Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (3 page)

‘I’m sure Pommes Frites won’t mind waiting outside,
Monsieur
. He has often had to on past occasions.’

The Director stared at him. ‘That is a very callous suggestion if I may say so, Pamplemousse, and hardly practical in the circumstances.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the gaze. There was really no anticipating the workings of the Director’s mind. Who would have thought the possibility of man and hound having to part company for an hour or so would have weighed heavily on his conscience?

‘I cannot help but feel a regime of biscuits and water once a day would work twice as well in half the time,’ said the Director.

Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed him even more gloomily. ‘I doubt if Madame Pamplemousse will approve.’

The Director lowered his voice again. ‘There is no need for her to know, Aristide. Not if you carry out what I have in mind.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyebrows. ‘Which is?’

‘I suggest you and Pommes Frites should take to the water for a week – escape from it all.’

‘A sea voyage,
Monsieur
? I am unable to speak for Pommes Frites, but I fear I am a very poor sailor. I have never forgotten a crossing I once made of
La Manche
. I have no wish to repeat the experience …’

‘That will not be necessary,’ broke in the Director. ‘What I have in mind is something much more tranquil. A voyage, Pamplemousse, on one of the great inland waterways of France.

‘To the outside world you will be investigating the possibilities of waterborne
cuisine
. With that in mind I have booked you and Pommes Frites on a canal holiday in Burgundy. It will do you both good.’

While he was talking, the Director downed the rest of the Marc and rose to his feet. Keeping his distance from Pommes Frites, who had been giving the appearance of hanging on to his every word with more than a passing interest, he crossed to the door and made to open it. A clear sign that he regarded the meeting at an end.

‘I wish you luck with the task in hand, Aristide,’ he said pointedly. ‘I realise it will not be easy, but you must be firm. Firm in making your wishes known and resolute in making absolutely certain they are carried out. I shall expect to see a big change when you return. I have made reservations on tomorrow’s TGV to Dijon – the 8.05. Véronique will furnish you with the rest of the details.
Bonne chance!
’

The Director’s hand felt unusually moist to the touch; the relief in his voice as he uttered his hasty goodbyes was only too apparent. It was almost as though he had been expecting trouble; trouble which hadn’t materialised.

As the door closed behind him, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked enquiringly at Véronique. She opened a desk drawer.

‘Some people have all the luck.’

‘If that is what you call living on a barge for a week, condemned to a diet of bread and water,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. ‘I have to say my cup of happiness is hardly in danger of running over.’

‘
Allez raconter ça ailleurs à d’autres!
– tell that to the marines …’ Before Véronique had a chance to elaborate, her telephone rang. She picked up the receiver and cupped it under her chin while she handed Monsieur Pamplemousse a large brown envelope with one hand and waved goodbye with the other.

‘
Oui, Monsieur
.’ She picked up a tray. ‘At once,
Monsieur
.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse left her to it.

It wasn’t until he reached the end of the corridor and was waiting for the lift that he opened the envelope and glanced idly through the contents. As he did so a frown came over his face.

The lift came and went.

Returning to the Director’s office, Monsieur Pamplemousse found Véronique’s room was once again empty and through an open door beyond her desk he saw she was busy clearing up the remains of Pommes Frites’ water.

‘
Monsieur
…’

‘Yes, Pamplemousse …’ The Director reached hastily for a pile of papers. ‘I fear I have important work to do …’

‘
Monsieur
, I have just been glancing at the brochure Véronique gave me, and all the way through it seems at first glance to place great emphasis on food and drink.’

‘Everything in Burgundy has to do with food and drink, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director impatiently. ‘You should know that by now. Burgundians are pathologically incapable of writing the simplest sentence without introducing the topic. In schools all over the rest of France they teach children who are learning to read simple phrases such as “The man who opened the window is my uncle”. In Burgundy it becomes “The man who is looking in the window of the butcher’s shop is my uncle. He is a wine merchant specialising in Clos de Vougeot”.’

‘That being the case,
Monsieur
, would it not be sensible to avoid temptation altogether by following some other route?
Par exemple
, I believe there is a canal joining Paris to Strasbourg. For much of
the way it goes through areas which are largely industrial …’

The Director exchanged a glance with Véronique, as though he could hardly believe his ears.

