5,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Monsieur Pamplemousse Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
When the Director suggests Le Guide's food inspector Monsieur Pamplemousse take a brief jaunt to sample the gastronomy of Rome, Pamplemousse knows the offer is too good to be true. But when the only string attached seems to be that on the return journey he escort the Director's schoolgirl niece Caterina from her convent school to her uncle's Paris home, Monsieur Pamplemousse begins to relax. Until, that is, he sees the schoolgirl in question ...and spots her ever-present shadow, an Al Capone-lookalike whose hostility Pamplemousse senses even across a crowded restaurant car.However, it is when the Rome-Paris Express pulls into the Gare de Lyon and his charge apparently disappears into thin air that Pamplemousse really begins to worry. Especially when he discovers the lustrous Caterina is the daughter of one of Sicily's most powerful Mafiosi, a man who will not take the loss of his cherished daughter at all kindly ...
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 275
Ähnliche
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
Michael Bond
CONTENTS
1
NIGHT TRAIN FROM ROME
Monsieur Pamplemousse spotted the hat first: a splash of red bobbing about amongst all the dark suits and overcoats entering binario 21 of Rome’s Stazione Termini. He couldn’t resist taking a quick photograph. The light was not all that it might have been and he held his breath while he pressed the shutter. It would either work or it wouldn’t. If it did it might make a good cover picture for L’Escargot,LeGuide’s staff magazine: a change from the usual gourmet offerings.
He had forgotten how soberly people tended to dress in Italy; dark colours predominated. In much the same way he had been taken by surprise, as he had been in the past, when he arrived in Rome the previous afternoon and caught sight of the suburban balconies festooned with laundry hanging out to dry. If it wasn’t laundry it would be people anxious to chat with their neighbours. In some ways it was as unlike Paris as it was possible to be. Parisians tended to keep themselves to themselves.
Steadying himself against the side of the waiting train, he pressed the shutter release once more for luck.
The girl was accompanied by two nuns in long grey habits, one on either side of her. From a distance it was almost like prisoner and escort, although there the resemblance ended. The nuns had their heads covered by black headdresses. It was hard to tell what, if anything, lay beneath them. Most policewomen in Rome seemed to wear their hair provocatively long, way below shoulder-length. Again, quite unlike their Parisian counterparts.
As the party drew near he moved forward to greet them, conscious that the eyes of the sleeping-car conductor were not the only ones following his progress down the platform. An American couple in the next compartment to his – a grey-haired man and his vastly overweight wife – peered out through their open door. Wisely, Pommes Frites, worn out after all the walking they had done during the past twenty-four hours, elected to stay on the train.
Raising his hat, Monsieur Pamplemousse mustered the little Italian he knew: not much more than the basic pleasantries – ‘Buonasera.Perfavore.Grazie.Prego.’ The nice thing about the language was that you could always make things up and the natives seemed to understand. ‘Sì,signorina.Je suis il signor Pamplemousse. May I take your valise?’
The girl handed it to him gratefully. As befitted a relative of the Director, it felt expensive. Not what one might have pictured of the average convent girl going away for the half-term break. It also weighed a ton. He could see why she was glad to get rid of it.
‘I am Caterina.’ She spoke French with hardly a trace of an accent, although the intonation gave away her Italian origins. That, and the dark, expressive eyes.
‘My first guess was correct.’
She laughed as she followed his glance towards the accompanying nuns. Their faces remained expressionless. It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse that he was being quietly vetted. He must have passed muster, for a moment later, after a barely perceptible exchange of glances, one of them held out her hand. It felt soft and warm to the touch. He wondered why he should be so surprised. It occurred to him that he had never held a nun’s hand before. It was withdrawn almost immediately, as though she were reading his thoughts.
‘I trust you will both have a pleasant journey, Monsieur Pamplemousse.’
‘Arrivederci.Ciao. I will take good care of her.’ He found himself launching into another series of basic pleasantries, bowing his way out of the encounter as the two women issued last-minute instructions to the girl; more warnings than advice he fancied. From the tone of their voices it sounded as though Paris was beyond redemption: a place of perpetual sin.
