by Jamie Ivey
I nodded. 'And we still can't shut the front door.' Manu had an answer for everything and so I always pursued him on several fronts. That way he could usually be persuaded to come and at least have a look at a problem. Invariably, though, due to some quirk of French lettings law – I think it's called the foreigner's caveat – the responsibility for, and cost of, repairing fell on us.
'OK, I'll be over.' Grey oozy mud splurged out of the top of the drill, seeping over the ground like volcanic lava.
'It's a good sign,' confirmed the foreman, increasing the power of the drill.
Manu appeared content. 'Might as well look at the door.' Together we trudged back across the field. Conversation was impossible. Instead I hid in Manu's slipstream. The treetops swayed elastically, performing a contortionist dance. The disturbed barks of Manu's hunting dogs filled the occasional silence left by the screaming wind.
'Let's get this door off and see what the problem is.'
'In this wind?'
'Come on.'
Tanya and Elodie were still in their pyjamas and they quickly fled to a warmer part of the house. Invoking the foreigner caveat, Manu levered the door from its hinges and had me bend and take the weight. The wind immediately invaded the house, knocking knives and forks to the floor and sending a mug teetering to the edge of the table.
'Il est descendu.' I've never known anything wooden in Provence not 'descendu'. It's the universal excuse for things that don't fit.
Manu reached for his drill. My fingers burned with the strain of holding the door. I could feel splinters working their way slowly through my skin and a dull throb in my lower back.
'Have you found water on your chantier?' I'd been delaying telling Manu about our building project, reasoning that it was hard enough to get repairs done anyway, let alone if we told him we were moving out. I didn't let my surprise register.
'There was an old well.'
'I'll come and divine if you want, always best to have a second source.'
'It's OK, we're sure there's enough water.' For some reason I didn't want Manu snooping around our building site.
'You'll be needing some more olive trees, though, and I've got some to spare.' Manu's drill whirred and a couple of new screws alleviated the weight. At this point warning bells should have gone off in my head. The Provençaux are notoriously frugal and are always slow to do anything and yet Manu seemed to be offering me some of his trees.
The economics of oliviers had always perplexed me. Provence is full of them, yet a mature tree can cost upward of 5,000 euros. The countryside near Maussane-les-Alpilles must hold at least ten thousand. To the locals the olives are a valuable source of income and the region makes some of the best golden peppery oils in Europe. However, the real cash cow is selling mature trees to second homeowners. What pad in the sun is complete without an ancient olive tree by the swimming pool? The thick knotted trunks, to the northern European mind, epitomise the south. A glass of rosé in the shade of an olive tree is what a summer holiday is all about. And so, as with their properties, the Provençaux simply wait for the outsider with a fat cheque book.
Manu's potential gift was therefore unusually generous and completely unexpected, particularly since he was the proud owner of some of the most beautiful trees in the region. Each year he spent weeks pruning his grove into perfect symmetrical shapes. The aesthetic result always had passing photographers reaching for their cameras, but the real motivation was money: a pruned tree produced a larger crop the following year. I'd helped Manu harvest one cold January day and we'd retrieved nearly 10 kilograms of olives per tree, which at the price paid by the mill gave him a substantial annual income from olives alone.
A year ago all but a few of Manu's young saplings had been ripped up by thieves who'd attacked in the middle of the night. At first light the field had looked like it had been visited by an army of moles. I don't think I have ever seen Manu as angry. He strode back to the house, grabbed his shotgun, slung his most vicious hunting dog into the car and headed off to find the perpetrators. Swear words as ripe as an August melon trailed down the drive but the manhunt was unsuccessful. After a couple of days ruminating over the crime, Manu was back out in the fields, paint pot in hand, covering the trunks of his remaining young trees in lashings of vandal-proof paint. The stuff was supposed to become less effective with age, but a year and a bit later, it was as vibrant and virulent as ever.
'Un, deux, trois!' We heaved the door back into place.
'Do you want to look at the windows as well?'
'It's just condensation. It's normal. See you on the chantier in an hour and we can work out where to put the trees.'
In the three months since construction began I'd learnt to expect frequently interrupted days. To keep to the build schedule, my working life had to take second place to problems on site. Prevarication being the enemy of progress, a week rarely went by without instant decisions being needed – location of the sceptic tank, location of the pump to heat the house, a decision on some cheap but cracked stone tiles for the bathrooms, etc.
Our Tunisian builders might have been reviled by the locals but the speed with which they worked was impressive. Already the exterior walls of the house were up, and today for the first time it was going to be possible to climb the staircase and walk on the first floor. Together we would see the view from our bedroom window, provided, that is, the wind didn't knock us to the ground. I'd planned to visit at the end of the day, but as always things had changed.
The cement mixer was churning when I arrived on the site and the builders were using a pulley system to haul the bricks up to the first floor. The impression was of extreme danger. The men weren't wearing hard hats and as the bricks edged their way higher the bundle swung like a wrecking ball. It appeared only a matter of time before man or wall was taken out by a thudding blow, but I was no expert and so I kept my mouth shut.
