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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
Called to a Provencal film set to vouch for the gastronomic authenticity of director Von Strudel's latest Biblical advertising extravaganza (what was on the menu at the Last Supper?) restaurant inspector Monsieur Pamplemousse is surprised to find his sleuthing skills, acquired during a stint at the Surete, considerably more in demand. Exploding strawberries, adulterated cast food and sundry other mysterious occurrences all point to a saboteur or, at best, an infuriating prankster on the set. But when the star of the sequence of perfume adverts, Brother Angelo, a heavy-metal heart-throb who has been cast against type as Jesus Christ, seemingly vanishes into thin air, it is clear matters have gone beyond a joke.
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Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Michael Bond
CONTENTS
1
OVERTURE AND BEGINNERS
For Monsieur Pamplemousse it began and ended in the Parc Monceau; that small but immaculately kept oasis of greenery situated in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, where uniformed nannies from well-to-do families forgather every afternoon in order to give the occupants of their voituresd’enfant an airing.
Fate had drawn him there in the first place. Fate and Pommes Frites, which more often than not amounted to much the same thing.
The day had started badly. Enroute to the office, he encountered a horrendous traffic jam in the Place de Clichy. An embouteillage of the very worst kind. A quick glance to his left as he joined the throng of impatient drivers revealed stationary traffic as far as the eye could see – all the way down the rue de Léningrad.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Monsieur Pamplemousse abandoned his normal route and put Plan ‘B’ into action. After mounting the central reservation for a short distance, he wormed his way with great aplomb in and out of the waiting vehicles and headed westwards along the Boulevard des Batignolles as though that had been his intention all along.
A few minutes later, soon after they reached the Boulevard Courcelles to be exact, he felt a stirring in the back seat of his 2CV as Pommes Frites came to and registered this unexpected change to the natural order of things. Having treated the shampooed and pomaded occupants of a BoutiquedeChiens to his right with the contempt he clearly thought they deserved, he turned his attention to the vista on his left. As he did so the Parc Monceau loomed into view.
Resting his chin on his master’s shoulder, Pommes Frites gazed soulfully through the offside window. Anyone watching could have been forgiven for assuming the worst. A hard done-by hound if ever there was one, possibly on its way to the knacker’s yard.
Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at his watch. It showed a minute or so before nine o’clock. It was his first day back at work after a successful tour of duty in Arcachon. No one would expect him to arrive at the office dead on time, least of all the Director, who had good cause to be in his debt in more ways than one. Had not Monsieur Leclercq specifically said that the choice of a next assignment lay with Monsieur Pamplemousse himself? The world – at least that part of it which lay within the boundaries of metropolitan France – was virtually his oyster.
In the meantime the sighing in his ear was becoming almost intolerable. To stop or not to stop? The question resolved itself almost immediately when an empty parking space suddenly materialised ahead of them.
Entering the Parc Monceau through a pair of vast and gilded ornamental wrought-iron gates, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned the salute of an elderly gendarme who appeared from behind a large rotunda. It was nice to know there were still those in the force who recognised him from his days with the Sûreté. All the same, he was glad he had thought to put Pommes Frites on a leash; the man already had his whistle at the ready.
Monsieur Pamplemousse tightened his grip on the lead as he joined a stream of commuters heading across the park towards the Champs Elysées. There was a large sand pit in the middle of the path leading off to his right and he sensed that Pommes Frites might have designs on it; designs which would undoubtedly have been legislated against on one of the many notice boards. It looked like a ‘no go’ area in all senses of the word. That being so, he led the way along a path to their left. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the gendarme still keeping a watchful eye on them. It was a case of better safe than sorry.
In the days to come Monsieur Pamplemousse would more than once fall to wondering what might have happened had he risked the gendarme’s opprobrium and gone to his right. Would everything have been different?
As it was, he strolled on his way past large areas of begonias and between beds filled with marigolds and busy lizzies, blissfully unaware that he was setting in motion his involvement in a train of events as bizarre as any he had yet experienced.