‘Phew!’ Leading the way back up the quai he felt the girl relax. The face beneath the hat looked wide-eyed and innocent, as pale as the faces of the nuns had been, but the lips and the slight flare to the nostrils, suggested she had a wayward streak too; not someone to be trifled with if you got in her way. Black hair peeped out from beneath the wide brim of the hat. Undoing her top coat, she revealed a dark blue skirt reaching to below her knees, and a matching jacket over a starched white blouse.
Reaching the door to their coach, he waited patiently while the conductor collected the girl’s passport and examined her ticket, ticking off her name against his list of reservations. He handed her a customs declaration form and then stood back to allow them access. The American couple were clearly talking about them, trying to work out the relationship.
‘Is it possible to make a reservation for the dining-car?’
‘There is no dining-car, signore.’
‘No dining-car?’ repeated Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘But…’
He gazed at the conductor. It would be useless trying to explain that the main purpose of his travelling on the train in the first place was to report on the catering facilities. Useless, and against all the rules under which Inspectors working for LeGuide were expected to operate.
‘There is a buffet car, signore, where they do a hot dish. It is three coaches down. But they do not take reservations. I will fetch you some mineral water if you like – once everyone has boarded.’
‘Merci.Mercibeaucoup.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse resorted to his native tongue. He couldn’t trust himself to deliver the right degree of sarcasm in Italian. It would probably be wasted in any language.
With a heavy heart he set off down the corridor, pointing out his own sleeping compartment as they went past.
Pommes Frites opened one eye and gazed benevolently, if noncommittally at his master’s latest acquisition.
The girl paused and reached down to pat his head. ‘You should have ordered two bottles of mineral water. Never mind, we’ll see if we can get you a doggy bag from the buffet car.’
Pommes Frites returned her gaze with loving eyes. Clearly he was dealing with a person who knew the way to a dog’s heart.
Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly warmed to her too. He doubted Pommes Frites’ response at being presented with the remains of someone else’s meal wrapped up in silver foil when he, too, had most likely been looking forward to dining in style. However, it was the thought that mattered.
‘That is a nice idea, but it will not be necessary. Pommes Frites will have to take his place in the queue like everyone else.’
‘He travels with you everywhere?’
‘Everywhere,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse firmly. Carrying on up the corridor until they reached the girl’s compartment, he placed her valise on the seat.
‘I take it you would like to try the buffet car?’
‘You bet. I’m starving.’
‘The train leaves at nineteen ten. Shall I give you a call at, say, eight o’clock?’
‘Seven forty-five sounds even nicer.’
‘Seven forty-five,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Arrivederci.’
‘Atout à l’heure,monsieur.’
Retracing his steps, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered his own compartment. Catching sight of the American couple watching his movements via a reflection in the corridor window, he closed the door and settled back to scan through the various CompagniaWagon-LitsItalia brochures contained in a rack above the toilet cupboard.
There being no restaurant car was little short of a disaster. A sign of the times if ever there was one. The Director would be furious when he heard. Or would he?
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed out of the carriage window with unseeing eyes. The train in the adjoining quai was just leaving, but he scarcely registered the fact.
Wasn’t the whole situation typical of the tortuous way in which things at LeGuide were so often arranged? The simple truth was, the Director hated being put in the position of having to ask a direct favour of a subordinate. It was always a case of taking a circuitous route up and down the byways and round the houses before entering his chosen destination via the back door.
If only he had come straight out with it and said: ‘Pamplemousse, I want you to do me a very special favour. My wife, Chantal, has a petitecousine who is attending a convent school near Rome. She is coming to stay with us for the half term. She will be travelling to Paris on the night express and one reads such strange things these days. I may be old-fashioned, but a young girl by herself … Unfortunately both my wife and I are otherwise engaged. I am up to my eyes in work overseeing the preparation of next year’s Guide … Chantal has to go to Digne to attend the funeral of an old aunt who has just died … perhaps you wouldn’t mind escorting her?’
