Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (4 page)

Mrs Massingham’s attention, if it were she who was being addressed, appeared to be elsewhere. She was probably used to being lectured.

‘That bloodhound I saw earlier seems to be following us.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse climbed up on to his bed. Pommes Frites didn’t seem too unhappy with his lot. His tail was up and his ears were back as he kept pace with
Le Creuset
.

‘People shouldn’t have a dog if they can’t look after it.’ Her husband dismissed the problem.

Monsieur Pamplemousse moved away from the porthole before Pommes Frites spotted him. He had no wish for the connection to be made just yet, especially after the last remark.

‘I tell you, Hunn, there’s a sun outage report this morning.’ It was the American again. ‘I heard it from a guy on another boat. He caught it on CNN. Come tomorrow it’s going to be all-over grey.’

‘I told you to insure, JayCee.’ The girl sounded much younger. He detected a note of boredom in her voice.

‘Boy, I got insurance on my insurance.’

‘… the Canal de Bourgogne was opened to navigation in 1833 …’

Monsieur Pamplemousse set to work tidying up the mess left by the contents of the ice bucket. Fortunately the carpet was thick and most of the water had been absorbed. Only a few half-melted ice cubes remained.

Somewhere overhead a gong sounded and he heard a general shuffling of feet.

Removing the wet shirt, Monsieur Pamplemousse looked for something more suitable and settled on a green check. He lingered over the operation – the dream had left him feeling strangely ill at ease – and by the time he reached the
dining-room
on the upper deck all the other passengers were seated. They eyed him with the proprietorial air of those who had assumed squatter’s rights. He felt like a new boy late for school on the first day of term.

The décor was in much the same style as the cabins; light oak panelling on the walls, darker oak for the rustic style tables and chairs. There was a well-stocked bar at the head of the companionway. Doors at the stern opened onto the sun deck. Potted plants beneath the picture windows gave the feeling of being in a conservatory.

The party of Americans grouped around one long table were the first to break the ice. Greetings and names were exchanged; their brightly coloured open-necked shirts made Monsieur Pamplemousse regret he hadn’t been more adventurous in his own packing. Reeboks were
de rigeur
in the way of footwear.

The German couple bowed stiffly, as did Colonel and Mrs Massingham. From their dress he could have picked them out easily in a crowd; the Germans in their leather shorts, Mrs Massingham, tall and willowy, in knitted twin set and pearls and a tweed
skirt made of material which was almost identical to that of her husband’s suit.

The four were sharing a table and Monsieur Pamplemousse had the impression that it was a less than happy arrangement. Colonel Massingham was holding forth on the subject of the importance of climate.

‘… Bordeaux has weather, but Burgundy has extremes of weather. Intensely cold winters and often exceptionally hot summers with violent storms … hailstones as big as tennis balls … I’m not exaggerating …’

The Swedish lady was sitting alone at a table for two. She gave him a thin-lipped smile and then reached out and placed a red and white striped canvas bag firmly on the chair opposite her. The bag matched her shorts and could have been made from the same material. He was left with the choice of either sitting by himself at an empty table for two or sharing a larger table with the American couple he had heard talking earlier.

Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated, then chose the latter.

‘M’sieur, ’dame.’

The man didn’t seem best pleased to see him. He appeared to be wrestling with some kind of report form, reading out loud and in the main answering his own questions as he ticked off a series of boxes. He barely acknowledged Monsieur Pamplemousse’s
presence. A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey Bourbon stood within reach, but apart from an untouched basket of sliced
baguette
, there was no sign of any food.

‘Fax?

‘No.

‘Telephone?

‘No.

‘Radio?

‘No.

‘Newspapers? Have you seen a newspaper, Hunn?’

The girl shook her head. ‘Not since we left LA.’

‘No.

‘TV?

‘No. What the hell do they expect you to do all day?’

‘It was your idea, sweetie-pie.’

‘Maybe I can hire a cellular some place?’

‘You could try at the next village. You still haven’t used the electronic translator I gave you.’

