Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (4 page)

Toulouse, for whatever reason, seemed to be
en
fête,
and the arrival of the
Morning
Capitole
was obviously the high spot of the day.

Reacting rather faster than his fellow passengers, Ananas took in the situation at a glance and pushed his way past, waving to the crowds as he went. Donning his sunglasses in order to pay lip service to the pretence of travelling incognito, he paused momentarily to adjust his composure, and then emerged in order to greet his admirers.

The effect was magical. A great cheer went up from the waiting throng as they recognised him and word went round. A moment later he disappeared from view, swallowed up in a sea of admirers, only to reappear again seconds later as he was lifted shoulder high. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that his smile looked somewhat fixed, as though the reception was exceeding anything even he had anticipated.

For a brief moment Monsieur Pamplemousse felt almost sorry for him. He wondered if it was like that wherever he went. In his time he'd had his own share of public attention, but it had always been a thing of the moment, a brief period of glory when he'd been responsible for solving a particularly juicy
cause
célèbre.
The day after it was usually forgotten, overtaken by other events. Nowadays he was all too grateful for the strict anonymity that his work for
Le
Guide
imposed.
Never to be able to go anywhere without such goings-on must be dreadful.

Shortly afterwards Ananas'
aide
de
camp
appeared, struggling beneath a large assortment of monogrammed luggage. He didn't look best pleased.

Monsieur Pamplemousse began gathering together his own belongings. At least the platform was now clear. He glanced at his watch. They had plenty of time to catch the connection to Perpignan.

Climbing down onto the platform he paused to have a brief word with the attendant.

‘
Au
revoir.
Merci.
' He pressed a small offering into the man's hand. It disappeared with all the professional skill of one who earned a good proportion of his living by such sleight of hand. But it was worth it. Realising that Pommes Frites was sharing the breakfast the man had been more than generous with the portions.

‘
Merci,
M'sieur.
' The attendant was looking very pleased about something. After the unpleasantness with Ananas over
déjeuner,
Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn't believe he was deriving satisfaction from the latter's reception.

‘Do you believe in justice,
M'sieur
?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘Most of the time. Although I must admit to a certain wavering when I witness the kind of demonstration that has just taken place.'

The attendant laughed. ‘That is what is known as “rough justice”,
m'sieur.
It may get even rougher when both sides find out their mistake. It is not a demonstration of love. It is a
manifestation.
Une
grève
sauvage,
a wild-cat strike. It is over a matter of rosters. We are the last train they are allowing in today.

‘I think it is one product Monsieur Ananas may regret endorsing – especially when his picture appears in the newspapers tomorrow. It could well lose him his free life pass on S.N.C.F.'

He turned and looked at Monsieur Pamplemousse with some concern. ‘
M'sieur
is travelling far?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘We hoped to reach Perpignan.'

‘In that case you should hurry. The train will be coming into
quai
trois
. They are allowing the connection out because the driver lives in Narbonne, but who knows? They may yet change their minds. It may not take you on to Perpignan, but it will be a start.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse thanked him and hurried down the steps and up the other side to where a train from Bordeaux had just arrived at the adjoining
quai.

He paused as the attendant's voice called over to him. ‘
M'sieur
.'

‘
Oui
?'

‘Forgive my saying so, but has anyone ever told you …'

‘
Oui
,' said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Many times.'

The attendant shrugged. ‘
Tant
pis.
C'est
la
vie
.'

‘
C'est
la
vie
!' The man was right – it was no use minding. He climbed into the waiting
Corail.
After the
Capitole
it felt like boarding an aeroplane. He almost expected to be told to fasten his seat belt.

The cheers from the other end of the platform had grown more sporadic; he could detect a note of disillusion. Perhaps Ananas was trying to pour oil on troubled waters while protecting his own position at the same time. He didn't envy him the task.

As the train moved out of the
gare
he caught a glimpse of Ananas' factotum sitting glumly on a pile of luggage. Perhaps they, too, had been hoping to make the connection. If so, they were out of luck.

He settled back to enjoy the rest of the journey, however far it took them. It had been a strange interlude, not without its compensations. Somehow it redressed the balance slightly and made up for all the little indignities he had suffered. He would enjoy relating the tale at the next year's staff outing.

He was still working it over in his mind – honing the edges as it were – when they reached Carcassonne, looking very benign as it basked in the afternoon sun, the sombre history of the old town buried in shadow. The platform was deserted. In a few months' time it would be laden with produce from the surrounding countryside.

Soon they were passing through vineyards. Thirty minutes later hills ahead of them heralded Narbonne, and at Narbonne the attendant's forecast came true. There would be no more
trains that day. Passengers would have to make their own arrangements.

As he joined the throng of disgruntled fellow travellers pushing their way along the subway towards the exit, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided it might be a good moment to give his accessories another airing. Perhaps the good people of Narbonne would be more sympathetic to his plight than they had been in Paris. He had happy memories of his last visit when he'd dined at a delightful little restaurant where they played a tape of the Hallelujah Chorus to herald the arrival of the dessert ‘chariot'. He glanced at his watch. The restaurant was due for another test and it might not be too late.

Leaving Pommes Frites in charge of the luggage trolley, he took hold of his white stick, had a quick look round in order to get his bearings, then donned the dark glasses.

Blackness descended, and once again he felt the awful hopelessness being struck blind must engender. Heaven alone knew where the Director had found them. Perhaps Madame Grante had produced them – getting her own back for some of his expense accounts. As he groped his way along the outside of the
gare
he decided that another time – not that there would ever be another time if he had any say in the matter, but
if
there were – he would insist on attending some kind of training course first.

