Edward Trencom's Nose

by Giles Milton

  Mr Papadrianos involuntarily twitched when Edward spoke this name. ‘How do you know what he’s called?’ he asked. ‘Who told you?’

  Edward explained how he had followed the man to Queen Street, using his nose to guide him through the city.

  ‘Your nose! Of course!’ said Mr Papadrianos. ‘They wouldn’t have thought of that – just as it was with your father.’

  ‘My father!’ exclaimed Edward.

  ‘And your grandfather. It is your nose that will save us all,’ said Mr Papadrianos. ‘You may not have been told this before, but you have the finest nose in generations.’

  Edward sighed once again. He was so frustrated that he felt he was going to implode.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Mr Papadrianos. ‘Within a short space of time, you will come to Greece. Your voyage will be arranged for you – every last detail. We will be in contact about the exact dates, as well as the place where you will be met. Then, and only then, will you learn everything. I can promise you that everything will be revealed. But until that moment, you must do nothing. Take care of yourself. Behave as normally as you can under such difficult circumstances. And – a word of advice. Stop researching your family history. It will do you no good. You will be told everything you need to know when you come to Greece.’

  ‘I will come to Greece?’ repeated Edward blankly. His words were by now completely dislocated from his mind and thoughts, and Mr Papadrianos’s assurances only served to confuse him still further. Hitherto, he had been annoyed at having information withheld from him and could feel the blood pulsing through his body. But now, all of a sudden, he blanched. He turned so pale, indeed, that Elizabeth – who glanced across to him from the far side of the room – was suddenly concerned. ‘Excuse me for one minute,’ she said to Mrs Bassett, as she headed off in the direction of her husband. ‘I’ll be back in just a second.’

  In the time it took her to reach him, Edward had experienced a whole gamut of unusual sensations. He had felt strangely hot, as though a surge of warm liquid had percolated upwards through his body. Then, he had felt uncommonly cold – so cold, indeed, that goose pimples appeared on his arms and cheeks. He had felt dry in the mouth; then dizzy and strangely light-headed. He had felt sick, then suddenly hungry. He felt detached from his surroundings, utterly divorced from the hall and the people. He could hear the incessant chatter – the voices and the conversation – but it was all a babble and a blur. It was as if he was not quite here; not quite in the room. It was as if he was observing the proceedings from somewhere outside his body.

  And then, as he instinctively reached for his nose and felt its distinctive bump, all of these sensations dramatically disappeared. There he was, back in the Cheese Hall, fully present on the evening of 20 February 1969 – Mr Edward Trencom of Trencoms in London, standing next to a certain Mr Papadrianos and introducing him to his wife.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Meet Mr Papadrianos. He’s here from …’

  ‘Salonika,’ said Mr Papadrianos.

  ‘Ah,’ said Elizabeth, who was staring at Edward in concern. ‘Are you all right, Edward? You’ve turned as pale as a ghost.’

  ‘I was just telling your husband about our situation in Greece,’ interrupted Mr Papadrianos. ‘It’s enough to make anyone blanch.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Elizabeth, who had no idea about the current situation in Greece. ‘Yes – I hear things have taken a turn for the worse. Well, if you’ll excuse us,’ she said firmly, ‘I’m going to have to reclaim my husband for a while. There are a few important people he needs to meet.’

  She laid rather too much stress on the word ‘important’ than was strictly necessary, for it gave the distinct impression that she felt Mr Papadrianos was not all that important. And this was exactly what she had intended to do. For although Mrs Trencom appeared shy and often quite reserved, she had an uncanny knack of letting people know where she stood on matters.

  She led Edward over to Gregory Wareham, vice-president of the Worshipful Company of Cheese Connoisseurs, who greeted his old friend with a hearty handshake and Elizabeth with an almost too familiar kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Edward, old chap,’ he said. ‘What in the devil’s name have you brought along this time? Smells of old goats.’

