Some twenty minutes later Monsieur Pamplemousse reappeared along the towpath, heading back the way he had come. As he had feared, Le Creuset was nowhere to be seen.
There was no sign of the lock-keeper either, or his wife. Their cottage door was shut, which wasn’t altogether surprising. Apart from the one launch, he had seen no other sign of movement on the canal that morning.
Having no great desire to ask if he might use their phone again, Monsieur Pamplemousse pedalled on his way, aiming to stop at the next place where he could make a call in reasonable privacy.
Drawing a blank on Abeille’s clothes had been an unforeseen set-back. He was positive he had found the place where they had landed; the tree and its surroundings were etched on his memory like a bad dream. Either they had been blown off the branch by the wind, or someone had got there first. If only Pommes Frites hadn’t got himself stuck in the porthole he might have helped search the surrounding fields. But Pommes Frites wasn’t with him. Pommes Frites knew which side his bread was buttered.
Perseverance received its just reward at Gissey-sur-Ouche. Propping his bicyclette up against a bus stop which boasted a telephone kiosk, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked his way gingerly over a manhole cover which had been forced out of its mounting by the heavy rain and dialled the number he had been given.
The Director had beaten him to it. Madame Ambert was expecting his call and had made arrangements to take him out to lunch.
‘It will be easier to talk. Besides, I feel I owe you a proper meal after last night’s travesty.’ A car would pick him up.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was too wet to argue, and a bus shelter was better than nothing for the time being. Having described where he was, he hung up and took stock of his surroundings.
Alongside a timetable, which occupied most of a glass-encased notice board, there was a printed warning issued by the Direction des Services Vétérinaires. Anti-rabies tablets had been laid down near known habitats of foxes in the area. DO NOT TOUCH and DO NOT GATHER was the message they were trying to get across. The same body was carrying out a dératinisation in the district. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that nature was probably doing the job for them. Any self-respecting rat would be miles away by now, swimming for its life.
Taking advantage of a momentary easing of the rain, he set out on a brief voyage of exploration. It lasted all of five minutes. The high spot was a doorknocker made from the bleached skull of some unidentifiable animal. Having got as much mileage as he could out of it, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to the bus shelter.
A notice from the Militaire Territorial warned of manoeuvres being carried out using Armes de Guerre. Bugles would be used to sound the retreat. Poor devils. He didn’t fancy their lot.
A Festival des Arts was being held next month.
Somewhat improbably, strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ came from a radio in a nearby house. It was almost as bad as seeing a Papa Noël in July.
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out at the bleak scene and wondered what he was doing there. He toyed with the idea of phoning the Director back and saying enough was enough, but he knew he wouldn’t.
A black Mercedes 300E turned off the main road and drew up beside him. Fabrice Delamain climbed out. He was wearing a brown leather jacket over an open-neck checked shirt and belted corduroy trousers; a very different image to the one he’d last seen in Beaune.
Waving aside Monsieur Pamplemousse’s protests he opened the boot of the car, loaded up the cycle, then held open the passenger door.
Monsieur Pamplemousse removed his cape and made himself comfortable. ‘You must have driven like the wind.’
Monsieur Delamain climbed in beside him and executed an immaculate U-turn.
‘I was in Dijon. The lights were green.’ As they drove back up to the D108 he picked up a telephone and dialled a number.
‘I am just leaving Gissey … would you like us to go straight to the restaurant?
‘D’accord. We will be there in thirty minutes.’
Fabrice Delamain drove fast, but cleanly and with precision, using the five speed gearbox effortlessly, as though it were an extension of his right arm.
Monsieur Pamplemousse immediately felt relaxed and at home with him. He wondered if he should broach the subject of the troubles chez Ambert, but decided against it. They would come out soon enough. He settled instead on discussing the problems of wine-making generally. It was always good to hear an expert’s point of view.
‘You must be cursing this weather.’
Fabrice shrugged. ‘C’est la vie. You learn to live with it. Nature doesn’t offer a choice. It is also a challenge.’
‘What is the saying?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse hoped he had got it right. ‘August makes the grape. September makes the wine.’