It was a tranquil scene. Roses were in full bloom everywhere. Pigeons waddled to and fro as they foraged for unconsidered trifles; sparrows followed in their wake. Only the soft swish of water from hosepipes playing over the freshly mown grass and the occasional heavy breathing of passing joggers disturbed the peace.
Their route took them towards the naumachiabasin, an artificial lake modelled, so it was said, after pools the ancient Romans were wont to construct in order to simulate mock naval battles. Ducks swam lazily back and forth, pausing every now and then in order to dip their beaks into the water. In the coming months the colonnades beyond the lake would form the background to many a fashionable wedding photograph, but for the moment it wasn’t hard to picture it peopled by toga-clad citizens of the Roman Empire, idly helping themselves from bunches of grapes as they spurred their model boats on to victory over a late breakfast.
Had Monsieur Pamplemousse taken the path to the right that morning his thoughts might well have been on madeleines rather than ancient Rome, for had he not once read that Marcel Proust used to play in the sand with his friend Antoinette Fauve? Marcel Proust, whose most memorable work was inspired by the simple act of dipping a spoonful of madeleine cake crumbs into a cup of lime tea.
And if his thoughts had been on madeleines, then it was more than likely he would have spurned the Director’s offer of a trip to the Camargue, opting instead for a chance to sample the culinary delights in and around Illiers-Combray, home territory of the illustrious writer.
Pommes Frites had no such romantic notions. As far as he was concerned water was for swimming in, ducks were meant to be eaten, and birds and joggers were there to be chased. Unable to do any of these things, he strained at his leash, anxious to explore pastures new.
Monsieur Pamplemousse knew how he felt. It was ridiculous really. It was only a matter of days since their return from Arcachon and already he, too, was feeling restless. It was hard to put a finger on the cause. Perhaps it had to with the feeling of holidays in the air. All the way along from the Place de Clichy waiters had been busy putting out extra tables and chairs ready for déjeuner, anxious to make the most of things before the annual migration out of Paris began. Men in green overalls had been busy with their brooms. Pavements glistened from being freshly machine-washed. It was rather as though everything was being spruced up and made ready for putting into store. In a few weeks time Paris, at least as far as its residents were concerned, would be empty.
Studiously averting his gaze from the shadowy figures practising Tai Chi behind some bushes, he moved on round the gardens and stood for a while contemplating the spot where, on the 22nd October 1797, a certain Monsieur Jacques Garnerin, the world’s first parachutist, had caused consternation amongst the local populace by literally falling out of the sky. It didn’t help.
Monsieur Pamplemousse’s feeling of unrest lasted all the way to the office. Driving round the Arc de Triomphe he was struck by the thought that it needed but a turn of the wheel and he could head in any direction he chose; north, south, east or west. It was that sort of morning.
But duty called. As he went round for the second time, he abandoned the carrousel and headed towards the pont de l’Alma and the underground car park beneath the Esplanade des Invalides.
A few minutes later he turned off the rue Fabert and applied a magnetic card to a brass plate let into the wall. In response to the answering buzz he pushed open a small door marked piétons and let himself into a courtyard on the far side of which, beyond the fountain, lay LeGuide’s headquarters.
Even old Rambaud, the gatekeeper, seemed to have caught the bug. The window of his little room just inside the entrance was wide open: an unprecedented event. No doubt if he caught a cold they would all suffer the consequences.
Crossing the courtyard, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the main building through the large plate-glass revolving doors. He exchanged greetings with the receptionist and then, ignoring the lift, bounded up the main stairs two at a time.
The Inspectors’ office on the third floor was empty. It was the time of year when most of his colleagues were scattered far and wide across the length and breadth of France, searching out new restaurants, checking on long-established ones, double-checking those earmarked for promotion, or in some cases demotion, following up unsolicited letters of praise or complaint.
