by Michael Bond
Doucette’s next words came like a bucket of ice-cold water.
‘I think he must have given you ideas, Aristide. Perhaps he even made you a little jealous. I saw you reaching out with your foot – and then I felt it too. You haven’t behaved as you did this evening since we first went out together. Do you remember that little café we used to visit together in the rue de Sèvres? We were having an aperitif on the pavement one evening. It was my shoe then and the waiter kicked it flying. A number thirty-nine autobus ran over it and you had to buy me a new pair.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his heart miss a beat. Shooting a set of tricolores still at red, he entered the Place des Ternes rather quicker than he had intended. Madame Pamplemousse hastily withdrew her hand as he fought to regain control of the car.
‘I’m sorry, Aristide. That was my fault. I should not disturb you while you are driving.’
‘That’s all right, Couscous.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to keep the note of panic from his voice.
There was a stirring in the back seat. Ever alive to his master’s moods, Pommes Frites was beginning to take an interest in things at long last, but for the time being it went unnoticed.
Even the most thick-skinned of animals would have sensed that all was not well, and Pommes Frites was no slouch when it came to following the drift of a conversation. It was an art he’d first acquired on his initial training course with the Paris police, and one which he’d managed to perfect during travels with his master when they’d been thrown into each other’s company for many long hours at a time.
His vocabulary was small, depending on certain key words, but given those key words he was able to build up a fairly comprehensive and accurate picture of what was going on around him.
The key word in the present situation was undoubtedly ‘shoe’. The word ‘shoe’ had definitely made him prick up his ears. It reminded him of the game he’d invented that evening; the ultimate rejection of which was yet another cause of his present mood.
It had been a good game while it lasted; one which had started out full of promise and which the other participants had given every sign of enjoying as well.
Like many an invention it wasn’t entirely original – its human equivalent had many names, but basically it involved two players putting alternate hands one on top of the other as fast as they could while singing ‘Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man …’
Pommes Frites’ was a simplified version for five players and took place under the table without the benefit of musical accompaniment. In the beginning it had consisted simply of his putting his paw down firmly on top of his master’s shoe in order to relieve the boredom of what seemed like an interminable meal going on above his head. The results, however, had exceeded his wildest expectations; Monsieur Pamplemousse’s foot responded with enthusiasm. Flushed with success, he’d tried putting his paw on other toes within range and in no time at all there were feet and shoes and legs everywhere. However, like all good things the game had eventually come to an end. Much to his disappointment, instead of the others following him out into the garden in hot pursuit of his master’s shoe, as he had assumed they would, the front door slammed behind him and he found himself locked out.
Pommes Frites didn’t normally suffer from pangs of remorse, still less from guilt complexes; the analyst’s basket was not for him. However, looking back on things he couldn’t help but feel that taking the shoe in the first place had been a mistake, burying it in a fit of pique a cardinal error. Somehow or other he felt responsible for his master’s present mood and for the difficulties he was obviously encountering.
Adding it all up, putting two and two together, taking everything into account, all things considered, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion Monsieur Pamplemousse would be well advised to leave town as soon as possible, if not before, and with that thought uppermost in his mind he turned and faced the front, directing all his attention towards the back of his master’s head.
Monsieur Pamplemousse, as it happened, was rapidly approaching a point where he would have needed very little encouragement to leave town.
No wonder the Director’s wife had given him an odd look when they said their goodbyes. Emboldened by the Armagnac and by what he’d taken to be her advances over dinner, he had prolonged his embrace rather more than he would normally have done, pressing into her hand at the very last moment a small billet doux: ‘Your toes reveal what your eyes conceal.’
His heart sank as he remembered the words. He wondered if she would show it to the Director. She might even be reading it to him at that very moment. On the other hand, her response had not been entirely negative. A trifle cold at first, perhaps, but he’d put that down to the presence of her husband. There had been a more positive reaction at the very last moment. A kind of hesitating reappraisal of the situation, ending in a quick hug.
Either way it was not good news. It put an entirely different complexion on things.
‘I’m not the only one who is being quiet, Aristide,’ said Madame Pamplemousse as the lights of the Place de Clichy came into view. ‘Are you worried about something?’
‘Monsieur le Directeur has made me an offer.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse made a snap decision as they turned a corner, crossed over the south-east tip of the Cimetière de Montmartre, and entered the relative gloom of the rue Caulaincourt. ‘I may take him up on it. It will mean leaving tomorrow, but with my increment coming up …’ He left the rest to Doucette’s imagination.
Pommes Frites, settling down as best he could in the back of the car, heaved a sigh of relief.
‘At least it will save us the problem of wondering whether we should ask them back or not.’ Madame Pamplemousse sounded relieved too. The Director’s house had been so grand, the thought of entertaining them was already beginning to bother her, especially with the kitchen still to be done. She was unsure where to place the Director. Their table was too small to put him all that far away.
Monsieur Pamplemousse read and understood her thoughts. It was a very feminine reaction. He took her left hand in his again. She gave it a quick squeeze.
‘Will you be away for long?’