That would have been easily understandable.
Instead of which it had been: ‘Pamplemousse, I have been giving the affairs of LeGuide a great deal of thought over the past few weeks and it seems to me that it is time we extended our horizons. We should not remain stationary, but we should move forward. Air travel is but one area we have neglected in the past. Railways are another. Perhaps we should also have a section devoted to the great trains of Europe … Parexemple … PAUSE … parexemple the night train from Rome to Paris … I believe it is called the Palatino. With this in mind I have made arrangements for you to do some preliminary fieldwork. Oh, and enpassant it just so happens that a relative of Chantal’s will be travelling on the same train…’
He must have got someone to check the arrangements, but it simply wouldn’t have occurred to him to come straight out with the simple truth: ‘I’m afraid it is not quite like the old days, Pamplemousse. There is no longer a restaurant car as such. It is a self-service buffet car, but I am told the platdujour is always heated.’
As had happened so many times in the past, Monsieur Pamplemousse had been caught napping. Halfway through the Director’s discourse – the point where he had opened a second bottle of Gosset champagne (the Grand Millésime Rosé ’82!) – he had even found himself coming up with other ideas. Cruise liners might be a rich field to research – Truffert would be a good candidate for the task – he had spent some time in the merchant navy. Then there were converted canal barges in the Midi catering for small groups of holidaymakers – that would suit Guilot – he liked the quiet life. And why stop there? Loudier was getting on in years. Why not ‘Meals on Wheels for the Elderly’ before he finally retired? Come to that, eating in a dining-car was a form of ‘Meals on Wheels’ – why not send Loudier instead?
The Director had not been amused by the suggestion.
Almost imperceptibly the train began to move. They were barely out of the station when there was a knock on the door. It was the conductor with his mineral water: Effervescentenaturale.
Pommes Frites gazed mournfully at the bubbles as his master poured some water into a dish. Bubbles tickled his nose and it was not what he was used to. Monsieur Pamplemousse heaved a sigh. Something told him he was in for a bad night. He opened the door before the atmosphere became too oppressive.
And at the end of it all, where was he? Sitting in an overnight train heading back to Paris, acting as nursemaid to a sixteen-year-old.
Sixteen? That is what the Director had said, and there was no reason to disbelieve him. She seemed pleasant enough. But what did you talk about to a sixteen-year-old convent girl? Perhaps it was just as well he didn’t have to sit through a long-drawn-out meal.
Wouldn’t it also be true to say that it was a way of getting Monsieur Pamplemousse’s services for free? Madame Grante in Accounts might suspect the worst when she checked his expenses, but she wouldn’t be able to prove anything.
Anyway, who was he, Pamplemousse, to argue? Looked at in another light, it was an unexpected bonus. Travelling aboard a trans-European express still had an aura of romance about it. He glanced around the cabin. The quality of the workmanship and the solidity of the wood and the metal fittings reflected the lavishness of a bygone age. It might lack the smoothness of the TGV, but it was certainly a pleasant change from the hours he normally spent crouched over the wheel of his 2CV.
Rome had been another bonus. Arriving late the previous afternoon, he’d had time to explore the city. It was bathed in a golden light and stank of petrol fumes. Along with hordes of others he had paid his respects to the Church of San Pietro, seen and marvelled at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, walked beside the Tiber – dusty and disappointing compared with the Seine, gazed at the view across the rooftops from the balcony above the Piazza del Popolo, walked in the Borghese Gardens – counting the number of broken off organs on the statues in the Pincio area – breaking them off was apparently a popular local sport, sat on the Spanish Steps; in short, he had done all the things a good tourist should do and in a remarkably short space of time. Art Buchwald’s four-minute Louvre wasn’t in it. Above all he had eaten well. Now, like Pommes Frites, he was feeling worn out.
