Monsieur Pamplemousse On Location Page 2

  The Director nodded.

  ‘Tell me, Aristide, talking of wickedness, what do you know about sin?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly caught on. Although his annual increment wasn’t due until October, the Director must be ahead of himself; clearing the decks before his summer holiday. At such times he had a penchant for plying members of staff with trick questions. Two could play at that game. He, Pamplemousse, was more than ready. It was simply a case of avoiding the obvious at all costs.

  ‘Sin was a fortress in ancient Egypt, Monsieur; situated in the Nile Delta. It is famous because in the reign of Hezekiah, a certain general by the name of Sennacherib led an attack on it which had to be abandoned because a plague of field mice ate up his archers’ bowstrings.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt pleased with himself. It was strange how these things stuck in one’s mind. It was something he had learned at school in a year when the Auvergne had suffered a similar plague. His teacher had used it as an illustration of how even very tiny creatures can sometimes change the course of history.

  He felt tempted to say ‘ask me another’, but something in the way the Director’s lips were pursed caused him to think better of it. There were times when his chief’s moods and intentions were hard to judge and he seemed less than happy with the reply.

  ‘And Les Baux-de-Provence, Pamplemousse. What can you tell me about Les Baux?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment. He doubted if the Director expected him to eulogise on L’Oustau de Baumanière, Monsieur Raymond Thuilier’s world-famous restaurant on the lower slopes; a restaurant where, in 1972, the Queen of England had dined on sea bass en croûte, followed by lamb, and strawberries and cream. The menu had stayed in his mind because shortly afterwards Doucette had cooked it for him as a surprise.

  ‘Les Baux, Monsieur? Les Baux is a strange geological excrescence in the Apilles north of the Camargue; a natural fortress. The warlords of Les Baux are legendary. They claimed to be descended from Balthazar. It was there that another unfortunate incident took place, although this time it hadn’t to do with mice. The story goes that the Duke of Guise was staying for the night, and having indulged himself with too much wine at dinner he ordered a salute to be fired every time he proposed a toast. Unfortunately the very first time he raised his glass the canon nearest to him exploded. Although there is a tombstone bearing his name in a cemetery at Arles, it is merely a token gesture. In reality the Duke himself was scattered over a wide area.

  ‘Another interesting fact is that the mineral bauxite was discovered nearby and was named after the village. As I am sure Monsieur knows, bauxite is a basic material of the aluminium industry …’

  Suddenly aware of a drumming noise coming from the desk in front of him, Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off.

  The Director heaved a deep sigh. ‘Pamplemousse, I yield to no one in my admiration of the depth of your knowledge on a variety of subjects. However, I was not asking for a history lesson.’

  But Monsieur Pamplemousse was not to be stopped that easily. ‘I am sorry, Monsieur. I was lucky with my teacher. Although it was only a village school, she had a flair for bringing things to life.’ Even as he spoke he wondered if deep down he wasn’t trying to score over his chief, whose education had followed a very different path; a path available only to the rich and privileged.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, the better to draw on his store of knowledge. ‘Another of her favourite stories concerned Leonardo da Vinci. Possibly it was apocryphal – there are so many – but it tells of how he invented a giant watercress cutter which ran amuck outside the Sforza palace the very first time he tried it out and killed six members of the kitchen staff and three gardeners.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse paused. The Director looked as though he would have dearly liked to get his hands on such a machine himself.

  ‘Tell me, Pamplemousse, to return to my first question, did she at the same time instil in you a knowledge of the seven deadly sins? Can you by any chance still enumerate them?’

  But if the Director was hoping to win a round he was unlucky. This time Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t even bother closing his eyes.

  ‘Pride, Monsieur. Wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, avarice and sloth.’

  In spite of everything a look of grudging admiration crossed the Director’s face. ‘You were indeed lucky with your teacher, Aristide,’ he said gruffly. ‘Most people can hardly name more than two or three.’

  ‘It was not my teacher who taught me about the seven deadly sins, Monsieur. It was the curé. He lectured the congregation on the subject most Sundays. He was of the opinion that all seven were rife in the village.’

  ‘Aaah!’ The Director sat in silence for a moment or two.

  ‘I expect, Aristide,’ he said at last, ‘you are wondering where my enquiries are leading?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse thought the matter over carefully before replying. The Director’s questions had been so diverse it was hard to find a common denominator. In desperation he glanced at the desk again and took in the open copy of Apicius’s culinary work.

  ‘Monsieur is gathering material for a spoof guide?’

  The Director glared at Monsieur Pamplemousse for a moment, then he reached over and slammed the book shut.

  ‘No, Pamplemousse,’ he said crossly. ‘I am not.’ Rising to his feet with the air of a man badly in need of a drink he headed towards a cupboard on the far side of the room.

  As he opened the door a light came on revealing a wine bucket, its sides glistening with beads of ice-cold sweat. The gold foil-covered neck of a bottle protruded from the top. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised his favourite marque of champagne – Gosset. Clearly his being summoned to the top floor was not, as he had at first supposed, a spur of the moment decision.

  ‘I have been trying to think of a way of expressing my thanks for all you did in Arcachon, Pamplemousse.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse made a suitably deprecating noise.

