Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (3 page)

‘And now,’ the Director held out his hand, donning his official manner at the same time, ‘
au
revoir
, Aristide, and …
bonne
chance.
’

Although the handshake was not without warmth, the message that went with it was icily clear, delivered in the
manner of one who has said all there is to say on the subject and now wishes to call the meeting closed.

The Director believed in running
Le
Guide
with all the efficiency of a military operation, and clearly in his mind’s eye Monsieur Pamplemousse was already but a flag on the map of France which occupied one entire wall of the Operations Room in the basement; a magnetic flag which on the morrow would be moved steadily but inexorably southwards as the
Morning
Capitole
gathered speed and headed towards Toulouse and the Pyrénées-Orientales.

As Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way slowly back down the corridor towards the lift, he turned a corner and collided with a girl coming the other way. She was carrying a large tray on which reposed an earthenware pot, a plate, bread, cutlery, napkin and a bottle of wine: a Pommard ’72.

‘
Zut
!’ The girl neatly recovered her balance and then made great play of raising the tray in triumph as she recognised Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Alors
! That was a near thing.
Monsieur
le
Directeur
would not have been pleased if his
cassoulet
had gone all over the floor. Nor would the chef – he made it specially.
Monsieur
le
Directeur
said to me when he phoned down a moment ago how much he was looking forward to it. I think he has had a bad morning.’

‘
Cassoulet
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse repeated the word bitterly as the girl hurried on her way.
‘Cassoulet
!’ He had a sudden mental picture of the Director clutching his apple sanctimoniously while he laid down the law. The mockery of it all! The hypocrisy!

He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should snatch a quick bite to eat before visiting Madame Grante, and decided against it. His digestive tracts were in a parlous enough state as it was without adding to their problems.

Besides, if he was to catch the early morning train there was work to be done. His desk would need to be cleared of outstanding papers, the contents of
Le
Guide
’s
issue suitcase would have to be checked. He had a feeling some of the items might come in very useful over the next two weeks – the portable cooking equipment for a start.

The thought triggered off another. He might try and persuade
old Rabiller in Stores to let him borrow a remote control attachment for his Leica while he was away. He’d heard there was one in stock awaiting field trials. With time on his hands he might try his hand at some wildlife photography. An eagle’s nest, perhaps? Or a mountain bear stirring after its long winter rest. He would take the precaution of stocking up on film.

Then he would need to be home early in order to break the news to Madame Pamplemousse. She would not be pleased. He had promised faithfully to decorate the kitchen before the spring. That would have to wait now, and in his weakened state after ‘the cure’ who knew when he might be fit enough to start work on it?

Pommes Frites, too. Pommes Frites liked his set routine. They would need to be on their way by half past six at the very latest, which would mean doing him out of his morning walk. There was also the little matter of getting him used to his new harness before they set out.

Almost imperceptibly Monsieur Pamplemousse quickened his pace. One way and another there was a lot to be done and very little time left in which to do it.

With his suitcase stowed away in the compartment at the end of the carriage, his overcoat and white stick on the luggage rack above his head, Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his dark glasses, gathered the little that was left of his breath, and gazed gloomily out of the window of the
Morning
Capitole
as it slid gently out of the deserted
quais
of the Gare d'Austerlitz and then rapidly gathered speed.

The day had got off to a bad start. Trouble had set in almost as soon as they left home, a fact which Pommes Frites, already curled up on the floor as he addressed himself to the task of catching up on some lost sleep, would have been only too happy to confirm had he been asked.

Any fond hopes Monsieur Pamplemousse might have cherished about his ‘condition' conferring little extra privileges
en
route
had been quickly dashed. The cup containing the milk of human kindness ran dry very early in the day on the Paris
Métro,
as he discovered when he tried to board an already crowded train at Lamarck-Caulaincourt. The ‘
poufs
'
and snorts and cluckings which rose from all sides as he attempted to push his way through to the seats normally reserved for
les
mutilés
de
guerre,
les
femmes
enceintes
and other deserving travellers in descending order of priority, had to be heard to be believed. In no time at all he found himself back on the platform, glasses askew and suitcase threatening to burst at the seams. Had he not managed to get in some quick and effective jabs with his stick, Pommes Frites might well have suffered a bruised tail – or worse – as the doors slid shut behind them and the train went on its way.

Seeing him standing there and misinterpreting the reason, a
more helpful morning commuter who arrived on the platform just in time to see them alight, came to the rescue and escorted him back to the waiting lift. Monsieur Pamplemousse was too kindly a person to throw this act of friendship back into the face of his unknown benefactor, so he allowed himself to be ushered into the lift, hearing as he did so the arrival and departure of the next train.