Screwing his eyes round he spied the
OFFICE DE TOURISME
through the side of the frames. It was closed.

On the far side of the forecourt there was a large sign marked
TAXIS
but the area in front of it was empty. In fact taxis were conspicuous by their absence. They must all have been taken by the fleet of foot and were probably heading for destinations many kilometres away by now.

His heart sank and he was about to give up when he heard a voice. Raising his glasses, he saw a man in a chauffeur's uniform detach himself from the bonnet of a large, black Mercedes and approach him. ‘
Pardon,
Monsieur
, you are going to the Château Morgue?'

Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. ‘That is what I had hoped to do. It is not easy.'

The man motioned him towards the car. ‘I am here to take
you. We had word of the
manifestation
. Herr Schmuck sends his compliments.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse rapidly revised his view of Narbonne. It was a city he remembered fondly – the birthplace of Charles Trenet, singer of love songs. The way he was feeling, the man's words could have been set to music – another contender for the hit parade. The Director must have done his stuff. He pointed towards the spot where Pommes Frites was waiting patiently. ‘That is very good news indeed. I have my luggage over there.'

The chaffeur followed him. ‘I had not expected
Monsieur
would be accompanied,' he said, eyeing Pommes Frites unenthusiastically. ‘I was not told.'

Monsieur Pamplemousse unhitched the lead. He was not disposed to enter into an argument at this stage. ‘It has all been arranged,' he said firmly.

The man gave a grunt as he picked up the valise and led the way towards the car. Monsieur Pamplemousse eyed his unexpected benefactor thoughtfully as he followed on behind. His manner wasn't exactly unfriendly, unforthcoming was perhaps a more accurate description. When he spoke it was with a touch of arrogance, rather as though in the normal course of events he was the one who was used to giving the orders.

A moment later curiosity gave way to something rather stronger. As the man bent down to open the boot, Monsieur Pamplemousse noticed a distinct bulge high up on the left side of his jacket. It
could
have been a well-filled wallet. On the other hand, instinct told him it was not.

He felt for his own wallet. ‘Do you happen to have change for a two hundred franc note? Two one hundreds, perhaps?'

‘
Non
.' There was no question of looking. He consigned the fact to his memory for possible future use. It had been worth a try.

The Mercedes had the kind of luggage compartment, spacious and spotlessly clean, that made his valise look inadequate and shabby, rather as one felt standing in front of a tailor's mirror being measured for a new suit.

Aware of the odd look the man was giving his white stick, Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened his grip on the handle,
adjusted his glasses, and slipped back into his role as he climbed unsteadily into the car. He was pleased to see there was a dividing glass between himself and the driver. With a hundred or more kilometres still to travel, conversation might have flagged a little. As he settled himself down alongside Pommes Frites he felt something hard beneath his right buttock. It was a case containing a pair of sun-glasses, Bausch and Lomb, of the type with photochromic variable density lenses which change according to the light. In the circumstances they were like manna from heaven. By the time the chauffeur had climbed into his seat the change had taken place. If he noticed anything different about his passenger he wasn't letting on.

There was a faint whirr and the glass panel slid apart. ‘All is for the best,
Monsieur
?'

‘
Oui
,' said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Merci
.' He caught the man's eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror. He seemed disappointed by the reply, and faintly uneasy, rather as though he had been expecting something more than the bare acknowledgement he'd received. After an uncomfortably long pause, he pressed a button on the dashboard and the panel slid shut again.

As they moved off Monsieur Pamplemousse relaxed and turned his attention to Pommes Frites, or rather to his rear end. Like most dogs, Pommes Frites was a bit of a snob when it came to cars and he was taking full advantage of his new-found status and the fact that the rear window on his side was half open. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he presented a profile to the world in general and in particular to any local inhabitants who happened to be passing, of one to whom such luxury was an everyday event. For the second time that day Monsieur Pamplemousse felt their usual mode of transport was being held up for comparison and found to be distinctly lacking.

As they gathered speed on the autoroute outside Narbonne he could stand the draught no longer and much to Pommes Frites' disgust, pressed a button on the central console which controlled the electrically operated window.

Perpignan airport flashed by at nearly two hundred k.p.h. The saying was that birds went to Perpignan to die. Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn't help but reflect that if there was any truth in the saying and they carried on driving at their present
speed, many would have their wishes granted sooner rather than later.

At Le Boulou they took the D115 and began climbing steadily. He dozed for a while. When he woke it was already growing dark and they were on a minor road. Ahead of them the Pyrénées looked grey and mysterious, outlined against the lighter sky behind, like a child's painting, simple and stark. Snow on the upper slopes shone luminously in the moonlight.

The car headlights picked out the beginnings of a small village, the houses already tightly shuttered for the night. As they shot through the square he spotted a small bar and beyond the
Mairie
some more lights. A moment later it was gone.

Almost immediately they were out of the village and he was about to close his eyes again when they rounded a sharp bend and drove past a parking area on the valley side of the road, the sole occupant of which was a long, black hearse-like vehicle. The driver was standing in front of it relieving himself against a rock. Monsieur Pamplemousse had a momentary glimpse of three others dressed in black inside the car. They waved as the chauffeur gave a blast on his horn. Whether or not they had waved in recognition was hard to say, but he had an odd impression that they were waiting for something or someone. Even funeral attendants had to obey the calls of nature, but it seemed an odd time to be abroad.

Monsieur Pamplemousse turned to see if he could spot the name of the village as they passed the sign, but he missed it in the dark. The Mercedes seemed to be totally unperturbed by the steepness of the climb. His 2CV would have been in bottom gear by now and struggling.