Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution (5 page)

‘On reflection, yes. But at the time, I was metaphorically still taking my bow. Acting is hard enough as it is, without the added burden of analysing the exact meaning of what one is saying.

‘I have often suspected that the first actor to take the stage as Hamlet must have been playing for time when he uttered the immortal words “To be, or not to be”, followed by a long pause. He had probably forgotten what came next.

‘However, it was not for nothing, Aristide, that I
once played the part of Robespierre. It was not easy at the age of thirteen, but according to the school magazine I acquitted myself with flying colours.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse realised he had stepped into the trap. Over the years, the Director’s oft-repeated tale had become the stuff of legends. One tended to forget he was at heart a frustrated thespian. Even in his youth, the part of ‘Robespierre the Incorruptible’ must have seemed like typecasting.

‘Did it not worry you that the girl knew your home number, monsieur?’

Monsieur Leclercq shook his head. ‘Thinking about it afterwards, I assumed she must have committed it to memory when I rang Chantal soon after boarding the plane.

‘Being able to cross and uncross her eyes at will, I suspect she kept one of them fastened on my mobile while I was dialling, at the same time using the other eye to feign looking out of the window.’

‘A useful faculty,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly, ‘but why would she do that?’ Privately he remained sceptical. As he understood it, most people could only remember a maximum of nine digits.
Ten-digit
numbers were beyond them.

‘I imagine for the same reason headlines in other people’s
journaux
are invariably more interesting than one’s own,’ said the Director. ‘Quite likely, her subconscious memory took over when it was her turn to dial a number. Given a free choice, some people’s minds go blank.

Monsieur Pamplemousse did his best not to look doubtful.

‘Monsieur has wiped any photographs from his mobile, of course …’

Monsieur Leclercq shook his head. ‘No, Pamplemousse. Monsieur has not.’

‘If you have it with you, I will happily do it for you. It will only take a moment.’

‘I am afraid it is too late,’ said the Director. ‘Unfortunately, following my performance, I was still on a slight high, so when the Captain announced that we were through the turbulence and we were no longer required to return to our seats, I placed the instrument on a convenient shelf …’

‘Don’t tell me it fell into the
gogue
, monsieur?’ ’

‘If by
gogue
you mean what I think you mean, Pamplemousse, the answer is no, more’s the pity. At least, with a press of the button, it would be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean by now and it might have saved a lot of trouble. In the event, what transpired was far worse.

‘I caught her inserting the wretched thing inside what passed for her
culottes
. As I mentioned earlier, it was the flimsiest garment I have ever seen; the kind of frilly object designed not so much to conceal, but rather to draw attention to that part of a lady’s anatomy known in polite circles as
le duvet pubien
. It is a wonder it didn’t fall out the other side.

‘Having slipped into her habit, she then asked me if I would mind rendering assistance.

‘I have to tell you, Aristide, as she bent over and presented me with a close up view of her
derrière
, the temptation to retrieve my mobile there and then was hard to resist, but chivalry won the day.

‘In my haste to oblige I had scarcely reached the halfway stage when my tie became enmeshed in the teeth of her zip fastener. Given that it happened to be a birthday present from Chantal, I must confess panic set in. You know what wives are like. If they have given you an item of clothing and for some reason you don’t wear it, they immediately take umbrage.’

‘Ties are the very worst,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Especially if they have given you two. Which ever one you wear they inevitably ask what was wrong with the other.’

‘It was, to say the least, a compromising situation, and the more I tugged, the worse it became. I could hardly call on the cabin staff, it would have stretched their credulity to breaking point. Fortunately, Maria reached into an inner pocket and, having produced a pair of scissors, suggested I used them to cut the end off, but only on one condition.’

‘Which was?’

‘I take her shopping and buy her a new outfit to replace the one that had been damaged.’

The Director paused as he caught sight of the expression on Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face.

‘I know what you are thinking, Aristide, but it is easy to be wise after the event. I was desperate at the time.

‘I made arrangements there and then to meet her as soon possible after we got back to Paris.’

‘So, all was well in the end.’