‘The route you suggest,’ continued Monsieur Pamplemousse, holding up the brochure to emphasise his words, ‘seems to lay temptation upon temptation. If the illustrations are anything to go by, those taking it do little else but eat, drink and visit vineyards. The word “
gourmet
” appears no less than seven times in the first paragraph. On board, there is a guest chef from a two Stock Pot restaurant. In the evenings there are eight-course
dîners
accompanied by the finest wines. I really feel I cannot cope with it in the circumstances. One would be better off on a cycling holiday.’

‘You can hardly expect Pommes Frites to ride a
bicyclette
, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director severely. ‘Present-day saddles are not designed to give a
chien
support where its need is greatest. No, he can run alongside the boat while you eat.’

‘Run alongside the boat while I eat?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse slowly. ‘He will not take kindly to that arrangement,
Monsieur
.’

‘He will have to get used to it,’ said the Director patiently. ‘I am told there are a great many locks
en route
, so there will be time for him to rest while you are finishing your meal. There is no need for both of you to suffer.

‘You are a good fellow, Aristide, and I can understand your concern. But you must be firm. It is the only way if Pommes Frites is to lose the necessary amount of weight in the time available.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at him, wondering for the moment if he had heard aright. ‘Would you mind repeating that,
Monsieur
?’

‘I said, Aristide, that just because Pommes Frites has to lose weight, there is no reason in the world why you should suffer too. You must explain matters to him. Quietly and at length. I’m sure he will understand.

‘To represent
Le Guide
is a heavy burden on his shoulders. Shoulders, Pamplemousse, that before the week is out must look as though the carrying of responsibility, rather than trying to support an excessive quantity of kilogrammes, is their prime function in life.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced down while the Director was talking and as he did so he caught Pommes Frites’ eye. There were times when he wished his friend and mentor were blessed with the power of language, and there were times when he was relieved he wasn’t. It was definitely one of the latter occasions.

Not that Pommes Frites did badly with the limited vocabulary he had at his disposal. Coupled with his powers of sensitivity towards the reactions of others and his singular ability when it suited him to put
two and two together in a remarkably short space of time, he often got the gist of things long before his human counterparts.

He had been giving the Director some rather pointed looks for quite a while. Now he seemed to be hanging on his every word.

Any feeling of disappointment Monsieur Pamplemousse might have harboured initially on his own behalf, soon gave way to one of pride on behalf of Pommes Frites; pride coupled with unease and apprehension at the mammoth task in hand. He wondered how he would break the news. It would be impossible to explain about the logo. Logos were not Pommes Frites’ strong point. Along with most other Parisian
chiens
, he treated the doggy shapes painted at intervals along the
boulevards
by the City Council to indicate their preferred areas of defecation with a lack of recognition bordering on contempt. Nor would it be possible to demonstrate by example what was required of his friend; quite the reverse. Monsieur Pamplemousse sighed. He could see difficult times ahead.

Realising he was being addressed, he pulled himself together.

‘I see there is a theatrical entertainment laid on tomorrow evening,’ continued the Director as he scanned the brochure. ‘A candlelit pageant in the vaults of one of the oldest firms of
négociants
in Beaune. By a strange coincidence the owner,
Madame Ambert, is a distant relation of Chantal – one of her many aunts. You may care to introduce yourself. I will warn her you will be coming.

‘I might mention that she also owns a vineyard which is well worth a visit.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse felt tempted to say ‘Only one?’ The Director had married into relatives. His wife, Chantal, had them everywhere. Doubtless many of them boasted a vineyard or two. Loudier, doyen of all the Inspectors, having carried out some research into the subject, reckoned listing them all would fill a sizeable book. It was one of the factors that had led to Monsieur Leclercq’s ownership of
Le Guide
.

‘It is a delightful part of France,’ said the Director. ‘Chantal and I have stayed there many times. The hospitality is boundless.’

He returned to the brochure. ‘The following evening Gay Lussac – an American wine correspondent of some renown – is giving a talk on how to avoid cellar gridlock caused by over-enthusiastic buying.’

‘I cannot wait,
Monsieur
,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. ‘That makes two pieces of good news in one day. To have the cocktail cabinet in my
deux chevaux
repaired is one thing, but to be told how to solve the problem of gridlock in my wine cupboard is an undreamed of bonus.’

The Director drained his glass. ‘
Au revoir
, Aristide,’
he said firmly. ‘
Au revoir
, and
bonne chance!
’

Monsieur Pamplemousse rose to his feet and signalled Pommes Frites to do likewise. ‘There is nothing else you wish to tell me,
Monsieur
?’ he enquired casually.