  ‘Well it is – in a manner of speaking – old goats,’ replied Edward. ‘Touloumotyri. The best ones come from a single peninsula in Greece – Mount Athos. I can tell you, it’s very popular with the Greeks.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gregory, ‘it’s all Greek to me.’ He responded to his own joke with a bellyful of laughs before adding, ‘Anyway, methinks it’s time to start proceedings. Shall we get the tasting underway?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Edward, and he stood on a chair and called for a general silence in order to announce the event. As he did so, he noticed the figure of Mr Papadrianos slip silently out of the door.

  The cheeses to be tasted were all goat’s cheeses from the Loire Valley. A different country and area was selected for each gathering of the Worshipful Company of Cheese Connoisseurs and five or six representative cheeses from that area were prepared for tasting. This was to be one of the most challenging competitions for many a year, since the selected cheeses were extremely similar in colour, texture and flavour. Five members of the Company had elected to take part in the blind tasting, trusting that their noses and taste buds would not let them down.

  Edward had always been the first among equals at such contests. He had taken part on every occasion for the last seventeen years and had so far never failed to correctly identify a cheese. Running a close second was Maître d’Autun, whose expertise almost rivalled that of Edward. Yet there had been several occasions when Henri-Roland had made foolish errors that cost him the chance of sharing the prize with Edward. This year he was quietly confident. He was extremely knowledgeable about the cheeses of the Loire and entertained high hopes of snatching the prize from under the nose, so to speak, of his old rival.

  Edward was unusually concerned about this year’s tasting and had confided his fears to Elizabeth. ‘Three times, darling, in the last week, my nose has failed me,’ he whispered. ‘Three times I’ve lost my sense of smell. What shall I do if it happens again tonight, of all nights?’

  ‘But you’ve been OK so far,’ said Elizabeth in a most reassuring voice. ‘Haven’t you?’

  Edward said nothing for a moment before looking at his wife. ‘Well – yes and no,’ he admitted nervously. ‘I must confess, well, a moment or two ago, I clean lost all sense of smell. It’s come back now, but …’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Elizabeth, taking advantage of the short pause. ‘It’s nerves and worry that are getting to you. Just think of all your past successes. You’ll be able to do it again this year.’ Yet even as she said these words, she was struck by the realization that Edward – her Edward – might not be fine.

  The contestants made their way up to the top table, where a thin sheet of muslin covered the cheeses. A screen had been erected in order that everyone in the hall would be able to see the cheese, save for those taking part in the tasting. When the contestants were all lined up and ready, Gregory Wareham rapped on the table and called for everyone’s attention. Then, as a silence spread through the hall, he made a short speech in which he announced, among other things, that all six cheeses came from the Loire. ‘And that’s all I’m giving away,’ he said, before whipping off the muslin cover so that the audience could see what was to be tasted. There was a murmur in the room as the assembled cheese-makers and mongers tried to identify the specimens. As the noise grew in volume, Gregory called for complete silence lest any of the contestants might overhear the names being whispered.

  ‘I shall now present our guinea pigs with the first cheese,’ he declared, cutting the pouligny-saint-pierre into five equal parts. The first piece was handed to Edward, the second to Henri-Roland, and so on, until each of the contestants had a piece of the cheese.

  ‘Now, let me just remind you of the rules,’
said the vice-president. ‘No conferring – and no discussion. When you think you have the answer, write it down. At the end of the tasting, when you’ve tried all the cheeses, we’ll collect your papers and announce your results. Any questions? Yes, Monsieur – sorry, Maître – d’Autun.’

  Henri-Roland wished to object to something. ‘Oui. It is so verrry difficult to smell anything – anything at all – when the room is imprégné with the toulou …’

  ‘… motyri,’ said Edward.

  ‘Oui – merci – all we can smell is touloumotyri. And it gets worse an worse. You ‘av an expression for dis. The more you stir it, the worse it sticks.’

  ‘Well, I fear there’s not much we can do about that,’ replied Gregory, ‘except, perhaps, to thank Mr Trencom for introducing us to a cheese that, well’ – he paused to smile – ‘sticks of old goats.’

  As he said these words, Edward was suddenly seized by panic. He inhaled slowly through his nostrils in order to test whether or not the touloumotyri really was overpowering the room. And as he did so, he realized that he could smell absolutely nothing. It was so strange – just moments before, he could identify more than twenty different varieties of cheese in the room, over and above the general cocktail of smells. And now – nothing.

