Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog

by Jamie Ivey

  Before my only visit, some two years ago, residents had warned me 'hold on to your wallet, hold on to your wife'. Given the order of the advice it sounded like a misogynist's charter; still, I'd been keen not to prejudge the city.

  First impressions hadn't been favourable. On the slip road from the autoroute, high on an electricity wire, I'd noticed a pair of trainers swinging from their laces and into my mind had come a vision of some unfortunate tourist, stripped of all his possessions, walking barefoot to the nearest gendarmerie to ask whether anyone had seen his wife. After all, this being Marseille, there would be no point enquiring about his wallet.

  I'd also been warned about the driving. 'Remember that famous French film Taxi, where Marseille resembles a Formula One circuit? It's not fiction, it's fact.' Sure enough, at the first set of red traffic lights I'd encountered, the driver of a Renault Laguna decided to convert his car into an impromptu moped. David Blaine might struggle with this particular trick, but not, apparently, the locals. The secret is to hit the curb at the right pace and voilà, four wheels become two. Pedestrians, bins, cafe tables were all acceptable collateral damage for the Marseillais driver determined to jump the lights.

  That day, virtuoso driving was apparently quite necessary because stretching the length of the visible corniche (coastal road) was a bouchon (traffic jam) capable of punching its own personal hole in the ozone layer. Exhaust fumes churned into the still air, obscuring the horizon and suffocating anyone unfortunate enough to be in a convertible. Rather than hitting the curb at pace and flipping my car onto two wheels, à la Renault Laguna, I decided to stop and have lunch.

  The setting was beautiful, overlooking the old port. The Mediterranean gently rocked a flotilla of sailing ships, the bells on top of the masts clinked pleasingly and fishing boats chugged into port and unloaded their slithering cargo.

  While I sipped on a glass of warm wine and took in the view, a waiter wearing a grease-stained shirt shoved various ill-conceived dishes under my nose, the lowlight of which was an entrecôte steak covered in a sauce aux poivres with the consistency of school custard. I paid in cash and waited for my change. After ten minutes, I was finally presented with a saucer filled with nearly fifty bronze five-cent pieces. It was the Marseillais way of thanking me for my custom. I collected every coin and left.

  The city and I had had nothing to do with each other since, but right now, haring up the autoroute, was a truckload of forage experts, ready, once again, to treat me to the Marseillais version of service. Still, the well needed to be fixed and no one else appeared capable or willing and so I waited for four o'clock and headed to the chantier, taking Elodie with me for the ride.

  Up until this point, day on day, I'd been able to watch progress. As far as I could tell the builders were on schedule and I'd been able to confidently tick off the days until delivery of the completed house. With no workmen, though, the place had a distinctly different feel. The chantier felt abandoned. It had – if only temporarily – joined the many derelict building sites across Provence. A loophole in the planning law meant that, provided some work took place every year, planning permission could be extended indefinitely. As a result, on some chantiers, only a single brick was added every year.

  Rather like a thunderstorm, the Marseillaises could be heard approaching long before they came into sight. The sound of car horns followed their progress up the valley, through the village, towards the building site. Next I heard the engine and the creaking grind of metal on metal, quickly followed by blaring rap music. Finally, the truck swung into view. It was an old pick-up, with an oversized crane mounted on the back. The driver took the dirt track leading up to the chantier at a reckless pace. Bumps pitched the cabin to the left and the right, and the crane rocked this way and that. An iron cable with a hook on the end looped lethally through the air. A jobseeker would rightly think joining the army a safer bet than climbing aboard such a truck.

  Abruptly the engine clicked off and the noise stopped. Dust fell to the ground, revealing two young men in battered jeans and faded T-shirts. They wore aviator sunglasses and pulled heavy industrial gloves from the rear of the truck.

  'Where's the baby, then?' Their demeanour was rushed.

  I presumed they meant the well rather than Elodie, who could not have escaped their notice. My daughter had started to choose her own clothes and, like her mother, she had something of a shoe obsession. Given that she only had two pairs to chose from this didn't usually present too much of a problem. However, recently she'd discovered Tanya's collection, which is how she came to greet the Marseillaises wearing a pair of furry boots/slippers that rose the length of her legs and engulfed her midriff. I'd tried to take them off her but in the end her tears had proved more durable than my perseverance, and she now greeted the forage experts with amused and determined eyes. Hesitantly she took small shuffling steps, as if to prove that her choice of footwear was not as ridiculous as we all thought.

  I directed the Marseillaises towards the well in the corner of the field. One of them hoisted himself onto the arm of the crane and the other swung back into the driving seat. With bangs on the roof replacing language they manoeuvred the truck into position.

  'Up she comes.' One of the men attached the hook to the cable within the well. There was a whirr and the truck winch, mounted on the crane, squeaked into life. Within minutes the pump was pulled into the light. Rusty and battered, it certainly looked defunct.

  The Marseillaises didn't waste time on a diagnosis, slinging the pump into the rear of the truck and rummaging in a pile of boxes for a replacement. The winch whirred again, the cable was played, with protest, back into the well and the new pump disappeared from sight to begin its subterranean life.

