Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Read Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines Online
Authors: Michael Bond
M
ICHAEL
B
OND
History wasn’t Monsieur Pamplemousse’s strong suit, but when Pommes Frites sank his teeth into Claudette Chavignol’s
derrière
which, as ill luck would have it
happened
to be
sans culottes
at the time, he couldn’t help being reminded of the occasion in 1796 when Napoleon Bonaparte suffered a similar fate. It was the future Emperor of France’s wedding night, and as he climbed into the marital bed, Josephine’s pet dog Fortuné, thinking his mistress was about to suffer a fate worse than death, leapt to her defence.
It was probably the first, but not necessarily the last time Napoleon uttered the immortal phrase, “Not tonight, Josephine!”
There the comparison ended. The two
derrières
bore
little
resemblance to each other. Had he been asked to voice an opinion on the subject, Monsieur Pamplemousse would have said that fortune had smiled on Pommes Frites, whereas Fortuné had drawn the short straw.
He had no means of knowing if his faithful hound’s spirited attack on Madame Chavignol had any after effects, although he doubted if many men had suffered as a consequence, but in Napoleon’s case the experience
certainly
put him off dogs for the rest of his life.
In some respects the Emperor ought to have considered himself lucky. Pommes Frites weighed in at some 50 or so kilos. Had he landed on top of him, Josephine might have been impressed, but the whole course of history could have been changed.
These things were largely a matter of chance. Or were
they? Sometimes, past, present and future seemed to be inextricably intertwined.
In retrospect, Monsieur Pamplemousse often wondered if the circumstances leading up to his involvement in the gruesome affair of Monsieur Claude Chavignol’s death in front of several million viewers had been preordained.
However, such thoughts were far from his mind that Sunday morning when he was heading for the Porte de Bercy and decided to take a short cut rather than stick to the main road. It was something he had done many times before over the years.
Indeed, on sunny weekends in late autumn, when all Paris seemed to be heading towards the Bois de Vincennes for one last day out, it was often his preferred route.
That said, it was a classic example of how, simply by obeying an impulse and turning a corner, one’s whole life can be turned upside down. In retrospect, he sometimes tried to picture what might have happened had he carried straight on along the Rue Claude Decaen. Would the
murderer
have got away with it? He would never know for sure.
It was the first time he had ever met with any trouble turning off where he did. As it was, no sooner had he accelerated away from the junction in order to gain as much ground as possible, than he encountered a row of red warning arrows in the middle of the road. At the same time a
gendarme
emerged from behind a portable cabin and signalled him to pull in to the side.
It all happened so quickly several seconds passed before he applied the brakes.
Pommes Frites was taken by surprise too. Until that moment he had been happily enjoying the passing scene from the passenger seat. He looked most put out as he ended up with his chin on the dashboard.
Aware that he had come to rest several metres beyond the spot indicated by the
gendarme
, Monsieur Pamplemousse fully expected his emergency stop to be the subject of a verbal comment or two. Perhaps even a check to see when he’d last had his brake pads renewed.
Instead, the officer saluted politely as Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the window. There was no sign of recognition. He was probably too young to remember the face that had once graced the pages of a thousand
journaux
. Snapping to attention and saluting was fast
becoming
the exception rather than the rule.
‘
Monsieur
…’ clearly a man of few words, the
gendarme
directed his baton towards another figure emerging from the hut. Dressed in civilian clothes, he was hastily
brushing
some
croissant
crumbs from his trousers with one hand, while clasping a clip-board in the other. ‘A few questions.’
‘It will only take a moment or two.’ The newcomer
produced
a ballpoint pen from his top pocket and clicked it open in business-like fashion. ‘Now, you are travelling to where?’
‘Melun,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Near Fontainbleau.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Neither.’
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘I have only two boxes,
Monsieur
. It is necessary to place a tick in one or the other.’
‘I am visiting my sister-in-law.’
‘Aaah!’ The point was taken. His pen hovered
momentarily
over the clipboard. Even the most carefully
thought-out
forms had their grey areas.
‘
Monsieur
is making a regular journey?’ he asked
hopefully
.
‘I make it as seldom as possible,’ said Monsieur
Pamplemousse. ‘Tell your superiors that if they are
thinking
of building an underpass based on your survey, it would be a poor investment of the tax-payers money to do so on my behalf.’
‘There have been complaints from the local residents about the amount of through traffic.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed out of his car and looked around. It struck him as being a particularly
neglected
part of the 12th
arrondissement
, but he resisted the temptation to say ‘What residents?’ The sooner the
questions
were answered, the sooner he would be on his way.
‘I hardly think my contribution is of any moment,’ he said. ‘I travel this way perhaps two or three times a year at the most. I visit Melun to fetch my wife after she has been staying with her sister.’
‘That is not how a statistician would view the matter,
Monsieur
,’ said the man stiffly. ‘Everything has to be taken into account. Only when all the relevant information has been collected and fed into the computer will the final result be known. But they are not infallible. A few years ago one threw up the suggestion that the only way to resolve the traffic problem on the Champs Èlysées would be to turn the Place de la Concorde into a pedestrian precinct. Imagine the uproar that would have caused.
‘
Alors!
You would be surprised. Only yesterday we had a man who uses this road four times a day, five days a week, and has done so for the past fourteen years. It is his preferred route. Now, he would dearly love an underpass between here and the other side of the
périphérique
. It would probably halve his journey time.
‘On the other hand, a few minutes ago a man passed through who was on his way to Iceland. It will be the trip of a lifetime. He won the holiday after entering a
competition
on the back of a packet of breakfast cereal. It is
probably
the only time he will ever pass this way. Looking on the dark side, should his luck change and he happens to meet with an accident while he is over there – slipping on some black ice, perhaps, or turning the thermostat up too high when he retires for the night in his igloo – we may never see him again.
