by Michael Bond
The girl at the péage gave Mrs Van Dorman a look of commiseration as she relieved them of 12 francs. She probably thought they were moving house on the cheap. If he’d been on his own she might well have charged commercial rates.
‘Tell me about the others.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse slowed down to join the N7. ‘How about … what is the name? Monsieur Robard. I have seen his name in bookshops.’
‘Paul K. Robard? Paul K. Robard has struck a rich seam in soft porn. He writes for American housewives who work out their fantasies in the long, lonely afternoons. I’m told he’s good on research too! His particular forte is recipes with sexual overtones. Five hundred unputdownable pages full of people sinking their teeth into warm, juicy peaches covered in sugar and cream, washed down with a bottle of Château d’Yquem or whatever Californian equivalent is currently available in the local supermarkets – he always makes sure he has a tie-in of some kind. The fact that the peaches may have been steeped in arsenic is beside the point. He has more fan mail than Michael Jackson. On a hot summer afternoon the bedrooms of America must be awash with scantily clad housewives drooling over their pillows.’
As they passed through Montargis Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering if Mr Van Dorman had ever come home early and found his wife covered in peach juice, drooling over her pillow. It sounded unlikely – she probably worked late at the office too. Perhaps the Van Dormans were too busy ever to meet up.
Sensing from her silence he was on delicate ground, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced across at the list. ‘And Elliott Garner?’
‘Elliott? He’s the odd one out. He keeps himself to himself. I guess his books are more intellectual than the others; more wide ranging. He travels a lot. His hero is apt to sit on his hacienda nibbling dry biscuits over an even drier sherry. Do you know about sherry?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.
‘Then you should try reading Bad Deeds at the Bodega. By the time you’ve finished it you’ll know everything there is to know, including the ins and outs of cask making … where the wood comes from … what particular part of the forest. How they bend it the way they do. He’s meticulous on detail. If Elliott says something happened a certain way, you can bet your bottom dollar that’s the way it was.
‘This whole trip was Elliott’s idea. It’s his turn this year, and I’ll tell you something – if nothing else it’ll be well documented. Elliott’s a keen photographer. And it’ll go like clockwork. Not like last year when they let Spencer Troon loose and he organised a get-together in an old Death Row cell at Alcatraz.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pondered for a moment on what a condemned man might choose to eat. ‘I know what my last meal would be.’
‘I wonder? I’m not sure I’d want anything – I’d be too sick with fear. The whole thing was a disaster anyway. They picked on a multiple murderer who happened to be vegetarian. Vegan at that! They had water to drink. Can you imagine?
‘Spencer’s high on ideas but low on research. His middle name is “Wallow”. He revels in the macabre. You only have to read the list of his book titles to see the type of mind he’s got: Clinging Slime, Pus … Pus…, Death by Ordure, Worms in the Caviar …’ Mrs Van Dorman broke off and peered out of the window as Monsieur Pamplemousse turned off the road and parked in the last available space between a giant DAF lorry and trailer with a Dutch number plate and an even larger Mercedes from Germany.
‘Is this it? The place is full of freight trucks.’
‘That is because it is a Relais Routier. I am not sure, but they may even have awarded it a casserole at one point.’
‘You French! Stock Pots … stars … toques … casseroles. You have it all tied up.’
‘Life is for living,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply. ‘Besides, to have so many camions outside a restaurant is a recommendation in itself.’
Mrs Van Dorman took a quick check of her appearance in the driving mirror. ‘Go ahead. I’m in your hands.’
As they entered the packed restaurant there was a noticeable drop in noise level for a moment or two. Then it resumed as everyone went on with their eating.
Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted an empty table for two halfway down one wall and, after exchanging formal greetings with three men at the next table, pulled a chair out for Mrs Van Dorman.
Mrs Van Dorman looked round curiously as she sat down. ‘You know something, this wouldn’t happen in America.’
‘You mean … rubbing shoulders with lorry drivers? Why not? I have always thought of America as a democratic society.’
‘It is, but it is also a matriarchal society and a moneyed one too. Most women who could afford it wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I don’t mind, but if I’d known I would have dressed differently.’ She gave a sniff. ‘Can you smell something funny?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced around him. ‘It is probably a compilation; an amalgam of many smells which have permeated the woodwork over the years. Pot au feu, navarin, café, Gauloise …’
‘I majored in chemistry when I was at college,’ said Mrs Van Dorman. ‘And it isn’t any of those. There’s something else.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he should point out that it might have something to do with the fact that the door leading to the toilet was just behind Mrs Van Dorman’s left ear, but he forbore.
‘It is perhaps nothing more than honest sweat. When you have been cooped up in a hot cab all morning …’ He took refuge in the carte.
The solitary waitress slapped a basket of freshly sliced baguette on the table, glanced across at another table, shouted ‘Commencez la tarte’ in the direction of an open hatch at the far end of the room, then stood by with a pencil poised over her pad. It boded well.
‘Vous avez choisi?’
At a nod from Mrs Van Dorman, Monsieur Pamplemousse took charge.
He gave a quick look round the other tables and ordered the soup of the day followed by cassoulet.
