by Michael Bond
It was not as though he had wasted any time getting there. Setting off from Rodez in the Midi-Pyrénées at a ridiculously early hour, he had driven the 600 kilometres to Paris almost non-stop. He hadn’t even been home, but instead headed straight for the office.
To arrive and find they were locked out was akin to arriving at a theatre all set for an evening’s entertainment, only to discover it was the wrong night. Both were equally dispiriting.
An even more frustrating aspect of the whole affair was that it had meant cutting short his current tour of duty. On the principle of saving the best until last, he had been looking forward to rounding it off in the small town of Laguiole, home to both the eponymous cutlery firm and the equally renowned restaurant Bras, famous for the patron’s wondrous ways with the flora of the region.
Anticipating a brief stop at the former to do some Christmas shopping for his wife, he had pictured heading up the Puech du Suquet, a small mountain just outside the town, arriving at the futuristic restaurant perched like a space capsule on its launch pad at the very top, in good time for lunch.
Overlooking the vast Aubrac plateau, there was very little in the way of natural growth that didn’t find its way into Monsieur Bras’s kitchen sooner or later. Wild herbs, fennel, sorrel, celeriac, coriander, garlic, all were grist to his mill.
It was the kind of gastronomic experience that made the time spent away from home, driving for hours on end and putting up in strange hotels, abundantly worthwhile.
Given that it was near the end of October and the hotel and its restaurant would soon be closing down for the winter months, the chance wouldn’t come his way again until next March at the earliest, if then.
In all probability, anonymity being one of the keywords of Le Guide, he would find himself assigned to a very different part of France. Word travelled fast and it didn’t do to become too well known in any one area.
His Cupillard Rième watch showed almost 12.45. Even now he might be tucking in to what Michel Bras called his Gargouillou – a warm salad of over twenty young vegetables, each separately steamed before being brought together in total harmony. The ingredients varied with the season of course, and no two days were alike, but they were always as fresh as they could possibly be. However, there was no point in dwelling on it.
He stared the massive oak doors. What now? He couldn’t even make use of his mobile phone. The battery had gone flat halfway through his tour and he had left his charger at home.
Security at Le Guide’s offices in the 16th arrondissement of Paris was a serious matter at the best of times, but especially so during the latter part of the year. Staff were almost wholly engaged in the mammoth task of collating reports and information concerning some ten thousand or so hotels and restaurants across the length and breadth of le hexagon; afterwards checking and rechecking, first the galleys, then the page proofs and finally the guide itself.
In the months leading up to spring publication, secrecy was paramount. Anyone caught breaking the rule ran the risk of instant dismissal.
All the same, totally denying him entry seemed to be carrying things a little too far.
Wondering if, as occasionally happened with plastic cards, continuous use, or even long periods spent in juxtaposition with each other, had brought about a failure of the magnetic strip, he was about to reach for his handkerchief in the forlorn hope that a quick rub might do the trick when, to his surprise, the door in front of him swung open.
Pommes Frites immediately froze as they found themselves confronted by a man in uniform; a uniform, moreover, emblazoned with an alien emblem: BRINKS, a well-known security company. To complete the picture, he was wearing the kind of reflective sunglasses beloved of American traffic police.
‘Looking for something, bud?’
‘Oui,’ replied Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Business?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse held up his card. ‘I happen to work here.’
The man reached out and took it from him.
‘Ident?’
‘Pamplemousse.’ Given that his name was clearly embossed in thick black letters alongside his photograph, it seemed a somewhat pointless exercise. He was hardly likely to risk making up a false one.
‘Grapefruit, huh?’
He felt rather than saw the other’s eyes boring into his as comparisons between the image on the card and the real thing were made. For a brief moment, as the man held it up to the light, turning it first one way and then another, Monsieur Pamplemousse derived a certain vicarious pleasure in picturing a holographic effect coming into play. Ideally, in his mind’s eye it would be the sticking out of a tongue. However, no such luck.
The man’s face remained utterly impassive as he turned away, withdrew a mobile from his hip pocket and held a brief conversation.
‘OK this time,’ he said, grudgingly holding the door open. ‘But you better go get an update on your card. It needs eyeball identification installed. You can get it done in back of reception.’
Feeling his hackles rise, Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his reflection in the man’s sunglasses for a full ten seconds, long enough for his eyeballs to be permanently embedded in the other’s memory. Comparisons with attempting to enter Fort Knox were clearly not so wide of the mark after all.
Signalling Pommes Frites to follow on, he retrieved his card and passed through the opening, wondering as he did so if his friend and mentor would receive similar treatment. One glance was sufficient. Pommes Frites’ tail was standing bolt upright – a warning sign if ever there was one, and it proved more than sufficient.
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he detected the security guard mouthing the words trottoir royale.
At least, despite the phoney American accent and the glasses, it meant he was sufficiently well versed in the French language to know the slang phrase for mongrel. He hoped for the man’s sake his friend and mentor hadn’t registered it. He was sensitive to such things.
Fearing the worst, he glanced back over his shoulder.