A motherly woman bustled down the corridor ringing a handbell to indicate the buffet car was open. It was another reminder of more gracious times; a pleasant change from the ubiquitous hidden loudspeakers bombarding passengers with endless announcements.
Closing the door again he unpacked his suitcase and after a quick wash and shave, made his way down the corridor to collect the Director’s petitecousine.
Engrossed in his own thoughts, he was totally unprepared for the sight which met his eyes as the door was opened in response to his knock. It literally took his breath away and for a second or two he thought he had picked on the wrong compartment. Even Pommes Frites looked taken aback. Clearly he was searching his memory, trying to pin down where he had seen the girl before.
‘You should have warned me.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at the elegant figure standing before him, trying hard to make the adjustment: a quantum leap from the schoolgirl he’d escorted along the quai less than an hour ago to a soignée young lady of the world; a dramatic mixture of striking understatement.
‘You approve?’ Moistened lips parted in a smile which revealed the whitest teeth he had ever seen. Liquid blue eyes gazed into his. There was a momentary heady waft of perfume as she pirouetted gracefully on one high heel – a vision of loveliness; hair, released from the confines of the school hat, now hung loosely about her shoulders, a fashionably short, dark red dress revealed silk-clad legs which under other circumstances he would have been hard-put not to linger over. Her skin was firm and smooth.
The total transformation took him a moment or two to get used to. Everything about the girl had miraculously changed. She even looked taller. Her neck seemed longer, perhaps because the low-cut line of the dress was emphasised by a small gold cross hanging from a chain. Two small diamonds, one in each ear, matched a larger diamond in the centre of the cross. Make-up underlined the fullness of her lips; her cheeks were now the colour of a warm peach. Her figure…
Monsieur Pamplemousse pulled himself together. ‘I think,’ he said gruffly, ‘it is time we ate.’
It struck him as he led the way along the corridor, that had the nuns been following on behind they would have been searching beneath their gowns for bottles of salvolatile.
Half expecting the buffet car to be crowded, Monsieur Pamplemousse was relieved to find there were still a number of vacant tables. All the same, he was conscious of the stares from other occupants as they made their entrance. Seating the girl at a table which was still reasonably isolated, and leaving Pommes Frites in charge to ensure it remained that way, he gathered up three trays and slid them in line along a counter beneath a row of stainless steel shelves and compartments, picking up cutlery and anything else that struck his fancy as he went along. It was assembly-line catering.
He recognised the woman who had gone past his compartment earlier ringing the bell. She was presiding over a cash desk at the end of the small queue. Orders for the main course were dispatched in ringing tones through an open doorway to her right. A framed colour illustration of a steakgarni was fixed to the side of the carriage opposite the kitchen. He wondered if it was there for the benefit of the public or the chef. Time would tell.
Monsieur Pamplemousse called out his order, then waited patiently while those in front of him shuffled forward. A polyglot clientèle, both in speech and dress; jeans and open-necked shirts predominated, with here and there a more formal suit. There were exchanges in Italian, German, Swedish and English.
‘Can’t think where they’re all going to at this time of night!’ his old Mother would have said, using the tone of voice she reserved for those occasions when she mixed deep-felt suspicion with impatience at being kept waiting.
He wondered what she would have thought of Caterina. He felt sure she would have warmed to her. It would be hard not to. ‘Nice, but not too nice,’ would have been her summing up.
‘Oh, là! là!’ Seeing Monsieur Pamplemousse struggling with the trays, the Madame in charge abandoned her till for a moment while she helped him back to his seat, fussing over him like a mother hen. It was a little piece of French territory on wheels, presided over by someone who had it all organised. Paper serviettes were spirited out of thin air. Clucking heralded the arrival of the condiments. Bonappétits floated down the carriage as she returned to her post.
‘I think you have made a conquest,’ said Caterina.
‘Not as many as you have,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, glancing round the coach. ‘Besides, I think she is glad to hear someone speaking her own language. I doubt if she approves of other tongues.’ He poured two glasses of Côtes-du-Rhône.
