Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (3 page)

Monsieur Pamplemousse sat back in his chair. He couldn’t have put it better if he tried.

‘As you may know,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I have recently returned from a visit to New York. While I was there, I paid a courtesy call on a company not dissimilar in size to our own.

‘One of the things I discovered was that they have what they call a “vibe” manager; a person whose sole function it is to report back to the management on matters concerning staff satisfaction.

‘In my position, Aristide, it is all too easy to lose touch with the rank and file.’

You’re telling me, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse. Getting in touch with them from the beginning and staying that way might be the answer.

‘Tell me, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘you are a man of the world, and I place great value on your powers of observation. How would you rate the vibes within our own organisation?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse hardly knew where to begin. ‘I, too, have been away,’ he said, slowly gathering his thoughts. ‘But in the short time I have been back I have noticed a number of things. There is a feeling of unhappiness in the air. Rumours are rife, and since they are spreading in all directions, much as tiny waves are set in motion when you throw a stone into the waters of a lake, they are hard to evaluate.

‘To put it bluntly, monsieur, I would say our own vibes indicate that matters have possibly reached an all-time low.’

‘Ah!’ Monsieur Leclercq shrank back in his seat. As he did so, there was another hiss of escaping air; almost as though he was being engulfed by the weight of some vast, overpowering tidal wave and had given up the fight. ‘I feared as much.’

‘Can I get you anything, monsieur?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse voiced his fears as he jumped to his feet. ‘A glass of cognac, perhaps?’

‘You are a good man, Pamplemousse.’ The Director reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me? I think you may be in need of one too when you hear what I have to tell you.’

An innocent enough remark: it seemed like a good idea to Monsieur Pamplemousse at the time.

Afterwards he was to realise that even a spider’s web has to start somewhere. 

‘Life, Aristide,’ began the Director, ‘is not all champagne and boules.’

‘That is true the world over,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, doing his best to offer words of comfort. ‘
Par
exemple
, I imagine in Russia they probably use the phrase “vodka and onions”.’

‘Onions?’ repeated Monsieur Leclercq.

‘I was thinking of those domes they have on top of their buildings,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘In Grande Bretagne,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘I believe they say life is not all beer and skittles.’

‘From what one reads of their behaviour at football matches, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director testily, ‘one could be forgiven for thinking it was. The perfidious Albions are past masters at the art of
twisting facts to suit themselves.’

‘I believe they feel the same way about us,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Vive la différence
.’

Monsieur Leclercq removed the dark glasses and leant back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling as though involved in a life and death struggle with his innermost thoughts.

‘You were about to explain why we were summoned,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse.

The Director looked as though he was beginning to wish he hadn’t.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I should begin at the beginning.’

‘It is always a good place,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

Recalling his long past visit to Père Lachaise, he couldn’t help adding: ‘Especially given your family motto –
Ab ovo usque ad mala
.’

The Director gave a start. ‘“From beginning to end”. Your memory does you credit, Aristide. Although I fear the latter part of it is none too apposite at this juncture. The end is far from in sight. Would that it were. However, it was good of you to come so quickly.’

‘I had been hoping to slip into Laguiole while I was in the area and visit Pierre Calmels’ workshop,’ said Monsieur Pamplemouse pointedly. ‘I had in mind buying my wife a new kitchen knife for Christmas. Such a present from the oldest
coutellerie
in the town would have had a special cachet.’

‘They do say the handle of traditional Laguiole
knives is modelled on a young girl’s thigh,’ said Monsieur Leclercq dreamily.

Monsieur Pamplemousse resisted the temptation to point out that had been at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and history didn’t record anything beyond the designer’s name, which was Eustache Dubois. Clearly, the Director had his mind on other matters.

‘It all began,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘when I was returning from a recent visit to New York, where I had been attending a seminar on business efficiency. It was in the nature of a damage repair mission. Since what is still referred to as 9/11, there has been a noticeable slackening in the exchange of views between our two great nations, almost as though we were at war with each other. Windows belonging to French restaurants in Dallas have been smeared with noxious substances of a personal nature. Congress registered its displeasure by renaming French fries in its cafeterias “freedom fries” – a classic case of having their cake and eating it if ever there was one.

‘Fortunately, it was only a temporary measure, but in the meantime sales of
Le Guide
have plummeted. I understand from a bookshop on Lexington Avenue they no longer have them on general display, but provide them under plain cover.’