‘We have many sayings in Burgundy. “C’est l’homme qui fait la différence” is another; “It is man who makes the difference”. That appeals to me more. It massages my ego.
‘Wine making happens only once a year and at that time everything must be right; the weather, the temperature, the ripeness of the fruit, the precise time of picking, the correct development of the yeasts, the temperature of the must – whether to heat it or cool it; you are lucky if you get seven out of ten. There are a thousand and one decisions to be made and they all have to be right, otherwise a year’s work is wasted. Since the official date for the start of picking generally coincides with the autumn equinox, which often heralds a change in the weather, speed is of the essence.’
Keeping watch out of the window to his left as they drove parallel to the Canal de Bourgogne, Monsieur Pamplemousse thought he saw Le Creuset at one point, but it came and went in a flash. It was so easy to get used to the slower pace of life – it made the adjustment back to normal that much harder.
‘In this business there are many things to worry about besides the weather,’ said Fabrice. ‘People think we just plant vines, pick the grapes and turn them into wine. Believe me, it is an all-the-year round occupation. January is the only quiet month; a time for taking stock. We have to decide how many barrels to order – usually about twenty per cent are replaced each year. We now have our own wood from the Fôret de Bertranges, and this has to be cut and then put aside and dried for two years before it goes to be made into barrels.
‘In February there is pruning to be done – everywhere you see smoke from burning cuttings – and people look forward to the arrival of the travelling Still.
‘March is the time for ploughing; there is grafting to be done and the first of the fertilisers go down. In April we carry out the planting of new vines. All through the spring and during the summer there is weeding, fertilising, and more pruning. June is the really critical time, when the flowering takes place. That is when we hope for calm weather. Time is measured by the seasons, and each season has its problems.’
‘You have been in it all your life?’
‘And my father before me, and his father before that.’
‘Always at Clos d’Ambert?’
‘Always at Clos d’Ambert.’
‘You must have seen many changes.’
‘Many.’ Fabrice turned off the main road, crossed the canal by a narrow bridge, slackened speed slightly as he drove through a small, deserted village, then headed towards the hills. ‘When I was small there were fruit trees amongst the vines and at harvest time there was always a vast team of pickers. Now the trees have all been uprooted to allow free passage for the harvesting machine. We still use a few pickers but one machine can do the work of twenty. I have seen horses exchanged for tractors. Tractors are fine, but they are much more tiring; horses went at their own pace, but they knew every inch of the land; they did most of the work for you.
‘In the old days we used to pick the grapes when the leaves started to change colour; now the vines are better cared for and the date is decided by analysis of the sugar and acid content of the grapes. When I first began, they were still trodden by humans – a century ago it was known as the vigneron’s annual bath time. Now we use a Bucher pneumatic press which has a throughput that is hard to keep pace with. We ferment the juice in computerised stainless steel vats …’
He broke off as they drove past a collection of stone houses, almost too small to be called a village, turned in through some imposing wrought iron gates, then followed a winding gravelled path leading to a larger building standing astride a narrow stream. A goat with yellowing teeth supervised their arrival over a neighbouring hedge as they drew up alongside another, older Mercedes. Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. It said 14.00. The journey had taken thirty minutes exactly.
His spirits rose as he saw the sign over the entrance. Taste buds began to make themselves felt. He remembered the hotel from an entry in Le Guide. The restaurant had two Stock Pots. Guillot still talked of the time when he had stayed there overnight and had caught a trout from his bedroom window. He had eaten it for lunch and he spoke in hushed tones of the memory. It was he who had recommended it for a second Stock Pot.
‘You are not coming in?’
Fabrice shook his head. ‘I have work to do.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘Could you possibly do me a favour?’ He handed Fabrice the package containing the parrot. ‘Could you arrange for this to be sent by Chronopost? I want it to get there as soon as possible.’
Fabrice glanced at the address on the label. ‘I will do even better. I am on my way to Beaune. I will take it for you.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘In that case I suggest you simply leave it. There is no need to say who gave it to you.
‘À bientôt.’ They exchanged goodbyes.