‘You do not mind vinrouge?’
‘I do not mind vin anything,’ said Caterina.
She looked around at the other diners. ‘It isn’t quite what I expected. Do you think I’m overdoing things? Nobody else seems to have bothered to dress.’
‘You are looking absolutely ravishing,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘That is no crime. I doubt if there is a girl here who does not envy you, nor a man who would not wish to ride off with you on his white charger.’
Suddenly aware that another passenger seated on the opposite side of the coach was listening intently to their conversation, Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced across and looked the other up and down. Having registered pointed black shoes, polished until you could see your face in them, and what he could only describe as an old-fashioned dark pin-striped suit – he couldn’t quite say why it struck him as old-fashioned, perhaps it was the cut, or the over-wide stripes – a white silk shirt, pencil moustache, thick black hair, brilliantined and brushed back – it somehow went with the suit – he formed what was probably a wholly irrational dislike of the man. ‘Il Blobbo’ would be a good name for him. The fingernails of the left hand, which was holding a small glass of colourless liquid – it could have been Grappa – looked freshly manicured. Eye contact was rendered impossible by virtue of a pair of impenetrably dark Bausch & Lomb glasses.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was irresistibly reminded of the famous anti-Nixon campaign slogan ‘Would you buy a second-hand car from this man?’ The answer in the present case was most emphatically ‘no’. From the studiedly insolent way in which the other took his time before seeking shelter behind a copy of LaStampa, it was clear that the feeling was mutual, although he hoped it was for a different reason.
‘Pardon?’ He suddenly realised the girl was talking to him.
‘I said, grazie. It is always nice to have compliments.’
Caterina eyed Monsieur Pamplemousse curiously as he produced a notebook from under the table. ‘It is true, then, that you eat for a living?’
‘Don’t we all,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘in our different ways?’
‘So what will you say about this?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse regarded his plate, then applied his knife to the steak. ‘I shall say that the meat is of good quality and that it has been cooked as I asked it to be. It is pink in the middle and juicy – not dried out. The pommesfrites could be crisper; they have been kept a little too long. The petitspois, which might have teen disappointing, are surprisingly good. They have the right amount of sweetness. The French beans … commeci,commeça …’ He shrugged.
‘I also have to ask myself the question: would I feel the same way if we were eating in a restaurant instead of hurtling through the night at over one hundred kilometres an hour?’ He was tempted to add ‘together with a young and undeniably beautiful girl’, but it might have sounded too gauche, particularly with others around.
‘Normally when I am working I eat by myself so that I am not distracted. Unlike taking a photograph of a distant mountain, where it is possible to add a tree or a shrub to give foreground interest. It is easier to be analytical when you eat alone.’
‘I am sorry if I am a distraction. I have never been called “foreground interest” before.’ It was said with a smile.
‘I forgive you.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off to add a few more notes. ‘For my taste, there are too many vegetables. They are probably trying to make it look like value for money.
‘And you? What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think,’ said Caterina, ‘I think it is all very wonderful. I can’t tell you what it feels like to be free.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at her. What was it the poet Lemierre had once said? ‘Even when a bird is walking, we sense that it has wings.’ Perhaps it went with being brought up in a convent school. When the door to the outside world was opened the inmates often grasped their new-found freedom with both hands.
‘Be careful it does not go to your head.’
‘But that is exactly what should happen,’ said Caterina. ‘It is like champagne. Where else should it go?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse could think of a dozen answers, but rather than risk getting into deep water he changed the subject.
‘What do you plan to do when you leave school?’
‘I shall become a model. I get all the magazines.’
It accounted for the weight of her valise. He wondered where she kept them hidden back at the convent. Under the mattress? It was exceedingly doubtful they would be approved reading.
‘It is a hard life,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘For every one who reaches the top of the ladder there are hundreds – thousands – who have to content themselves with clinging to the first few rungs. It is also a comparatively short one. Age has no mercy.’