He shrugged. It was hard to say. In this instance there was no knowing. But it had always been that way. Working for Le Guide was no different in that respect from his days with the police. You set out on a project not knowing when you might return. On the other hand he liked it that way. So too, he suspected, did Doucette. It enabled her to ‘get on with things’.
‘I shall get on with things while you are away.’
‘I’ll send you a postcard.’
He always did. Usually a picture of the hotel where he was staying. There would be a cross marking his room. His whole life was contained between the covers of a postcard album.
‘I’d better go out early and buy some things so that you can have a picnic.’
Pommes Frites pricked up his ears again. It was another of his ‘key’ words. Pommes Frites liked picnics. Before they arrived home he picked up one or two more; St. Georges-sur-Lie to name but a few. He wondered vaguely what it would be like there; if he would have to share his master’s room or whether he would be allowed to sleep outside. Sleeping outside was nice and the nights were still warm.
He was still wondering next morning as Monsieur Pamplemousse packed the car ready for the journey. He was pleased to see his inflatable kennel being loaded into the boot. It was a good sign.
As they drove up the ramp and out of the garage, Monsieur Pamplemousse pushed his hand through the lift-up window and waved, in case Doucette was on the balcony to see them go.
The boulangerie on the corner was crowded; the butcher was arranging his window display. A black couple leaned out of a first floor window in the hotel opposite. A street cleaner on his Caninette was already out riding along the pavement looking for evidence of careless chiens. Pommes Frites gazed at him non-committally.
Water gushed up out of the gutters and ran down the hill, guid
ed on its way by the traditional mounds of rolled up carpet or sacking. Monsieur Pamplemousse followed its course as they headed towards Le Guide’s offices in the seventh arrondissement. By the sound of it they were likely to be away for a couple of weeks or more and there was some tidying up to do before he left. Besides, he must prepare a story for his colleagues, even though it went against the grain; even more so when he encountered sympathetic cluckings from the other early arrivals.
‘Too bad.’
‘Hope she’s soon better.’
‘Take care.’
A sleepy Operations Manager noted down the details and removed his flag from the map, putting it away in a drawer marked ‘en suspens’.
After he left the office, for no better reason than the fact that he encountered a traffic hold-up near the southern approaches to the Périphérique, Monsieur Pamplemousse doubled back down the rue Dantzig and immediately found himself caught up in a one-way system which took him further west than he had intended.
As he drove down the rue Dantzig he caught a glimpse of the Ruche, the old wine pavilion shaped like a bee-hive which had been left over from the 1900 Paris Exhibition and later turned into artists’ studios. In its time it had housed Modigliani, Chagall and Léger, replacing the Bateau-Lavoir in Montmartre as a centre for inspiration. The sight of it caused him to make another snap decision, a minor change at the time, but one which was to have a profound effect on the days to come. Heading towards the Périphérique again, he turned right instead of left at the junction with the Boulevard Lefebvre.
The reason was simple. It was a nice day. The sun was shining. Why not take the pretty route out of Paris? He would go via Monet’s old house at Giverny and picnic somewhere on the banks of the Seine. Perhaps near Nettle Island where Monet himself had loved to go. It would be a way of killing two birds with one stone. He’d been wanting to get on with an article he was preparing for L’Escargot, Le Guide’s staff magazine. It was on the subject of food in books and paintings, and like all such things it was taking longer than intended. There were diversions and side-tracks. For a start it had meant re-reading the whole of Zola with his descriptions of gargantuan meals born out of knowing what it was like to starve, living off sparrows in a Paris garret.
Truthfully, he was also in no great hurry to reach his destination. The more he thought about it in the cold light of day the less he liked the idea. It was a formidable task and he had a nasty feeling in the back of his mind that the Director hadn’t come quite clean. Any diversion would be welcome if it put off the evil moment of his arrival.
Taking the Porte de Passy exit, they were soon in Bougival, whose soft light and river mists had been immortalised by Renoir and Manet and other painters over the years. Unlike Argenteuil, it still retained much of its old-world charm. He began to feel better. There were two good restaurants in Bougival. It was time they were reported on again. Perhaps, when he got back, he could entertain the Director and his wife there. It would be a way out of Doucette’s problem.
Medan came and went. Medan, where Zola had lived and entertained before the Dreyfus case when he wrote J’Accuse and had to flee to England, ending up in a dreadful hotel where he wrote of biting on an unexpected clove in a cake. He wished he had a tenth of Zola’s ability to recall tastes and smells. Not that it would have helped much in his work for Le Guide where everything, including smells, had to conform to a common standard, one person’s writing indistinguishable from another’s.
It was all very well the Director telling him he had to do something about improving the hotel. Hotels didn’t improve overnight. There was more to it than that. It took time. Years of hard work. On the other hand, there must be something there; some spark which needed catching. Gault Millau seldom made mistakes, although clearly they had had second thoughts.
At Vernon he turned off for Giverny. They had made good time. The car park was nearly empty, the coaches had yet to arrive. The house with its walls made pink by grinding brick dust into the plaster was as he remembered it; the garden which in its heyday had kept six men at work was in full bloom.
