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Authors: Michael Bond
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‘Boiled, fried, or nature ?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt distinctly hard done by as he glanced at his surroundings. How dare the Director say that he had a predilection for ‘missions’ when as far back as he could remember he had always been a victim of outside circumstances. Not a seeker of ‘missions’, but one who had missions thrust upon him whether he liked it or not. The sheer injustice of the remark rankled. As for apologising for lack of frankness in his office, that was the understatement of the year. He picked up the second letter and held it to the light. For two pins he wouldn’t even bother to read it.
As the last thought entered his mind, a slow smile gradually crept over Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face. Tearing a small piece off one corner of the envelope, he applied it to his tongue and then lay back and closed his eyes again. It would have been a gross exaggeration to say that it had a pleasant taste. Comparison with Tante Marie’s gâteau de riz would have been odious. Indeed, there was hardly any taste at all, more a sensation of blandness. All the same, it would serve them all right if hunger got the better of him and he ate the entire letter then and there, unopened and therefore, ergo , unread. There had been nothing in the accompanying note to say he must read it.
Dwelling again upon his meeting with the Director, other remarks and phrases came back into his mind; remarks about his weight, slurs cast on his physical features, scarcely veiled criticisms regarding his expense account. And when all those failed, appeals to his better nature and to his loyalty, neither of which had ever been held in question before.
With so much on his mind, sleep did not come easily, but gradually Monsieur Pamplemousse began to nod off, and as he did so he relaxed his grip on the letter, allowing it to fluttergently to the floor. It was an act which did not go unremarked by his companion, more especially because it landed fairly and squarely, if lightly, upon his head.
Nudged into instant wakefulness, Pommes Frites opened one eye and gazed thoughtfully at the offending object. A moment later the sound of steady chewing added itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heavy breathing. It was not, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, one of the best nor the most sustaining meals he had ever eaten, but beggars can’t be choosers. What was good enough for his master was good enough for him, and if it didn’t exactly fill what was now a gaping void, it did at least bridge a tiny gap or two.
Hunger is not the best of bed-fellows, and when Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the sound of coughing, it was also with a sense of remorse. He realised as he sat up with a start that this sprang from a dream he’d been having – and not simply having, but actually enjoying. As he patted Pommes Frites on the back to relieve him of whatever was stuck in his throat, he could hardly look him in the eye. To have dreamed of a large suckling pig resplendent on a silver tray, an apple in its mouth, surrounded by a pile of fried potatoes, was one thing. To have transmogrified that pig into his own, dear friend, was quite another matter. A shameful episode, one he would do his best to forget. Thank heavens he’d woken when he had.
He glanced at his watch and felt even more guilty. It was nearly midnight. Pommes Frites must be dying for a walk. Apart from the brief spell at Narbonne, he hadn’t had an opportunity all day.
A moment later the thought was transformed into action as he led the way along a deserted corridor towards a door at the end marked SORTIE DE SECOURS . Opening it as quietly as he could, he let Pommes Frites through and then left it slightly ajar with the end of a mat so that he could come back in again when he was ready. The air outside struck cold and there was no sense in both of them suffering. He would need all his strength in
‘Boiled, fried, or nature ?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt distinctly hard done by as he glanced at his surroundings. How dare the Director say that he had a predilection for ‘missions’ when as far back as he could remember he had always been a victim of outside circumstances. Not a seeker of ‘missions’, but one who had missions thrust upon him whether he liked it or not. The sheer injustice of the remark rankled. As for apologising for lack of frankness in his office, that was the understatement of the year. He picked up the second letter and held it to the light. For two pins he wouldn’t even bother to read it.
As the last thought entered his mind, a slow smile gradually crept over Monsieur Pamplemousse’s face. Tearing a small piece off one corner of the envelope, he applied it to his tongue and then lay back and closed his eyes again. It would have been a gross exaggeration to say that it had a pleasant taste. Comparison with Tante Marie’s gâteau de riz would have been odious. Indeed, there was hardly any taste at all, more a sensation of blandness. All the same, it would serve them all right if hunger got the better of him and he ate the entire letter then and there, unopened and therefore, ergo , unread. There had been nothing in the accompanying note to say he must read it.
Dwelling again upon his meeting with the Director, other remarks and phrases came back into his mind; remarks about his weight, slurs cast on his physical features, scarcely veiled criticisms regarding his expense account. And when all those failed, appeals to his better nature and to his loyalty, neither of which had ever been held in question before.
With so much on his mind, sleep did not come easily, but gradually Monsieur Pamplemousse began to nod off, and as he did so he relaxed his grip on the letter, allowing it to fluttergently to the floor. It was an act which did not go unremarked by his companion, more especially because it landed fairly and squarely, if lightly, upon his head.
Nudged into instant wakefulness, Pommes Frites opened one eye and gazed thoughtfully at the offending object. A moment later the sound of steady chewing added itself to Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heavy breathing. It was not, in Pommes Frites’ humble opinion, one of the best nor the most sustaining meals he had ever eaten, but beggars can’t be choosers. What was good enough for his master was good enough for him, and if it didn’t exactly fill what was now a gaping void, it did at least bridge a tiny gap or two.
Hunger is not the best of bed-fellows, and when Monsieur Pamplemousse woke to the sound of coughing, it was also with a sense of remorse. He realised as he sat up with a start that this sprang from a dream he’d been having – and not simply having, but actually enjoying. As he patted Pommes Frites on the back to relieve him of whatever was stuck in his throat, he could hardly look him in the eye. To have dreamed of a large suckling pig resplendent on a silver tray, an apple in its mouth, surrounded by a pile of fried potatoes, was one thing. To have transmogrified that pig into his own, dear friend, was quite another matter. A shameful episode, one he would do his best to forget. Thank heavens he’d woken when he had.
He glanced at his watch and felt even more guilty. It was nearly midnight. Pommes Frites must be dying for a walk. Apart from the brief spell at Narbonne, he hadn’t had an opportunity all day.
A moment later the thought was transformed into action as he led the way along a deserted corridor towards a door at the end marked SORTIE DE SECOURS . Opening it as quietly as he could, he let Pommes Frites through and then left it slightly ajar with the end of a mat so that he could come back in again when he was ready. The air outside struck cold and there was no sense in both of them suffering. He would need all his strength in
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