  ‘Now, gentlemen and lady – the first cheese.’

  Each of the five contestants held the cheese to their noses, having first examined its texture and colour. Most of the guests in the hall already knew it to be a pouligny-saint-pierre, for they had seen its distinctive cone shape and its orangey-blue mould. But the mould had been removed before it was handed to the contestants, who had only the thick, creamy innards with which to identify the cheese.

  Edward held the cheese to his nose and breathed in. ‘Oh – please, please,’ he said to himself, ‘let there be something.’ But his wish was not to be granted. As the air filled his nostrils and then penetrated deep into his nasal cavity, he realized that he could smell absolutely nothing.

  Maître d’Autun was not so handicapped. He sniffed at the cheese and instantly recognized the sweet smell of straw and the sour odour of goats. ‘Infiniment plus distingué que le touloumotyri,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Ah, oui – the distinctive mould, the exquisite balance of salt and sweetness. Ah, la belle France.

  ‘Well – alors – dat’s obvious,’ he said to Edward with a confident smile. ‘The tree is known by its fruit, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Quite – quite,’ said Edward, who was thinking on his feet. ‘What am I to do? What am I to do?’ He noticed Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at him anxiously, aware that his nose was unable to identify the cheese.

  ‘This is going to be a disaster,’ she thought. ‘If he can’t identify the cheese, where does that leave Trencoms?’ And for the first time in her life, she foresaw the possibility that Edward would lose his crown as the undisputed authority on the world’s great cheeses.

  As the other four contestants reached for their pads and scribbled down the words pouligny-saint-pierre, Edward was asking himself what he should do. ‘Perhaps I can identify it from its pate,’ he thought. ‘It’s very pale, soft, looks like a chabichou – but – no.’ He paused for a moment. This was hopeless. It could be one of more than two dozen goat’s cheeses from the Loire. And then, out of the blue, he was struck by a rather brilliant idea. As the other contestants put down their notepads, Edward picked up his and scribbled something next to the first box. Elizabeth looked at her husband and let out a relieved sigh. ‘Oh, thank heavens,’ she thought, ‘he’s managed to identify it.’

  The second cheese, a chavignol, caused the contestants more difficulty. It had been aged for more than four months, to the point at which the cheese’s belly was almost crumbling and it resembled scores of other cheeses from the upper reaches of the Loire. Henri-Roland was the first to write in his notepad. Next was Mr Charles Storeford of Storefords in Lancashire, followed by Lady Anshelm of Durham, producer of the famous durham weald. Edward had been hoping that his nose would bounce back after its momentary loss of smell but he now realized that this was not to be – he was unable to smell anything. Robbed also of his sense of taste, he popped the piece of cheese into his mouth and chewed and squelched it around his tongue. Then, reaching for his pad and, with a conscious display of confidence, he wrote a single word beside box number two.

  And so the proceedings continued until each of the cheeses had been consumed. Maître d’Autun was smiling to himself, for he was convaincu that he had got each and every one right, in spite of the touloumotyri. The other contestants were rather less confident. Lady Anshelm had been unsure of the fourth and fifth cheeses, while Paul Austin (of the Dorset Cheese Company) declared himself completely stumped by the final cheese.

  ‘So,’ said Henri-Roland to Edward, ‘how do we think we ‘av done? A piece ov cake?’

  ‘A piece of cheese,’ joked Edward, who closed his notepad and folded his arms. ‘It was too easy this year, don’t you think? Even Elizabeth would have managed to identify these.’

  Gregory Wareham declared the contest to be at an end and asked the five contestants to hand in their notepads. ‘There will now be a short pause,’ he announced to the hall, ‘while we examine the results. So, please – bear with us for just a few moments longer.’

  As the three judges flicked through the entries, Elizabeth signalled to Edward from the far side of the room and mouthed the words, ‘How – did – you – do?’

  Edward smiled and mouthed back, ‘Fine – fine.’

  Elizabeth let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘Oh, thank heavens,’ she thought. ‘He managed to get through after all – I just hope and pray he’s got them right.’