‘It might have been, Aristide, had it not been for the fact that for the first time ever Chantal chose to meet me at the airport.’

‘I wonder what made her do that?’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse innocently.

‘I have been wondering the same thing,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Unfortunately, my jacket was open. There are no prizes for guessing the first thing she noticed.’

‘On the whole,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘ladies do have an eye for these things.’

‘Chantal is certainly no exception,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘It was not a happy homecoming.’

‘As a matter of interest,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘What did happen to the end?’

‘Maria asked if she could keep it as a souvenir,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.

‘Ah!’ said Monsieur Pampleousse. It was all he could think of for the moment.

‘I wonder,’ ventured Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘do you think offering to take Maria out shopping might prove misguided in the long run?’

‘Wondering doesn’t enter into the calculation, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq with feeling. ‘It has already happened.

‘I suppose in my mind’s eye I pictured our meeting up at one of those small specialist shops which abound in the backstreets near the Bon Marché. However, in the event, her sights were fixed on higher things.

‘She told me that in view of the nature of her work she had been given special dispensation by the Vatican to wear the kind of garments that would allow her to mingle freely with those engaged in the world of international banking. With that in mind, she suggested we rendezvous at Christian Dior.’

‘Not the first name that springs to mind when one is thinking of buying ecclesiastical garments,’ agreed Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It would be if you happened to be my wife,’ said the Director glumly. ‘There are times when I strongly suspect she has shares in Dior, along with various other establishments in the area. It is where she spends most of her time whenever she goes shopping.

‘That being so, it was almost inevitable that while Maria was viewing the current season’s offerings, I caught sight of Chantal attempting to back her car into an empty space on the far side of the Avenue Matignon.

‘Fortunately, parking does not come naturally to her at the best of times. Even from where I was standing, the gap was obviously a good ten centimetres less than the length of her car, so time was on my side.’

‘The female mind works in a totally different way to that of the male,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse sympathetically. ‘As I understand it, research shows they have different-shaped brains. It gives them the advantage over men in many respects, but not in others, parking being one of them.’

‘I am not in the least surprised to hear it,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Their minds must be like the Place de la Concorde during the hour of affluence, with traffic going in all directions. Give Chantal a totally empty car park and she goes to pieces, driving round and round in ever decreasing circles asking
me
where she should leave it. Then she gets cross if I point out
that she has control of the steering wheel.

‘On the other hand, make no mistake about it, Aristide, had we encountered each other in Christian Dior that morning there would have been no question as to who was in the driving seat.

‘Fearing that once she had found a suitable space she might head in our direction, I apprised Maria of the situation and suggested we make good our escape as quickly as possible. As I am sure you know, the House of Dior is a rabbit warren of interconnecting departments – a Heaven-sent arrangement in the circumstances – so we had no problem in that respect.

‘Half an hour later, following a somewhat circuitous route, I found myself in a maze of unfamiliar streets near the Odeon. To do Maria justice, as we were about to enter an establishment called Maison Felicity, purveyor of ultra-sexy garments for today’s sensual woman, she promised to return my mobile as soon as she had completed her purchases.’

‘When you say circuitous, monsieur …’

The Director had the grace to look somewhat shamefaced.

‘I mean, not as an average crow with an intimate knowledge of Paris would choose to fly were it in a hurry,’ he said. ‘First of all we visited a jewellers in the rue St-Honoré … Maria had her eyes on something she had seen in their window … then we called in at Annick Goutal – a
parfumerie
in the Place St-Sulpice.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t resist it. ‘Did
you encounter many other nuns on your travels?’ he asked.

‘No, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director testily. ‘We did not. I must admit I was glad to reach the relative safety of Madame Felicity’s; a charming lady, most welcoming. She even offered me a glass of Roederer Crystal champagne while I was waiting.

‘Unfortunately, she had hardly finished pouring it when the worst happened. Maria happened to glance out of the window and thought she saw my wife approaching.’

‘Did Chantal see you, monsieur?’

‘She didn’t get the chance. Reacting with commendable promptitude, Maria bundled me into one of the changing rooms and advised me not to come out again until she had given the all clear.

