by Michael Bond
‘But, Monsieur, there must be some mistake …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt at a loss for words. ‘If you come with me I will prove to you …’
‘Not for all the café in Maroc, Pamplemousse. It was an illusion destroyed. One should not get too close to one’s dreams. The reality seldom lives up to them. I will leave you to your own devices, such as they are. I see now why you and Pommes Frites are occupying separate trailers.’ He reached out a hand. ‘If I may, I will borrow your torche de poche and find my own way back.’
The Director broke off and stared at the object in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s other hand. ‘What is that you are holding, Pamplemousse?’
‘It is nothing …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily stuffed the négligé under his jacket.
‘Nothing?’ exclaimed the Director. ‘It is no wonder Mangetout was in a state of déshabillée.’
‘Monsieur! … This does not belong to Mangetout. It is …’
‘Well, Pamplemousse?’ The Director assumed his magisterial tones.
‘It belongs to someone else,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse lamely.
The Director gazed at him as if he could hardly believe his eyes.
‘Is there no end to your depravity, Pamplemousse?’ he boomed. ‘Are you totally insatiable? Can you not be alone for five minutes? That poor woman. Small wonder she was distraught and smelling of gin.’
‘It is a long story, Monsieur …’
‘And I do not wish to hear it,’ said the Director.
‘Monsieur …’
‘The lumière, Pamplemousse.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse took a firm grip of his torch. ‘I hardly think that will be necessary, Monsieur.’ He turned and pointed towards the nearest trailer. ‘Your quarters are there in front of you.’
Relenting long enough to shine the light as far as the steps, Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until the Director was safely inside, then he turned and made straight for his own trailer, feeling for his key as he went.
Fully prepared for the worst, he flung open the door. The living-room was empty, the bed untouched. He went through into the kitchen. That, too, was exactly as he had left it. He drew a blank in the make-up area.
Returning to the main room, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat on the edge of his bed for a moment or two. It was a puzzle and no mistake. The Director could hardly have imagined all that he had described. Nor would he have made it up. His black eye was real enough. And if Mangetout had been in the trailer she would hardly have had time to vacate it. Unless, of course, the Director had been wandering around in a daze for longer than he realised. It was possible.
As he began to undress, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch again. Less than half an hour had passed since he had last checked the time; it felt much longer.
He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. The mysterious visitor to Brother Angelo’s trailer had been another strange business. At the time it had seemed all too real … his mind drifted back to Mangetout. He wondered where she was now? Back in her own trailer? And what was she feeling about Ron’s disappearance? Did she even know about it? It was quite within the bounds of possibility that she didn’t. If they were in the middle of one of their periodic rows she could well have gone into a sulk. Not many people would be brave enough to knock on her door to break the news.
His head was throbbing from the incessant drumming coming from the camp site. It was getting louder; ever more urgent, but he was too tired to let it worry him. Pulling the duvet over his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse fell fast asleep in a matter of moments.
He had no idea how long it lasted; it could have been minutes, it could have been hours. All he was conscious of was being woken abruptly some time later by the sound of the telephone ringing. He struggled into a sitting position and reached for the receiver.
‘Pamplemousse, are you all right?’ It was the Director. He sounded agitated.
‘Oui, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse manfully resisted the temptation to say he would have felt better still had he not been woken.
‘You have not been experiencing tremors?’
‘Tremors, Monsieur?’
‘The ground keeps shaking. This is not an area subject to earthquakes is it?’
‘Not so far as I am aware, Monsieur.’
‘There seems to be a wind getting up. Listen … can you hear it? Could it be the Mistral? I … Pamplemousse …’ The Director’s voice rose an octave or two. ‘The whole room is moving. I … Sacré bleu! Come quickly! Mon Dieu! …’
There was a click and the line went dead.
As it did so, Monsieur Pamplemousse became aware that the noise which he had at first taken to be some kind of interference on the line, a fault in the air-conditioning perhaps, or, indeed, as the Director had suggested, the Mistral making an unseasonable sortie down the Rhône Valley, was actually much closer to hand.
Making a dive for the window, he operated the blind and was just in time to see the upper half of a trailer go past. Swaying as it went, like a ship at sea or some giant artificial monster in a Chinese New Year festivity, it was borne on a vast, undulating, heaving, tidal wave of bodies; some clad in galabiahs left over from the previous day’s shoot, others wearing T-shirts bearing motifs and illustrations which even from a distance were clearly of a sexual nature. Others again had discarded everything completely. Brother Angelo’s fan club were on the rampage and it was an awesome sight.
As the trailer disappeared behind some rocks Monsieur Pamplemousse caught his breath. The blind on one of the windows was raised and he had a momentary glimpse of a white face pressed against the inside of the glass. There was no need to look for his Leitz Trinovids in order to identify the owner of the countenance. It belonged to the Director, and terror was writ large all over it.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a dive for the telephone again and dialled the duty security officer. A girl answered.