  ‘It was far from being nothing,’ insisted the Director. ‘You averted a disaster of the first magnitude. Elsie is a lovely girl, but to have had her on our staff would have been disruptive to say the least, not to mention the problems I might have encountered chez Leclercq.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse was of the opinion that the Director’s one-time au pair had never entertained the slightest intention of becoming an Inspector, but he remained silent.

  ‘I have been considering your next assignment, Aristide. I had been toying with the idea of sending you to the Rhône Valley; Bocuse, Pic, and so on, but I have since been wondering how you would feel about going further south.’ The Director handed him a glass. ‘Loudier was really due to go, but in the circumstances I think you are the better man.’

  ‘The circumstances, Monsieur?’ Once again it all sounded a little too casual for comfort.

  ‘Circumstances are like carpenters, Aristide. They alter cases. You may, of course, go anywhere you choose.’

  ‘Anywhere, Monsieur?’

  ‘A promise is a promise. It is the least I can do. However, before you decide, I have something else in mind, something a little out of the ordinary which I am sure will be right up your rue.’

  While the Director was returning to his seat, Monsieur Pamplemousse sipped the champagne thoughtfully. It was a Brut Réserve. A wine of quality, with over 400 years of family tradition behind it. He wondered what was coming next.

  The Director fortified himself with a generous gulp from his own glass before he resumed.

  ‘Earlier in the week I was dining with some friends and quite by chance found myself sitting next to the wife of one of our major couturiers. One thing led to another – I passed some comment on the perfume she was wearing – and she, for her part, was not unimpressed by my dissertation on the dish we had been served – saddle of lamb with truffles, chestnuts and a delicious purée of mushroom tart.

  ‘For the time being the name of her husband’s company must remain a closely guar
ded secret, but I can tell you they are about to launch a new perfume. It is to be called, quite simply, Excess – spelt XS.

  ‘Soon, those two letters will be appearing on hoardings all over France. They will act as a teaser before the campaign proper.

  ‘A major part of the launch involves the making of a series of commercials based on stories from the Bible. Work has already begun. Several episodes are already in the can. They will become classics of their kind. There is a star-studded cast and a budget of over 100 million francs. If I tell you they have engaged the services of no less a person than Von Strudel as the director you will appreciate the magnitude of the project.’

  ‘Von Strudel, Monsieur? I must admit I didn’t realise he was still alive.’

  ‘There are unkind people in the business,’ said the Director, ‘who would say that even Von Strudel himself wasn’t entirely convinced of the fact when they first approached him. He has been living the life of a recluse in his native Austria ever since biblical films priced themselves out of the market. He is, nevertheless, one of the greatest authorities on the genre.

  ‘If he has a fault it is that he has become a little out of touch with present-day costs. He is not blessed, as we are, with a Madame Grante looking over his shoulder and he is already considerably over budget. Over budget and for one reason and another behind schedule.

  ‘But to return to the dinner. The long and the short of it is that at the end of the evening my companion made me a proposal I could hardly refuse.’

  ‘It happens, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed his man of the world tones as he drained his glass.

  The Director clucked impatiently. ‘It was not that sort of proposal, Pamplemousse,’ he growled as he took the hint and reached for the bottle. ‘Although I must say your reply does lead me to feel that in dispatching you to Les Baux I have made the right choice.’

  ‘Les Baux, Monsieur?’

  The Director sighed. ‘Aristide, I do wish you would break yourself of the habit of repeating everything I say. It can be very irritating.

  ‘The reason I am suggesting you go to Les Baux is because they are badly in need of an adviser. As I am sure you know, Pamplemousse, Von Strudel was renowned for his scenes of lust and gluttony. Naturally when I heard those two key words your name sprang immediately to mind. I can think of no one better qualified to advise on both those subjects.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘And what precisely am I expected to advise on?’

  ‘Anything to do with food, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director grandly. ‘Anything and everything. Food as it was in Roman times. Food in the Bible. The essential culinary ingredients for an orgy if the need arises.

  ‘I need hardly tell you that to be associated with such a project, even in a minor way, to have our name mentioned when awards are given out at the Cannes Festival, will be a considerable plume in our chapeau.’

  Despite his misgivings, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his mind getting into gear. It was an exciting prospect and no mistake.

  ‘I believe the Romans were very keen on edible dormice, Monsieur. They first of all fattened them on nuts in special earthenware jars and then they stuffed them with minced pork and pine kernels.’

  The Director looked dubious.

  ‘Pamplemousse, I hardly think dormice, however edible they might be, would go down well with the cast. However, there are other things.’ He picked up the copy of Apicius and turned to a marked page. ‘Par exemple, I see they ate bread and honey for petit déjeuner. Milk was strictly for invalids. Instead, they used to dip the bread in a glass of wine.’

  He snapped the book shut. ‘You may borrow this if it is of any help. Von Strudel has a reputation for being a stickler for detail. That is why I wish you to go, Pamplemousse. We must not let the side down.’

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, if Von Strudel is such a stickler for detail and he is dealing with biblical times, why does he not shoot the film in the Middle East where most of the events took place?’