‘I tell you something, Aristide; you have no idea of the things women talk about when they think no one of the opposite sex can overhear them. Technical details regarding other people’s anatomy, their lover’s, and in some cases that of their husband’s too. I was forced to listen while comparisons were made and the most intimate details exchanged, and having listened, I did not dare emerge for fear of what their reaction might be.’

‘A salutary experience, monsieur. You might have been scarred for life.’

‘While I was incarcerated,’ continued Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I started to run over various things in my mind. I hesitate to say it, but for one reason and
another I began to wonder if perhaps Maria is as virtuous as she would have me believe. Could it be, I asked myself, that her own regard for chastity was on a par with the others I could hear talking?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at the Director. He never ceased to be amazed. There, on the one hand, stood a man of the world – a high-flyer in every sense of the word, always immaculately groomed: suits from André Bardot, ties from Marcel Lassance, handcrafted shoes from JW Weston, purveyors of footwear to successive presidents of France.

In earlier times he would probably have spent his Sunday afternoons strolling in the Bois de Boulogne; the epitome of a well-dressed roué about town. While doing so, he might well have encountered one of Maria’s forebears, an
entraineuse
plying for custom on horseback rather than from a seat in the first-class cabin of a jumbo jet.

But clothes don’t necessarily make the man. On the other side of the coin, there were times when he ought not to be allowed out alone, and his journey back from America had been one of them.

Part of the trouble was that he led a rarefied existence, so work-obsessed the simple pleasures of life passed him by. He wondered how long it was since Monsieur Leclercq had last seen a film other than on an aeroplane, or when he had taken an autobus or travelled on the Metro. He didn’t begin to know the meaning of the word streetwise.

‘Whatever makes you say that, monsieur?’ he ventured.

‘Little things, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘Not least being the fact that when I finally emerged from the changing room of my own accord, Maria was no longer to be seen. I thought things had gone very quiet. Madame Felicity was getting ready to close and had actually forgotten I was there.’

‘It is a pity you were not in Le Bon Marché, monsieur. I have it on good authority their changing rooms are equipped with telephones for the benefit of any customers who are in need of assistance. You could have called for help long before then.’

‘Unfortunately, Aristide, such cutting edge technology has yet to reach the 5
^th
arrondissement
.’

‘And your mobile?’

‘Maria had the grace to leave me a note. Not only that, but she made me a present of a new telephone. She said the old one had become irretrievably damaged …’

‘You must have been very relieved,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘It was a kind thought,’ agreed the Director. ‘Only marred, I might say, by the not inconsiderable bill from Madame Felicity, which was attached to the book of instructions.’

‘So you are back where you started, monsieur.’

Monsieur Leclercq hesitated. ‘
Oui
, Aristide, and then again,
non
.

‘I have to admit that all has not been well in the Leclercq household since I arrived back from America. The fact that the end of my tie was missing was only
one item in a long list of problems. Placating Chantal has been a costly exercise.

‘However, that is now by the by. There are a number of much more important issues we need to discuss.’

Rising to his feet, he picked up a remote control, reopened the sliding door leading to the balcony, and led the way outside. Not wishing to be left out of things, Pommes Frites followed on behind.

The Director didn’t utter another word until he had made certain the door was safely closed behind them. Even then, he looked uneasy and began making faces, as though attempting to come to terms with whatever it was he had on his mind. For several moments not a word passed his lips.

Pommes Frites put his tail between his legs and looked the other way.

‘What I have to say, Pamplemousse,’ he began at long last, ‘has to be treated with the utmost confidence. It must not, under any circumstances, reach ears other than your own.

‘Looking out from this balcony,’ he continued, abruptly changing the subject, ‘what do you see?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse paused for a moment or two while gathering his thoughts. Alive, as always, to the prevailing atmosphere, Pommes Frites relaxed. Assuming one of his more thoughtful expressions, and following the direction of his master’s eyeline, he placed his front paws on the balcony rail and stared into space, clearly hoping he might be of some assistance.

