by Michael Bond
Detaching a portion of cheese from the bread, he held it up to his nose. ‘Interestingly,’ he said, ‘this cheese is a Banon.’
‘Yeah?’ Mrs Beardmore felt in her bag and for a moment he wondered if he was to be treated to a musical accompaniment, but instead she withdrew a glass jar. ‘You want my opinion? They can keep their banana cheese. It needs something over and above to give it a kick up the ass.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try again.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘I am very interested. What makes them Jamaican style?’
‘This!’ Mrs Beardmore opened the jar and spooned a liberal dollop of mahogany-coloured sauce onto the side of her plate. ‘Vernon’s Jerk Sauce. It’s the real McCoy. I get it from the King of jerk himself. Nobody makes it better. He has a dispensary on West 29th Street, New York City. Never go anywhere without it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could scarcely believe his eyes. Already waves of the hot spice, borne on a gentle breeze from the air conditioning, assailed his nostrils. He reached for his handkerchief as his eyes started to water.
‘Sure packs a wallop,’ said Claye.
‘Forgive my saying so,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but is it not a little extreme? You run the risk of masking the very flavours this particular cheese is famous for; flavours which are an integral part of the joy of its being. Banon comes from the Alps in Upper Provence, where lavender, thyme and other wild herbs grow thick on the ground. Banon itself has been there since the eleventh century, and the cheese they produce is made from the sweet curds of goats’ milk – what are known as the caillé doux. When you buy it in the shops it comes in an airtight wrapping of dried chestnut leaves; five or six leaves for each cheese, which are then held together with raffia.
‘There is a reason for everything,’ he continued, warming to his subject. ‘And the reason it is sold that way is because it has to be made in quantity while the weather is good and then preserved for the winter months when the goats are unable to provide milk. Because the chestnut leaves have a high tannin content, they impart a distinctive flavour.
‘The locals,’ he added hopefully, ‘recommend that you accompany it with a glass of dry white wine …’
Realising that Mrs Beardmore had gone quiet, he broke off from his dissertation. Anyone who travelled the world armed to the teeth with jars of relish to take away the taste of foreign food probably had no wish to know such things.
‘SNORE! SNORE!’ said Claye. ‘That’s brain candy. Am I right or am I wrong? What are you? Some kind of food freak? You get off on curds or something, huh? Like you suffer from erectile dysfunction.’
Crossing to the door, she slid the dead-bolt lock back into place. ‘Let’s not talk fromage. You fancy some dessert before we get down to business?’
Given that the waiter had taken the trolley with him when he departed, an indication that there was nothing more to come, Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered what it could possibly be. He hoped it wasn’t one of the half-eaten doughnuts.
Removing her necklace, Mrs Beardmore spread it out across the table. ‘I got things that’ll give you an even bigger kick than jerk sauce. In fact, you gotta choice of four.’
Opening a Victoria plum she shook out a tablet. ‘For starters there’s V for Viagra. Or, if you need something hotter still …’ She flipped open a cherry. ‘I got Cialis. According to the packet it came in it’s good for thirty-six hours, but who’s going to be counting?
‘Then there’s L for loganberries and Levitra. Last of all, I got something even better.’ She picked up a raspberry and pressed it open. ‘How about this? Rexxion. It’s from the juice of a Mexican cactus. They don’t come any hotter. I tried it out on Newt. The last I heard of him he was going so fast he got taken for a dust storm in Texas.’
‘Lucky old Newt,’ thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, mentally calculating the distance between the table and the door.
Admittedly he would be up against a power-assisted Zimmer frame, and there was the security catch to undo, but with Pommes Frites’ help they might make it together.
‘Some day,’ he said, playing for time, ‘you must tell me how you got to be a food writer. It is a highly specialised subject and you seem to have been very successful at it.’
‘Do you have to be an astronaut to write about the moon?’ asked Claye. ‘It’s a gas.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say a few more taste buds might help to make such a book infinitely more exciting.
‘Besides, you don’t want to believe all you read, especially on the net.
‘You know something, Aristide?’ She leaned over towards him. ‘I just love your aura.’
It wasn’t the best news he’d had that day. Close to, under the direct light of one of the chandeliers, he could see the joins in his hostess’s make-up. On the whole he preferred the part that came out of a jar.
‘I tell you something else,’ she continued. ‘We have a mutual acquaintance.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a start. He racked his brains, wondering who on earth it could be.
‘The name Dorman ring any bells?’
‘You know Mrs Van Dorman?’ The part he’d played during her efforts to re-enact a gastronomic feast hosted by Alexandre Dumas while he was staying in Vichy prior to starting work on yet another sequel to The Three Musketeers, was something he would rather forget.
The thought of the story being bandied about in American gastronomic circles had to be another piece of bad news. It might even appear on Claye’s website. Nothing was sacred these days. Even Michelin had suffered when one of their ex-staff threatened to write his memoirs exposing what went on behind the scenes. Sooner or later it was bound to reach the Director’s ears.
‘She rated you highly,’ said Claye. ‘I’d love it if you dressed up as d’Artagnan again like you did for her. You still got the outfit? It sounds like you had fun, even with your hands cuffed behind your back. Or, maybe especially with them that way.