  It took longer than expected for the panel to pick over the answers. At one point, they called over to Gregory and it looked to everyone in the hall as if they were asking him for advice. The assembled crowd fell silent as it became clear that the judges were perplexed by something written in one of the notepads.

  There were whispered exchanges between the judges and then Gregory said something that made them all laugh. Although two of them gave him a quizzical look, as if to ask him if he was really sure of his decision, they all eventually agreed on the same course of action.

  ‘Silence – silence,’ called Gregory Wareham to the hall after more than five minutes of discussion. ‘Pray, silence for the results.’

  Silence slowly spread across the room until even the noisy little group in the corner realized that it was time to pipe down.

  ‘Thank you. Now, as you can imagine, this was a very difficult contest. All the cheeses selected were made from goat’s milk and all of them came from the Loire Valley. Yes – not an easy contest. Now, let me tell you what those cheeses were, in the order in which they were tasted. One, pouligny-saint-pierre; two, chavignol; three, sainte-maure de touraine; four, chabichou; five, selles-sur-cher; and, last of all, a particularly fine valençay.’

  As he named the cheeses, Henri-Roland clenched his fist in his pocket. ‘Oui – oui – oui,’ he said to himself, ticking each one off in his head. ‘All correct. Many a mickle makes a muckle.’ He cast a glance at the other contestants. Lady Anshelm and Charles Storeford were shaking their heads. So, too, was Paul Austin. And Edward?

  Henri-Roland turned towards his rival and was disappointed to see him grinning. ‘Did you get dem?’ he asked. ‘All ov dem?’

  ‘Yes – in a manner of speaking,’ said Edward, who couldn’t help himself from letting out a low chuckle.

  ‘Now,’ said Gregory Wareham. ‘We find ourselves confronted with a most unusual situation this year.’ He broke off and started to grin. ‘One that has put our judges in a spot of difficulty. If we were to have one prize for correct answers and one prize for whimsical ones, well, we would have no problems at all. But, alas, we don’t. So, ladies and gentlemen, after much conferring among the judges, we have decided that this year’s prize will be awarded jointly to Monsieur Henri-Roland d’Autun, who accu
rately identified each of the six cheeses, and to Mr Edward Trencom of Trencoms, who has – how shall we say? – caused us a great deal of mirth.’

  A hundred or more expectant faces looked first at Gregory Wareham and then at Edward Trencom.

  ‘Yes – yes. For if we are to believe Mr Trencom, each and every one of these Loire Valley cheeses, which have their own individual flavours and characteristics, goes by the name of – touloumotyri.’

  As he said this word, the assembled company erupted into laughter.

  ‘Marvellous – brilliant,’ said Sir George to Elizabeth. ‘I’m glad to see your husband hasn’t lost his sense of humour.’

  ‘Well, we’ve always known he’s a wag,’ said Charles Storeford to Lady Anshelm. ‘I guess he must have known them all immediately.’

  Edward looked at the sea of faces in the hall and also began to laugh. And, as his face crumpled with humour, everyone began to applaud.

  ‘Now I think,’ said Gregory Wareham as he motioned for the hall to fall silent, ‘that this is one of the more shameful attempts to promote a new cheese. But I must hand it to Mr Trencom, he’s certainly made an impression tonight on our little gathering. I don’t think many of us will forget touloumotyri in a hurry. Now, if I could ask him and Monsieur – sorry, Maître – d’Autun to step forward, I will jointly present them with the prize, which is …’

  ‘A cheese knife,’ called someone from the room.

  ‘A cheese knife indeed,’ repeated Gregory Wareham, before adding, ‘I’m beginning to think that some of you are getting a little too familiar with this gathering.’

  As Edward and Henri-Roland stepped forward, the Frenchman whispered into his rival’s ear. ‘In my ’umble opinion,’ he said, ‘you did not know dose cheeses. I’m not so sure you could identify any ov dem.’

  Edward lifted his finger to his nose and gently tapped the dome over the bridge. ‘A king of noses,’ he said quietly, ‘Yes, a veritable king among noses.’