The Director paused. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that is all you need to know for the time being, Pamplemousse. Doubtless we shall be in touch.’

Had Monsieur Pamplemousse’s thoughts not been concentrated on other matters, he might have registered a certain over-casualness about the last remark; over-casualness coupled with what others less closely involved might have construed as an indecent show of haste in saying goodbye.

Only Pommes Frites, his ears attuned to picking up any stray titbits that were going, registered the slight change in rhythm.

As they left the room he paused and looked back over his shoulder in order to make one final assessment of the situation. There was barely time to catch more than a passing glimpse before Véronique closed the door firmly in his face, but it was more than enough.

What with one thing and another, putting the various bits and pieces together and viewing them from all angles, it was Pommes Frites’ considered opinion that the future looked distinctly unrosy, and it was in sombre mood that he joined his master by the lift.

The Director had been pouring himself another drink; one of the largest he had ever witnessed.

Earlier in the conversation there had been certain key words he hadn’t liked the sound of at all; words like ‘losing’ and ‘weight’. Add the two together and couple them with the look of relief on the face of Monsieur Leclercq as he collapsed into his chair and Pommes Frites felt more than justified in fearing the worst.

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat on the edge of the bed and took stock of his surroundings. Having resigned himself to nothing much more than a bunk in the way of sleeping accommodation, he was pleasantly surprised. Searching amongst his papers he found the brochure Véronique had given him.

For once, the text didn’t exaggerate; rather the reverse. ‘Once used for carrying petroleum,
Le Creuset
is a converted 38m x 5m working barge capable of carrying twenty-four passengers in style and comfort’ hardly reached the heights to which most ad-men aspire, nor did it do it justice.

His own quarters – ‘
Vosne Romanée
’ – was one of four double cabins named after local wine areas (the remaining eight were twin-bedded and
cru bourgeois
). It boasted a shower, toilet, washbasin, an
open wardrobe and a dressing-table. The walls were lined with simulated oak matchboarding. The floor was covered with dark green carpet.

The floor plan showed the quarters for the crew were fore and aft.

On a dressing table beneath one of two portholes there was an ice-bucket containing half a bottle of Bricout champagne. Glancing up through a second porthole over the bedhead he could see a line of plane trees. Beyond their topmost branches a few wisps of cloud dotted the blue sky. The cabin must be partly below the waterline; standing on tiptoe to look out, the bank was level with his eyes.

The back of the cabin door was festooned with notices in various languages:
CHIENS INTERDIT
. PLEASE CONSERVE THE WATER
. And what to do
EN CAS D’URGENCE /EMERGENCY / NOTFALL
. There was no lock. It reminded him of a seaside boarding house he’d once stayed in when he had first visited England after the war. All it lacked was a sign saying
NO FOOD UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES
.

There the resemblance ended. The atmosphere aboard
Le Creuset
was informal to say the least. Everybody seemed to be on first-name terms, from Boniface, jack-of-all-trades and driver of the coach which had been awaiting his arrival at Dijon, to Sven, the
pilot
, a taciturn, pipe-smoking Swede who looked as though he had come with the boat and whose greeting, though warm enough, suggested he
preferred his own company to that of others, much as Boniface had implied. What was the phrase he had used? ‘Monsieur Sven, he runs a tight ship.’ Sven’s number two was an English
matelot
named Martin who was equally reserved; perhaps it had something to do with living on the water. Martin was married to Monique, who ran the bar. It was all very cosy, not to say incestuous.

Opening the champagne, Monsieur Pamplemousse poured himself a glass and took a long mouthful. It tasted crisp, clean and refreshing. There were biscuity overtones; an ideal
apéritif
wine. Recording the fact in his notebook, he refilled the glass, then lay back, allowing his mind to float freely as he adjusted to his new surroundings.

He had been looking forward to the journey down on the TGV, but ill luck in the computerised lottery of seat reservations had landed him with a paper rustler on the other side of the aisle. First the newspaper; every time the man turned a page – and there were a good many of them – it was a signal for a renewed and ferocious attack.

Then there had been paper-wrapped sandwiches, followed by a paper-wrapped apple of unbelievable crunchiness. That the man should own a black, thick leather executive type case with combination locks which sprang back with a sound like that of miniature pistols going off whenever they were operated had been a foregone conclusion. It was
all done with a precision that had left him feeling distinctly twitchy. It was good to be heading for the country.

