Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (2 page)

What was it the hotel concierge had said? ‘It is the only mixed infants school in France with an eighteen-hole golf course.’ It had sounded like a local joke at the time.

It seemed that everyone, apart from the builders, had profited from the largesse bestowed on it by some unknown Russian benefactors. The contractors had been screwed into the ground, and in the end had gone bankrupt along with the architect, having had to pay out a vast sum for failing to meet the completion date. Rumour had it that almost immediately afterwards the same company had set up under another name further along the coast constructing a vast multi-storey car park, but not
before having been suitably recompensed for their previous loss.

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse there might have been more to the story, but a party of Americans had come along wanting to know where the action was of an evening and caginess had set in, so he had been unable to pursue the subject.

He resolved to claim the rest of his hundred francs worth of information later.

He stole a glance at the programme. It couldn’t be long before the interval. The scene had already changed to a bridal shop and Maria’s first solo number.

If he had been asked to single out a possible contender for future non-stardom, he would have opted for the infant who had been chosen for the part. Her rendering of the song ‘I Feel Pretty’ was a triumph of imagination over reality. The only mercy was that she made no attempt to play the large musical instrument she had round her neck. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help reflecting that her father must have made a sizeable contribution to the school’s facilities; a science lab, perhaps, or a new gymnasium at the very least: perhaps even the air-conditioned hall itself.

‘I don’t remember there being a balalaika in the original version, do you Aristide?’ whispered Doucette.

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head as he looked up the child’s name on his sheet: ‘Olga Mugorvski’. It sounded like a disease.

Joining in the dutiful applause at the end of her number, he fell to wondering why it was that different
nationalities were often so instantly recognisable. Without even knowing the child’s name he would have put her down as being Russian, or at least of Baltic extraction. It was the same with the Americans and the British; Italians and Germans too. It wasn’t simply a matter of features; the cheekbones, the shape of the nose or the mouth, or even the way people dressed. It had to do with many things: their bearing for a start; the way they looked at you; the way their hair grew, and even more importantly, the way it was cut. With some there was a whole history writ large. There was the openness of people from the American mid-west: with Russians it was possible to detect a lifetime of suffering in the lined faces of the old.

The young mistress who was directing the orchestra was a case in point. Dark, slender and vivacious; she couldn’t possibly have been anything but French. She would have made a wonderful Maria. There was a virginal quality about her snow-white
doudounes.
During a spirited rendering of ‘Gee, Officer Krupke!’ they threatened to burst forth each time she lifted her arms in order to signal various musical high points. It was safe to say that not a father in the audience remained unmoved. Hopes having been raised along with the arms, breaths were held, but to no avail.

Rapturous applause greeted the end of the number and cries of
encore
filled the hall. When the lights came up to signal the interval and it became clear that many a dream would remain unfulfilled, those nearest
the back made a beeline for the ticket desk to put their names down for the video.

‘Wonderful, weren’t they?’ whispered Doucette.

‘Heavenly,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Round and firm, yet not lacking movement when the moment was ripe, as in the final crescendo.’

‘Aristide! I was referring to the children.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at his wife. Truly, however many years two people spent together, there were moments when communication remained at a very primitive level. And if that were the case when discussing a matching pair of innocent
doudounes
– which possibly, although perhaps in this day and age not necessarily, remained as yet untouched by any human hand other than her own – what hope was there for the rest of mankind? Heads of State conferring over such complicated matters as the disposal of nuclear weapons would have their work cut out.

‘
And
she wasn’t wearing a brassiere.’ Clearly, as far as Doucette was concerned that was the end of the matter. Her copybook had been irredeemably blotted.

Monsieur Pamplemousse knew better than to argue. In any case the general hubbub as those around them stood up to stretch their legs put an end to further conversation.

Leading the way to the back of the hall, he hovered near the entrance, half expecting to receive a tap on the shoulder, or at the very least catch sight of someone carrying a large parcel, but he looked in vain.

‘Perhaps he is waiting for us in the hotel,’ said Doucette, as the minutes ticked by.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a grunt as they turned to go back inside. ‘That’s not what the concierge told me. The message was very specific. Besides, he would have given us the tickets if …’ He broke off at the approach of a small figure, a tray rather than a balalaika suspended from its neck.

‘Pragráma. Souvenir Programsk.’
You could have cut the accent with a knife.

Seen from close to, the child looked even more unprepossessing than she had on stage. Not so much a mixed infant as a mixed-up one. He wondered what she would become when she grew up. A tram driver, perhaps? Or a crane operator? If it were the former he wouldn’t fancy the chances of anyone running for the last one back to the depot late at night.

Ignoring a bowl filled with large denomination notes held in place by a paperweight, he took one of the programmes and felt for some small change.

‘Nyet!’
The child shook its head and held up four pudgy fingers and a thumb.
‘Cinq cent francs.
Fife hundreds of francs. Eet is for good cause. Eet is in aid of school library.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse froze, then slowly withdrew his hand from a trouser pocket.

‘Nyet pour vous aussi!’
he said, with feeling.

‘Aristide!’ Doucette looked shocked. ‘She is only small.’

‘She may be small,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse,
‘but I am not in the market for purchasing a deluxe edition of the complete works of Alexander Dumas.’

He could feel the child’s eyes boring into him as she made her way round the room and joined a small group standing at the far side of the lobby. He guessed it must be her parents: the woman,
très solide,
with tightly-permed hair, was how he imagined the daughter would be in thirty years’ time. As for the father, he was definitely one of the old guard; short, barrel-chested, far removed from the current breed of slim, Armani-clad Westernised executives. Apart from the open-necked shirt and gold chain, he could have passed for a Nikita Khrushchev lookalike. The top of his shaven skull looked like an old warhead from an Exocet missile, and was probably twice as dangerous. Better a face to face meeting than have it trained on him while his back was turned.

