Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation by Michael Bond Read Free Book Online Page B

on that score. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t asked at the time, but then neither had she.
    Paying his Fr.3.80 to the Madame at the bottom he registered the fact that chiens were half price. Given that Pommes Frites took up enough room for two adults it would be good value if he happened to join him on a return visit; especially if they did what he should have done in the first place – used it to go up rather than down.
    Entering the Cours Saleya through the first of the old arched gateways, memories came flooding back. Teeming with life and colour; it was no wonder thatwhen Matisse lived there his doctor tried to persuade him to wear dark glasses to protect his vision.
    Beyond the dazzling display of flowers – peonies, roses, carnations and lilies – lay the fruit and vegetable market with its mouthwatering displays of freshly picked apples, apricots, cherries and nectarines. Pyramids of pears and peaches fought for space alongside huge red tomatoes and tiny ripe Ogen melons from Cavaillon. Aubergines and peppers gave way to mounds of green and black olives and great fat bunches of garlic. There were tables laid out with glacé fruits, others with bowls of multicoloured dried herbs; saffron, cayenne and spices of all descriptions.
    Around the perimeter of the market small cafés had local specialities on display: pan bagna – bread rolls split in half, sprinkled with olive oil and filled with tomatoes, green peppers and black olives; pissaladièra – pastry shells containing anchovy paste, olives and onion purée. Copper pans stood ready for the old favourite, socca . Made with olive oil and chickpea flour, they had to be eaten piping hot.
    Through a gap in the crowd he suddenly caught sight of the man from the Jewish cemetery. Only a few stalls away, he was holding an artichoke up to the light with his left hand, as though studying it. With his other hand he held a mobile phone to his ear.
    As their eyes met Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering how many others in the world were doing exactly the same thing at that very moment, and decided that statistically not many, if any at all. Couldthere be a woman somewhere, drumming impatiently because he was late home with the shopping? Somehow doubting it, he hurried on his way.
    Passing the Opera House, he noticed the door to the Église St-François-de-Paule on the opposite side of the road was open. Taking advantage of a stationary delivery van caught up in the traffic, he skirted round the back of it, ignored the outstretched hand of a beggar hovering on the pavement, and slipped inside.
    He was beginning to wish he’d brought Pommes Frites with him after all. Pommes Frites would have seen him off whoever he was.

CHAPTER THREE
    After the noise and bustle of the Cours Saleya the atmosphere inside the church was an all-enveloping oasis of calm and serenity. Its richly baroque décor made it feel as though he had entered a different world.
    An earnest group of tourists gathered round a carved olive wood statue to his left, comparing an entry in their guidebook to the real thing, eyed him curiously as he looked around for somewhere to hide.
    The theatrical arrangement of stage boxes on either side of the altar was tempting, but grilles barred the way and he had no idea how to reach them from behind.
    Crossing himself, he wondered whether to join the few silent worshippers dotted around on either side of the centre aisle, then decided against it. They were nearly all elderly women. He would stand out like asore thumb. Turning his back on them, he hesitated for a moment before gently opening an exit door to his left. As he had hoped, it led into what was virtually a tiny room, the left side of which was made up of a second glass-panelled door affording a discreet view of the street.
    He was just in time to see the man appear from behind the van, clearly following the same route. The artichoke had been discarded, but he was still talking into the mobile; his eyes