Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft by Michael Bond Read Free Book Online Page A

sure of herself, the next moment clearly afraid. But afraid of what? Magnified as such thoughts always are in the hours of darkness, he began towish he’d gone to the circus after all, picturing himself in the role of rescuer from whatever it was that was troubling her.
    He tried counting sheep, but that only made matters worse. They all wore frilly white collars, the kind used to decorate roast crown of lamb. He pushed the thought aside.
    Last, but not least, there was the task which had brought him to Port St. Augustin in the first place: catering for the inaugural flight of the airship. Switching on the bedside light, he reached for his pen and pad. For one reason and another he hadn’t even begun to think of a possible menu and time wasn’t on his side. Neither as it happened, was inspiration. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t find it by staying at the Ty Coz. Why on earth the Director had insisted on his going there he would never know.
    In desperation he sought refuge in a game popularly known to himself and his colleagues on
Le Guide
as ‘The Last Supper’. It was one they played on those occasions when they were able to meet up
en masse
as it were; the annual staff outing at the Director’s weekend retreat in Normandy perhaps, or when things were comparatively slack after the March launch and they were all in the office getting ready for the next edition.
    Over the years they had played it so many times the result was a foregone conclusion, but it was no less enjoyable for all that, giving rise to much smacking of lips and to reminiscences which often went on far into the night.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse’s own choice on such occasions was clear and uncompromising. Simplicity was the keynote. Truffle soup at Bocuse’s restaurant just outside Lyon. A simple grilled
filet
steak – preferably from a Charolais bull – accompanied by a green salad, at any one of a hundred restaurants he could have named without even stopping to think; followed, if heavenly dispensation made it possible to arrange, by
pommes frites
cooked by the
patron
of a little hillside café he’d once come across on the D942 west of Carpentras; light, crisp, golden, piping hot, and always served as a separate course, for they were perfection in theirown right. The wine would be an Hermitage from Monsieur Chave, and after the cheese – the final choice would depend on the time of the year – a
tarte aux pommes légère,
wafer thin, and topped with equally thin slivers of almond.
    His salivary glands working overtime, Monsieur Pamplemousse lay awake for a long time after that. If he were to expire during the night – and the way he felt, such an event was not entirely outside the bounds of possibility – it would not be as a happy man.
    And so it came to pass that with food uppermost in his mind, he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming, perhaps not unsurprisingly in the circumstances, of what might have been.
    However, as he settled down to enjoy the meal of his dreams something very strange happened. A ton weight seemed to have settled on his stomach, pinning him to the bed. The more he struggled the harder it became to move, and panic set in.
    Then, just as he was about to give up all hope of rescue, a waiter appeared bearing not the expected bowl of soup, but what could only be described as a kit of parts; a platter of pastry, a jug containing chicken stock, and a plate on which reposed a single black truffle – a magnificent specimen to be sure, the biggest he had ever seen – twice the size of a large walnut. Madame Grante would have had a fit if she’d seen it.
    He reached forward to pick it up. But the surface was moist and as soon as his fingers made contact it shot out from between them and rolled across the table cloth, hovering for a moment or two before settling down again. He tried a second time then a third, but on each occasion the result was the same. The truffle seemed to have a life of its own.
    Stealth was needed.