Normally the most docile of creatures, Pommes Frites was rooted to the spot, staring up the guard as though daring him to make a move.
Rather than call out, Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a brief whistle through his teeth and immediately regretted it as a series of high-pitched bleeps came from inside one of his jacket pockets.
The man from BRINKS heard it too and beckoned. ‘Hey, you … let me see that.’
Noting the other’s hesitation, he added: ‘You wanna go on in or don’t you?’
With a show of reluctance, Monsieur Pamplemousse retraced his steps, feeling inside the pocket for the offending object attached to his keyring. It went against the grain to afford the man any kind of pleasure, on the other hand he wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of it.
A birthday present from Pommes Frites, it had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth, reacting as it did to all manner of sounds: ice cubes being emptied into a glass before going to bed at night, the playing of accordions on the Metro, and on one never to be forgotten occasion, during a violin solo at a concert. He still went hot and cold at the thought. Squeaking doors were another hazard; the oven door in their own apartment never failed to trigger it off. Doucette was always complaining about it.
It seemed a golden opportunity; one too good to miss.
The guard held out his hand. ‘Gimme.’
‘You are absolutely right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I congratulate you on your powers of observation.’
Wondering if he hadn’t perhaps laid it on a bit too thick, he was about to remove the alarm when he heard a deep-throated rumble from somewhere nearby. Looking down, he realised it was coming from Pommes Frites. His top lip had somehow curled itself upwards into the distinct shape of a letter S, revealing a row of incisors, snow-white and razor sharp from much gnawing of bones over the years.
‘Are you sure you want it?’ he asked.
‘Forget it!’ With a show of considerable ill grace, the securit
y guard turned on his heels, unlocked the door to the tiny office just inside the gate, and disappeared from view, slamming it shut behind him.
Old Rambaud, the gatekeeper, must either be ill or on leave, for he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the new man was a temporary replacement.
Monsieur Pamplemousse sincerely hoped so. Looking at the state of Rambaud’s window box, the sooner he came back to work the better.
The second thing that struck him as he led the way across the inner courtyard was that the fountain in the middle wasn’t working. Apart from the annual spring clean, the only occasion he could remember that happening was when some joker introduced a piranha fish to the pool, nearly frightening a young secretary to death one lunchtime when she dangled a hand in the water while eating her sandwiches.
The next thing to catch his attention was the fact that the Director’s top of the range black Citroën was missing from its normal parking place outside the private entrance to his quarters. In its place, occupying about a tenth of the space, short, squat and looking for all the world like a child’s toy, stood a tiny Smart car.
It was something else unheard of. The Director’s parking space was sacrosanct. No other member of staff would normally dare to make use of it.
Unless … he dismissed the thought. Even if the Director was on one of his periodic economy drives, it was inconceivable that the car belonged to him. The Citroën was his pride and joy; a status symbol, it would be the last thing to go. The Smart car wasn’t even properly positioned. Monsieur Leclercq was a stickler for things being in their correct place, particularly when it came to parking.
As he drew near, he also registered the fact that someone had sprayed the words PUTAIN PÉAGE in black paint across the car’s rear window. Protesting against autoroute charges was one thing, but there was no excuse for spraying such a crudely impractical message on another person’s car. It was an act of sheer vandalism.
Quickening his pace, he headed up the steps leading to the main entrance, steadying the plate-glass revolving doors momentarily with one hand in case Pommes Frites’ tail, now waving to and fro in anticipation of better times ahead, jammed the mechanism as they passed through.
There was an unfamiliar girl on duty in reception and her greeting struck him as being perfunctory to say the least. She seemed to be making a point of not asking to see his pass. The question of registering his eyeballs didn’t arise.
That again, was unusual. In Monsieur Leclercq’s book, the first person a visitor came into contact with, whether by phone or in the flesh, was often the one who left a lasting impression. Staff were expected to behave accordingly.
Hesitating by the row of lifts, none of which happened to be at ground level, he decided to use the stairs instead, partly because he felt stiff after the long drive, but also to give himself time to marshal his thoughts.
To say the air was awash with undercurrents was putting it mildly. There was a feeling of anarchy in the air. If the inscription on the back of the car was anything to go by, it was no wonder security had been tightened.
But there again, it struck him there was something odd about the uniformed man on duty at the entrance; something about him that didn’t ring true. Pommes Frites had certainly noticed it too.
Pausing on the third floor for a breather, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it wouldn’t do any harm to go through his IN tray and bring himself up to date before going on up to the Director’s office. With that end in view he made his way along the corridor leading to the inspectors’ room.
Expecting it to be empty, he was surprised to find several of his colleagues hard at work.
‘If you’re thinking of making out your expense sheets,’ said Glandier, after the usual greetings had been exchanged, ‘forget it. Madame Grante’s on strike. P39’s are piling up.’
‘What? You’re joking!’
‘Well, she isn’t in, and if she isn’t on strike, I wouldn’t lay any bets on her coming back.’ Guilot, red-faced as ever from a continuing intake of carrot juice before meals, his preferred panacea for the occupational hazard of chronic indigestion, glanced up from a desk by the window. ‘Can’t say I blame her. Rumour has it the Director’s been talking of replacing her with a laptop.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Glandier, ‘but these things add up. Three months on the road costs a bomb. My bank account is suffering withdrawal symptoms.’
