he bumped into Beaseley. He, too, looked harassed. His cravat had a distinctly ruffled look to it.

  ‘Comment ça va?’

  ‘Script changes,’ said Beaseley. ‘They’re leaving the actual Crucifixion until tomorrow. The way things are going they’ll be lucky to get the journey to Golgotha and the burial in the can.

  ‘Rumours abound. The good news is that Mangetout has locked herself in her trailer and won’t come out. On the other side of the coin, Brother Angelo is complaining of a bad back and says he can’t carry the cross all that way. Von Strudel is with him now. Voices were being raised even as I came past the Mairie. My money, as always, is on Von Strudel. He has the megaphone.’

  ‘As I recall,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘Jesus had a similar problem. They called on Simon, from Cyrene, to carry it for him.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Beaseley. ‘Yet another paradox. Do you realise today is a Friday. It was on a Friday – 3 April AD 33 according to the latest scientific evidence – that Christ is supposed to have died. That was why there was such a rush to bury him. The Sabbath started at nightfall …’ He broke off and took a closer look at Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘So this what the average food adviser wore in Roman times? I’ve often wondered.’

  It occurred to Monsieur Pamplemousse that he had never let on to Beaseley the true purpose of his being there. It didn’t seem an ideal moment to come clean, even if he’d wished to. He still wasn’t sure how far to trust his companion. ‘It was a lowly position,’ he said. ‘The Romans were seldom in need of advice, least of all on food.’

  ‘True,’ said Beaseley. ‘True. Fortunately for you, they bequeathed France their recipes. They only left us their roads. Which is why if it moves you French eat it, whereas we British lay bets on it. Care for a drink?’

  He gestured towards yet another queue, longer than the rest, lining up outside one of the catering wagons.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made his excuses. ‘There is someone I have to see.’

  He found the Director lolling disconsolately on a shooting stick partially concealed beneath his robes. There was a small pile of peanut shells at his feet.

  ‘Trade is far from brisk, Aristide,’ he said gloomily. ‘A difficult role to sustain when custom is thin on the ground. I hope things will pick up when shooting begins.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t resist a sly dig. ‘It could be that you are looking too prosperous, Monsieur. Customers may find you intimidating.’

  It was like water off a duck’s back. The Director gazed at him. ‘At least I have made the effort, Pamplemousse,’ he said severely. ‘I hardly think your present attire would have labelled you a trendsetter in AD 30. Heads would not have turned when you passed by.’

  ‘It is a good “mingling” colour, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffly.

  The Director had the grace to acknowledge the point. Having taken a quick look over his shoulder, he lowered his voice. ‘I cannot begin to tell you what a comfort it is to know you are keeping an eye on things, Aristide. It will not go unremarked in certain circles I can assure you.’

  ‘That is nice to know, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily.

  ‘Do you have any news?’ asked the Director.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

  ‘No thoughts as to where the miscreant may strike next?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, thoughtfully, ‘as to which miscreant you are referring. I suspect there may be more than one.’

  It was the first time the Director had made positive mention of the true reason behind his assignment, and he was wondering whether or not to tackle him on the subject, when there was a shifting of attention as those gathered on the plateau began a concerted movement in their direction.

  ‘Well, let us hope the wrong one doesn’t get the upper hand,’ said the Director, helping himself to another peanut.

  Von Strudel strode into view, fixing the approaching masses with a gimlet eye. Clearly he must have won his battle with Brother Angelo. Raising the megaphone to his lips he began bellowing orders. Cries of ‘Dummkopf!’ filled the air. People began to put on speed.

  ‘It is an interesting fact,’ said the Director, ‘that even in this age of protest and rebellion, one man can inspire absolute terror and obedience amongst so many. Film making is one of the last havens of the true despot. Hitler would have been good at it.’