  The Director dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand.

  ‘The cost of the insurance would be too great. That part of the world is in a constant state of turmoil. Also, there is another reason. Von Strudel is not exactly welcome on the shores of Israel. His name has unhappy associations with certain events which took place in Europe during the last war. There are those who, some fifty years after the event, are still out to exact revenge. Even at the age of eighty-five life is sweet.

  ‘Besides, we are not talking about real life. We are talking about make-believe. There are details and there are mere details. The simple fact, as I understand it, is that the Art Director happened to be staying with a friend at L’Oustau de Baumanière and he fell in love with the setting. In his mind’s eye it has already been transformed into the Mount of Olives.’

  The Director gazed dreamily into space. ‘Mangetout is playing the part of the Virgin Mary. Before I met Chantal, Aristide, I was very much in love with her. She was France’s answer to Rita Hayworth, with the added advantage of being half her age. I still have a signed photograph I sent away for. I remember the feeling of disappointment that came over me when I found the signature had been printed. It destroyed something very special and private.’

  ‘There was always hope, Monsieur.’

  ‘The magic of the silver screen, Aristide. We all thought we were the only one.’ The Director hesitated. ‘That still doesn’t answer my question.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself weakening. As an avid cinemagoer, the chance of being involved in the making of a film – even a commercial – was too good to turn down. If he didn’t want to talk himself out of a job any protests he made from now on would need to be of a token variety.

  ‘Madame Pamplemousse will not be pleased. As you know, Monsieur, I have only just returned from Arcachon.’

  ‘Madame Pamplemousse is welcome to accompany you,’ said the Director generously. ‘I am sure she can be budgeted for. We will think up a title. She can be your AAO. Assistant to the Adviser on Orgies.’

  ‘That is kind of you, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily, ‘but that won’t be necessary. In any case Doucette would not be happy staying at L’Oustau. It is a little too chic for her tastes. She would be worrying all the time about what to wear in the evenings.’

  The Director dismissed his protest. ‘The problem will not arise, Pamplemousse. The hotel has been taken over lock, stock and barrel by the film company. They are using it as their production headquarters.’

  ‘How about its off-shoot further down the hill, Monsieur – La Cabro d’Or?’

  ‘That is being occupied by lesser mortals: those who I believe are known somewhat prosaically in the film business as gaffers and grips.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse puckered his brow in thought. ‘There are not many other hotels in the area.’

  ‘Pas de problème, Pamplemousse. You have been allotted a caravan.’

  ‘A caravan?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried hard to keep the note of disappointment from his voice. ‘In that case Madame Pamplemousse will certainly not be accompanying me. We have an agreement.’

  Memories of a caravan holiday they had spent in the Dordogne soon after they were married came flooding back. It had been impossible to boil a kettle without first taking something else apart. Going to bed at night and getting up again in the morning had been a nightmare. They had both sworn never again. And that was long before Pommes Frites appeared on the scene.

  ‘There are caravans, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director, ‘and there are caravans. Wait until you see what yours will be like.’ Opening a desk drawer, he removed a large, glossy brochure.

  ‘A whole fleet of these was ordered from America. They have been strategically placed so as to form the nerve centre of the whole operation. Make-up, wardrobe, rest rooms … you will be surrounded by other experts in their various fields. There is even a resident chef.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse
suppressed a whistle as he gazed at the picture on the cover. It was an artist’s impression and therefore one had to accept that certain aspects of the scene were probably grossly over-exaggerated; the man standing on the steps of the caravan clasping a glass in his hand must have been at least seven feet tall – he would have needed to duck in order to get through the doorway – if, indeed, he was capable of bending at all; the surrounding foliage was a shade too luxuriant even by Californian standards.

  However, it was the final artistic embellishment which caused Monsieur Pamplemousse to make up his mind without any further hesitation. There was a bloodhound sitting on the grass outside the caravan and it bore an uncanny resemblance to Pommes Frites. The likeness was so great, for a moment he almost suspected the Director of having engineered the whole thing. He dismissed the thought from his mind. There would not have been time. Clearly, the whole thing was meant.

  ‘So what is it to be, Aristide? Oui ou non?’

  ‘I think you may safely assume, Monsieur, that the answer is oui.’

  ‘Good man! I knew I could rely on you.’ The Director poured out the remains of the champagne and having gulped down the contents of his own glass with a haste bordering on the indecent, he reached inside the drawer again and withdrew a long white envelope. ‘In fact, I was so convinced you wouldn’t let me down I had Véronique prepare an introductory letter to Von Strudel himself.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur.’ Taking the hint, Monsieur Pamplemousse pocketed the letter, downed his own champagne, and made for the door. As he turned the knob he felt the Director’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Take care, Aristide. In the meantime I would strongly advise you to stay away from the typing pool. One of the major selling points of the new perfume is that a little XS goes a long way and I suspect you may have been over-generous. Portion control on your part is sadly lacking.

  ‘And if I may offer one final word of advice. When you get to Les Baux watch out for the “best boys”. I have no idea what their precise function is, or why they should receive a credit for doing it, but whenever their names appear on the screen I always fear the worst.’