‘Different people see different things,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Personally, gazing out over the rooftops of Paris and seeing it all laid out before me like some giant oriental carpet, has always been one of the great pleasures of life. I count myself lucky that I am able to do so from the balcony of my apartment in Montmartre. From here I get what is in effect a mirror image.

‘Immediately in front of us lies the Esplanade des Invalides, with its avenues of lime trees on either side, and to its right, the Hôtel des Invalides, home to Napoleon’s tomb.

‘Beyond the Esplanade there is the Seine, and beyond that again lies the Avenue des Champs Élysées, with the Place de la Concorde at one end and the Arc de Triomphe at the other.

‘I see the Jardin des Tuileries and the Opera, where, unknown to most passers-by, five hives on the roof above the stage house over 100,000 bees. During the season their search for nectar takes in not only the chestnut trees in the Champs Élysées, but the linden trees behind the Palais Royal, along with acacias and sophoras lining the Péripherique. Some even stray as far afield as the Bois de Boulogne.

‘You can buy the result of their labours in the Opera House shop and in Fauchon …’

‘Yes, yes, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq impatiently, ‘that is all very interesting, but what else do you see?’

‘What else?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Well, beyond the Opera and the Madeleine, across an ocean of blue rooftops and pink chimney pots, I see Montmartre, where Pommes Frites and I often walk together of a morning, and where long, long ago Saint Denis is said to have picked up his head after he was decapitated by the soldiery, and carried on heading north with it under his arm.’

‘How very inconvenient for him,’ said the Director. ‘It is a miracle he could see where he was going.’

‘There is a statue commemorating the fact,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse stoutly. ‘It is by the fountain where he supposedly washed away the blood before moving on.

‘Above all, I see a city where the old happily rubs shoulders with the new. Here and there on the surface, Monsieur Hector Guimard’s original
fin de siècle
entrances to the Metro still stand – there is one at Abbesses, again near where I live, while below ground, on the Météor line, high-speed driverless trains whisk passengers to and fro between the Gare St Lazare and the Bibliotech Nationale.

‘It is much like a very grand child’s play area contained within the bowl of the surrounding hills.

‘As for Pommes Frites, it is hard to know what he sees, or indeed what he is thinking. I suspect he is not greatly concerned with landscapes. I have often noticed when we are out driving that he is more interested in things immediately in front of his eyes; trees and lamp-posts, the occasional rabbit. At this very moment, for example, he is probably taking note
of the men playing boules on the Esplanade, or the lady who is going past with a Dandie Dinmont tucked under one arm …’

Realising the Director’s eyes had a somewhat glazed look about them, Monsieur Pamplemousse’s voice trailed away.

‘Interesting, Pamplemousse,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘very interesting; particularly if you happen to be writing a guide book. You are, of course, absolutely correct when you say Paris means different things to different people. Allow me to tell you what it means to me.

‘In my mind’s eye I see well over a thousand hotels and restaurants listed in
Le Guide
. On a clear day, with the aid of my telescope, I am able to locate over one hundred that have been awarded one or more Stock Pots.

‘Sixteen of them have two Stock Pots. They include the oldest restaurant in Paris, La Tour d’Argent, which has been in existence since 1582; not so many years after the death of Christopher Columbus. It was there that an eating implement called the fork was first introduced to Parisian diners, and it is on record that the Duke of Richelieu once hosted a party during which a whole ox was cooked in thirty different ways.

‘I can pick out Taillevent in the rue Lamenais; under Monsieur Vrinat, without doubt the best run restaurant in the world. Nearby, I see Pierre Gagnaire, one of the more innovative chefs of our time, and with the further aid of the brass plate set in the balustrade,
I can locate the remaining eight who have been awarded the supreme accolade of Three Stock Pots in
Le Guide
.’

Monsieur Leclercq broke off.

‘And that is only Paris, Pamplemousse. There is the rest of France to consider.

We should be proud of the small part we have played in their owner’s success, but it is a heavy responsibility nevertheless.

‘There are times when I lie awake wondering if we are doing any restaurateur a favour by awarding him or her three Stock Pots, especially when you think of all it entails.’

‘If I may say so,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘it is their chosen vocation.’