‘It don’t ask the right questions. Over three thousand questions and I haven’t wanted to know the answer to one yet. I tried it in Dijon for your headache pills … remember? What did I get? Some kinda goddam capsules! I told the guy what he could do with them. You know what he did? He kept on nodding!’

Monsieur Pamplemousse began to wonder if he had made the right decision. It was too late to change.
The couple were both, in their different ways, larger than life.

The man looked vaguely familiar in a dated, old-movie kind of way. His shirt, carrying the slogan ‘Hawaii Here I Come’ and unbuttoned to the waist, made those being worn by his compatriots look positively sober. A heavy gold medallion dangled from his thick, bull-like neck as he leant over the table. Gold bangles adorned one wrist, a heavy gold Rolex the other. He had more hair on his chest than he did on his head.

Monsieur Pamplemousse racked his brains trying to think where he’d seen him before. It suddenly came to him. He was a cross between George Raft and Sidney Greenstreet with a tiny toupée. A clone of a clone.

The girl, on the other hand, was much easier to place. She was the nearest thing he had come across in real life to a Marilyn Monroe lookalike. Blonde and curvaceous beneath a loose fitting, white cotton dress.
Sablier
was the word – like an hourglass. Her curly blonde hair was cut short and her only jewellery apart from a gold wedding ring was a vast diamond encrusted engagement ring which could have doubled as a knuckle-duster. She was either very carefully made-up or she wore none at all. It was hard to say. He decided it must be the former, for her polished nails matched the colour of her lips. Even though she was seated, she looked as though
she had left her engine running. It was probably permanently switched on. Glandier would have given her
doudons
a 150 watt rating. But then, his colleague Glandier, who had once been in electricity, compared all women’s
doudons
to light bulbs. In his own life he had to make do with a forty-watter. Her eyes reminded him of the Director’s wife, Chantal, and they were equally disturbing.

Monsieur Pamplemousse tried diverting his gaze towards a can of diet coke standing beside her, and when that didn’t work he resumed studying the man again. It was easy to see why Boniface had hesitated when it came to describing them. They were an unlikely combination.

‘Let me have a go.’ The girl reached for the translator and laboriously typed in a sentence.

‘Try this.’ Glancing towards Monsieur Pamplemousse, she pushed it back across the table towards her companion.

The man pressed a button. ‘
Parlez-vous Anglais?
’ A harsh, metallic voice issued from a loudspeaker.

For the briefest of moments Monsieur Pamplemousse was tempted to say
non
, but he decided it would be too restrictive to keep up the pretence for days on end. In any case, he felt himself melting under the girl’s wide open gaze; he would have hesitated to use the word innocent, although innocence was the impression it conveyed. She had a voice to match; a kind of breathless wonderment.
Whether real or assumed, it produced the desired effect.

‘A little,’ he said, modestly.

‘Jesus! It works!’ The man stared at Monsieur Pamplemousse as though he had just witnessed a miracle. He handed the gadget back.

‘Try something else, Hunn.’

Removing her gaze from Monsieur Pamplemousse, the girl typed out another phrase, then pressed the button.

‘
Cette servez-vous
,’ said a synthesised voice.

‘
Cette servez-vous?
’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘
Qu’est-ce que c’est servez-vous?
’

‘Goddam! Now you’ve gone and broken it,’ said the man crossly. He picked up the gadget and gave it a thump.

‘Sweetie-pie, I was only trying to tell him lunch is self-service. You have to stand in line.’

‘
Excusez-moi
,’ broke in Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I find the Japanese accent a little difficult, but thank you.’

‘What is he?’ growled the man, looking towards the girl. ‘Some kind of Hercule Poirot?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse rose. ‘I was,’ he said. ‘Some people would say I am still.’ He couldn’t resist it.

It was hard to say what the exact effect of his words was. Clearly the couple were taken aback; the man looked particularly grieved. Leaving them
to digest the information, he turned towards a long table set against the wall behind him.

‘If he’s a detective how come he didn’t see it was self-service?’

‘Because he had his back to it, JayCee.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse had just finished helping himself to some slices of
jambon persillé
when he felt a presence beside him.

‘Is that a “signature” dish?’

‘Comment?’