Panting a little after his exertions, Monsieur Pamplemousse settled down at his desk and started to go through the contents of his In-Tray. There was the usual assortment of odds and ends. Some queries from Madame Grante about past expenses – he put those on one side to deal with later – she had yet to see the extras he had accumulated in Arcachon; they would need MonsieurleDirecteur’s approval before he even dared broach the subject. Explaining how and why Pommes Frites had come to bury one of LeGuide’s issue camera lenses in the sand at Cap Ferret would not be easy: worse than filling in an accident report. Lips would be compressed. Unanswerable questions would be posed. Pleading that the lens had been in a pocket of his best suit which had also been engulfed by the incoming tide would be a waste of time.
There was a note from Trigaux in the Art Department saying a film he’d wanted processed was ready for collection. Bernard had left him a wine list containing several sale items marked with a cross. Bernard had connections in the wine trade and an eye for a bargain. Truffert had returned a tape he’d borrowed – GerryMulliganMeetsBenWebster.
Reaching across, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt in his tray in case he had missed anything. His fingers made contact with a small plastic envelope. A tag bearing his name was attached to the outside. Printed in red across the top were the words SECRET ET CONFIDENTIEL. Tearing open the top of the packet, he upended it over his blotting pad. Bottle was too grand a word for the object which fell out. True it was made of brown glass, but it was so small there was no room for a label, nor was there anything inside the envelope to say who had put it there in the first place or why.
He held the object up to the light, but it was impossible to see if there was any liquid inside. He decided it must contain something because it had a tiny glass stopper kept in place by a band of shrink plastic.
Taking a corkscrew from his pocket, Monsieur Pamplemousse released the knife blade and made a nick in the band. Still half-suspecting one of his colleagues might be playing a prank, he gingerly removed the stopper and applied it to the end of his nose. It was a perfume of some kind. Mildly assertive, yet with an underlying promise of other things to come; it was hard to put a word to it. Sensual? Decadent? That was it – decadent.
Analysing it as one might a glass of wine, isolating one part from another, he first of all registered musk. Beyond that he thought he could detect the smell of incense. There were spices too, spices … roses? … perhaps a damask rose? Certainly flowers of some kind. Jasmine? There was more than a hint of oakmoss. He added coriander to his list before he gave up. Doubtless there were many, many more, but it would need an expert and highly trained nose to isolate them. The overall effect wasn’t unpleasant: very much the reverse. But why he should be the recipient of such a strange gift he hadn’t the remotest idea. Perhaps someone was trying to tell him something?
He picked up the phial and dribbled the contents over the back of his other hand in the way that he’d seen women do when they were testing samples in a shop. Rather more came out than he had intended. It trickled off on to the desk and he was about to reach for his handkerchief when he thought better of it. Doucette might suspect the worst.
Catching sight of Pommes Frites stirring in his sleep, Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily crossed to the nearest window and flung it open. He had no wish for anyone to come in and catch him smelling to high heaven.
He was in the act of waving his arm to and fro when he happened to catch sight of a familiar car drawing into its official parking place to the right of the main entrance. The solitary occupant alighted and was about to slam the door shut when he glanced up as though to check the weather.
Monsieur Pamplemousse froze. It was too late to withdraw his arm, so he did the next best thing – he converted the waving motion into a form of salutation. The greeting was not returned. Instead, the driver stared up at him for several seconds, then reopened the door of his car and reached for a telephone on the centre console.
Closing the window, Monsieur Pamplemousse hurried back to his desk. He hardly had time to settle down again before the telephone rang. It was Véronique, the Director’s secretary.
‘Monsieur Pamplemousse. Monsieur Leclercq wishes to see you in his office.’
‘Now?’
‘Oui.Toutdesuite.’
‘Did he sound …?’
Véronique anticipated his question. ‘Non.Aucontraire. He sounded very cheerful. He simply said as soon as possible. He is on his way up now. If you hurry you may beat him to it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily replaced the stopper in the phial and parcelled it up inside an envelope. Then he opened a drawer. The mystery would have to wait.