  'Give it a go.'

  I turned the tap. A trickling smudge of water emerged. This was followed by a vicious vomit of liquid, then hissing air, and finally a constant gush. The pump was working. The Marseillaises raised their shades, removed their gloves, wiped their foreheads and presented me with the bill: 2,000 euros for twenty minutes of work. Even so, it was better than the ten thousand or more that Madame Roland had predicted, and so I signed the cheque. Within moments they were gone, bouncing off down the track, heading off to some other emergency.

  Somehow Elodie had taken off one of Tanya's boots. She now wore it wedged on her head, the heel and sole dangling to one side like an oversized pompom on a Santa hat. Her expression was totally serious and all her attention was focused on filling the other boot with handfuls of mud. I tried not to laugh and I tried not to think what Tanya would say.

  Instead, I called Madame Roland.

  'It's fixed. You can start work again.'

  'Who did the work?'

  'A company from Marseille.'

  'Oh là là.' I could imagine her on the other end of the phone, using that peculiarly French gesture, a vigorous shake of the wrist, to indicate that somebody had just done something very stupid.

  Chapter 20

  There is an etiquette to supermarket shopping the world over. Everybody enters, trolley empty, list in hand, hoping to whizz in and out as quickly as possible, praying they don't meet anyone they know. The bright lighting, the claustrophobic aisles, the chill of the freezer cabinets and the mind-numbing wait at the checkout combine to create an unpleasant experience. The shorter it has to be endured, the better.

  However, particularly in a small community, the interior of a local supermarket is always filled with casual acquaintances. The aisles hide a delaying minefield of banal greetings and pointless conversations. A quick reconnaissance trip, skidding the length of the shop without putting anything in the trolley, is often essential. That way, problem areas can be identified, and gossips avoided. It's possible just by glancing at other people's trolleys to chart where they'll go next – after dairy it's always the drinks aisle and after cereals it's usually the chilled cold meats. The crafty shopper who plots his course can, with a little luck, avoid all interruptions.

  Th
e optimum moment for weekly groceries in France is lunchtime. The aisles are empty apart from expats scooting around sheepishly stocking up on Marmite and baked beans. It's my favourite time to shop. Even so, I'm forced to deploy a full array of conversation-halting body language. The vegetable section is the most likely place to spot a familiar face. If eye contact is made, a wave of acknowledgement is necessary, but then one can quickly become distracted by the urgent need to fill a plastic bag full of lemons. If there's no eye contact, then there's always a handy pile of melons or pumpkins to dive behind and wait until the aisle clears.

  Outside the vegetable section it's harder but still possible to avoid conversations without appearing rude. The secret is to adopt an air of being under overwhelming time pressure. A nuance of supermarket behaviour is that people don't actually have to believe your charade. The majority of shoppers don't want to talk either. They'll be grateful if you glance at your watch, run your fingers in a hassled way through your hair and indiscriminately chuck articles into your trolley. A pantomime performance is quite sufficient.

  Sometimes, though, even a skilled operator deploying all the right body language can get caught. In my case there's a fatal flaw in my nature that means for just one small moment I'm vulnerable, a sitting duck, prey to any sick, twisted blabbermouth who labours under the misapprehension that the supermarket is a meeting place, a chance to catch up on news and enquire after the family. My weakness? La Provence: I always flick to the back page to check out the weather.

  The newspaper rack in our supermarket is located right next to the quick 'ten items only' checkout. It's a zone fraught with danger. Shoppers in a queue are happy to stop and pass the time of day and the usual rules of etiquette do not apply. Yet it's always important to watch the weather. Among the joys of living in Provence are the glorious warm October days. Working for ourselves, it's possible to ditch the day job and head to the coast. At this time of year the French seaside is an absolute joy. The Mediterranean sparkles, it's still warm enough to swim, the restaurants are all open, and the ambiance is one of leisurely enjoyment. The harsh heat and the crowds of the summer have disappeared and the feel is of a bygone era. In other words, it's well worth the risk of checking La Provence for the forecast.

  It was just after one o'clock. The safest time to shop. The typical Frenchman would be at the table indulging in a glass of wine, having a courgette farcie starter, salivating over the smell of the grillade (grilled meat) to follow, with half an eye on the tarte Tatin for dessert. Expats would have just finished their sandwiches and be searching for the car keys. Normally the next half an hour would be clear. As was my habit, I picked up the paper. On Thursday the skies were clearing, the temperature rising and the only worry was the mistral, predicted to rise to 20 kilometres per hour by the afternoon. Could we risk a beach trip?

  I flicked the pages and my eye was caught by an article about an unusual festival. A local boutique owner was organising Provence's first, and in all probability the world's first, fête du string. Entrants were invited to customise their G-string with bangles and handicraft designs, and the results would be displayed on mannequins in the village hall.