Then, on emerging at the top, he'd collided with an ex-colleague from the Sûreté. The look on the man's face as he caught Monsieur Pamplemousse in the act of removing his dark glasses in order to get his bearings, plainly mirrored his embarrassment and contempt. The news would be round all the Stations by now; probably even the
quai
des
Orfèvres
itself. ‘Old Pamplemousse has really hit rock bottom. He's trying the “blind man on the
Métro
” routine now. Things must be bad. First the Follies and now this. No doubt about it, an
oeuf
mauvais
.'

The prospect through the window as he took his seat on the
Morning
Capitole
was grey. The Seine, from the few glimpses he managed to catch, looked dark and uninviting. Ahead of them lights from anonymous office blocks twinkled through the mist, beckoning to the trickle of early arrivals hurrying to beat the morning rush.

Suddenly, as the Seine joined up with the Marne and then disappeared from view, he felt glad to be heading south and away from it all. He was conscious of a warm glow which owed as much to the thought of going somewhere fresh as it did to the unaccustomed flurry of exercise. It was a feeling that was almost immediately enhanced by an announcement over the loudspeakers that breakfast was about to be served. To the devil with the Director and his instructions.

Giving Pommes Frites a warning nudge, he rose to his feet. If the other passengers on the train felt as he did there would be a rush for tables.

If only Ananas had not been on the same train; worse still, he occupied the same carriage. That was the unkindest cut of all – really rubbing salt into the wound, the kind of bizarre coincidence he could well have done without. Experience in the Force had taught him that most people have a double somewhere in the world, but more often than not their paths
never cross, or if they do, they pass each other by in the street without recognising the fact, aware only of experiencing something slightly odd – a feeling of
déj
à
vu
.

It was his particular misfortune to have a double whose face was constantly in the public eye, made larger than life by being plastered on hoardings the length and breadth of France, and consequently in Monsieur Pamplemousse's opinion – despite the element of self-criticism it implied – made ten times less inviting.

As he led the way along the corridor towards the restaurant car, he glanced into the compartment where Ananas was holding court. Adopting a pose which ensured that his profile was clearly visible to anyone passing, he was deep in conversation with a somewhat vicious-looking individual. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected that Ananas' companion looked as if he might have even stranger proclivities than his master, which would be saying something.

If Ananas recognised himself in Monsieur Pamplemousse he showed no sign, but then he probably didn't encounter the same problems. On occasion even the simple act of eating in a restaurant became something of a bore, with its routine of pretended mistaken identity, while other diners tried to make up their minds whether or not they were in the presence of the real thing.

Croissants
, toast,
confiture
and
café
arrived with lightning speed, and by the time they were passing through Brétigny he was sipping a glass of
jus
d'orange
and feeling better.

He wondered idly where Ananas might be going at this time of the year. Perhaps his television programme was having a break. He was too sharp an operator and had too much at stake to let someone else take over while he was away. For all their present loyalty, the public were a fickle lot and he would be well aware of the double risk of having either a stand-in who was more popular than himself or someone a great deal less so. Either way he could stand to lose.

Ananas had first appeared on the scene some years before as ‘Oncle Hubert' on a children's television programme. ‘Oncle Hubert' had a ‘way' with children. Particularly, as things turned out, with little girls.

Monsieur Pamplemousse could have told his many fan clubs
a thing or two. There had been a near scandal which, in the less liberal climate of the time, would have meant the end of his career had it ever come to light. As it was, strings must have been pulled by someone on high, for ‘Oncle Hubert' had conveniently disappeared for a while, ostensibly suffering from nervous exhaustion due to overwork.

When he resurfaced under his adopted name, it was as Chairman of a particularly infantile afternoon panel game, which by some quirk of fate caught the public's imagination. In a relatively short space of time the viewing figures rocketed to the top, carrying Ananas with them and the accolade of a prime spot two evenings a week. From that moment on he had never looked back. Almost overnight he became that strange product of the twentieth century – a ‘television personality' – whose views on matters of moment were sought and listened to with awe. Without doubt, Ananas would be careful not to court disaster again.

At eight twenty-five they reached the start of the twenty kilometres or so of concrete monorail north of Orleans – test-bed for an Aerotrain that never was. By then the sun had broken through and Pamplemousse's mood was lifting. Even the sight of Ananas at a table further down the restaurant car didn't dampen his spirits. Like royalty, Ananas never soiled his hands with money, even when the need arose – which wasn't often, so the bill was being paid by his companion. A good deal of his income came from payments in kind. He was careful to endorse only those products which would enrich his own life – shoes, shirts, suits, the furnishings of his several houses; all were of the very best. Cars met him wherever he went, doors opened at his approach. The story was told that when he did pay for something by cheque it was seldom cashed, the recipient preferring to have it framed as a souvenir, hoping it would increase in value in the fullness of time.