He glanced down. Pommes Frites’ nose was twitching and there was the suspicion of a smile playing on his lips. It seemed a pity to disturb him.
Véronique made a thumbs-down gesture as Monsieur Pamplemousse entered the Director’s outer office. Behind an open door he could see her boss already seated at his desk. Clearly the race had gone to the one with the private lift.
‘Entrez, Aristide. Entrez.’ Catching sight of his subordinate, Monsieur Leclercq rose to his feet and after a brief but undeniably warm handshake motioned towards an armchair.
Monsieur Pamplemousse did as he was bidden. Véronique was right. The signs were not bad. In fact, his chief looked in an unusually sunny mood.
‘I trust you are fully recovered from your stay in Arcachon, Aristide?’ he began.
‘I think I have seen enough sand to last me for a while, Monsieur. The dunes are unbelievably large.’
The Director sniffed. ‘I take it you have been at the bottle already.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably injured. ‘I assure you, Monsieur, that not a drop has passed my lips since yesterday evening.’
‘No, no, Pamplemousse, you misunderstand me. I was referring to the sample fragrance I asked Véronique to place in your tray. Tell me what you think of it. I value your opinion.’
‘It is … unusual …’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. Something in the tone of the Director’s voice prompted him to leave his options open for the time being.
‘It is not one I have come across before,’ he added cautiously.
The Director closed the door to his outer office and then glanced quickly round the room to make doubly certain the rest were properly shut. ‘That, Aristide, is because it is not yet on the market. The launch date has yet to be fixed. Field trials are still in progress.
‘A “come-hither” perfume would you say? Hard to resist?’
‘I have not put it to the test, Monsieur.’
‘Madame Grante has not been chasing you down the corridors overcome by barely concealed passion?’
‘No, Monsieur. I am glad to say she has not. I came as soon as I received Véronique’s call.’
The Director looked mildly disappointed. He gave another sniff and retreated towards the window.
While his chief’s back was turned Monsieur Pamplemousse automatically glanced at the desk to see if it offered any clues as to why he had been summoned. Somewhat to his surprise he saw there was a translation of the works of the great Roman cookery writer, Apicius, lying open. Alongside it was a paperback book. As far as he could make out from the title on the spine it was a glossary of film terms.
Rather more ominously, he also caught sight of a P27 – the standard form used by LeGuide in order to record personal details relating to members of staff. He was too far away to see whether or not his own name was at the top. The answer was not long in coming.
Having made himself comfortable, the Director picked up the form.
‘I have been going through your records, Aristide. I see you spent some time attached to the fraud squad while you were with the Sûreté.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gave a non-committal ‘oui’. He wondered what was coming next.
‘No doubt you learned a great deal about perfume while you were there?’
‘It was not really my area, Monsieur. I was mostly concerned with food. Food and drink. Unscrupulous fishmongers who resort to varnishing the eyes of their wares when they grow stale. As for drink, believe me, Monsieur, you will find more ways of spelling Byrrh and Pernod in the Musée de Contrefaçon than you would have thought possible. People read what they expect to read. But I know there is a section devoted to perfume; there are numerous examples of passing off – names like Chanel become Cherel, or even Chinarl. Dior-Dior turned up once as Dora-Dora. Nina Ricci, Guy Laroche, Givenchy, even Guérlain have all suffered in their time.
‘With a world-wide market for perfume worth tens of billions of francs, counterfeiting is big business these days. Perfume is the reflection of many people’s dreams. It offers the promise of excitement in their lives: a touch of wickedness. And where there are desires to be satisfied corruption is never far away.’
The Director nodded.
‘Tell me, Aristide, talking of wickedness, what do you know about sin?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly caught on. Although his annual increment wasn’t due until October, the Director must be ahead of himself; clearing the decks before his summer holiday. At such times he had a penchant for plying members of staff with trick questions. Two could play at that game. He, Pamplemousse, was more than ready. It was simply a case of avoiding the obvious at all costs.