As he walked towards the hotel, Monsieur Pamplemousse saw the reflection of the Mercedes’ brake lights in the plate glass doors. They flicked on and off briefly as Fabrice Delamain negotiated the entrance gates. The plate glass doors parted as he drew near.
Madame Ambert was already seated when he entered the restaurant. She was talking to a man in white overalls Monsieur Pamplemousse assumed to be le patron.
He glanced round the room as the maître d’hôtel greeted him and led him towards the table. There were three other couples eating, all seated some distance apart. They looked as though they were nearing the end of their meal. All the same, it was good that it wasn’t the kind of restaurant where everyone was grouped together for the sake of the management’s convenience, come what may.
‘I hope I haven’t kept you.’
‘On the contrary,’ Madame Ambert held out her hand. ‘I am surprised you got here so quickly.’
‘Monsieur Delamain is a man of his word, but the weather didn’t help.’
The chef made a face. ‘The weather is affecting everything, Monsieur. Bon appétit.’ Nodding to Monsieur Pamplemousse, he left the room.
A waiter appeared with a silver tray of amuse gueules; some tiny sausages in pastry and some gougères – cheese-flavoured sticks of choux pastry – golden-brown and crisp.
‘I hope you will forgive me,’ said Madame Ambert, ‘but since it is late I have asked André to surprise us. I think you will not be disappointed.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the notebook he kept hidden inside a pocket in his right trouser leg. ‘In that case I hope you will forgive me if I make notes.’ It was an opportunity too good to miss.
Two glasses of champagne arrived at the table.
‘With the compliments of Monsieur Delamain.’ The sommelier bowed and withdrew.
Monsieur Delamain had clearly been busy with his mobile telephone again.
‘You did not wish him to join us for lunch?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt perhaps he should have insisted.
Madame Ambert shook her head. ‘I doubt if he would have wanted to. Fabrice has been a naughty boy; he and a few others. It is a very close-knit community, but I have no doubt who was the ringleader. I should be very cross with him.’
‘But you are not?’
‘I have known Fabrice all my life. We were practically brought up together. I don’t know what I would do without him. He is more than a régisseur – a manager – he is my guardian angel.’
It was a simple statement of fact. Monsieur Pamplemousse decided not to probe any further. The fact that Madame Ambert had suggested meeting on neutral territory suggested a certain reserve; a desire to get to know the person she was dealing with before lowering her guard.
One of the kitchen staff was fishing about with a net in an outside tank permanently fed by the stream – another addition since Guillot’s day; gaining a second Stock Pot was an expensive business. Beyond the tank there was a vegetable garden. Unusually, considering the height above sea level, part of it was given over to the growing of vines.
Under cover of watching the man land one of the fish, Monsieur Pamplemousse took stock of his companion. At a guess Madame Ambert was in her mid-sixties. Well groomed, expensively dressed, although not outrageously so. The few jewels she wore – a gold watch, a diamond ring on her left hand, necklace, brooch – were all of modern design. Quiet good taste was the best way to put it.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took an immediate liking to her. Perhaps it was the laugh lines each side of her brown eyes that did the trick; her face lit up when she smiled. Although her hair was immaculately coiffed there was no attempt at concealing its greyness. One thing was certain, the Director’s aunt was not the sort of person who would take kindly to being questioned. On the surface at least, she was very self-assured. He would need to tread carefully.
They sat in silence for a moment or two while the sommelier presented a bottle of wine in a silver cooler; an ’89 Bâtard Montrachet from Olivier Leflaive.
Madame Ambert found a hint of nectarine in the finish, Monsieur Pamplemousse elicited honey and lime. Both agreed it more than lived up to its maker’s reputation. He wondered what verdict Abeille’s electronic analyser would deliver, or what Madame Ambert might have to say about such an unholy device.
A team of waiters arrived bearing the result of the fishing activities.
‘C’est très chaud, Monsieur.’ The waiter anticipated Monsieur Pamplemousse’s intention as he laid the plate before him. Points were added below the starched white tablecloth.
Fried in a light coating of oil and flour, the outside of the trout was crisp and golden, the parsley butter hot and foaming as it should be. It came with a simple dish of pommes purée and a sauceboat of melted butter. Although beautifully clean, the potatoes tasted as though they had been boiled in their skins to preserve the flavour. It was the mark of a perfectionist chef who took endless trouble. Lemon juice had been added to the butter.