He wandered down to the wistaria-clad Japanese bridge by the lily ponds, trying to picture the heavily bearded yet slightly dandyish figure of Monet, rising early in order to study the sunrise before embarking on one of his huge breakfasts of sausages and eggs, followed by toast and marmalade. Food, not art, would have been the subject under discussion. Monet loved good food, simple food he called it. Asperges from Argenteuil, truffles from Périgord, cèpes from his own cellar, brought up and cooked in the oven, wines from the Loire or from Burgundy, roast duck – its wings removed at the table and sent back for regrilling in a seasoning of pepper, salt and nutmeg as a special treat.
Elsie would have liked it. They would have got on well together. She might even have coped with the old man in his more irascible moods, when things weren’t going right and he made a bonfire of his work. She would probably have put her foot down over his monastic timetable. Lunch at eleven o’clock sharp; at this time of the year set out on a table beneath the linden trees. He looked at his own watch. It was barely eleven-thirty. Perhaps he would follow Monet’s example and have an early lunch too. Already his taste buds were beginning to throb. The thought transmitted itself to Pommes Frites who wagged his tail in agreement.
A few minutes later they were on their way again, looking for a suitable spot.
Doucette had excelled herself with the picnic. Spiced beef, pâté campagne, smoked cod’s roe, chicken and ham pie, salad in a separate container, a crisp ficelle, sorbet in a freezing jar, tarte aux pommes, fromage, a bottle of Pommard and another of Badoit. The small picnic table he always carried in the boot was soon filled; the tablecloth hidden beneath all the goodies. A sunshade in position, Monsieur Pamplemousse unclipped one of the car seats, put it carefully into place, removed his tie, tucked a large serviette into the top of his shirt, and took a firm grasp of his knife and fork as he prepared to do battle.
Perhaps he should play pieds under the table more often. It was very rare he was given such a treat. There was even a bone for Pommes Frites. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Doucette wanted him out of the way; maybe she had taken the Director’s advances seriously. He dismissed the idea. Much more likely she had a guilty conscience. Besides, the Director had Elsie to contend with.
He wondered if the Director’s wife would answer his note. Luckily Doucette never opened his mail. All the same, the thought made him feel hot under the collar.
Mopping his brow with the serviette, he helped himself to some more pie, cutting off an equal portion for Pommes Frites. It disappeared before his own was halfway to his mouth.
The Seine had a purplish sheen to it in the September sunshine; the Pommard was a real treat. A single vineyard. He made a mental note to call in the next time he was down that way and replenish his stocks. It would make a nice diversion.
The thought triggered off another. Why not call in and see Bernard on the way to St. Georges-sur-Lie? Helping himself to a wedge of Saint-Paulin, he went to the car for his map. Mortagne-au-Perche wouldn’t be too far out of his way. En route to Bernard he could stop off at a garden centre and buy him a rose. Perhaps a ‘Maiden’s Blush’. He would appreciate the joke.
Afterwards he could go via Illiers-Combray where Marcel Proust had spent childhood holidays with his Tante Léonie, dipping spoonfuls of madeleine crumbs into her lime tea.
As he cleared away the picnic things, Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to recall the exact details of Bernard’s case. He’d been away in Alsace at the time and so had missed out on all the juicy bits. By the time he got back to the office there were other things to talk about.
What was it the Director had said? Remember Bernard. Don’t let it happen to you. Don’t let what happen? Once again, he had a nasty feeling the Director was being less than frank. There were areas of a decided greyness.
It took a while to find Bernard’s house. Mortagne, high up above the surrou
nding countryside, was busily provincial. He stopped in the main street to ask the way. The first two people professed not to know; the third was so bubbling over with excitement, mistaking him for a journalist, he had a job to get away and through-traffic behind ground to a halt, hooting impatiently.
As the Director had surmised, Bernard was tending his roses, dead-heading a bed of Gloire de Dijon, looking for outward-facing buds like a man with time on his hands.
‘Coaches used to stop and admire these,’ he said gloomily, after they had exchanged greetings. ‘They still come, but mostly to stare at me.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the boot of his car and produced his gift. He rather regretted his choice now. Bernard seemed to have taken things hard. He decided not to make too much of it.
‘I’m not sure of the name. It is pink with white towards the edges. It dates back to before 1738. The man at the nursery said it should grow well.’
Bernard brightened. ‘You know, it’s kind of you to call. I often think of you. In a way our two cases are very much alike. I mean, the way you were found hanging about in the toilets at the Follies without any clothes.’
‘I was not hanging about,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffly. ‘I was merely taking refuge. I had no clothes because they had been taken from me at gun point. The whole thing was a frame-up. A plot to discredit me.’
‘I really meant that in the end it was your word against theirs,’ Bernard broke in defensively. ‘If I remember rightly they never did find your assailant.’ He led the way towards the house and pointed to a table and some chairs set out under a tree. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fetch something to drink.’
He reappeared a moment later carrying a tray. Monsieur Pamplemousse watched while he poured out a Kir. The Cassis bore the Chapel label. Bernard must have bought it on his travels. He’d had it once before, home-made, rich and fruity, made to the highest standards. He felt honoured at being given such a treat. The wine was a Sancerre; the bottle glistening with beads of cold on its outside.
