Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure (6 page)

‘Sign here, please.’ He pushed a pen into Monsieur Pamplemousse’s hand and guided it towards the clip-board. ‘It is an absolution clause. It is
obligatoire
!’

While he was speaking a bleeper sounded. Withdrawing a small receiver from the top pocket of his coat, he listened carefully for a moment, then spoke briefly. ‘
Oui
.
I will come immediately.

‘I am afraid I must leave you now.
Bonne
nuit.
Petit
déjeuner
is at seven a.m. sharp.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the door as it closed behind the doctor. On the back there was an inscription in four languages, French, German, English and Spanish:
NOTHING IN
THE WORLD IS FREE – LEAST OF ALL YOUR HEALTH
. Underneath
was a list of charges for various extra services, of which there appeared to be a great many.

‘
Petit
déjeuner
!’ A glass of hot water, no doubt. Followed by another glass for
déjeuner
. He could picture it all. It wouldn’t even be drinkable. It would be a dirty, filthy, foul-tasting brown liquid. Straight out of the ground and tasting like it. Its diuretic qualities would be lethal. He’d once sampled some at a spa in the Midi and had sworn there and then never to repeat the experience. Even Pommes Frites, who wasn’t above stopping at the nearest puddle when he needed to slake his thirst, had turned up his nose.

Ever alive to his master’s moods, Pommes Frites lifted up his head and gave vent to a long drawn out howl. It summed up the situation admirably.

Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him an approving pat, reflecting as he did so that with all the resources of the French language at his disposal he would still have been hard pressed to find words strong enough to describe adequately his feelings; it needed a dog of Pommes Frites’ sensitivity to come up with exactly the right sound.

For a moment or two he was tempted to go in search of a telephone and call the Director. With luck, he might even be able to persuade Pommes Frites to put on a repeat performance down the mouthpiece.

He thought better of it. He’d had enough of groping his way around in dark glasses for one day. That apart, if he knew the Director, he would be neither amused nor sympathetic, particularly if he happened to be in the middle of dinner. Dinner! He gave an involuntary groan. Pommes Frites let out another howl in sympathy. There was a protesting knock on the wall from the adjoining room.

‘
Merde
!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse collapsed into the armchair in a state of gloom, memories of the meal he’d so carefully planned all too clear in his mind. His gastric juices went into overtime at the thought of what might have been. His dislike of Ananas grew stronger by the minute. No doubt he was already making up for lost time.

There was a movement from somewhere nearby as Pommes Frites curled up on the floor in front of him, resting his head lovingly across his master’s feet. Thank heaven for Pommes
Frites. Where would he be without him? How good it was to have the company of a good and faithful friend in one’s hour of need.

Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes while he luxuriated in the warmth which was slowly enveloping his ankles. It was really a question of who cracked first, himself or Pommes Frites. At least he had the advantage of knowing why they were there. Why and for how long they were meant to stay. Pommes Frites had no idea. He wouldn’t take kindly to a glass of water for his
petit
déjeuner
every morning. Had they still been at home they would be going for a stroll by now – taking the air near the vineyard by the rue Saint Vincent; walking off the after effects of one of Doucette’s
ragoûts.
He could picture it all …

He sat up with a start. Thoughts of Paris reminded him that with all the things going on that day he had totally forgotten about the letter the Director had given him in his office. He felt inside his jacket. It was still there.

The envelope, which bore on its flap the familiar logo of
Le
Guide
– two
escargots
rampant – contained a letter and a second smaller envelope made of curiously flimsy paper. The latter was sealed with red wax, embossed with a symbol which rang a faint bell in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s head. A warning bell? It was hard to say. Certainly there was something about it which left him feeling uneasy. Intrigued, he decided to put it to one side for the moment while he read the Director’s covering note. It was short and to the point.

‘My dear Aristide,’ it began. That was a bad sign. Either the Director wanted to curry favour or he had a guilty conscience.

The letter, signed by the Director in his usual indecipherable scrawl, ended with a postscript. ‘Two other things while I write. Please assume that until such time as the order is rescinded, you have
carte
blanche
with your P39s. Also, once you have read and digested the contents of the second envelope, please destroy it immediately. Both letter and envelope are made of best quality rice paper. If necessary they can be consumed with no ill effects.’

‘Boiled, fried, or
nature
?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt distinctly hard done by as he glanced at his surroundings. How dare the Director say that he had a predilection for ‘missions’ when as far back as he could remember he had always been a victim of outside circumstances. Not a seeker of ‘missions’, but one who had missions thrust upon him whether he liked it or not. The sheer injustice of the remark rankled. As for apologising for lack of frankness in his office, that was the understatement of the year. He picked up the second letter and held it to the light. For two pins he wouldn’t even bother to read it.

As the last thought entered his mind, a slow smile gradually crept over Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face. Tearing a small piece off one corner of the envelope, he applied it to his tongue and then lay back and closed his eyes again. It would have been a gross exaggeration to say that it had a pleasant taste. Comparison with Tante Marie’s
gâteau
de
riz
would have been odious. Indeed, there was hardly any taste at all, more a sensation of blandness. All the same, it would serve them all right if hunger got the better of him and he ate the entire letter then and there, unopened and therefore,
ergo
, unread. There had been nothing in the accompanying note to say he
must
read it.

Dwelling again upon his meeting with the Director, other remarks and phrases came back into his mind; remarks about his weight, slurs cast on his physical features, scarcely veiled criticisms regarding his expense account. And when all those failed, appeals to his better nature and to his loyalty, neither of which had ever been held in question before.