As they finished the wine Madame Ambert held forth on the importance of knowing who were the best producers.
‘Burgundy is different to any other region of France. Bordeaux is made up of large vineyards, many of which are owned either by corporations or banks. They are heavily financed, prestige operations well able to withstand the ups and downs of the market. The people who make the TGV, for example, also own Château Gruaud-Larose. Money is no object. They are the glamorous side of the business.
‘For historical reasons Burgundy is made up of many tiny parcels of land. Over the years the land has become fragmented by inheritance and most of the growers are small. Clos de Vougeot is a good example; 123 acres with 85 owners. Like many peasant farmers, they do everything. In the day they work in the fields; in the evening they work in the cellars; at night they do the books. At the end of it all some of them make a little wine for themselves and their friends, but most sell the grapes or the juice on to people like ourselves or Leflaive. Apart from our vineyard in Chambertin we have a few parcels of land in other appellations, but mostly we buy in. Pinot noir is a very fickle grape. Knowing which growers are good and which are not, those who can be trusted and those who can’t, is knowledge beyond price and it works both ways. Trust is a very special commodity. That is one of the things Fabrice brings to the company.’
She broke off as an ’88 Chambertin Clos d’Ambert-Celeste was brought to replace the now empty bottle of Bâtard Montrachet. Having shown it to Madame Ambert with all the reverence of his calling, the sommelier withdrew to a small table in the middle of the dining-room. Decanted, tasted and approved, glasses filled, the bottle and the cork were left on the table alongside the decanter.
Escargots à la façon d’un gourmand arrived; snails as the connoisseur likes them. They had been cooked in the classic gourmet manner that had earned the dish its name; in meat jelly and butter, with truffles, chopped parsley, garlic, and a sprinkling of breadcrumbs added at the last moment.
They were the best he had tasted for many a year; beautifully fat and piping hot; still sizzling in their dish.
‘André rears them on his own organically grown vines. He finds the pinot noir grape gives them their special flavour.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a note in his book. It was what France was all about; France and Le Guide.
The pintade rôti which followed was exquisitely, deceptively simple. A guinea-fowl stuffed with liver, rosemary and thyme, roasted and served with potatoes which had been cooked in the same baking tray. Each plate was decorated with a single lettuce leaf, crisply fresh from the garden. Pommes Frites would have signalled his approval. But then Pommes Frites would have approved of the whole thing, probably rounding things off afterwards with a romp in the stream, trying to catch his own trout.
Monsieur Pamplemousse congratulated Madame Ambert on the wine. ‘It is very elegant,’ he said. ‘You must feel rewarded.’
Madame Ambert acknowledged the compliment. ‘It is just ready for drinking but it has many years of life yet. It has good “weight” in the mouth. All the flavours are present: raspberry, cherry … plum. They almost mask the tannin, but it is there. In a few years’ time it should be even better.’
She lowered her glass and viewed it against the white tablecloth. ‘It is a little hazy, but that is because we do not filter. Fabrice refuses to – he says it removes some of the natural qualities of the wine.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with interest, but all the same he couldn’t help wondering when they would get down to business.
It was reminiscent of the time, some years earlier, when he had taken early retirement from the Sûreté and the Director had offered him a job with Le Guide. He had found himself working his way through a vast lunch wondering why he was there and which course would produce the moment of truth. In the Director’s case it had been over the second cup of coffee.
He picked up the empty bottle and studied the label. Madame Ambert’s name appeared in isolation at the bottom. It seemed as good a time as any to bring the matter up.
‘May I ask if that was your brother sitting beside you at yesterday evening’s pageant?’
‘How long has he been part of your company?’
Madame Ambert hesitated before gently correcting him. ‘Our company.’ It was as though she had swallowed something that left a nasty taste. ‘Under French law, when Papa died the estate was divided between the two of us. Strictly speaking his name ought always to have been on the label, but since to all intents and purposes he had disappeared off the face of the earth, it never happened.’
‘When did your father die?’