‘You know it?’
Mrs Van Dorman shook her head. ‘I know of it, but I’ve never eaten it.’
‘Ah, then you are in for a treat. From the menu I suspect the owners are from that area. We will also have a Côtes de Rhône.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse slapped the carte shut and handed it to the waitress. He would reserve judgement on the sweet until he’d seen what the others were eating. If the tarte were freshly made it could be good.
‘They don’t waste much time.’
‘With only one waitress and forty couverts they can’t afford to. It is a study in time and motion, perfected over the years.’
The wine arrived in a cream and brown picket, along with a carafe of water and a plate and bowl of water for Pommes Frites.
While they were waiting for the first course Mrs Van Dorman removed a photograph from her bag and laid it on the table.
‘Take a look at what you’re letting yourself in for.’
It was like all group photographs. It could have been a party of chartered accountants getting ready for their annual conference, or Le Guide’s staff outing in Normandy.
‘They don’t look as I imagined they would from the things you have already told me.’
‘Who does in this world?’
That was true. Mrs Van Dorman didn’t for a start. He caught a glimpse of something crisply white and taut as she leaned forward and pointed to a slight, bespectacled figure in the centre of the group.
‘That’s Jed Powers. And in case you’re wondering why that makes seven when there are only six in the picture, it’s also Ed Morgan, and if you think Ed Morgan writes toughies you should read Jed Powers. Jed Powers makes Ed Morgan read like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’
‘Now that does surprise me.’
‘It surprises everyone who meets him. His real name’s Norm Ellis and Norm Ellis is not only a hypochondriac with a capital H, he’s frightened of his own shadow. The story goes that he passed out on th
e way over because he found a spider in the aircraft toilet and was in such a hurry to escape its clutches he couldn’t unlock the door. It took two stewardesses and half a bottle of Scotch to bring him round. Everybody who reads his books thinks they’re autobiographical, but the truth of the matter is he’s so unlike his heroes his publishers daren’t let him go on a promotion tour for fear of what it might do to the sales figures. He’s their biggest money-spinner. He has two desks in his study and a chair on a set of rails so that he can work on the film script at the same time as he writes a book.
‘Have you read Lay Me Down to Die?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was forced to admit he hadn’t.
‘Maybe it isn’t over here yet, but it will be. He’s in over thirty languages. It’s been on the New York Times Best Seller list for over six months. For a crime novel that has to be something of a record, much to the disgust of all who know him. I’m afraid our Norm is very adept at stealing other people’s ideas, putting them all into the mixing-bowl he calls his head and coming out with something which he likes to think is all his own. Funnily enough, the really tough bits are. They crackle like an electric pylon in a thunderstorm.’
The soup of the day was leek and potato. Sprigs of chervil had been added and it came with croutons and a bowl of grated Gruyère. It was more than adequate: a meal in itself.
The cassoulet arrived in the pot in which it had been cooked. It was the Castelnaudary version – made without mutton or lamb, but with haricot beans, saucisses of the area, pork and ham. The pot was left on the table.
Monsieur Pamplemousse served two generous portions, then put some on Pommes Frites’ plate; a little sausage and a portion of ham. He went easy on the beans. There was no point in asking for trouble and they still had some 250 kilometres to go.
‘There is much rivalry as to which is the true version. In Carcassonne they use mutton. In Toulouse they add tomato. To be truly authentic the one we are eating should have been cooked in an oven fired with gorse from the Montagne Noire. It imparts a special flavour.’
‘Tell me something. How can a nation with such abysmal taste in décor serve such wonderful food?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked around the room. Walls panelled with plywood in imitation matchboard; radiators with inset doors for tiny heating stoves in winter supported shelves laden with china flower-filled ducks; light fittings made of wrought iron; the patterned stone-tiled floor worn almost bare in places; pink table-cloths sporting plastic imitation straw mats; a board covered with wine labels advertising Ed. Kressman et Cie., alongside pictures of humanised dogs doing unseemly things to each other with evident enjoyment; wooden, hardbacked chairs. It was par for the course. There were thousands of places like it all over France. It wasn’t the best he had ever seen, but he felt compelled to rise to its defence.
‘It is a question of priorities. The food is good – that is the main thing. You might just as well ask how a nation who are able to put men on the moon and take photographs of Mars can commit so many atrocities when it comes to cooking? I have read that you cook steak in Coca-Cola.’
‘You’re just prejudiced. I could take you places … Le Cirque and Lafayette in New York. Chez Panisse in Berkeley …’
‘So could I. You mustn’t judge France by what you see here. I could take you to places where the décor and the plumbing would put anything in America to shame.’
‘I bet you never put maple syrup on top of your pancakes or cinnamon on top of the coffee foam, or eat blueberry corn muffins, or put balsamic vinegar on your raspberries.’ It was Mrs Van Dorman’s turn to be on the defensive. ‘You should try that some time. Sprinkle sugar on top and leave them to soak for two or three hours.’
‘That happens to be an Italian way of doing it.’
‘You French are so chauvinist. If it wasn’t invented by a Frenchman it might just as well not exist.’