With so much on his mind, sleep did not come easily, but gradually Monsieur Pamplemousse began to nod off, and as he did so he relaxed his grip on the letter, allowing it to flutter
gently to the floor. It was an act which did not go unremarked by his companion, more especially because it landed fairly and squarely, if lightly, upon his head.

Nudged into instant wakefulness, Pommes Frites opened one eye and gazed thoughtfully at the offending object. A moment later the sound of steady chewing added itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heavy breathing. It was not, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, one of the best nor the most sustaining meals he had ever eaten, but beggars can’t be choosers. What was good enough for his master was good enough for him, and if it didn’t exactly fill what was now a gaping void, it did at least bridge a tiny gap or two.

Hunger is not the best of bed-fellows, and when Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the sound of coughing, it was also with a sense of remorse. He realised as he sat up with a start that this sprang from a dream he’d been having – and not simply
having,
but actually
enjoying.
As he patted Pommes Frites on the back to relieve him of whatever was stuck in his throat, he could hardly look him in the eye. To have dreamed of a large suckling pig resplendent on a silver tray, an apple in its mouth, surrounded by a pile of fried potatoes, was one thing. To have transmogrified that pig into his own, dear friend, was quite another matter. A shameful episode, one he would do his best to forget. Thank heavens he’d woken when he had.

He glanced at his watch and felt even more guilty. It was nearly midnight. Pommes Frites must be dying for a walk. Apart from the brief spell at Narbonne, he hadn’t had an opportunity all day.

A moment later the thought was transformed into action as he led the way along a deserted corridor towards a door at the end marked
SORTIE DE SECOURS
. Opening it as quietly as he could, he let Pommes Frites through and then left it slightly ajar with the end of a mat so that he could come back in again when he was ready. The air outside struck cold and there was no sense in both of them suffering. He would need all his strength in the next two weeks. What a blessing he hadn’t sent off a card to the Director. With his present luck the request for an extra two weeks would have been granted.

Leaving Pommes Frites to his own devices he hurried back to his room. Before leaving Ananas’ suite he’d had the foresight
to pack a few magazines he’d seen lying about. They would help while away the time. Poor old Pommes Frites – he wondered what he was thinking about it all.

Pommes Frites, as it happened, had several very clear thoughts occupying his mind; three, to be precise, and for one not over-given to exercising his grey matter unnecessarily, three was quite a lot.

The first thought he’d taken care of on a large bush immediately outside the door, and very rewarding it had been too. He felt much better and ready for action. He was very glad his master had made a move, otherwise he might not have been responsible for his actions, for his second thought had to do with bones. Inasmuch as Pommes Frites ever felt guilty, he was feeling it now.

He hadn’t been quite so hungry for a long time, and he’d been finding it increasingly difficult to rid himself of a picture that had entered his mind while lying at his master’s feet. In his mind’s eye he’d suddenly seen them in quite a different light; not as objects on the end of the trouser-covered legs he had known and loved for many a year, but as bones – two lovely, juicy bones. And the longer he’d dwelt on the thought the more juicy and desirable they had become. It had been a narrow squeak. If Monsieur Pamplemousse had stayed asleep much longer he might have woken with an even greater start.

Pommes Frites’ third and most constructive thought was that if his master wasn’t prepared to do anything about their present situation then he, Pommes Frites, would have to take matters in hand personally. Unlike many of his human counterparts, it was not part of his philosophy to believe that the world owed him anything. The idea wouldn’t have entered his head. That being so, when things weren’t going right you did something about it. Which, as he set off, nose to the ground on a tour of investigation, was exactly what he intended doing.

It was some while later, almost an hour to be precise, that Monsieur Pamplemousse, having spent much of the intervening time searching for his letter and finding, to his growing concern, only a small piece of wet and partly chewed red sealing wax, heard a bump in the distance. A bump which was followed almost immediately by the sound of something heavy being dragged along the corridor.

Thinking it might be another patient in difficulty, an elderly lady perhaps, who was suffering from a surfeit of hot water, he put down his magazine with a sense of relief. Any diversion was better than none at all. Without exception the magazines had been porn, certainly not pure, but definitely simple in their single-minded approach to a subject which was capable of almost infinite variations. The only feeling of lust they inspired in him was the wish that some of the many
derrières
displayed could have been real. Had they been real he would have been sorely tempted to take a large bite out of them, so great was his hunger. That would have wiped the smile off some of the owners’ faces as they peered round the side, or in some cases from below, tongue protruding from between moistened lips.

By the time he reached his door the thumping was almost outside. As he opened it, Pommes Frites pushed his way past dragging a large parcel tied up with string. His face wore the kind of expression which befitted a bloodhound whose trail has led him to exactly the right spot at precisely the right time.

Having looked up and down the corridor to make sure the coast was clear, Monsieur Pamplemousse closed the door. He had no idea what the parcel contained, but at a guess, since the outside bore the name of a retailer, and below that the magic word
charcuterie
, it might with luck be a delivery of groceries. How and where Pommes Frites had managed to get hold of it was academic. The important fact was that somehow or other he had.

With trembling hands, Monsieur Pamplemousse carried the parcel over to the table and pulled the string away from the outside, up-ending the contents as he did so. To say that he was taken aback by the result was to put it mildly. Even Pommes Frites looked startled. Putting his paws up on the table he gazed down open-mouthed as a string of sausages spilled out; large ones, small ones, medium sized – as they landed so they seemed to grow in size until it was hard to believe that the parcel he had been carrying could have contained so much.

For a moment or two Monsieur Pamplemousse stood transfixed, a look of wonder on his face. He couldn’t remember having seen quite so many sausages since he last attended the annual
Boudin
Festival at Mortagne-au-Perche.
There were more than enough to feed a regiment. Then he sprang into action.