Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation (14 page)

‘The strange-looking yellow boat with
Vision
Sous-Marine
painted on the side? I have seen it around but there never seems to be anyone on it.’

‘That’s because the passengers are all inside the hull viewing the ocean bed through windows. They got more than they’d bargained for yesterday.

‘Todd was in Juan when it arrived back, and according to him the passengers looked distinctly green about the gills when they disembarked. Apparently they had been admiring the view down below when, in amongst the flora and fauna, the posidonia plants, the sea slugs and the cucumbers, they came across a large grouper enjoying a hearty breakfast. It could well have been the remains of our friend who was washed-up the other evening. The bits and pieces had been weighed down with blocks of concrete and were waving about on the ocean bed. Not a pretty sight, I imagine.

‘Todd feels that once word gets around there will be a lot of fish going begging in the local restaurants. Grouper will definitely be off the menu for a while.

‘On the other side of the coin, the
Visiobulle
is now doing a roaring trade running special excursions to the scene of the crime. One might almost say they are packing them in like sardines.’

‘There’s no accounting for human nature,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

‘Talking of which,’ said Mr Pickering, ‘how was the fish soup? It sounds as though it worked.’

‘Absolument!’
Monsieur Pamplemousse had totally forgotten his temporary loss of voice. ‘The
Madame
should market it as a cure-all. She could make her fortune.’

Reaching into his pocket he took out his silent dog whistle and placed it to his lips. Moments later Pommes Frites came bounding up the steps leading to the beach. He was carrying the mobile phone in his mouth. Monsieur Pamplemousse took it from him, slipped it into his trouser pocket alongside the laptop, and gave him a pat.

‘It’s all systems go then,’ said Mr Pickering.
‘Bonne journée!’

‘
Merci
. And you?’

‘I shall finish my crossword first. If I don’t, today’s papers will be in and I shall be tempted to look at the answers. After that, I think I may go for a quiet walk. Englishmen like nothing better than to disappear from time to time. The feeling that no
one else in the world knows where you are is a great luxury.’

As Monsieur Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites disappeared into the hotel foyer, Mr Pickering hesitated for a moment, then opened his guidebook. He seemed relieved by what he saw, although his satisfaction was short-lived.

Following the others out of the hotel a few moments later, he gave a frown. The parking area was almost empty. Opening the guidebook again, he examined it more closely and gave vent to an oath that might well have proved unfamiliar even to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s ears. Turning on his heels, he hurried back into the hotel and ran up the stairs two at a time.

None of which failed to escape the notice of the concierge, but then concierges the world over are trained to notice such things – small departures from the norm which might impinge on the smooth running of their domain – and to act on them or not as they see fit. As such times information often went to the highest bidder.

In this particular instance the concierge of the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or simply picked up the nearest telephone and dialled a number.

Back in his room, Mr Pickering made for the bathroom, plugged one end of a lead into the shaver socket, and connected the other to his guidebook. As soon as a red light came on he, too, picked up a telephone. His call was answered almost immediately.

‘The Mercedes has gone. Probably heading for Nice, but I can’t be sure. I’ve lost it for the time being.’

‘Shitsky!’

‘Exactly. There’s no other word for it!’

Unaware of the ripples he had set in motion when he left the hotel, Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way up the winding road leading to the summit of the Parc du Château; a reversal of the route he had followed on his previous visit to Nice.

Taking a left fork near the top, he headed towards the Terrace Frederick Nietzsche. Mr Pickering was right. There were moments when being alone was a great luxury, and he felt in need of time and space in which to think. The area where the
table d’orientation
was situated sounded as good a place as any.

It was where the great nineteenth-century philosopher had gone in search of peace and quiet during the latter part of his life. Having been brought up in a house with five women he had probably become something of an expert in such matters.

At which point Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank as he rounded the bend and narrowly missed being struck down by a trainload of tourists heading downhill. Emerging from behind a souvenir stand –
‘Anges Plastiques
(Plastic Angels) 30fr’,
‘Sacs à Sacs
(Fabric sausages for storing carrier bags) 12fr’ – his nostrils were assailed by the smell of cooking oil from another stand. He was one hundred and twenty years too late.