‘You know what your Oscar Wilde said: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”’
‘He wasn’t actually one of ours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He just happened to die while he was over here.’
‘Yeah? You learn something new every day.’
‘How did you get to know Mrs Van Dorman?’
‘I make it my business to know these things,’ said Claye. ‘It’s part of my job.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet. He’d had quite enough for one day. First the business with the exploding coffin, now this. He was fast reaching the end of his tether.
‘To start with,’ he said, gathering up the tablets. ‘I have no need of these things, and even if I did I can assure you this is not the moment.
‘In fact …’ rising to his feet, he looked round the room. For a hotel which appeared to boast every convenience man could possibly wish for, it was surprisingly deficient in waste buckets. Perhaps the kind of guests they catered for didn’t handle waste.
Seeing nothing remotely suitable near at hand, he dropped the tablets one by one into the water bowl where, in a series of plops, they sank like the proverbial stones.
‘Bravo!’
As he turned he realised to his surprise that Mrs Beardmore was standing without the aid of her frame. All of a sudden she appeared to have shed a few years.
‘I love it when you’re cross, Aristide. You don’t mind if I call you Aristide?’
Moving to the sofa, she sat down. He waited to see how she ended up. Was it to be the swinging leg routine? Legs crossed, with the outer one pointing towards him indicating friendliness, or away from him indicating lack of trust? Or even, heaven forbid, enticing; knees pressed together and feet splayed out sending a ‘come hither’ signal. In the event it was none of them. Perhaps she didn’t bend that easily.
‘Listen.’ She gave the cushion next to her a pat. ‘Come here. I like to know who I’m working with, that’s all.’
Sensing that he had passe
d some kind of test, Monsieur Pamplemousse wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or sorry.
Pommes Frites, on the other hand, recognising the signs, seized the opportunity to go on a voyage of exploration. Following his nose, he went into the adjoining room. Being deprived of lunch was bad enough, but nobody had even thought to offer him any of the cheese on toast. It would have been better than nothing.
He was gone all of ten seconds. Following another bout of sneezing he came back into the room.
‘You know what Lyndon Johnson used to say when he was president?’ said Mrs Beardmore.
Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head as he settled himself down a respectable distance away from her.
‘“I never trust a man until I’ve got his pecker in my pocket”.
‘Me? I take the opposite line. I trust everyone so long as I get to cut the cards. You can’t be too careful in this business.
‘What gives with the Zimmer? It stops people getting in your hair. They see you coming towards them holding on to a frame, they keep out of your way in case you ask for help. Keep ’em guessing – that’s my motto. Besides, they say things in front of you they wouldn’t do otherwise, like they think you’re deaf and dumb or something.
‘Anyway, let’s get down to business. We got things to talk about.’
Reaching across to the small table she picked up the box of chocolates.
‘Try one of these. You’re a food inspector. I’d like to know what you think of them.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at the box first. Although the name was new to him he saw they had an address in Lyon; once upon a time the chocolate centre of France. As far as he knew only Bernachon of the big names was still going strong, dating back to the days when members of the dynasty travelled the world in search of the finest cocoa beans. Nowadays, more and more artisan chocolatiers simply assembled materials others had sourced.
There was a note inside, printed in gold copperplate.
‘In our never-ending search for perfection these creations are handmade from cocoa beans grown especially for us in the foothills of the Venezuelan Andes. No stone has been left unturned in our search for the finest ingredients that go to make up the fillings. Please note: In order to marry the exquisite tastes of the one with the other the flavour of the enrobing chocolate may vary.’
It sounded like serious stuff.
‘Chocolate has a lot in common with wine,’ he said. ‘First you smell it, then you look at the colour, then you taste it. Professional wine tasters spit it out before going on to the next. Chocolatiers, on the other hand, leave a small piece on their tongue to melt.’
He popped one of those on offer into his mouth.
‘You think they’d make a good present?’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘They are, if I may so, very French. That is to say they are dark and in every respect of the highest quality. That includes the raspberry filling in this particular one, which came through at the very end with an unbelievable freshness.’
Mrs Beardmore looked pleased. ‘Irresistible, huh?’
She put the box back on the table and returned to the problem in hand.
‘Tell me, what’s the thinking on this side of the pond?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hedged his bets. ‘It’s all happened so quickly …’ he began. ‘I didn’t know about it myself until earlier today.’
‘You know something? Back home the theory is if we’re talking bin Laden or anyone connected with him it’s going to happen on some kind of special occasion – maybe an anniversary of some kind, or a day of national celebration when everybody is off work and relaxed.’
‘In America,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse thoughtfully, ‘it would probably be on Thanksgiving Day when everyone is having their oven-ready turkey.’
‘Like when the stars and stripes flag pops up to show it’s ready?’ said Claye. ‘At the same time releasing a stream of gas. I’ve heard that one before.
‘It could be the other extreme – like 9/11. Ever strike you 9/11 is the same number you dial in an emergency? It gets you Police, Fire, Ambulance. That give you any ideas?’
‘In Britain they use 999,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, thoughtfully. ‘Whichever way you look at it, that date has been and gone.’