‘Sin was a fortress in ancient Egypt, Monsieur; situated in the Nile Delta. It is famous because in the reign of Hezekiah, a certain general by the name of Sennacherib led an attack on it which had to be abandoned because a plague of field mice ate up his archers’ bowstrings.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt pleased with himself. It was strange how these things stuck in one’s mind. It was something he had learned at school in a year when the Auvergne had suffered a similar plague. His teacher had used it as an illustration of how even very tiny creatures can sometimes change the course of history.
He felt tempted to say ‘ask me another’, but something in the way the Director’s lips were pursed caused him to think better of it. There were times when his chief’s moods and intentions were hard to judge and he seemed less than happy with the reply.
‘And Les Baux-de-Provence, Pamplemousse. What can you tell me about Les Baux?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought for a moment. He doubted if the Director expected him to eulogise on L’Oustau de Baumanière, Monsieur Raymond Thuilier’s world-famous restaurant on the lower slopes; a restaurant where, in 1972, the Queen of England had dined on sea bass encroûte, followed by lamb, and strawberries and cream. The menu had stayed in his mind because shortly afterwards Doucette had cooked it for him as a surprise.
‘Les Baux, Monsieur? Les Baux is a strange geological excrescence in the Apilles north of the Camargue; a natural fortress. The warlords of Les Baux are legendary. They claimed to be descended from Balthazar. It was there that another unfortunate incident took place, although this time it hadn’t to do with mice. The story goes that the Duke of Guise was staying for the night, and having indulged himself with too much wine at dinner he ordered a salute to be fired every time he proposed a toast. Unfortunately the very first time he raised his glass the canon nearest to him exploded. Although there is a tombstone bearing his name in a cemetery at Arles, it is merely a token gesture. In reality the Duke himself was scattered over a wide area.
‘Another interesting fact is that the mineral bauxite was discovered nearby and was named after the village. As I am sure Monsieur knows, bauxite is a basic material of the aluminium industry …’
Suddenly aware of a drumming noise coming from the desk in front of him, Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off.
The Director heaved a deep sigh. ‘Pamplemousse, I yield to no one in my admiration of the depth of your knowledge on a variety of subjects. However, I was not asking for a history lesson.’
But Monsieur Pamplemousse was not to be stopped that easily. ‘I am sorry, Monsieur. I was lucky with my teacher. Although it was only a village school, she had a flair for bringing things to life.’ Even as he spoke he wondered if deep down he wasn’t trying to score over his chief, whose education had followed a very different path; a path available only to the rich and privileged.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the better to draw on his store of knowledge. ‘Another of her favourite stories concerned Leonardo da Vinci. Possibly it was apocryphal – there are so many – but it tells of how he invented a giant watercress cutter which ran amuck outside the Sforza palace the very first time he tried it out and killed six members of the kitchen staff and three gardeners.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse paused. The Director looked as though he would have dearly liked to get his hands on such a machine himself.
‘Tell me, Pamplemousse, to return to my first question, did she at the same time instil in you a knowledge of the seven deadly sins? Can you by any chance still enumerate them?’
But if the Director was hoping to win a round he was unlucky. This time Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t even bother closing his eyes.
‘Pride, Monsieur. Wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, avarice and sloth.’
In spite of everything a look of grudging admiration crossed the Director’s face. ‘You were indeed lucky with your teacher, Aristide,’ he said gruffly. ‘Most people can hardly name more than two or three.’
‘It was not my teacher who taught me about the seven deadly sins, Monsieur. It was the curé. He lectured the congregation on the subject most Sundays. He was of the opinion that all seven were rife in the village.’
‘Aaah!’ The Director sat in silence for a moment or two.
‘I expect, Aristide,’ he said at last, ‘you are wondering where my enquiries are leading?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought the matter over carefully before replying. The Director’s questions had been so diverse it was hard to find a common denominator. In desperation he glanced at the desk again and took in the open copy of Apicius’s culinary work.
‘Monsieur is gathering material for a spoof guide?’