Boniface, the coach-driver, ran a tight ship too. Rope-soled shoes and a striped fisherman’s jersey lent him a nautical air. White jeans set off his Mediterranean tan. Behind the wheel of the Mercedes coach he was in command; master of all he surveyed. He seemed to have a good line in aftershave as well. There had been a couple of girls with him at the
gare
, but they had melted away as soon as Monsieur Pamplemousse arrived.

Boniface was a mine of information. Even before they had left the station forecourt he had learnt all he needed to know about
Le Creuset
and what lay in store. A quick run-down on all the other passengers was thrown in for good measure. He had listened with only half an ear as the other ran through the list.

First there was a study group of twelve Americans from California. Most days they were scheduled either to go on visits to vineyards or to attend lectures.

Then there was an English wine merchant – a Colonel Massingham and his wife. A German couple – two men – ‘
comme ci, comme ça
’; Boniface clearly harboured doubts about their relationship, but they kept themselves to themselves. A Swedish lady travelling alone. An American businessman and his 
bride … he owned a
journal
– a newspaper – and they were on their honeymoon …

At that point Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he had detected a slight hesitation, a change of tone, rather as though Boniface had been about to pass some comment, but the moment passed.

‘Nineteen passengers in all; twenty now Monsieur Pamplemousse had arrived. It was not bad for the time of year. In August there wouldn’t be room to move.’

It had been Boniface’s considered opinion that he, Monsieur Pamplemousse, had done the right thing in joining the boat two days late. True, he had missed the opening ‘welcome aboard’ party, but the stretch of canal heading west from the port in the centre of Dijon to Fleury-sur-Ouche, where
Le Creuset
had tied up, was boring. The countryside was relatively flat and with the
autoroute
running alongside for much of the way … pouf! From Pont de Pany – which they would reach this afternoon – it was only another four kilometres – the scenery grew more beautiful by the day.
Bellissimo!

Kissing his forefinger and thumb in the time-honoured Italian way, Boniface had gone on to demonstrate his command of other languages.

‘Mind you,’ eyeing Pommes Frites with a certain amount of alarm, he tested Monsieur Pamplemousse’s knowledge of English while they waited at some traffic lights. ‘Dogs are not allowed on the boat,
Monsieur
. Did they not tell you when you booked?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head. ‘The booking was done for me.’

‘
Ya?
’ Boniface had eyed him with respect, clearly hoping for more information on the subject, but Monsieur Pamplemousse had refused to be drawn.

‘Sven is very strict on such matters,’ continued Boniface, as the lights changed and they went on their way. ‘
Multo streng
.’

Not to be outdone in the language stakes, Monsieur Pamplemousse assured Boniface the matter was
pas de problème, non c’è problema
, nothing to worry about; Pommes Frites would be making his own arrangements. All the same, having said that, he had begun to feel more and more uneasy. His friend and mentor was transparently honest in all matters concerning his master; his loyalty unquestionable. He might be mortally offended when he learnt the truth.

It would be impossible to explain to him the reasons behind their trip and why he wasn’t allowed on board. In that respect the news that dogs were
interdit
was to be welcomed. At least it would be possible to shift the blame. Pommes Frites was all too familiar with signs portraying a
chien
with a crossed line through it, although whether at the end of the day he would recognise his own logo on the front of
Le Guide
was another matter entirely.

‘Do we have far to go?’

‘Ten more minutes – maybe fifteen if the traffic is bad. Fortunately it is not the hour of
affluence
. We are moored twelve kilometres outside Dijon.’

‘That is all?’

‘
Monsieur
has a train to catch?’ Boniface had looked hurt, as though a slur had been cast on captain and crew.

‘We did not leave Dijon until Monday afternoon. It is a different way of life. It is not like the
autoroute
. Most days ten kilometres is maximum. On the straight
Le Creuset
has a speed of five or six kilometres an hour, but that is without counting the locks. Between Dijon port and where we are now there are seventeen locks. Another boat was ahead of us so there was a long wait at each. There is also the fact that the locks are closed between 12.00 and 13.00.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had looked suitably rebuffed as he digested the information. ‘Leisurely’ – a word much bandied about in the brochure – sounded a fitting description for the days to come. Ten kilometres a day maximum was hardly likely to affect Pommes Frites’ weight problem.

Reaching across for the ice bucket, he pulled it nearer to him, filled his glass with the remains of the champagne, then lay back again and closed his eyes. The slight movement of the boat and the sound of lapping water were making him feel drowsy.

