by Jamie Ivey
'Go on.'
'It's the insurance. Your project manager's insurance covers building work but not managing others to do work.'
'Presumably all he needs to do is extend the cover?' I looked up at the blue sky, fighting the rage that was slowly overcoming me.
'Yes, but comprehensive insurance is expensive, that's why usually we deal with house-building companies.'
'I don't understand.' I cut her off in mid sentence. The conversation quickly degenerated, with us both interrupting each other. Unfortunately for the girl at the bank, I had nearly a year of frustration to vent. The call ended abruptly with me demanding that the money be released and the bank refusing.
'What's gone wrong?' Tanya demanded. I related the conversation and watched the bitterness creep into my wife's face. 'Stupid pieces of paper, why can't you do anything in this country...?'
'It's all nonsense,' interjected Ange, 'pass me the phone.'
Hope returned as he called the bank. Perhaps I'd misunderstood a key part of the conversation, or hadn't argued enough. Ange walked away with the phone pressed to his ear and we stood and waited. The day remained perfect; clear sky, warm sunshine, panoramic views of Provence, all reminding us what a peerless place we lived in. Delphine too felt the need for some distance and wandered off towards the trees.
Insurance was a notorious problem in France. The industry was out of control, revelling in the endless stream of employment law churned out by Paris. A book I'd been reading – Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong – explained how many of the country's problems dated back to the French Revolution. Unbelievably, the ruling classes were still terrified of the provinces and the spectre of the guillotine. To guard against a repeat, the government micromanaged, demanding to know in an almost totalitarian way what every member of society was doing. Types of work were categorised and divided and then re-categorised and subdivided until it became almost impossible to do anything legally. Nothing made the Parisian mandarins happier than the fact that everybody was a crook; it gave them the perfect excuse to employ an army of tax inspectors to make everyone's life miserable. No one had yet thought up a tax on wiping your bottom but surely it was coming. Squeezing into a WC near us would be someone from the fisc.
'Surely Ange can sort it out,' encouraged Tanya, dragging me from depression.
I shook my head. 'The woman at the bank didn't seem to think so.'
'What'll we do?'
'Find someone else. Ange will help,' I said, trying to be optimistic.
Delphine and Ange intersected each other halfway across the plot and turned back towards us. The expressive shaking of heads and shrugging of shoulders seemed to convey the worst.
'It's nonsense, Jamie, nonsense. I've never come across a bank like it. They're idiots, nothing will ever get done if you borrow money from them. Find someone else.'
'We've already tried everyone.'
'Try again. I'm telling you, if they're this difficult now, what's it going to be like when something changes mid project? Better off starting again.'
His language quickly became too expressive for these pages. 'You can't sneeze in this country without some ******* official examining the bogey and slapping a tax on it.' On and on it went, with Ange's anger escalating out of all proportion to the situation.
'Nobody from here carries that type of cover, you need a new bank,' he said, finally running out of bile.
I nodded.
'Darlings, we must all go and get very, very drunk,' announced Delphine, who had clearly forgotten the time of day.
'See you in the bar at midday?' Ange shook my hand and headed back towards his digger.
There was nothing to do but leave. Delphine gave us a parting hug. 'I am so sorry my babies. Don't worry, it'll work out soon. Trust Ange.'
Over the next few days we tried to figure out what had happened. Our instinct to lash out at French bureaucracy had been wrong. Annoying though it was, everybody knew the rules and it was hard to understand how somebody in the building trade had made such basic mistakes. Surely Ange must have realised he couldn't just divide up the work as he pleased? The worst interpretation of his behaviour was he'd known all along it was unlikely he could do the job, but had decided to push his luck to see what happened. Once again Ange had done a Razzle Dazzle dance to shift blame away from himself. This time round, though, I'd already seen the performance and the necessary sleight of hand was harder to pull off.
A more generous view was that the people we'd chosen to work with were small town tradesmen, used to renovating houses, but with, despite their protestations, no experience of building a house from scratch. Wrongly, Ange had assumed that the job would be simple and gradually his lack of knowledge had been exposed. All the excuses and the delays were explained by the basic fact that this project was a first for him.
The biggest fools, of course, were us. We'd been blinded by the fact that we'd lived in the village for three years and knew everybody. Working with friends, we'd naively reasoned, would make our building project different from all the other disaster stories. Rather than challenge Ange over all the delays we'd accepted his explanations, largely because we knew that we would never behave in such a way, even to complete strangers, let alone to people we saw on a daily basis and with whom we'd shared drinks and meals.
Gradually, it became clear to me and Tanya that there was no point in trying to find another bank. In the first place, it was unlikely that we would be successful, but more importantly we couldn't build a house with a group of people with whom the relationship was already so sour. At least if we stopped now, there was no question of anyone being to blame. The bank had simply said no, and we could all get on with our lives and see each other as we had always done, without any sense of enmity.