Following hard on the heels of his master, Pommes Frites took a quick look over the balustrade and stepped down again. He wasn’t deeply into views. Five or six seconds was usually more than enough to tell him all he needed to know. Besides, he had other ideas and his tongue was already hanging out at the thought.

He’d caught a tantalising glimpse of the waterfall on the way up, and had he been writing a book about Nice – a kind of rough guide for
chiens
visiting it for the first time and feeling thirsty after a hard climb, it would have been in line for five stars. Better than any restaurant, and you didn’t even need to be on your best behaviour.

Human beings did their best, but often they had no idea.

The walk from the station was a case in point. Coming across a sandpit with a post bearing a drawing of a dog obeying the call of nature, he had seized the opportunity to do likewise. And what had happened? A
gendarme
had blown his whistle! How was he to know he was meant to do it in the sand and not on the post?

Recognising that his master needed to be alone with his thoughts, Pommes Frites took advantage of the moment.

Briefly registering his departure, Monsieur Pamplemousse sought the shade of a nearby tree and stood for a moment gazing at the scene below. The Promenade des Anglais was crowded with matchstick figures taking a morning stroll. Here and there faster
ones on rollerblades, peaked caps back to front, elbows and knees padded like baseball players, were weaving their way in and out of them.

A second miniature train headed towards the Albert Gardens. Or perhaps it was the first one making good progress, for it seemed to be faring better than the lemming-like stream of traffic coming and going on either side of the palm trees in the central reservation. It was all a very far cry from the day in 1927 when Isadora Duncan had met her death when the scarf she was wearing became entangled with the wheel of her open Bugatti.

He gazed out to sea, the tiny waves sparkling in the morning sunshine. Heads dotted the water nearer the shore, and everywhere he looked there were splashes of blue; from towels spread out on the grey pebbled beach, from banners and parasols belonging to private beaches and cafés, and from chairs dotted along the promenade. To his right, beyond the red roofs of the old town, long since burnt a deep shade of ochre by the sun, the huge dome of the Negresco Hotel, a monument to ‘Belle Epoque’, rose like a minaret above the white buildings on either side.

Looking along the coast towards Antibes, he thought of Doucette and wondered how she and Mrs Pickering were getting on with the butterflies. His thoughts then moved further on towards the school. Closing his eyes brought back memories of the music mistress conducting ‘Gee, Officer Krupke!’. Screwing them up tighter still, holding his hands across the lids to keep
out the light, the gently curving line of the Bay of Angels merged into a vision of her bending over him, mouth slightly parted as she prepared to administer the kiss of life. The moment their lips met he felt a change take place, almost as though she were struggling against some inner compulsion. For the moment at least the others gathered around them were totally forgotten. The involuntary sigh he gave vent to as she went limp in his arms came out as rather more of a groan than he had intended; certainly much louder.

‘Monsieur
… Are you unvell?’

A voice near at hand made him jump. Peering through a gap in his fingers he saw an elderly woman staring at him through pebble glasses, as though he were some kind of specimen she was about to net.

‘It is nothing … a little dizziness, that is all.
Le soleil.’
Taking out a handkerchief, he dabbed at his forehead and tried out his German.
‘In der sonne.’

‘Ya? Der sonnenstich
… the strokink of ze sun …’ Wherever she was from, it certainly wasn’t Germany.
And
she had what looked suspiciously like a five o’clock shadow!

She was about to reach into a large leather bag when a sound not unlike someone shaking a rug came from somewhere nearby. Changing her mind she turned abruptly on her heels and left. A moment later Pommes Frites appeared, looking refreshed after his bathe. He gazed enquiringly at his master.

Taking the hint, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned away from the balcony and headed towards the
orientation table. Pommes Frites was right. It was a time for dealing with realities, not fantasies.