‘We’re not talking Britain,’ Claye reminded him.
‘Or the US. We’re talking Europe.’
‘Brussels tried to bring in 112 for the whole of Europe,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘but it never really caught on in France. English motorists used it when they ran out of what they call “petrol”, so we stick to our old ones. 17 for Police. 18 for Fire. 15 for Ambulance. It saves time.’
‘Bang goes another theory,’ said Claye. ‘Why are you guys so different? I’m just throwing up balloons. The other big question is not just when, but how? Any ideas on that?’
‘If it’s in the food chain,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse thoughtfully, ‘I suppose it could be seasonal. Something everyone rushes out to buy the moment it comes in.’
‘How about truffles? When do they start? November? That’s not so far away.’
‘They’re not for everyone,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dubiously. ‘They’re too elitist.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ asked Claye. ‘At least it would make sure they reached the movers and shakers of this world.’
‘It doesn’t have to be connected with bin Laden,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, remembering the recent attempt to blackmail the French government by a group of unknown terrorists.
‘Not everything has to do with Al-Qaeda. Other organisations are often all too eager to jump on the bandwagon. The worst thing Al-Qaeda did was to bring them out of the woodwork and make them more ambitious – to think big.’
He was thinking of AZF and the threat to plant explosives up and down the country’s rail system. At the time no one knew what the letters stood for, or even whether it was an individual or a group, but the price for laying-off had been four million euros.
For a time it had seemed like something out of a James Bond film, with demands for the government to land a helicopter on the roof of the Montparnasse Tower in Paris to show they were taking the threat seriously.
Ten thousand French rail workers had carried out an all-night search for bombs along the country’s thirty-two thousand kilometres of track. Having drawn a blank, the blackmailer’s bluff had been called, but it had been a nail-biting time.
Not long after that there had been the massive bomb attacks on the railways in Spain. Planted in backpacks and detonated by mobile phones, they had escaped detection until it was too late.
Al-Qaeda had claimed responsibility, but with an election just around the corner the government suspected their old Basque enemies Eta were behind them. Perhaps the two had got together. If it had been Eta it certainly backfired. When the election took place there was an overwhelming vote against anyone associated with them.
By the same token, it had made his own government think again. Following the Spanish affair, unease had spread like wildfire through Europe’s train-travelling public. And who could blame them? People with backpacks had become objects of suspicion.
He was about to enlarge on his theme when he felt a vibration in his trouser pocket. He took out his mobile. It was Monsieur Leclercq.
Edging further away from Mrs Beardmore, he pressed the earpiece hard against his head and cupped the other hand over the mouthpiece in case the Director was in a booming mode, but he needn’t have worried.
‘I was wondering if you are in an “Estragon” situation, Aristide,’ hissed the voice at the other end.
‘I am not in a position to answer the question,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse carefully.
‘Why is your voice all muffled, Pamplemousse?’ Monsieur Leclercq’s voice rose by several decibels. ‘I trust you are not under the bedclothes with Mrs Beardmore already – a victim of what I believe is known as a “date-rape” drug!’
‘N
o,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Rest assured, I am not. I will be with you as soon as I can.’
Surreptitiously pressing the off button, he added a few non sequiturs for good measure, before slipping the handset back into his pocket.
‘Bad news?’ asked Claye.
‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to keep the note of relief from his voice. He wasn’t sure if he had entirely succeeded, but Mrs Beardmore was already on her feet.
‘We’ll catch up,’ she said. ‘We’ve made contact, that’s the great thing. In the meantime your pooch had better have something for the journey.’ Reaching for her plate, she placed it on the floor within licking distance.
Pommes Frites, who had been wearing his thoughtful expression following his return from the bedroom, jumped to his feet.
‘You need a comfort break before you go?’ asked Claye, addressing Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘The bathroom’s on through. Help yourself.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t feel the need, but he couldn’t resist the chance to see around the rest of the suite while he was there.
As with the main room, the bedroom curtains were drawn – Claye must value her privacy. Alongside a king-size bed there was a Samsung Media Centre, with a mirror doubling as a television screen, and below that a mini bar. Her night-clothes – a rather surprising set of neatly folded striped pyjamas – were already laid out, a small pile of cellophane-wrapped sweets neatly arranged on top.
A quick glance behind a partially open sliding cupboard door revealed several sizeable items of luggage. He tried lifting one of the bags. It weighed a tonne. There was no doubt, when Americans travelled they took everything with them bar the kitchen sink.
The en-suite marble bathroom had a full compliment of mirrors, hairdryers and the usual selection of freebie offerings along with two cordless telephones.
Claye must have brought along her own medicine chest. Walnut, with piano hinges, bearing the insignia Robern of Pennsylvania, it was standing on a table between two wash basins. Getting it out of the country couldn’t have been easy; getting it back in again might be another matter. He guessed all things were possible if you were a CIA agent. It opened doors. Inside the chest it looked as though there were enough bottles and surgical instruments to deal with everything from a common cold to major surgery. At one point, taking his time while drying his hands, he thought he heard Pommes Frites coughing, but after a moment or two it stopped.