‘Which service do you require, Monsieur?’
‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse urgently, ‘you had better send one of everything … tout de suite!’
7
IMAGES GALORE
Following a sign marked Cathédrale d’Images, Monsieur Pamplemousse took the back road out of Les Baux towards Arles. He had been driving for less than a minute when he rounded a bend and there on his right he saw a great rectangular hole carved out of the hillside. It was much grander than he had expected – cathedral was an apt description. Great slabs of white limestone left over from the days when it was a working quarry were stacked on either side of the opening. He drove into an empty car park and crunched his way across the gravel towards a small ticket office to the left of what must once have been the loading area.
He still wasn’t quite sure why he was there, other than playing a hunch. A process of elimination really. It was also a means of passing the time. The Director had been admitted to a hospice in Arles and was under heavy sedation, so there was no point in trying to visit him. Work on the film had ground to a halt.
He scanned a notice board displaying various facts and figures about the mine. Forty slide projectors programmed to display some 2,500 slides, each one enlarged up to 10,000 times on to 4,000 square metres of surface area spread over 300 metres of walkway. A magical and unforgettable world, according to the blurb, born from the talent and imagination of its creator, the late Albert Plecy. The Image totale process made it possible for the spectator to wander at will through a gigantic audio-visual show. The whole sight and sound spectacular lasted thirty minutes.
The girl in the cash desk seemed surprised to see him. It was hard to say whether she was pleased or not. Probably not from the way she put down her magazine. He decided to ply her with a few tentative questions.
‘Oui, business had suffered since the film company had taken over Les Baux. Not many people knew the Cathédrale existed and there was not much through traffic on the D27. They relied on tapping the overspill of visitors to the old town who came across their advertisements.
Normally on a Saturday at this time of the year there would be crowds, but now … poof! See for yourself!’ was the general tenor of her responses. Her final question, ‘You are from the company?’ was slightly more animated.
‘I am … attached …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to make his connection sound as tenuous as possible.
‘I would be better off as an extra.’ He wasn’t sure if it was a statement, a moment of dreaming, or a hint. Perhaps she was hoping he was a casting director.
Hearing some pop music coming from a portable radio in the background, he tried another tack. ‘You are a fan of Brother Angelo?’
The girl brightened. ‘Oui. And he is a fan of the Cathédrale. He has been here several times.’
‘It is possible to see the same show more than once?’
‘Of course! People come back all the time.’
Realising he had made a tactical error, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to bring the conversation back again.
‘When was the last time he was here?’
‘The day before he disappeared. He didn’t stay for long, but then he never did.’ She brushed the hair away from her eyes. ‘It is a strange business. Disappearing like that.’
‘You know about it?’ He felt in his trouser pocket for some change.
‘Who doesn’t? Nobody talks about anything else around here.’
‘And you have not seen him since?’
‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I had, would I?’
There was no one like the young, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, for expressing with a single glance total and utter contempt for asking ridiculous questions.
He suddenly felt his age.
‘At least you will have the cave more or less to yourself,’ said the girl. ‘There is only one other customer this morning.
‘It doesn’t matter if the show has already started. You can stay in there as long as you like. One show ends – another begins.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked her and then pushed his way through the turnstile. He stood for a moment or two in the open area between the box office and the entrance to the cave, taking in the unexpected grandeur of the scene. It all seemed so much larger than life; it was like coming across a film set for some Cecil B. de Mille biblical extravaganza, or a theatre modelled after an Egyptian temple which had somehow been left over from the great days of Hollywood. It would certainly make a wonderful hide-out.
Could anyone get in and out without paying? There was a long metal barrier between the ticket office and the opposite side of the area where the entrance to the old mine lay. But if the girl were distracted, or if she left her post for a moment? She would hardly leave it unattended if there were any potential customers around. It certainly wasn’t something to bank on. Even if he had changed his appearance, Brother Angelo had clearly already made his mark and he wouldn’t risk being recognised.
Wandering towards the back and into a cavernous hollowed-out part of the hill, he passed the window of a little room where a plain deal table was laid with two plates. There was a baguette, some cheese and a bottle of red wine. A man was busying himself at a stove. Early déjeuner for himself and the girl at the cash desk? It looked like some kind of off-duty rest room. The window commanded a view of the car park and the approach road. He couldn’t see anyone else around, although there were some official-looking offices to his left. They looked as though they were closed for the day.
He walked on a little, then came to an abrupt halt. Various Danger and Passage Interdit notices barred further progress. Presumably they were meant to be off-putting, because beyond them he could see patches of blue sky, so presumably anyone approaching from the other side – over the top of the hill – could gain access that way. If no one was watching.