The biggest sadness for us was having to deal with yet another delay in the project. We reminded ourselves that we'd not actually been actively looking for a house and that until we'd seen the plot we'd envisaged spending at least another decade in Manu's rental farmhouse. We'd always liked the place. Granted, there were some idiosyncrasies to put up with, but essentially it was a stunning location in which to live.
As often as we repeated this to each other, both of us knew that neither of us quite believed it. The farmhouse was beginning to fray around the edges and the addition of a dog and a baby to our family had made it increasingly difficult to live in. We needed to find a new builder as quickly as possible, because from signing to completion would conservatively take a year.
Four days after our ill-fated meeting at the building site, I picked up the phone to call Ange. Normally he answered immediately but this time it went straight to answerphone. I left a message explaining that we'd decided to stick with the bank and find a company that met their insurance requirements. I thanked Ange for all his hard work, enquired whether I owed him any money, and finally asked if he could let me have my copies of the plans and the engineering report for the foundations. My feelings were mixed as I put the phone down. On the one hand I'd wanted to challenge Ange to explain why it had taken so long to reach this point, on the other hand I was relieved that we'd taken the time to let our tempers cool. By being polite and conciliatory we'd preserved a friendship, or so I thought.
Chapter 15
At the end of the truffle season the town of Uzès holds one of the region's largest fêtes de la truffe. Every year its central square is scattered with sand and used as an arena for truffling (cavage) demonstrations. The event has become an unofficial testing ground for truffle dogs, with the evolution of different categories of competition according to breed and experience. Entrants come from as far as Italy and for a day at least the most successful dogs are worshipped like star footballers. Full of confidence in Snuffle's newfound love of the truffle I phoned and entered him in the novices' category.
The trials had the added bonus of taking our minds off the construction. A week had passed, and I'd left two additional messages but there was still no reply from Ange. The incid
ent with the bank had apparently bruised his pride, and for now at least, he didn't want to talk. I phoned the architect and asked for an additional set of plans. In passing I also enquired how long it would take to complete the house if he took over the management of the project; the last ten months had shown me that a professional was needed. The reply was alarming – a minimum of fourteen months, possibly up to eighteen months, and his fee was 12 per cent of the build.
Our other alternative was a house-building company, offering a turnkey solution. According to the bank they would always have the necessary insurance. However, rumours abounded of half-completed jobs, poor workmanship and materials. Ange had even told us how one gullible client had paid half up front, only for the builders to suddenly disappear. 'Don't worry, Jamie, you know where I live,' he'd laughed. We really needed another recommendation, but the problem was there was no one to ask.
Frustrated by the lack of activity we headed for Uzès. Returning to the town was, for Tanya and me, like going home. Years ago we'd explored the possibility of opening a wine bar there, and had partnered with a local restaurant – La Renaissance – to test our unique concept of offering a wine list composed entirely of different rosés. For a month I'd bumped boxes of wine along the cobbled streets, pausing to mop my brow and admire the medieval architecture: the Tour Fenestrelle, a steepled French version of the leaning tower of Pisa, and the old dukes' residence, with the crest of arms of the duchy embossed dramatically on the roof. Nothing, though, surpassed the Place aux Herbes. This central colonnaded square, planted with plane trees and dotted with fountains, was a sight to make even the most seasoned tourists check their stride and take a surprised breath.
We arrived just as the bells of the church chimed ten and pulled up seats in the Renaissance cafe. A few other customers huddled under blow heaters drinking strong black coffee and smoking. Nearby a staff member tended a large iron skillet. I'd seen paella made in these dishes before, but today, judging from the smell of truffles drifting by, the dish was brouillade, the delicious spiked scrambled egg I was first introduced to at the Rognes truffle market. La Renaissance was offering baguettes filled with the mixture for €5 and also a more complicated six-course truffle menu, including novelties such as crème brûlée à la truffe. The square was already busy with people gathering for the fête, many of them accompanied by eager looking dogs.
Annie Cellot, the flame-haired owner of La Renaissance, came rushing to our table. On days like this she did everything in a hurry. The restaurant seated over fifty people and yet, as a result of the outrageously high nature of French social security contributions, remained an entirely family affair.
'Bah, Jamie, Tanya, et oh là là un bébé, comme elle est belle.' Annie hugged us all and did her best to ignore Snuffle, who was chewing excitedly on the bottom of her jeans.
'Michel, Ju, Alexandre – c'est Jamie et Tanya,' she called out, summoning her husband and sons.
'What brings you back?'
'The dog trials,' I said, scratching Snuffle's ear. 'We want to try him out against the best.'
Drifting along the street was the sound of monastic chanting.