‘Then again, early this morning there was a lady who was on her way home from the 18th
arrondissement
. She works nights in the Pigalle area. She said she was dying to get back to her own bed in Ivry-sur-Seine and if I didn’t keep her talking too long I was welcome to enjoy a
quickie
behind my hut…’ He felt in his pocket. ‘She left me these to distribute. I tell you, Monsieur, in this job you meet all sorts.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily refused the proffered card. ‘
Merci beaucoup!
In any case, I am from the 18th myself.’
He felt a jolt as the
gendarme
kicked one of the back tyres. It was the time-honoured test. Fortunately he could detect no sound of escaping air. To have to change a wheel at this stage of the journey would be the last straw.
‘And did you find a suitable box to tick?’ he asked.
Ignoring the remark, the man glanced across at Pommes Frites and made an entry. ‘Passengers…
un
.’
There was another jolt as the
gendarme
applied his foot to the nearside front tyre. He looked disappointed when nothing happened. ‘You don’t come across many 2CV’s these days,’ he said. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen one in years.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help thinking there wouldn’t be any left at all if the
gendarme
had his way. He was glad he had invested in Michelin radials. They could withstand anything that was thrown at them.
‘Does the dog always travel with you?’ asked the
interviewer
.
‘Invariably,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. ‘He performs a valuable service, especially on days like today. For
déjeuner
we will be having
tripes à la mode de Caen
and I shall need his help. My sister-in-law Agathe first served it to me many years ago when I was courting my wife. In order to gain favour I said it was the best I had ever eaten. She has been serving it to me ever since.’
The man looked up at him sympathetically. ‘It is not good?’
‘It is arguably the worst I have ever encountered,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse fervently. ‘Agathe is a lovely person. She has a heart of gold. But she has two faults. She “enjoys” bad health and, unlike my wife, she is a terrible cook.’
‘The two often go together,’ said the
gendarme
, joining in the conversation. ‘To be successful,
tripes à la mode de Caen
need a great deal of lengthy preparation. Ideally, the tripe should come from ruminants that have been fed in
guimaux
meadows, that is to say meadows bearing two crops of grass a year. The belly, the first and second
stomach
, along with a calf’s foot, which of course should be split, the bone removed, then blanched, all need to be
thoroughly
washed in cold water. This is especially the case with the second stomach, which is honeycombed and can be a source of trouble. Then a flameproof casserole dish – preferably the flat type peculiar to Normandy – should be lined with sliced apple and onion. Reinette apples are
supposed
to be the best. The most important ingredients after that are carrots, onions, leeks, a
bouquet garni
, and of course cider, preferably dry from the Vallée d’Auge, with a few tablespoons of Calvados mixed in.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse revised his earlier assessment of the
gendarme
. He was clearly a man to be reckoned with.
‘There are those,’ broke in the man from the census
office, ‘who say it is not necessary to put apple in the casserole. They say the best solution is to round off the meal with an apple tart afterwards.’
‘I have an aunt who lives in Caen,’ said the
gendarme
stiffly. ‘I think she knows what she is talking about. She maintains the real secret is in the slow cooking.’
‘It should be given at least twelve hours,’ agreed the interviewer. ‘Not a minute less. I, too, have relatives in Normandy,’ he added, not to be outdone.
‘I doubt if my sister-in-law gives hers more than two hours,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘She turns the heat up high.’
‘
Sacré bleu
!’
The
gendarme
crossed himself. ‘If you ask me, short cuts are a symptom of a nation in decline,’ he said gloomily. ‘Everyone is in a hurry these days.’
As if to underline his words there came the sound of a horn. Glancing over his shoulder he glared at a Peugeot, the first in a growing line of vehicles, and signalled the driver to wait.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to point out that if the officer had been out directing traffic on the main road people wouldn’t need to take a short cut, but he restrained himself.
‘That is why we are conducting this survey,’ said the interviewer, coming to his rescue. ‘If a new bypass is built this road will no longer be a short cut.’
‘I haven’t looked in a
supermarché
,’ he continued, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me to find that many of them stock deep-frozen
tripes à la mode de Caen
these days.’
The
gendarme
shook his head sadly. ‘Nothing is sacred. Full of additives no doubt. Along with instructions to give it three minutes in a microwave!
It is criminal. There are some things in life that can’t be
hurried.’
‘My wife’s sister Agathe’s
tripes à la mode de Caen
is not only a criminal offence,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it is also very grey.’
‘Ah,’ said the
gendarme
. ‘Now that is possibly because she has not sealed the lid of the
tripière
properly. It needs to be done very thoroughly with pastry dough in order to preserve the whiteness of the intestines.’
‘With respect,
Monsieur
, that need not necessarily be the cause.’ The driver of the Peugeot joined in the
conversation
. ‘Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing. The use of too much cider in the liquid is often a cause of
blackening
.
‘The making of
tripes à la mode de Caen
is a construction job. The tripe itself needs to be cut into 5cm squares. The arrangement of the various layers is important. It is a case of building up from a generous bottom layer of onion to form the base, and then come the diced carrots followed by the leeks. After the meat has been arranged it should be covered with a layer of beef kidney lard before the cider is added.’
‘I doubt if my sister-in-law adds any cider,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse gloomily. ‘She may show it the label on an old bottle, but that’s as far as she would ever go. Again, unlike my wife, she is teetotal.’
It was a conversation stopper.
‘No Calvados?’ asked the newcomer.
‘
Pas de cidre
?’ exclaimed the interviewer.
‘Not even any
jus de parapluie
?’ The
gendarme
used the slang term for cheap wine.