  If Monsieur Pamplemousse detected a note of envy, he didn’t dwell on the fact. His heart sank as he took stock of the crowd. The Director was right to be worried. If anyone did intend causing a disruption, now was their big chance, and there would be no possibility whatsoever of stopping them. He only hoped nothing happened to cause a panic. The prospect of people falling and being trampled on by a crowd rushing headlong down the narrow streets towards the only means of exit from Les Beaux or, worse still, disappearing lemming-like over the edge of the surrounding cliffs, didn’t bear thinking about.

  It was late morning by the time the extras had been herded into place and received their final instructions … ‘You are not here to enjoy yourselves. You are here to vork. I do not vish to see anyvun mit ze smile on zer face. Anyone found smilingk will be given ze order mit ze bootz.’

  The possibility of anyone enjoying themselves seemed remote, but Von Strudel was taking no chances.

  A hush fell over the assembly as shooting began; a hush which communicated itself to all those lining the route.

  As the cameras drew near, the Director edged away from the barrow and assumed a more imposing stance. Clearly, he didn’t wish to be identified in such a lowly role.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse watched carefully as the mob moved slowly past. It was hard to tell how much of Brother Angelo’s performance was acting and how much was in earnest. His face was certainly white from the strain. The stage blood on his back had started to congeal from the heat of the sun, which was now directly overhead. The crown of thorns looked all too real. The sweat running down his face undoubtedly was. The two thieves following on behind looked equally haggard.

  Despite everything, it was surprisingly moving. The noise of the crowd, the heat, the flies, the sheer intensity of it all, combined with the concentration of the crew made the scene seem strangely real. It was like witnessing a live event, having grown blasé over the years through seeing the same thing on television too many times in the comfort of one’s own home. The extras left behind as the pageant moved on up the hill looked equally affected as they drifted slowly away. Many remained where they were to watch, unable to tear themselves away.

  Stopping for one reason or another, starting, repositioning, a much needed tea break … the day melted away, and it was evening before a temporary halt in the shooting was called. Apart from taking a few ‘wild shots’ of Brother Angelo for editing purposes, it was time to move on.

  That there had been no accidents was a minor miracle in itself. As an exercise in crowd control it had been beyond reproach.

  Leaving the Director to carry on by himself, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way towards the ruins of the
old city, where preparations had been made to shoot the burial sequence.

  Beaseley was already there, along with Von Strudel and Jean-Paul. The crowd, having been put on stand-by until the next day, had largely dispersed.

  There was a sense of urgency among those gathered round the cave. The sun would shortly disappear over the horizon. Timing was as critical for the unit as it must have been for the friends of Jesus who needed to carry out the ceremony before the Sabbath began.

  There was still enough natural light to see shadowy details, but Jean-Paul added a little more. The level was changing with every passing moment. Standing alongside Monsieur Pamplemousse, he called for the camera to be lowered still more until it was shooting up.

  ‘Do you know the painting by Caravaggio? That is the effect I am trying to achieve,’ Jean-Paul whispered.

  Watched by Mary, Mother of Joseph, and Mary of Magdala, Joseph and Nicodemus were rehearsing the rolling of a vast rock across the mouth of a tomb supposedly carved in the side of a hill outside Jerusalem where the body of Jesus was to be laid to rest. It was easy to see now why Les Baux had been chosen. It was a natural setting. The rock was circular, it could have been the grindstone from an old flour mill. Getting it moving at all was one thing. Stopping it in exactly the right spot so that it blocked the opening to the cave was something else again.

  ‘Faster,’ bellowed Von Strudel. ‘Faster. Mein Gott! You are like ze snails. It is Friday eveningk. Samstag vil have come und gone by ze time you hov finished. You need to be faster. Faster, but mit ze reverence.’

  ‘The sound of popping blood vessels,’ murmured Beaseley, ‘is really quite unique.’

  ‘Places everyone.’

  Jean-Paul made a quick check of the exposure, called for the gaffer to remove a layer of scrim from a lamp to bring up the light a bit more and restore the balance, then gave the thumbs-up sign.