The Director glared at Monsieur Pamplemousse for a moment, then he reached over and slammed the book shut.
‘No, Pamplemousse,’ he said crossly. ‘I am not.’ Rising to his feet with the air of a man badly in need of a drink he headed towards a cupboard on the far side of the room.
As he opened the door a light came on revealing a wine bucket, its sides glistening with beads of ice-cold sweat. The gold foil-covered neck of a bottle protruded from the top. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised his favourite marque of champagne – Gosset. Clearly his being summoned to the top floor was not, as he had at first supposed, a spur of the moment decision.
‘I have been trying to think of a way of expressing my thanks for all you did in Arcachon, Pamplemousse.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a suitably deprecating noise.
‘It was far from being nothing,’ insisted the Director. ‘You averted a disaster of the first magnitude. Elsie is a lovely girl, but to have had her on our staff would have been disruptive to say the least, not to mention the problems I might have encountered chez Leclercq.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was of the opinion that the Director’s one-time aupair had never entertained the slightest intention of becoming an Inspector, but he remained silent.
‘I have been considering your next assignment, Aristide. I had been toying with the idea of sending you to the Rhône Valley; Bocuse, Pic, and so on, but I have since been wondering how you would feel about going further south.’ The Director handed him a glass. ‘Loudier was really due to go, but in the circumstances I think you are the better man.’
‘The circumstances, Monsieur?’ Once again it all sounded a little too casual for comfort.
‘Circumstances are like carpenters, Aristide. They alter cases. You may, of course, go anywhere you choose.’
‘Anywhere, Monsieur?’
‘A promise is a promise. It is the least I can do. However, before you decide, I have something else in mind, something a little out of the ordinary which I am sure will be right up your rue.’
While the Director was returning to his seat, Monsieur Pamplemousse sipped the champagne thoughtfully. It was a Brut Réserve. A wine of quality, with over 400 years of family tradition behind it. He wondered what was coming next.
The Director fortified himself with a generous gulp from his own glass before he resumed.
‘Earlier in the week I was dining with some friends and quite by chance found myself sitting next to the wife of one of our major couturiers. One thing led to another – I passed some comment on the perfume she was wearing – and she, for her part, was not unimpressed by my dissertation on the dish we had been served – saddle of lamb with truffles, chestnuts and a delicious purée of mushroom tart.
‘For the time being the name of her husband’s company must remain a closely guarded secret, but I can tell you they are about to launch a new perfume. It is to be called, quite simply, Excess – spelt XS.
‘Soon, those two letters will be appearing on hoardings all over France. They will act as a teaser before the campaign proper.
‘A major part of the launch involves the making of a series of commercials based on stories from the Bible. Work has already begun. Several episodes are already in the can. They will become classics of their kind. There is a star-studded cast and a budget of over 100 million francs. If I tell you they have engaged the services of no less a person than Von Strudel as the director you will appreciate the magnitude of the project.’
‘Von Strudel, Monsieur? I must admit I didn’t realise he was still alive.’
‘There are unkind people in the business,’ said the Director, ‘who would say that even Von Strudel himself wasn’t entirely convinced of the fact when they first approached him. He has been living the life of a recluse in his native Austria ever since biblical films priced themselves out of the market. He is, nevertheless, one of the greatest authorities on the genre.
‘If he has a fault it is that he has become a little out of touch with present-day costs. He is not blessed, as we are, with a Madame Grante looking over his shoulder and he is already considerably over budget. Over budget and for one reason and another behind schedule.
‘But to return to the dinner. The long and the short of it is that at the end of the evening my companion made me a proposal I could hardly refuse.’
‘It happens, Monsieur.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed his man of the world tones as he drained his glass.
The Director clucked impatiently. ‘It was not that sort of proposal, Pamplemousse,’ he growled as he took the hint and reached for the bottle. ‘Although I must say your reply does lead me to feel that in dispatching you to Les Baux I have made the right choice.’
‘Les Baux, Monsieur?’