‘Soon after the war.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She died during the war. I think they both, in their different ways and for different reasons, died of a broken heart.
‘Dominique went to school in Dijon. He was arrested in 1941 along with four other classmates for persistent singing of the British national anthem.
‘He was taken to the rue Docteur-Chassier …’
‘The Gestapo headquarters?’
‘Number 9 bis. There used to be a plaque marking the spot, but it has gone now.
‘He had already been caught red-handed once before, standing in front of a blackboard with the chalk in his hand. Some other boy – Dominique denied all responsibility – had drawn the Cross of Lorraine on the board. The “V-campaign” was at its height and he was eventually deported along with the rest to “finish his studies” in Germany. I remember crying myself to sleep.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse nodded. It brought back memories of his own wartime childhood. The list of ‘crimes’ was endless: everything from spitting at German soldiers, jostling the officers, not replying quickly enough to questions, hoisting the French flag without permission, listening to foreign radio stations, smuggling letters, delivering tracts, reading books like All Quiet on the Western Front. Punishment ranged from a ‘going over’ by the Gestapo to the death penalty.
He reached for the decanter in order to replenish their glasses and was beaten to it by the sommelier, who appeared as if from nowhere. The better the restaurant the harder it was to have a private conversation. At least the wine hadn’t been taken off to a separate table out of anyone’s reach except the staff.
‘And when the war ended?’
‘He survived. You could say he was the lucky one – the others died in a concentration camp – but when he returned he was not the same person who had left us. He had grown up and he had learnt all the tricks. He found it hard to settle down. I think perhaps he had suffered a lot and he was determined to make up for it. He stuck it at home for six months and then he made tracks for America. Papa was heartbroken; he had always pictured Dominique taking over the vineyard. He had plans for him to go to the Lycée Viticole in Beaune, and afterwards on a tour of the world to see how people did things elsewhere. Instead of which,’ she shrugged, ‘it was left to me.
‘It was not easy for a woman in those days. It had always been predominantly a man’s world and you had to be tough to succeed. It went against my nature. Now, there are many others, from Lalou Bize-Leroy here in Burgundy to Madame Mentzelopoulos and her daughter at Château Margaux in Bordeaux …’
‘But now your brother has come back to claim his share of the property?’
‘Dominique has totally different ideas about what should be done. He is very commercial. He speaks a foreign language in more ways than one. He is full of phrases like “capital formation” and “maximising our potential”. You will have seen what is happening at our offices in Beaune, but it is worse at the vineyard.
‘We have moved with the times, but we still try to produce wine the old way. That is the French way of doing things. As a nation we love progress. We are always eager to embrace the latest invention, but at the same time we do not throw out the old without good reason.
‘Dominique has only been here five minutes and already he is talking of having his own image on the bottle! He wants to throw the château open, take in guests, open up a shop – make more commercial wine which matures earlier. He wants it filtered so that he can take advantage of the American market. If a wine does not arrive in America crystal clear there are problems with the health regulations. We have always used vats that have been properly aged so that the taste of the oak does not predominate and denature the wine. He wishes to change that too.’
‘In short,’ he said, ‘your brother wants to follow the market trends rather than lead them. Sadly, that is the same in many areas.’
Madame Ambert nodded. ‘I am afraid he is resented. In this part of the world you have to earn people’s respect, otherwise they can make the going very hard. There are those winemakers in Bourgogne who, for want of a better description, are in the tourist trade. They would argue that they are helping to spread the light, and no doubt there is a certain amount of truth in that; there is good and bad in everything.
‘But either way you should be true to yourself and to your customers. To me, making good wine is the beginning and end of everything. What Dominique is doing is selling off the family silver and that won’t last for ever.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse thought of the pruning shears manufactured in China and mentally substituted ‘hasn’t lasted’ for ‘won’t last’.
He watched Madame Ambert while she was talking. In some respects it all added up: the return of the ne’er do well, the upheaval it had caused, the arguments and the recriminations. But … But, someone had made an attempt to kill someone else …
The cheese trolley arrived and broke up the conversation. Madame Ambert chose a local Epoisse, waving aside the others. Monsieur Pamplemousse followed suit. It was one of the few good cheeses made in a region given over to vines rather than grazing. Cured in humid cellars for three months, with frequent washings in Burgundy, it was smooth without being cloying. Overall, there was a spicy, tangy flavour which complemented the last of the wine. Doubtless that was the main reason why, over the years, it had evolved the way that it had; to complement wine.