‘There will always be those, mostly on the East and West coasts, who like to regard France as their second home and will continue to visit us, come what may,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But sadly, for the time
being they are in the minority and tend to keep that fact to themselves, especially, so I am told, when they are travelling across Middle America.’

Monsieur Leclercq nodded his agreement. ‘Even then I might not have gone, but Véronique came up with a brainwave.

‘I must confess that after a strenuous week immersed in statistics and high-pressure salesmanship I was looking forward to the flight home and a chance to relax. You come across such a diverse range of people when you fly, especially when you travel Première Classe: a captain of industry one week, a leading scientist another, president of an oil company the next, politicians of note, film stars …

‘In my experience, the latter are often the worst; always showing their profile rather than looking out of the window, or making outrageous demands on the cabin staff just as the plane is about to land. Given half a chance some of them would want the whole cabin redecorated before they deign to come aboard.

‘However, it was the first time I had ever found myself seated next to a nun …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to picture it. ‘Perhaps the good lady had been upgraded out of regard for her advancing years?’ he suggested.

‘I think not,’ said the Director. ‘If that were the case the person in charge of the check-in desk needed to have their eyes tested. She was a pretty little thing.’

‘Aah!’ If Monsieur Leclercq wanted to focus his subordinate’s attention, he was going the
right way about it. Tastes in these matters varied enormously, of course, and Monsieur Pamplemousse was the last person to set himself up as an arbiter in such matters, but one thing was certain; place the Director amongst a group of disparate members of the opposite sex and he would unerringly make a beeline for the one who had all the hallmarks of being a troublemaker.

It had happened more than once over the years. Those he had been wont to describe as a ‘pretty little thing’, taking pity on them because they were sitting in a corner all alone at a party, were invariably doing so because others around them recognised the signs and were all too aware of the fact that pretty little things were not necessarily to be trusted.

‘She let fall the fact,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘that by a strange coincidence she had attended a similar course to mine. She intimated that she was acting as a financial advisor to the Vatican.’

‘
The
Vatican?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In Rome?’

‘There is only one Vatican as far as I am aware, Pamplemousse. I do not think it has branched out.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse pursed his lips and let out a sucking noise. It emerged rather louder than he had intended.

‘You do not approve?’ asked the Director.

‘Dealing with the higher echelons of the Catholic Church is not without its dangers, monsieur.’

‘You are thinking of what happened to that man
who became known as God’s Banker?’ said the Director. ‘His name escapes me …’

‘Roberto Calvi,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘He ended up hanging from a bridge over the river Thames in London. Half of his pockets stuffed full of foreign currency – mostly dollars and Swiss francs; the other half, as I recall, were packed with stones, presumably meant to weigh him down.

‘The bridge was called Blackfriars. Rather apt considering Calvi was a member of P-2 – an association of freemasons that has since been outlawed by the Italian authorities. Blackfriars also happens to be the registered name of a Masonic lodge; the washing of feet is part of their symbolic ritual. Presumably, whoever lowered him into position was hoping that would happen when the tide came in.’

‘I did mention his demise in passing,’ admitted Monsieur Leclercq. ‘The young lady professed total ignorance of the affair. Clearly, she had led a sheltered life. I suspect she was embarrassed to think such things could take place in this day and age. In Naples, perhaps, where I am told the Mafia is showing signs of a resurgence, but not London.

‘It only served to confirm what a nice person she was, although having said that, after what occurred later I doubt if she will be in line for promotion to higher echelons of the ecclesiastical profession …’

Monsieur Leclercq paused again as though reliving the moment. ‘… She had the white skin one associates with many of her calling … and her
accent was intriguing … I assumed at first it was Italian, but when I essayed a few apposite phrases she clearly didn’t understand a word I was saying. However, it was her eyes that caught my attention most of all. Partly because she had perfected the trick of crossing them from time to time, seemingly at will, but also because they matched the grey leather strap belonging to her watch; a Baume & Mercier – one that has the dial actually concealed beneath the strap on the
inside
of the wrist. You may have seen them advertised. I had been thinking of getting my wife one for Christmas, but I have since had second thoughts. In view of what transpired, she may put two and two together. In any case, she prefers gold to silver.’

‘Perhaps the young lady finds it helpful when she is carrying out her devotions,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, feeling some encouragement might be due as Monsieur Leclercq went quiet again. ‘It probably enables her to keep a surreptitious eye on the time.