The Director sighed. ‘Aristide, I do wish you would break yourself of the habit of repeating everything I say. It can be very irritating.
‘The reason I am suggesting you go to Les Baux is because they are badly in need of an adviser. As I am sure you know, Pamplemousse, Von Strudel was renowned for his scenes of lust and gluttony. Naturally when I heard those two key words your name sprang immediately to mind. I can think of no one better qualified to advise on both those subjects.’
‘Merci,Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily. ‘And what precisely am I expected to advise on?’
‘Anything to do with food, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director grandly. ‘Anything and everything. Food as it was in Roman times. Food in the Bible. The essential culinary ingredients for an orgy if the need arises.
‘I need hardly tell you that to be associated with such a project, even in a minor way, to have our name mentioned when awards are given out at the Cannes Festival, will be a considerable plume in our chapeau.’
Despite his misgivings, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his mind getting into gear. It was an exciting prospect and no mistake.
‘I believe the Romans were very keen on edible dormice, Monsieur. They first of all fattened them on nuts in special earthenware jars and then they stuffed them with minced pork and pine kernels.’
The Director looked dubious.
‘Pamplemousse, I hardly think dormice, however edible they might be, would go down well with the cast. However, there are other things.’ He picked up the copy of Apicius and turned to a marked page. ‘Parexemple, I see they ate bread and honey for petitdéjeuner. Milk was strictly for invalids. Instead, they used to dip the bread in a glass of wine.’
He snapped the book shut. ‘You may borrow this if it is of any help. Von Strudel has a reputation for being a stickler for detail. That is why I wish you to go, Pamplemousse. We must not let the side down.’
‘With respect, Monsieur, if Von Strudel is such a stickler for detail and he is dealing with biblical times, why does he not shoot the film in the Middle East where most of the events took place?’
The Director dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand.
‘The cost of the insurance would be too great. That part of the world is in a constant state of turmoil. Also, there is another reason. Von Strudel is not exactly welcome on the shores of Israel. His name has unhappy associations with certain events which took place in Europe during the last war. There are those who, some fifty years after the event, are still out to exact revenge. Even at the age of eighty-five life is sweet.
‘Besides, we are not talking about real life. We are talking about make-believe. There are details and there are mere details. The simple fact, as I understand it, is that the Art Director happened to be staying with a friend at L’Oustau de Baumanière and he fell in love with the setting. In his mind’s eye it has already been transformed into the Mount of Olives.’
The Director gazed dreamily into space. ‘Mangetout is playing the part of the Virgin Mary. Before I met Chantal, Aristide, I was very much in love with her. She was France’s answer to Rita Hayworth, with the added advantage of being half her age. I still have a signed photograph I sent away for. I remember the feeling of disappointment that came over me when I found the signature had been printed. It destroyed something very special and private.’
‘There was always hope, Monsieur.’
‘The magic of the silver screen, Aristide. We all thought we were the only one.’ The Director hesitated. ‘That still doesn’t answer my question.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse felt himself weakening. As an avid cinemagoer, the chance of being involved in the making of a film – even a commercial – was too good to turn down. If he didn’t want to talk himself out of a job any protests he made from now on would need to be of a token variety.
‘Madame Pamplemousse will not be pleased. As you know, Monsieur, I have only just returned from Arcachon.’
‘Madame Pamplemousse is welcome to accompany you,’ said the Director generously. ‘I am sure she can be budgeted for. We will think up a title. She can be your AAO. Assistant to the Adviser on Orgies.’
‘That is kind of you, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse hastily, ‘but that won’t be necessary. In any case Doucette would not be happy staying at L’Oustau. It is a little too chic for her tastes. She would be worrying all the time about what to wear in the evenings.’
The Director dismissed his protest. ‘The problem will not arise, Pamplemousse. The hotel has been taken over lock, stock and barrel by the film company. They are using it as their production headquarters.’
‘How about its off-shoot further down the hill, Monsieur – La Cabro d’Or?’
‘That is being occupied by lesser mortals: those who I