‘If we don’t get our expenses,’ said Truffert, ‘the job won’t be worth a candle. If I’d realised what it was going to be like spending so much time eating on my own, I would have become a monk instead. The food may not always be as good, but at least you’ve got company.’
‘Try telling that to a Trappist,’ said Guilot. ‘You wouldn’t last long. At least we don’t suffer a vow of silence.’
‘I tell you something else,’ Loudier broke in gloomily. ‘If Madame Grante doesn’t come back soon, it’s only a short step to outsourcing the whole of the Accounts Department to India.’
Listening to the others talk, Monsieur Pamplemousse began to feel it was a good thing he hadn’t made it to Michel Bras after all.
‘“Outsourcing” is the latest key word,’ explained Truffert. ‘According to the grape vine there’s a distinct possibility of doing the same thing with the canteen.’
‘Not to India as well I hope,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘At least the curry would be hot,’ said Loudier. ‘Even when it’s cold, if you see what I mean.’
‘Pommes Frites won’t take kindly to it, that’s for sure,’ said Truffert. ‘He’ll be bringing his own if that happens. I can’t see him missing out on Tuesday’s cassoulet.’
‘Think of the alternative,’ persisted Loudier. ‘Can you imagine … the staff of France’s premiere food guide reduced to eating microwaved quiche Lorraine off plastic trays.’
‘It’s either that or portion control,’ said Glandier. ‘Take your pick.’
‘You know what that means,’ said Loudier. ‘Less all round. You don’t have portion control when people can have as much as they like.’
‘It’s like the old Woody Allen joke,’ said Glandier. ‘Not only is the food terrible, but it comes in such small portions.’
‘When did all this come about?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Over the last couple of weeks,’ said Guilot.
‘Who hasn’t been phoning in?’ asked Truffert pointedly.
Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit he had been unusually lax in that respect.
Mobile phones had their uses, but losing the use of his own had felt like a luxury and he had made the most of it, especially while meandering across the Auvergne, where communication wasn’t exactly on the cutting edge of technology at the best of times. It had been blissful.
‘Monsieur Leclercq is allowing all this to happen?’
‘That’s the odd thing,’ said Truffert. ‘Ever since he arrived back from the States he’s been a different person. Locking himself away with some highflying time and motion consultant for hours on end; refusing to see anyone else.’
‘If you want my opinion,’ said Loudier, ‘he’s flipped. It’s bad enough trying to get into the place as it is. As for eyeball recognition … they’ll be installing passport control next. I shan’t be sorry to say adieu to it all.’
Loudier had been coming up for retirement for as long as Monsieur Pamplemousse could remember. He had stayed on through a series of short-term contracts, but he sounded in earnest this time.
‘You know what the next item on the agenda will be? VipChips! Have one implanted in your arm and you get keyless entry just by waving it at the lock.’
‘That’s not the only thing they can do,’ said Truffert. ‘In Africa they use them to keep track of wild animals. Mark my words … they’ll end up being able to keep tabs on your comings and goings via a satellite. Think of that!’
‘Talking of which,’ said Loudier, ‘has anyone heard from Madame Grante? I tried ringing the entry bell o
n her apartment in the rue des Renaudes, but there was no answer. To all intents and purposes she seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘That’s what comes of bringing in outsiders,’ said Glandier. ‘The founder must be turning in his grave. They didn’t have business efficiency experts in his day. Can you imagine?’
‘Péage by name,’ said Loudier gloomily. ‘Péage by nature.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears. He wondered if it had anything to do with the graffiti on the back of the car.
‘It isn’t the first time it’s happened,’ explained Loudier. ‘That honour goes to Monsieur Leclercq’s car. It’s at the dealers being attended to. Meantime his space is being used by our new business efficiency guru.’
‘What’s the betting the name was changed for the job?’ said Guilot. ‘It probably sounds better.’
‘Very Hollywood,’ said Glandier. ‘Like Fred Astaire started out as Frederick Austerlitz.’
Having been brought up in the Savoy region where there wasn’t much else to do during the winter months, Glandier was a dedicated cineaste and seldom let pass an opportunity to air his knowledge.
‘And Doris Day was born Doris von Kappelhoff,’ said Loudier.
‘That’s nothing.’ Glandier sounded slightly piqued. ‘Kirk Douglas began life as Iussur Danielovitch Demsky.’
‘That sounds a pretty good reason for changing it,’ said Guilot. ‘Think of the trouble he would have had signing autographs if he hadn’t.’
‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ broke in Loudier. ‘I looked Peáge up in the Paris phone book and there isn’t single one listed.’
‘Perhaps it started off as Plage,’ said Guilot. ‘It doesn’t have to be major, one letter is often enough. People are always doing it with their kids. Adding a letter on, even simply taking one away. Then they have to go through life spelling it out.’
‘There are laws in France about that kind of thing,’ said Loudier.
‘It happens,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