Fabrice Delamain had painted a vivid picture of immutable laws, of changes brought about slowly with the passage of time. Old habits died hard and people were naturally resistant to change, but the kind of things Madame Ambert had been talking about were hardly likely to make people start taking pot shots at each other. Or were they? There was a lot of money tied up in the cellars in Beaune. Probably a lot of undercurrents too.
One way and another Burgundy had acquired a bad reputation in the period after the war. The very nature of the way it was organised, the complexities of land ownership, where one vineyard could have a dozen different owners, laid it open to abuse. Who knew what went on after dark in some of the cellars? Who could say for certain, hand on heart, that the label on the barrel was always a wholly honest description of what it contained? Things were much better now, new laws had been brought in, but they weren’t always easy to administer. In the end, as Madame Ambert rightly said, trust was of the utmost importance. It could take years to build up and then be lost overnight.
‘Am I right in thinking you do not like your brother?’
She was immediately on her guard.
‘Why should it be assumed that two people who have been apart for so many years should automatically like each other? Dominique is at best a faded memory. If I search my mind I can picture playing with him when I was small; but he was always telling tales and I was the one who got the blame. He is older than me and he used to go off and do other things.’
‘But do you dislike him?’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘It is worse than that. I find I have no feelings for him one way or the other. Or rather I had no feelings until he turned up out of the blue. For years I heard nothing at all. Not even so much as a postcard to say he was alive and well. Now, he wishes to take over everything. If I am totally honest I would say I resent him because he represents a threat to all I believe in and have worked for. Apart from which, I cannot stand the almost daily rows and recriminations.’
The meal ended as simply as it had begun; the mark of a confident chef who had no need to prove himself. White peaches poached in sweet champagne to which a vanilla pod had been added. Chilled and halved, the hollow of each had been filled with a mixture of grated and sugared strawberries, cream and lemon juice. The juice in which the peaches had been poached was served in a separate bowl.
‘I trust you enjoyed it.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a final note, then closed his pad with a sigh. ‘I will tell you what I have written. “It is a good restaurant. There is no deception. It did not disappoint”.’
‘I did not tell André who you are.’
‘Merci. Monsieur le Directeur has a very high regard for anonymity. That, combined with total honesty in reporting and the preservation of established standards, are his three main preoccupations in life.’
Madame Ambert hesitated. ‘Would you, in the interest of the last one in particular, whilst still maintaining the first two, be prepared to meet my brother?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. He had a sudden mental picture of Abeille and Pommes Frites awaiting his return. ‘Of course. It is, I suspect, the main reason why I am here. But today would be a problem.’
‘Tomorrow is Sunday. That would be a good day. Everyone will be at the vineyard.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘How shall I contact you?’
‘I will telephone.’ JayCee was right about one thing. Maintaining communications with the outside world was not what life on a canal barge was all about.
They both took café at the table and for a while the conversation turned to other topics. Eventually Madame Ambert excused herself and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
While she was gone Monsieur Pamplemousse toyed with the petits fours. Perhaps the Director’s aunt was right. Sometimes to know more was to understand less. And yet … he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that she was holding back on him in some way; that he had yet to hear the whole story. Perhaps she wanted him to form his own opinion of her brother first.
When Madame Ambert returned she was wearing a coat and carrying a long plastic bag full of escargots, their marbled shells clearly visible as she held it up for him to see.
‘A little gift from André and myself. I am so grateful you were able to come.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was momentarily at a loss for words.
‘Everything seems so closed in,’ said Madame Ambert. ‘I cannot rid myself of the feeling that something dreadful is about to happen.’
‘Fabrice will take you where you wish to go. À demain. Until tomorrow.’ She handed him a card with the telephone number of the vineyard. A moment later she was gone.