‘That makes it all the more of a challenge,’ said Caterina simply. ‘For those who do make it, there is a fortune waiting. A top model doing the circuits can easily earn $10,000 a show just for marching down a catwalk. Naomi Campbell started out at fifteen. She walked into the offices of Elle and sold herself on the strength of a portfolio of photographs. By the time she was twenty-one she had a million in the bank.’
‘At that rate,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse drily, ‘by the time you are that age you will be able to retire and open up a boutique … a chain of boutiques. You could have one in Rome, another in Paris, one in London … another in New York.’
‘Why run a shop when you can be paid more to open one for somebody else?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse gazed at her. She had it all worked out. He also had a feeling she was holding back in some way. It all sounded a little too glib. It wasn’t just his imagination – his years in the Sûreté had given him a sixth sense in such matters. Her eyes were focused on his, and yet the overall effect was that of a television personality reading someone else’s lines from an auto-cue. He couldn’t help but wonder why.
‘Be careful you do not become like a Dugong.’
Caterina looked at him inquiringly.
‘A Dugong,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘is a fish which inhabits the Indian Ocean. It reaches a length of four metres and attains a weight of some 700 kilograms. Leather, ivory and oil are obtained from it, and as if that were not enough, its flesh is considered very edible. In almost all respects you could say it is a very successful fish, consequently it is in great demand. So much so that it has completely disappeared from some areas where it once thrived.’
‘I shall be careful,’ said Caterina simply.
‘And your parents? What do they think?’
The girl pulled a face. ‘Papà will go mad. If he had his way he would keep me behind walls for the rest of my life. There would be no choice.’
A clattering of china from somewhere below the table broke into their conversation.
‘I know one who enjoyed the meal.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse wiped his own plate clean with the last of the bread. He pointed to the tray.
‘On a more mundane level, right now you have a choice. There is a carton of yoghurt or there is clafoutis. It is a fruit-filled pastry from Limousin – made with black cherries.’
The girl’s eyes dwelt longingly on the clafoutis.‘May I? Would you mind?’
Monsieur Pamplemousse put away his notebook. There wasn’t much you could say about a yoghurt that hadn’t already been said.
‘I know what you are thinking. You are thinking if I am to be a model I shouldn’t be eating this. But I am lucky … I burn it up. See …’ Reaching across the table she half rose and struck a pose.
Monsieur Pamplemousse hesitated. ‘Would you mind if I took your photograph? It would be nice to look back on.’
‘I would like that too.’
‘In that case I will fetch my camera.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse began the hazardous journey back to his compartment, battling with the sliding doors as the train swayed from side to side. The conductor was putting the finishing touches to making up his bed when he arrived. It took longer than he had anticipated, and he occupied his time reloading the camera with black and white film.
By the time he got back, the dining-car had begun to fill. Someone else was sitting at the table previously occupied by the man with the dark glasses. He reached his own table at the same time as a party of English. They eyed the empty plates.
‘Nobody sitting here.’ It was a statement rather than a question. The speaker scarcely waited for an answer before unloading his tray.
Monsieur Pamplemousse made a grimace in Caterina’s direction. It had been a wasted journey. Now was not the moment for taking pictures. Conscious once again of eyes watching their progress, he led the way out of the car.
It was the girl’s idea to make use of his compartment. Not that Monsieur Pamplemousse wished to blame her in any way, of course. He had been a willing partner; but in retrospect and for the record …
Having got the attendant to unlock the door, and seeing that Caterina was waiting expectantly, it seemed like a good idea when she suggested it.
She posed easily and without a trace of embarrassment, throwing her head back as she sat on the bed so that her hair cascaded down over her shoulders like an inky-dark mountain stream. Her lips parted as she undid the top button of her dress. She would be equally at home on a cat-walk or in an Italian rice field. Silvana Mangano in BitterRice? Sophia Loren in BlackOrchid? It was wrong to compare. Comparisons were odious. She was her own person.