‘I once sat next to a nun,’ he mused. ‘It was on a Greek aircraft flying from Athens to one of the many islands in the Mediterranean, and it was not a happy experience. She began counting her worry beads as soon as the “fasten your seat belt” sign came on and she didn’t stop until the man at the top of the disembarkation steps tapped on the aircraft door to signal it was safe to emerge. I have tried to avoid nuns ever since.’

‘Very wise,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘In my
experience, conversation with ladies of the cloth is mostly limited to basic pleasantries. You can hardly say “have you read any good books lately?” since one assumes the Good Book is a necessary part of their daily devotions.

‘One thing you can safely count on when travelling Première Classe is that on the whole passengers share a common interest in the food, a subject that hardly seems appropriate to someone living in a nunnery. Although having said that, despite her slender form she did ample justice to everything that came her way.

‘I thought at first she was rather standoffish, and I didn’t doubt she felt the same way about me. Having exchanged the usual pleasantries when we boarded … I was occupying 1A as usual, and she was in 1B, I suppose we were each doing our own thing before take-off. She was looking out of the window and as soon as we were given clearance I used my mobile to telephone Chantal and say I was on my way. The Première Classe seats on the Airbus 330 get wider and further and further apart these days …’

‘I have seen pictures of them in flight magazines,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘When I have had enough room to turn the pages, that is. If you are seated in the back of the plane and have the misfortune to be sandwiched between two passengers who are what your American friends would call “horizontally challenged”, it is not always easy.’

Monsieur Leclercq stared at him suspiciously for a
moment or two. ‘Is that so, Pamplemousse? I find that hard to picture.

‘Shortly afterwards,’ he continued, ‘our glasses of Dom Perignon ’90 were replenished, along with a serving of caviar as an appetiser; a foretaste of things to come. I remember being impressed by the fact that despite all the talk of trade embargoes, it was still Beluga. From its taste, undoubtedly the product of an older sturgeon which, as you know, produces the best quality roe. Perhaps the helping was rather less generous than one has grown accustomed to over the years, but that is by the by …’

‘I have noticed the complementary bags of peanuts are getting smaller too,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It makes them difficult to open. The less space you have at your disposal the harder it is. If you are not very careful, the bag bursts and they go everywhere.’

Monsieur Leclercq removed a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

‘We all have our problems, Pamplemousse,’ he said shortly. ‘The point I am leading up to is that that was when it happened …’ He paused yet again, as though searching for exactly the right words before continuing.

Monsieur Pamplemousse hazarded a guess. ‘The plane hit an air pocket and you cut your mouth on the tin of caviar? Or did the plastic spoon go in your eye?’

It would account for the dark glasses.

Monsieur Leclercq stared at him. ‘As always,’ he said stiffly, ‘the caviar was served on Limoges china,
and that in turn was resting on a bed of ice. The spoons, I may add, were made of horn rather than plastic, as indeed they should be.’

‘Don’t tell me you were poisoned, monsieur. These things happen … one can never be sure what goes on in the backstreets of Russia – especially those adjacent to the Urals. Corruption is rife since the Mafia became involved … also the more one hears about pollution of the Caspian Sea … You may have been mistaken for a mid-European diplomat, or presidential material. Remember what happened to that Ukrainian president before he was elected.’

Monsieur Leclercq stared at him. ‘The caviar was from Petrossian,’ he said simply. ‘Their name is synonymous with the very best, their choice of sturgeon second to none, approved of by connoisseurs the world over. I enquired of the cabin crew. They all swore they ate nothing else. In any case, it had nothing to do with food poisoning. Would it were that simple.’

Once again, it struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the Director was unusually ill at ease; the mopping of his brow had become more frequent.

‘I’m not quite sure how it came about,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq after a short pause, ‘but my travelling companion appeared to be having trouble arranging the contents of her tray, and whilst trying to render assistance, somehow or other our heads collided. Vodka and caviar went everywhere – mostly over her habit.

‘Unfortunately, the galley was behind us and the
cabin staff had drawn the curtains across the aisle so that they could enjoy their own meal in peace. As I recall, following the caviar, whole fresh black Perigord truffles encased in pastry featured on the menu. The smell was already starting to permeate the cabin but alas, it was not to be.

‘Not wishing to create a fuss and spoil their meal, my young neighbour covered her confusion admirably.

‘We joked about how the good Dom Perignon, he who is credited with inventing champagne in the first place, might have reacted to the debacle.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to suggest the good Dom might have been extremely cross had it been his first and only trial bottle, but the Director was by now in full spate.