The reality was that where he was standing four hundred thousand years of history lay spread out around him. In 400 BC the Greeks had named it Nikêa, and when the Romans took over some two hundred and fifty years later, forming the province of Alpes-Maritimes with Nice as its capital, they had built the town of Cimiez on the surrounding hills, where one wonderful summer’s evening not so many years ago he had listened to Dizzie Gillespie playing.

In its time Nice had been fought over by Ligurians, Saracens and Barbarossa’s Turkish hordes, before the pendulum swung to and fro between France and Italy.

These things had shaped the
Provençals
in much the same way as countless other influences over the centuries had shaped France profonde. Beyond the distant line of the Alps,
Auvergnats
like himself had become different to the inhabitants of Burgundy and different again to those in Bordeaux to the west, Brittany and Normandy to the north, not to mention Alsace, with its candle-lit fairy-tale windows at Christmas, to the east.

It was no wonder General de Gaulle had once bemoaned the difficulty of trying to govern a nation that had 246 varieties of cheeses. How much harder it would have sounded if he’d said 36,532 communes; 96 departments; 22 regions, which was the way it had ended up. But was that not part of France’s strength; its infinite variety and its dogged independence?

Much of it was reflected in the cuisine. During the comparatively short time he had been with
Le Guide
, he had travelled the length and breadth of the country – a ‘gastronomad’ as Curnonsky, self-styled prince of gastronomes, would have put it – and he had seen many changes. More and more, restaurants were in the hands of accountants, who knew the cost of everything and the value of nothing.

But for all that, they still cooked with butter in Paris and olive oil in Nice. Walnut oil was still
de rigueur
in the Dordogne, just as cream and cider was in Normandy.

Deep down they all owed a debt to Auguste Escoffier who had laid down the ground rules some seventy years before in
Le Guide Culinaire
, setting standards which still prevailed today, not only in France, but all over the world.

His influence had been present in the meal they had shared with the Pickerings two evenings ago; in the clarity of the
consommé
; in the way the chicken had been carefully dissected beforehand, the bone removed from the thigh, so that each and every part had been perfectly cooked.

Was it possible that all this could be destroyed by yet another invasion, this time from a totally unforeseen direction? He would be out of a job if it were. So would millions of others. It mustn’t happen!

Hearing what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, he glanced down at his feet where Pommes Frites lay with his head between his front paws. Having dried out,
he was wearing his martyred expression. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It was 11.30. Time to move on before the firing of the noonday gun sent everyone in search of food.

‘Buon giorno, Signor.’
It was hard to say if the waiter recognised him or not. Either way, it didn’t affect the warmth of his welcome.

It was tempting to take a seat. Pommes Frites wasn’t normally very keen on pasta, but it would be interesting to see what he made of it, and he would certainly enjoy some of the sauces.

In the interests of research, Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to try somewhere new. He could always pay a return visit. There were some places you just had to go back to, and the Villa d’Este was one of them.

In the end he opted for another Italian restaurant in an adjoining street. It certainly looked less crowded.

Accepting the first table in the front row, he glanced at the selection of
plats du jour
displayed on the ubiquitous metal stand to his right, and ordered
Piccata de Veau aux cèpes
for Pommes Frites and some still water. He then opted for a
risotto au safran
for himself. A
demi vin rosé
and a Pellegrino completed the order.

Curled up under the table, Pommes Frites had chosen a position where he could keep a watchful eye on comings and goings. He was particularly wary of the rollerbladers, who seemed to be out in force. That was something else he would have had
added to his guidebook, under a special section marked
ATTENTION! ROLLERBLADERS
, along with the location of some giant cactus plants he’d come across when he’d been taken short on the way to the restaurant. Care was needed if you wanted to leave your mark on a cactus.

While he was waiting, Monsieur Pamplemousse seized the opportunity to rearrange the objects about his person. The weight in his right trouser leg pocket was beginning to make him feel lopsided. Leaving the laptop where it was, he squeezed the mobile into an inside jacket pocket – one of those hidden away affairs, for which it was rarely possible to find a good use. Too big for a fountain pen, too small for even the tiniest of rolled-up umbrellas, it fitted the mobile like a glove. At least no thieves would be able to get their hands on it.