  I shook my head, lowered the paper, folded it and put it back in the rack. Turning around I came face to face with Ange. We'd not spoken since the rendezvous on the chantier six months ago. My phone messages had remained unanswered and in the end I'd simply given up. We'd passed each other in the car. He'd kept his eyes on the road and not noticed me. There had been no chance meetings in the village to clear the air and resume our steak tartare recipe exchange.

  Now we were so close that with a slight lean forward I could give him the customary kiss. No amount of supermarket savvy body language could save me now. In fact, I was grateful for the opportunity to try to kick-start our old relationship.

  'Bonjour.' I held out my hand, unsure whether we were still on kissing terms.

  Ange looked the same as ever. Baseball cap pulled low over his head, clothes stained with brick, plaster and paint, hands dirty and covered in grime, fingernails chipped and broken. There was the familiar smell of garlic and if he accepted a kiss the prickly bed of his perma-stubble would greet me.

  Ange looked up. He fixed his dark eyes on me, holding my gaze for a long second.

  Finding a use for my outstretched hand I pointed at his shopping. 'What are you having with the confit?'

  A smirk cracked the corner of Ange's mouth. He then turned, put his shopping basket on the floor and walked out of the shop. The inference was clear. My presence revolted him so much he was even prepared to forego his lunch. I was left standing, arm held out, head half stooped for a kiss, so that I overbalanced and had to grope for the trolley to balance myself. The shock of someone being quite so rude was extraordinary. It was like being slapped in the face, hard, twice, and then once more for good measure.

  Mechanically, I completed the weekly shop, but my mind ranged over all our actions. I'd offered to pay Ange for his work but he hadn't called back. How can you pay someone who won't even give you an invoice? No fault there. We'd employed other builders only when the bank had refused to release funds. No fault there. Why, therefore, was he so angry with us?

  Perhaps he'd told people we didn't have the money to build the house, and then suddenly been made to face the embarrassing reality of us opening the chantier. Potentially there was also an element of xenophobia. Anyone outside one's immediate village was considered a foreigner. And we'd employed a company from distant Aix-en-Provence to work for us. Not only that but it was a company that used Tunisian builders – men who were prepared to work for cheaper wages and break up the comfortable monopoly enjoyed by the local artisans.

  Could Ange's anger be justified? Perhaps we could have fought harder to find another bank, but after all the excuses, the broken down cars, the clampings, the stray wild boar, we'd lost confidence. But what if the litany of accidents had actually occurred? What if, as Ange had maintained, local practice was to give estimates rather than firm quotes? We'd felt so strongly that we were being misled but perhaps there was an alternate truth that fed Ange's bitterness.

  I was still working through possible explanations as I crunched back up the drive. The vines glowed a ripe orange in the sunlight, the leaves on the oaks were a bright luminous yellow, and the cherry orchard opposite a polished burnished brown. Wisps of cloud skidded across the hills so that shadows and sunlight hid and then illuminated the vibrant colours. I gathered the shopping bags together and the plastic bit uncomfortably into my fingers. Taking deep breaths of the cool air I cleared my head.

  I opened the door and Tanya placed the phone back on the hook. She looked a little disconcerted. Elodie was sitting at her high chair covered in spaghetti. Snuffle was licking up a pool of sauce from the floor. Crayons and miscellaneous toys were scattered across the room. During my absence carnage had been visited on the sitting room.

  'Who was on the phone?' I placed the bags on the floor by my feet.

  'Oh, only Fabian.'

  'Still trying to sell us heating?' I realised too late that Tanya's tone was serious.

  'He wanted to know why we weren't at Delphine's.'

  'I thought it was cancelled.'

  'Apparently not, went ahead as usual.'

  'Where was our invite?'

  Tanya shook her head. 'I don't know.'

  Delphine was extraordinarily liberal in handing out invites to her fête. She'd once told us that there was no point in having a grand old property unless you shared it with people. Every year the guest list grew, the terrace became more crowded and the pleasing bubble of voices lingered ever later into the starlit night. The jazz band would have been bigger than the previous year, another loop of lights would have been added to the plane trees and an extra table to the buffet.

  'Anyway, I've got something to tell you.'

  'Hold on. I saw Ange in the supermarket.'

  'How was he?'

  'Wouldn't even speak to me. Walked out of t
he shop.'

  'Jamie, it doesn't matter.'

  'The wine tasting, the boules tournament and now Delphine. It's like there's a blacklist.'

  'I said it doesn't matter.' There was a tear in Tanya's eye. 'I've got something to tell you.'

  I took her hand, expecting the worst. Perhaps a malicious rumour being spread about us, or news that the préfecture had discovered our illegal wall. The firmness of her grip was painful. The wind blew the front door open, scattering a pile of invoices into the air. As the door clapped shut the paper drifted to the ground, settling with the silence of snow. The radio in the background announced a series of train strikes and the timer on the microwave pinged.

  'I'm pregnant again.'

  'You're what?' I gave her an enormous hug. 'That's fantastic, when did you find out?'

  'Just now while you were out.'

  'And there's no doubt?'

  'No.'

  'Have you called your parents?'

  'No, I was waiting for you.'