A moment later the question was partly answered for him. A car drew up outside the car park and the driver – presumably a tourist or someone from a nearby camp site – tried to deposit a cardboard box full of rubbish alongside a litter bin. The man he’d seen a moment before rushed out of the rest room waving his arms and shouting.
It was a private litter bin. It belonged to the Company. How dare he!
The driver disappeared into his car like a scalded cat and drove off hell for leather down the hill. It looked as though it wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened.
All the same, if the man was able to spot it from a distance of some fifty or sixty metres, he would surely have seen someone trying to get in without paying. There was no means of telling without testing the system.
On the other hand, if there were two people. One to divert attention …
It was time he went in. If he lingered much longer he would become an object of suspicion himself.
The door into the Cathédrale proper was reached via a long hallway hollowed out of the cliff. It was lined with display cabinets and posters giving more facts and figures, mostly about Albert Plecy and how he had established a research centre in the quarries. There were lists of past shows – amongst them one devoted to the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh. This year it was ‘The Magic of Stained Glass’. The best things in life had always just been or were ‘coming shortly’.
Entering through a door at the far end Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly found himself in almost total darkness. Darkness with a chilly edge to it. He wished he had brought something warmer to wear. Ahead of him he could hear music and there was a faint glow of light. As his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light he began to edge his way forward. Suddenly there was a burst of music directly overhead and on a wall to his left a picture of an illuminated church window appeared. It was followed by others to his right. The music grew louder, then faded as a commentator’s voice took over. The whole cave seemed alive with shapes and sound. Nothing he had read outside had quite prepared him for the experience. The smooth white walls made perfect screens, and the texture and shape provided exactly the right amount of reverberation. He was surrounded by sound and by constantly changing pictures. It was quadrophonic, three-dimensional theatre in the round, and a totally unique experience.
Monsieur Pamplemousse began to work his way deeper into the mine, past supporting pillars and on into other vast chambers. There was constant clicking from all directions as the computerised projectors changed slides, mixing automatically from one to another. He was so absorbed by the sheer complexity of it all that for a while it commanded his whole attention. It wasn’t until he found an optimum point which offered an almost 360 degree view of the cave that he paused for a moment, and leaning against a pillar, away from the criss-crossing beams of light, posed the simple question to himself. Why was he there?
The answer was nowhere near as clear cut as he would have liked. A faint hope that Brother Angelo might be in the Cathédrale too? Perhaps even now hiding in one of the many dark areas out of range of the projectors? It was possible – all things were possible. But was it likely? It was an eerie thought; the more so because as far as he could tell there was no one else about. Certainly nobody he could see or hear. There was no sign of the other visitor the girl at the cash desk had mentioned. He hadn’t been aware of passing anyone. Whoever it was might well have left by now. A dozen people could have crossed his path and he would never have known. Looking around, shadows manifest themselves in unlikely places.
Deep down, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to wish he had been firmer with the vétérinaire and insisted on Pommes Frites’ immediate discharge. Now filming had stopped, surely he would have welcomed a return to his old duties? Although, having said that, quite what he would have made of the present surroundings was hard to say.
The music swelled. It was modern, specially composed, loud, strident, synthetic; not to his liking, yet he had to admit it was somehow right for the setting. The rate at which the images changed increased with the volume; a never-ending montage of stained glass windows, of saints and ecclesiastical figures one after another, a riot of reds and blues and all colours of the rainbow. The overall effect as both sound and vis
ion reached a crescendo was so intensely theatrical, he found himself unable to resist an overwhelming urge to take advantage of being on his own join and in; to hold his ears and shout out.
‘Brother Angelo! Ron Pickles! Avancez! Come out! Ici! I know you are here!’ His voice rose above the sound of the music.
Monsieur Pamplemousse never knew what hit him. There was a crash and a glancing blow across the back of the head sent him sprawling.
He lay where he had fallen for a moment or two, vaguely aware of a strange sound like the ticking of a myriad clocks echoing round the vaulted chambers. It was a moment or two before he came to his senses and realised that the house lights were on and that the noise was coming from the projectors as they recycled themselves for the next performance.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he looked up. Immediately above his head there was a steel bracket attached to the pillar. It supported a small platform for one of the projectors. There was a mark along the edge as though it had been struck by some heavy object. The metal was shiny where the paint had been removed. Glancing down he saw some splinters of wood on the ground. He rubbed his head ruefully. His senses were still spinning, but at least the bracket and the fact that he was wearing his hat had saved him from something far worse than a headache.
Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked two large potatoes several times with a fork and placed them on a piece of folded paper towel to absorb the moisture, then put them directly on the floor of the microwave oven. He checked once again with the cook book – it was as well to make sure – he had heard tales of potatoes exploding in microwave ovens, spattering themselves all over the inside. Reassured, he set the timer to 11 minutes, pressed the start button, and stood back.