Following a brief conversation, they all turned. The girl pointed towards Monsieur Pamplemousse. The father nodded, then patted her head affectionately before sending her on her way. None of which would have worried him overmuch if she hadn’t made a throat-cutting gesture with her free hand as she left. It caused hearty laughter all round. Her father passed a comment to another man, who responded with a smile that was rendered even more mechanical by what appeared to be a row of steel teeth. In all, it could only have lasted a half a minute or so, but he was left with the distinct feeling that he hadn’t heard the last
of the matter. He hoped the daughter didn’t have a birthday coming up.

‘I didn’t like the first one’s ears,’ said Doucette, reading his thoughts.

‘And I don’t like tiny tots who go around demanding money with menaces,’ growled Monsieur Pamplemousse. Nor, he might have added, did he like ones that smelt strongly of pot, but then she wasn’t the only one. Looking around he decided he might just as well be in Leningrad or Vladivostok. He felt an alien in his own country.

‘You can tell a lot from ears,’ said Doucette darkly. ‘That man’s are much too small. They look as though they were stuck on as an afterthought.’

It was true. Since he had left the force, ears had become the subject of a great deal of scientific study. Prints taken from windows and doors often yielded as much, or more, information than fingerprints. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want to try taking the Russian’s ear-prints with an inkpad.

‘Shall we go?’ asked Doucette, as the audience began drifting back to their seats. ‘It doesn’t look as though he’s coming, and I really can’t stand much more.’

‘If that is what you would like, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, hoping she wouldn’t choose to argue the point.

Outside, it was like walking into an oven; much as it had been when they stepped off the train that afternoon. The air was heavy with the sensuous smell of mimosa and bougainvillaea. Pommes Frites
came bounding out from behind an ancient olive tree, pleased to see them as ever. If he was surprised to find them leaving when everyone else was going in the opposite direction he showed no sign, rather the reverse. Monsieur Pamplemousse registered the fact that his brows were knitted, and his eyes, or what little could be seen of them beneath large folds of flesh, looked slightly glazed; sure signs that he had been thinking. Of what, would only be revealed in the fullness of time, if then.

In truth, had he been taxed on the point, Pommes Frites would have had to admit he wasn’t too sure himself, although a brain scan might well have revealed an unusual number of local disturbances in the overall pattern of his thought processes. In fact there were so many undercurrents darting hither and thither he might well have been asked to make a further appointment, for it was really a matter of sorting them into some kind of logical order.

His master’s prophecy on the way down that there would be new smells for him to smell and new trails for him to follow had proved all too true, although in the end both had come to an abrupt end in the car park. Putting two and two together had led him to one inescapable conclusion. The person responsible had gone off in a car
OR
– and this was where confusion began to set in – had been
driven
off. And if that were the case, then it must have been in the boot rather than at the wheel.

It was for such powers of reasoning that Pommes
Frites had been awarded the Pierre Armand Golden Bone Trophy for being Sniffer Dog of the Year in the days when he, too, had been a member of the Paris
Sûreté
.

‘It was a funny evening, didn’t you think?’ said Doucette. ‘I don’t want to keep on about it, but I still can’t understand why we were supposed to meet up at a school concert instead of in Nice.’

‘Ours is not to reason why,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He watched as Pommes Frites disappeared into a clump of pine trees in order to investigate the sound of cicadas in a deserted
boules
area, the sodium lights casting a ghostly shadow as he dashed back and forth sniffing the ground. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons. Perhaps he didn’t want us to go to his shop.’

‘In that case, why didn’t he turn up?’ said Doucette. ‘Seeing all those Russians makes me wonder. I’ll say one thing for them. They all had lovely shoes. You could see your face in them. It reminded me of the time I gave your new slippers to the Victims of Chernobyl Disaster Fund. You were cross with me because you said it would be a miracle if they ever got that far. You said they were probably already being worn by some fat member of the Russian Mafiya toasting his feet in front of a roaring fire in his
dacha
.’

‘It is not quite the same thing, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse mildly.

‘We don’t even know how big a painting it is,’ said Doucette. ‘Perhaps that’s why Monsieur Leclercq
wanted us to go by train. Have you thought of that?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit the answer was ‘no’. Trust a woman to home in on details.

Beyond the pine trees they passed a row of shops he didn’t remember being there the last time he had visited the area: a couple of boutiques, a photographic shop and another with drawn blinds.

Pommes Frites caught up with them as they drew near the hotel, then ran on ahead and pushed his way through the revolving door.

The concierge was nowhere to be seen and his number two rushed out from behind the counter as an errant tail made furious contact with an ancient dinner gong positioned near the lift. Other staff materialised within moments. An elderly women, her hair in curlers, appeared on the stairs.

‘It used to be the fire alarm,
Monsieur
,’ said the man reprovingly.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet. ‘It is good to know it still works,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So often these things are mere token gestures. I must congratulate the management on keeping it as a stand-by. You never know when it may come in useful.’

Returning to his station the man reached for their room key. ‘The young
Monsieur
is staying here?’ he asked. ‘Because, if so …’

‘He has his own inflatable kennel,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have made the necessary arrangements with the beach attendant. I will take him down there in a moment.’

‘I will see that a bowl of water is made available for him before he retires for the night,
Monsieur
. Still or sparkling?’

‘Still,
s’il vous -plaît
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Evian.’

Having made a note, the deputy concierge preceded them to the lift, opened the doors, stood back to allow Pommes Frites entry after his master and mistress, then pressed a button for the third floor.

‘It’s a wonder he didn’t ask what
journal
he likes in the morning,’ said Doucette, as the doors slid shut. ‘Or
journaux
.’