The girl pointed to his plate. ‘You know. Like a benchmark. The chef’s special.’

‘All over Bourgogne it is a “chef’s special”,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘You take a ham which has been cooked in a
court-bouillon
made of bone-stock and white wine, with perhaps an onion spiked with a clove, some garlic and peppercorns, and of course a
bouquet garni
. Then it is chopped and compressed in a mixture of aspic and wine vinegar to which parsley has been added, and left to set in a cool place. It is delicious – a truly Burgundian dish.’

‘I hate to think of all those calories. Is it vitamin enriched?’

‘It doesn’t need to be,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘since none would have been removed in the first place.’

‘Is that so? Ask a silly question! And these?’ The girl leant over the table and pointed to some sliced
eggs. Her dress was tight fitting around the hips and somehow managed to emphasise rather than conceal any movement within. With Glandier in mind, Monsieur Pamplemousse mentally upgraded her another 50 watts.

‘
Oeufs à la dijonnaise
. It is another local speciality. You take some hard-boiled eggs and cut them in half lengthways. The yolks are then mixed with mustard, cream, chopped shallot and herbs, and returned to the white along with some butter and a few drops of vinegar, before being baked in an oven.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gathered one in a serving spoon, dipped his finger into the centre, then placed a
soupçon
on the tip of his tongue. ‘It is a test of the chef to know when to stop; mustard tends to lose its taste if it is cooked for too long.’

‘Gee, that’s some appetite you’ve got.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse, who had been about to cut himself a wedge of leek tart before moving on to other things, hastily changed his mind and applied himself instead to a large salad bowl. Lamb’s lettuce predominated, but there was also some purple
roquette
mixed in with a sprinkling of endives and some other unidentifiable leaves thrown in for good measure. He helped himself sparingly, deciding to return later for what appeared to be pears poached in butter and sugar.

‘There is a saying in this part of the world –
“Better a good meal than fine clothes”. May I get you something?’

‘No, thanks. I’m on a diet. We both are. I was just interested, that’s all.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at her. He had yet to meet a woman who didn’t wish to change the way she looked, but this was ridiculous.

‘Hunn … You coming?’ A warning shot was fired across their bows.

‘See you. Have a nice day.’ She disappeared as quickly as she had materialised.

Monsieur Pamplemousse followed slowly behind, placed his food on the table and made his way to the bar. He ran his eyes down the short wine list; some seven or eight red and an equal number of white. They were all from the region. Bordeaux might not have existed.

He ordered a bottle of red Pernand Ile des Vergelesses. Out of the comer of his eye he registered the fact that his table companions were about to leave. He wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or sorry.

The girl behind the bar held up a bottle. It bore the label of Domaine Chandon de Brialles. Her name, according to a badge pinned to her blouse, was Monique. She must be the
matelot
’s wife.

‘Bye.’

As the couple squeezed past him, the man leading the way, Monsieur Pamplemousse felt
a finger tracing a path lightly down his spine. It left him with an undeniably pleasurable tingling sensation.

‘I will bring it to your table,
Monsieur
.’

‘
Merci
.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if anyone else had noticed the brief encounter. They surely must have; most eyes would have been on the girl, wondering, as he had, whether the dress was all she had on. He felt he could have answered the question with reasonable confidence.

As he returned to his table the Swedish lady left him in no doubt about her views on the subject. Everyone else apart from Mrs Massingham seemed to be intent on their food. Mrs Massingham had a faraway look in her eyes, but then, she probably always did. Colonel Massingham was extolling the virtues of double maceration to his neighbours.

The wine when it came had a soft, spicy quality. It hardly needed food. Still much too young, of course, but that was the way the world was going. Patience was becoming a rare quality. Patience and a growing awareness of the cost of storage space. Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the notebook he always kept concealed beneath a fold in his right trouser leg.

As he began writing the room grew dark and he realised they were entering a lock. Martin materialised, waved to his wife, then disappeared up a ladder towards the top deck. A few moments later the gates behind them began to swing shut. That
was followed by the sound of rushing water. The boat shifted slightly and then, almost imperceptibly at first, began to rise.