Considering his fate, he fell to wondering why the Director had booked him on such an early train. According to Boniface most of the other passengers had gone off to explore the area on bicycles (Lapierre, with three speeds, dynamo and unisex frames). Others had gone for a walk, building up an appetite for lunch. The remaining few were taking it easy on the sun deck.

If
Le Creuset
was only going another four kilometres that day, he could easily have joined it in the afternoon and still left plenty of time for the evening visit to Beaune. A few kilometres wasn’t going to make that much difference. Unless, of course, the chief didn’t want to give him time to have second thoughts about the whole thing. He wouldn’t have put it past him.

Turning their back on Dijon’s hundred spires and steeply sloping roofs, its one-way streets, its mustard shops and its gingerbread, they swept under a railway bridge and turned into the avenue Albert 1er, joining the stream of traffic heading west out of the city.

Absorbing the passing scene, Monsieur Pamplemousse was reminded of Henry Miller’s first reaction when he began his short sojourn in Dijon as a teacher. ‘Stepping off the train I knew immediately that I had made a fatal mistake.’ He wondered idly if he had too.

To the right lay the main railway line to Paris
and the north, on the left some Botanic Gardens he remembered being taken to as a boy. A huge psychiatric hospital came and went, then some pleasure grounds, in the centre of which was a large artificial lake. Beyond it he could see the Canal de Bourgogne.

Above the noise of the engine, Boniface’s voice droned on. ‘That is Lac Kir, it is named after Canon Kir who was mayor of Dijon for twenty-two years.
Cassis vin blanc
has always been the traditional Burgundian
apéritif
, but it was Canon Kir who made it popular by insisting it was always served at official functions. He was a man of the world – a Catholic, but also a communist. They do say you could fill the lake three times over with all the
apéritifs
that have since been made the world over.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if he could stand a week of Boniface’s facts and figures, not to mention his driving.

Boniface had an unhappy habit of removing his hands from the steering wheel while he was talking, turning round to face his audience while making a point. He was at it again now, waving both arms in the air as he demonstrated the vastness of such a lake; the length and the breadth, not to mention the depth. It was one of those nonsensical statements you could neither prove nor disprove, and at that particular moment Monsieur Pamplemousse had no wish to attempt either.

They were now some way past the lake, travelling in the outside lane and about to turn left across the oncoming traffic. To his horror he saw an enormous lorry coming in the opposite direction. He tried to signal a warning to Boniface, but his hands felt heavy, as though they were made of lead. Bracing himself for the inevitable crash, Monsieur Pamplemousse sat bolt upright, pressing himself against the back of his seat, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The other vehicle was now so close he could see the white face of the driver wrestling with his steering wheel. The roar of the engine grew louder and louder.

The crash when it came was something of an anticlimax; a mere tinkling of glass and a feeling of dampness. Over it all he could hear people screaming.

Removing the ice bucket and some pieces of broken glass from his chest, Monsieur Pamplemousse forced himself awake and looked at his watch.

‘
Sacrebleu!
Eleven forty-five!’ He must have been asleep for an hour and a half. Conscious of a throbbing in his head, he began rubbing it gently before realising it was the vibration of a diesel engine being transmitted through the bedhead. The pain, such as it was, must be the result of banging his head against the sharp edge of a reading lamp fixed to the wall. He looked out of the porthole. They were moored near a school and the playground was full of shrieking children.

As he lay back again he heard the sound of clinking glasses and snatches of conversation began to float through the open porthole. Drifting in and out of his semi-consciousness like so many dragonflies, they hovered for a second or two, before going on their way. It was a trick of the acoustics – or the wind.

‘That guy been troubling you again, Hunn?’

He missed the reply as the
pilot
put the engine into full throttle to move the vessel away from the bank and into midstream.

‘Tell him from me, I’ll kill the bastard if he don’t watch it.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pricked up his ears, but once again the rest of the conversation was lost as they went under a bridge. By the time they came out the other side someone else – an English voice this time – was holding forth.

‘The whole problem with fermentation in an area like Burgundy is temperature control …’ The speaker sounded laid-back but authoritative. From the clipped tones, Monsieur Pamplemousse guessed it must be Colonel Massingham.

‘Once upon a time the state of Burgundy reached all the way to Picardy and beyond … Luxembourg, half of Holland … The first vines were introduced at the time of the Roman conquest …’