After what seemed an age he heard her car drive away and shortly afterwards Fabrice Delamain himself appeared. Presumably he and the Director’s aunt must have spoken, for on the way back to his car he asked for Monsieur Pamplemousse’s opinion of the wine.
It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that the question had been posed out of politeness rather than any great desire to know. He seemed preoccupied, and as they set off even his driving felt mechanical, lacking its earlier panache.
Oui, he had delivered the parcel.
Non, he had spoken to no one.
There was no mention of his having looked inside the packet.
As with Madame Ambert, Monsieur Pamplemousse was left with the feeling of being an outsider. The earlier rapport they had established had gone.
‘Where would you like me to take you?’
‘There is no need to drive all the way back,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I have some shopping to do.’
If he had been totally honest he would have added that he wouldn’t have minded getting some fresh air. The rain seemed to have eased off for the moment and the atmosphere in the car was becoming more and more oppressive. It would be nice to have time to think; a little ‘space’.
‘Shopping?’ Fabrice looked at him in surprise, as though he’d asked for a ticket to the moon.
‘Ideally,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I need to visit a video store. That, and a shop where it would be possible to purchase a few items of clothing … ladies’ clothing.’
Fabrice made a sucking noise. He seemed glad of the diversion; a problem to solve, however mundane it might be.
‘A video shop … ladies clothing …’
‘A present for my wife,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse by way of explanation.
‘In Beaune or Dijon it would be no problem, but in the villages around here there are few shops. Mostly they have less than a hundred inhabitants. Even the boulangers deliver bread by van these days. Unless …’
Coming to an abrupt stop, he glanced up at his mirror. Now that he had something positive to think about his mood changed. Backing down the hill at high speed, he slid to a halt, then turned off to the right and they began climbing again through a forest of oak trees. The clouds were low overhead; all enveloping, adding to the feeling of claustrophobia.
‘A few kilometres away, there is a possibility …’
‘That is very kind of you.’
‘I can wait for you …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse declined the offer. ‘I have my bicyclette. It will do me good. After all that food …’
‘You will find it is downhill for most of the way.’
‘That sounds admirable,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. It also sounded as though Fabrice was glad to be relieved of his task of acting as chauffeur. There was no question of arguing the matter.
They came out of the forest and almost immediately houses appeared on either side, their shutters closed against the weather. Fabrice parked the car in a deserted place.
‘There!’ He pointed towards a small shop. A neon sign above the door said VIDEOS EXTRAORDINAIRES.
Climbing out of the car, he went round to the back. Gathering up his belongings, the cape and the bag of escargots, Monsieur Pamplemousse followed suit.
By the time he caught up, his bicycle had already been removed.
‘At least the rain has nearly stopped.’
‘Nearly’ was taking an optimistic view. Monsieur Pamplemousse donned his cape. Clearly, from the speed with which Fabrice closed the boot lid he was anxious to be on his way.
Glancing round the place Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted the only other shop, directly opposite the first. It was called PARIS MODES and its frontage was almost identical, but the windows were dressed overall with fashions he hadn’t seen in many a year. Chic was not a word which sprang to mind, and he regarded the display with a sinking heart.
Monsieur Delamain held out his hand. ‘Bonne chance,’ he said wryly. ‘I hope you get what you want.’
‘Merci,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly. ‘Bonne journée.’
He stood watching as Fabrice climbed back into the car and started the engine. As it purred into life the window slid open and a hand clutching a small white envelope reached out.
‘I think perhaps you should see this. Later … at your leisure.’
Before Monsieur Pamplemousse had time to reply, the window slid shut again. He stood watching as the car disappeared into the gloom, heading back the way they had come. Fabrice was already on the telephone.
Propping the bicycle again a stone bollard, Monsieur Pamplemousse squeezed the envelope, registering the contents without for a moment betraying his mounting excitement, then consigned it to an inside pocket. The rain had started bucketing down again. Fabrice was right; it was something to be considered at leisure.
As he made his way across the place a sudden gust of wind funnelling through a narrow gap between two buildings caught him by surprise. His cape billowed out like a sail as it propelled him inexorably towards his destination. But Monsieur Pamplemousse scarcely registered the fact. His mind was already racing ahead.