'Here they come,' Tanya announced, as round the corner marched members of La Confrérie de la Truffe. The men wore the usual flowing robes and kept stride underneath a large banner decorated with images of Provence's black diamonds. Hoisted in the air, balancing between two heavy wooden poles, was an enormous silver dish containing mounds of truffles. It was the type of contraption more commonly used to carry religious effigies.
The procession was on its way to the church, where a truffle mass was to be conducted. For one day only Christ would magically transubstantiate into a truffle and a glass of wine rather than the more traditional bread and wine. The first time we'd come across this type of mutation of the traditional mass was in Patrimonio in Corsica, where, to celebrate the arrival of the new season rosé, a service was held using pink rather than red wine in the communion cup. The Pope might not approve of such bastardisations of the prayer book; however, they were undoubtedly good for attendances because following the confrérie up the streets of Uzès was a trail of hungry looking worshippers.
A microphone screeched across the Place aux Herbes and there were three dull thuds as the sound was tested.
'Bonjour and welcome to the fête de la truffe. We'll start proceedings with the auction and then move on to the dog trials.'
The auctioneer clambered onto the stage and held a black truffle the size of his fist above his head, commencing the bidding in rapid French.
'A 250-gram Tuber melanosporum from an irrigated truffière just outside of Richelieu.'
For professional buyers the provenance of a truffle is an important indicator of taste. Size is the other factor. As a rule of thumb, the larger the truffle, the stronger the flavour.
'Let's start the bidding at two hundred euros.'
We sat, drank coffee and exchanged news with Annie as the auction continued.
'So what happened to the rosé bar?'
'We could never find the right property. Instead, we ended up in the markets.'
'And it's still just pink?'
'We sell a little of everything.'
Annie laughed. At one stage Tanya and I had been so evangelical about rosé that we refused to drink anything else.
Up on the stage the auctioneer was taking a telephone bid, presumably from a Parisian restaurateur.
'Any advances on three hundred and fifty euros? No? Sold.'
The crowd, which was now sizeable, sighed in disappointment. A prize truffle was on its way north.
'And now something of a rarity – a Kalahari Desert tuber, weighing nearly a kilo.' The auctioneer held aloft a light brown truffle the size of a ruler. People gasped and pointed.
'Found by a nomadic tribesman. Who'll give me a hundred euros?'
Nobody raised their hand. The price fell to €75 and then €50. A man near the front raised his hand and there was a polite round of applause. Clearly nobody had a clue what the truffle was going to taste like.
'Sold for fifty euros.'
Burgundy and then Italian white truffles cheered the auctioneer up by reaching more elevated prices and the auction closed.
The novice dogs were scheduled to appear in minutes and my confidence in Snuffle was quickly fading. He might be able to successfully find truffle-spiked cheese in our garden but how would he react to the crowd? And could he find real truffles? I'd yet to test Snuffle in our truffière because all the advice was to wait until I was sure there were truffles. A hard frost was needed to stimulate the growth of the tuber and recently the weather had been too warm. To develop into a good truffle dog, Snuffle had to feel the thrill of success rather than the deflation of failure. Today was the first step in a long journey.
Tanya, Elodie and I made our way across the square to the funnelled entrance reserved for competitors. We joined a queue of nervous, excitable young dogs. Long, short, big, small, black, white, blotchy, thin, overweight, cross-bred, pedigree – there was no unifying factor, apart from the propensity to bark. The trial organiser, a heavyset man wearing a deerstalker hat and cape reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes, paced up and down the line examining the dogs. He crouched down and held out his chubby paw of a hand to Snuffle, who sniffed greedily.
'Good, you'll go second.'
'Best to get it over with,' encouraged Tanya.
The microphone screeched again.
'Allez – on va commencer les chiens.'
All the dogs moved forward to face the arena – an expanse of sand dotted with branches to symbolise truffle oaks. Somewhere in the great beach in front of us were five truffles. A good dog could find them all in under one minute.
'First it's Victor and his owner Patrick,' announced Sherlock, as I'd mentally dubbed the organiser.
Victor bounded into the ring, but was immediately called to heel. He was a small, short-haired cross-breed. Clearly excited, he was still self-possessed enough to look up
at his owner for instruction.
'How old is Victor?' asked Sherlock.
I realised with dread that every entrant was going to be interviewed.
'Seven months.'
'And how long have you been training him?'
'Since birth. We rubbed truffle oil on the teats of his mother.'
'Good, good, let's see how he gets on. Allez.'
The crowd was now three deep. Victor trotted across the sand, nose to the ground.
'Allez chercher,' cried his owner and Victor was off, walking in ever decreasing circles, before pawing a spot in the sand. The dog's work was so fast that his owner did not have time to uncover one truffle before Victor indicated the resting place of the next. The clock stopped on forty-nine seconds. Everybody applauded and Victor was rewarded with an enormous piece of saucisson. The truffles were collected and hidden again.