Focusing on her eyes, Monsieur Pamplemousse stepped back into the corridor trying to frame the picture. As he did so, he glanced round to see if he was being watched. It was not quite what he’d had in mind. He wondered if the girl’s reflection could be seen by the couple in the next compartment. Clearly, from the rapt expression on their faces, the answer was oui.
As the first flash went off the woman pursed her lips. It struck him that she looked like an outsize version of Madame Grante. Probably, like Madame Grante, she went through life voicing silent disapproval. She nudged her husband as the girl took up another position and Monsieur Pamplemousse fired off a second flash. At least she was getting value for money out of her journey. It probably confirmed her worst suspicions of ‘the Continentals’.
Monsieur Pamplemousse took some more pictures and then came to the end of the reel. ‘I will send them to you when they are ready.’
‘Papà may not approve.’ Caterina thought for a moment and then felt in her handbag. ‘I will leave you an address.’ She tore a piece of paper from a small pad and wrote on it.
Not to be outdone, Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for his wallet. ‘Here is my card. It has my telephone number in case there is a problem. I will get the films processed as quickly as possible – before the end of your holiday.’
‘You are very kind.’ She stood and suddenly leaned forward. ‘Thank you for looking after me so well.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse was totally unprepared for the kiss which followed, still less for its nature. The merest double brushing of lips upon cheek, starting with the right and ending with the left, as in Paris or Lyon, he could have taken in his stride. Intuition coupled with reflexes honed to perfection over the years would have enabled him to cope with regional variations; the Ardèche habit of starting on the left and adding a third, or even the Midi method, where four was the preferred number.
Brillat-Savarin, in his learned and often amusing work, ThePhysiologyofTaste, devoted a section to the tongue’s place in the natural scheme of things. It was a subject dear to the good doctor’s heart. Having waxed lyrical on such matters as the number of papillae on the tongue’s surface and the amount of saliva furnished by the inside of the cheeks when the two made contact, he then divided the sensation of taste into direct, complete, and reflective.
Caterina’s kiss was both direct and complete, and it was in reflective mood that Monsieur Pamplemousse hovered in his doorway. Like a schoolboy reeling from his first encounter with the opposite sex, he watched her progress down the corridor.
When she reached her compartment she turned and gave a final wave before disappearing inside. Monsieur Pamplemousse returned it weakly. As he did so he caught sight of the conductor, now safely ensconced in his tiny office at the far end of the coach, a position which enabled him to keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings in his domain. He didn’t actually utter the words ‘Mammamia!’, but the look on his face said it all: a total lack of comprehension that a man could spend an evening with such a beautiful girl and yet sleep with a bloodhound. It was, thought Monsieur Pamplemousse, a typical Italian attitude.
Retreating into his own compartment, he closed the door and sat on the bed gazing out into the darkness. It was still warm from where she had sat. Recognising the symptoms, Pommes Frites gave his master a despairing look, followed by a deep sigh. It was the kind of sigh a dog emits when it realises it could be in for a bad night.
Monsieur Pamplemousse ignored the interruption. Had not the learned Brillat-Savarin’s researches also brought to light certain other facts concerning tongues? Fish had to make do with a simple moveable bone; birds a membranous cartridge. Pommes Frites was as other four-legged creatures, his tongue lacked the power of circulatory motion. Once Pommes Frites’ tongue had been given the go-ahead it went straight to its target, veering neither to the right nor to the left. Food scarcely touched the side of his mouth. Reminders that he should chew every mouthful at least thirty times would have been a waste of breath. Osculation was a pleasure denied him.
Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes. Circulatory motion of a brief but undeniably sensuous and exploratory nature had been apparent in every second of Caterina’s kiss.
There was a rustle of linen as Pommes Frites climbed up beside him. He pointedly turned round several times, then fell heavily into a heap in the middle of the bed, forcing his master into a corner.
It was Monsieur Pamplemousse’s turn to sigh. Having expressed his feelings in no uncertain manner, he went out into the corridor and beckoned to the conductor.