Settling back preparatory to paying his own bill, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down and fondled Pommes Frites' head. He received an immediate response in the form of a luxurious and long drawn out stretching of the legs and body. It started at the tips of the forepaws and ended up some moments later at the tail. Pommes Frites liked travelling by train; there was far more room than in his master's car, and it
wasn't subject to sudden and unexpected swervings, nor bouts of thumping on the steering wheel by the driver. At least, he hadn't heard any so far. He was also badly in need of reassurance, and reassurance had been very thin on the ground so far that morning.

The fact of the matter was, Pommes Frites felt in a state of utter confusion. He didn't know for sure whether he was coming or going. Or, to put it another way, he knew he was going
somewhere
, but he had no idea where or for what reason.

Normally it wouldn't have troubled him. Normally he looked forward to journeys with his master and he didn't really mind where they went, but the present trip seemed different. Ever since Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived home the previous afternoon he had been acting very strangely. First of all there had been the business with the glasses. No sooner had he got indoors and taken his shoes off, than he'd put on some dark glasses, darker, much darker than the ones he sometimes wore when he was driving his car; so dark you couldn't even see his eyes. Then he'd started groping his way around the apartment as if he couldn't see where he was going – which wasn't surprising in the circumstances. Madame Pamplemousse hadn't been at all pleased when he'd knocked over a vase full of flowers, particularly when they landed on the same patch of carpet he, Pommes Frites, had been in trouble over only a few days before.

But things hadn't ended there. There was also the strange contraption he'd been made to wear. At first he'd thought it was meant for carrying the shopping, something he wouldn't have minded doing at all. Pommes Frites liked shopping and he always accompanied his master on his visits to the local market. But no, it was obviously meant to serve some other purpose. What purpose he wasn't sure as yet, except that it had to do with crossing roads. Or rather,
not
crossing roads.

That was another thing. Normally, Monsieur Pamplemousse took charge when there was any traffic about and Pommes Frites happily followed on behind, secure in the knowledge that if he stuck close to his master's heels no harm would come to him.

Now his master had taken to hovering, holding on to the new collar and tapping the edge of the pavement with a stick –
almost as though he was afraid to venture any further for fear of being knocked down. They had only been out once, but in Pommes Frites' view, once was more than enough. He'd been glad to get back home again in one piece. One way and another his confidence had been badly sapped.

Last, but by no means least, there had been the encounter with the second Monsieur Pamplemousse; the one he'd caught a brief glimpse of when they boarded the train.

True, on closer inspection the new one was quite different from the version he had known and loved for a number of years. One quick sniff had established that straight away. But outwardly the likeness had been remarkable: the same figure, the same way of walking, the same face, even down to a similar though not so dark pair of glasses.

It was all very confusing and for the time being at least, totally beyond his comprehension. That being so, he had given up thinking about it. Pommes Frites belonged to the school of thought that believed if you waited long enough problems had a habit of solving themselves, and it was pointless losing too much sleep over them.

All the same, he was glad to feel the touch of his master's hand. It signified that at long last things were returning to normal, and he felt in a much better frame of mind as he followed Monsieur Pamplemousse out of the restaurant car; so much so he scarcely gave the ersatz edition a second glance when they passed his table.

Back in the compartment, Pommes Frites gave the scenery a cursory inspection through the window and then resumed his nap, while his master buried himself behind a
journal
.

Châteauroux and Limoges came and went unremarked, and as they drew out of Brive-la-Gaillarde, Monsieur Pamplemousse, satisfactorily up to date on current happenings in the world at large, rose and made his way towards the dining car again in order to investigate the possibility of an early
déjeuner
. He quickly shelved the idea. Ananas was already ensconced at a table, holding forth loudly on the subject of some
coquilles
St.
Jacques
which were apparently not to his liking. He was giving the waiter a dressing down in no uncertain terms, much to the obvious embarrassment of the other diners. Monsieur Pamplemousse reflected wryly on the aptness of the choice of dishes,
for was not St. Jacques the patron saint of money-makers? The episode left a nasty taste in his mouth and quite put him off the thought of eating. He felt relieved he hadn't woken Pommes Frites; his change of plan would have been hard to explain. It took a lot to put Pommes Frites off his food.

By Cahors hunger pangs had started to set in, and he was beginning to regret his decision. It wasn't until thirteen fourteen precisely, as they entered the station at Toulouse, that there occurred one of those rare events which break through the thickest cloud and cause the sun to shine, restoring at one and the same time one's faith in the world.

As they drew to a halt they were assailed on all sides by the sound of cheering. Somewhere towards the front of the train a band was playing martial music, and as he went to open the door at the end of the carriage he caught sight of a group of men waving a large banner.