‘We did invent the word restaurant,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly. ‘They came about when a certain Monsieur Boulanger began selling soups which he called “restoratives”.’
While the waitress’s back was turned Mrs Van Dorman surreptitiously scraped what was left on her plate into Pommes Frites’ dish. ‘I’m not going to make it.’
‘For what it is worth, you have made a friend for life.’
‘If he helps me out he’ll have one too!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse wiped the inside of the tureen with the remains of his bread, toyed with the idea of ordering tarte aux pommes, then called for café and the bill instead.
‘This one is on me.’ Mrs Van Dorman touched the back of his hand lightly for a moment as she reached for her bag. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being crabby. It’s like I said earlier – I shan’t rest until all this is over.’
Getting back into the car was less easily accomplished than it had been on the first occasion. Once settled, Pommes Frites closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep. It wasn’t long before Mrs Van Dorman did likewise.
Feeling inside the secret pocket of his right trouser leg, Monsieur Pamplemousse helped himself from a store of raisins. He chewed on it reflectively as he drove, wondering what he had let himself in for.
Halfway between Nevers and Moulins, feeling in need of some company, he turned on the radio and was just in time to catch the tail end of an item about Vichy. A man – as yet unidentified – had died while taking the waters. It must have only just happened for the details were very sketchy. No more than the bare facts. In all probability the authorities would try and play it down anyway. It wouldn’t be very good publicity.
He was glad Mrs Van Dorman wasn’t awake to hear it. She might have had her worst fears confirmed.
It was the middle of the evening by the time they arrived. As he tried to move his stiff and aching limbs into action, Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected they must look as though they were in Vichy for the cure, and none too soon either. Like two superannuated jockeys, they mounted the well-worn steps of the Hôtel Thermale Splendide, negotiated as best they could the vast revolving door, and checked in at the desk. Pommes Frites chose to wait outside. He mistrusted revolving doors.
Complaining that she might never walk again, let alone eat, Mrs Van Dorman said goodnight and disappeared into the lift along with her luggage and an elderly night porter with a long-suffering look on his face. Having committed his own bag to temporary safe-keeping at the desk, Monsieur Pamplemousse took Pommes Frites for a walk in the Parc des Sources by the river.
The sky was blue and cloudless; the water sparkling in the evening light. He’d forgotten how wide the Allier was at that point. Taking off from a strip of sandy beach, Pommes Frites essayed a quick dip in the river. Monsieur Pamplemousse could hardly blame him – he wouldn’t have minded one himself, but given the fact that they would be sharing a room that night it wasn’t the best news he’d had that day.
While he was waiting he stopped by a small riverside café and ordered a sandwich and a bottle of beer.
‘Bad news about the death today.’
The man behind the counter gave a shrug. ‘It’s a wonder it doesn’t happen more often when you look at some of the people who go there. Not that this one was old. Only in his forties, so they say.’ He poured half the beer into a glass. ‘Bet you can’t guess what his last words were.’
It was the kind of question Monsieur Pamplemousse could have done without at the end of a long and tiring drive, but fortunately it was rhetorical.
‘Bring me a bottle of Bâtard Montrachet and some fish.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse expressed suitable surprise.
‘Now, I bet you’re going to ask me “what year?” and “what sort of fish?”.’
As it happened it was the last thing on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind, but clearly he was stuck with the subject until he’d finished his snack. The man seemed glad of a new audience for a story he’d obviously repeated many times.
‘He didn’t specify!’
‘I think,’ said Monsieur Pamplemouss
e, ‘in similar circumstances I would have tempered desire with availability. I would have settled for a bottle of Muscadet and some lobster – a cold lobster, with mayonnaise and a little green salad.’
‘Me, I’d have chosen a good vin rouge and steak frites.’
Several others round the bar nodded their agreement. They were about to join in when Pommes Frites, having heard his name mentioned, arrived on the scene and set about shaking himself dry.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him the remains of his sandwich, then beat a hasty retreat. On the way back through the old part of the town he looked for a tabac-journaux in the hope of buying a newspaper, but they were all closed. He toyed with the idea of searching out the house where the banquet was to take place – it was somewhere near the Pavillon Sévigné, one-time home of France’s most famous letter writer, the Marquise de Sévigné – but he thought better of it. His mind was on other things. Something of Mrs Van Dorman’s sense of unease had entered into him and all he really wanted to do was go to bed and get some sleep.
To his relief when he arrived back at the hotel his room was already prepared for the night; the shutters were wound down over the balcony window and the bed sheets had been turned back.
Too tired to have more than a token wash, Monsieur Pamplemousse reserved the luxury of a bath until morning and climbed straight into bed. He had hardly settled down and made himself comfortable when the telephone rang. He groped for the receiver.
‘Aristide?’
It was Mrs Van Dorman. She was one up on him. He had no idea what her Christian name might be.
‘Oui.’
‘It’s DiAnn … Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’ He wondered what was coming.
‘Do you think it’s safe to drink the water?’
It wasn’t until he had put the phone down and turned out the light once again that the irony of the question struck him. It was a good job Mrs Van Dorman had asked him and not the night porter. The latter might well have taken umbrage.