The house looked stark, ugly, small, a blot on the beautiful countryside. The walls were hidden by piles of different materials. Bricks, timber, mounds of sand, reclaimed roof tiles – the place was an embarrassing mess of noise and junk, but there was always industry. Normally a fire burnt continually, consuming as much of the waste as possible. Today, old, sodden, wind-slung ashes slapped into my face as I approached. Levering myself up onto the concrete raft on which the walls floated, I saw that the staircase had been set in place. There was no handrail, just a fairy-tale spiral which seemed to defy gravity. I would wait for Tanya before climbing to the first floor.
Two hoots of a car horn attracted my attention. Manu's pick-up truck rattled through the gate. The vehicle drew up by the side of the house and I leapt down to greet him. Somehow I had to hide my disappointment. Normally, transporting olive trees is an almost industrial endeavour. Picture Gulliver pinned to the beach by hundreds of Lilliputian cords: this is what an olive tree in transit usually looks like. Their roots are beasts, almost doubling the size of the tree, a mechanical winch is needed to haul them onto the transport trailer, then rope after rope is used to secure the writhing behemoth. I'd expected Manu to arrive with helpers.
Instead, the back of his truck was empty.
'Salut, Jamie.' Manu leapt proudly from the cabin.
'Now, let's see, where's the best place for olive trees? An avenue down the drive?'
I nodded my assent. It was becoming apparent that Manu saw his role as an advisory one only. If there were to be any olive trees transplanted from his field then I would have to pay for them. Pausing by the well, he kicked over a stone and discovered the discarded box for the new pump.
'Building a swimming pool?'
I shook my head.
'Don't tell me someone's put this down your well.'
I nodded and Manu shook his head ruefully.
'It'll maybe last the year. Look at the box – it's meant for a pool-house. How much did you pay for it?'
Before I could answer, two hoots of a horn signalled the arrival of another car. It was the blue Citroën
of Miriam, our neighbour from across the valley.
Miriam strode over, chin out, jaw set. She wore a knee-length fur coat from which the hem of her thin flowery summer dress protruded, flapping recklessly in the wind.
'Glad I caught you. What have you done about your wall?'
First the pump, now the wall. Warm saliva flooded my mouth. Could she already have spotted the extra centimetres of height? I played innocent, ready to deny all knowledge. In the worst case scenario, this being France, perhaps I could bribe her. A crate of wine might be an appropriate starter. A dozen Domaine Tempier from Bandol to begin with, keeping the big battalions, even the odd Bordeaux first growth, for when things got truly desperate.
'What wall?' I stalled.
'Well, the falling down one, of course.'
'Falling down?'
'You mean they haven't told you? Come with me.'
Miriam led me round the side of the house. An ugly smear of fresh concrete was plastered over a 10-metre stretch of bricks.
'I thought you knew. They covered it up yesterday. It was as wide as your arm. Big enough to see on my telescope.'
I rested the palm of my hand against the wall, as if by feel I might ascertain the truth of her story. Certainly something had been quickly hidden from view. The smooth bricks were now ridged and uncomfortable to touch. A brittle tear of concrete came away in my fingers. Underneath I could see daylight. Beneath my feet I imagined the clay soil sighing with relief after the taut, dry summer and, as it relaxed, dragging our expensive foundations downwards, mercilessly cracking anything that rested on them. The folly of building a house on such soil was all too obvious.
'Do you want the number of my lawyer?' Miriam was delighted, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement. 'He's very experienced at this sort of thing. At the same time he can sue whoever sold you the pump.'
'I'll call the building company first, see what they have to say.'
So far the builders had done everything on time, using good materials. They'd responded quickly to all our queries and adapted the shapes of some rooms on request. It was important that we trusted them. The crack must be immaterial, otherwise they would surely have informed us. Despite her professed expertise, Miriam's knowledge of construction had to be as limited as mine. Anyway, how could I rely on the opinion of a woman who spent all day glued to her telescope watching our chantier with the mindless loyalty of a soap opera addict?
Manu, I'd noticed, was treating himself to a tour of the house. I'd seen his head poking out from the half-finished roof, but with the fierceness of the wind he'd quickly ducked back down, only to reappear in the sitting room.
'Nice place you're building. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen – she's going to be big.' He stood regarding the house, weighing up the quality of the bricks and tiles. 'Good views, not far from the village.' Manu nodded his head. It didn't appear he wanted any response from me, he was almost talking to himself, probably working out how many luminous orange olive trees he could sell me.
The village clock chimed eleven. It had already been an eventful day.
Chapter 23
I am sitting in the small stone borie overlooking our truffle trees. It's nearly midnight and the cold has already penetrated five carefully planned layers of clothing. Underneath the fleece, the jumper, the two T-shirts and the vest, my skin is perspiring. The sweat brings a dank chill to my bones. By shifting position I temporarily find comfort, my vest pulls upwards and for a moment at least dry fabric rests against my skin. Jagged stones poke into my back, lodging themselves uncomfortably between my shoulder blades. On my lap is Snuffle, head forlornly pressed between my knees. My hands are sunk underneath his chin for warmth and occasionally I scratch him. It's been two hours now and his movements have gradually become more lethargic. It will be no problem for him to wait like this, semi-alert all night, but for me, the boredom has already crept in.
It's December already. Time usually passes quickly in Provence. It's to do with the strong seasonal differences, the intense blue of summer, the burnished gold of autumn, the white blanket of winter, and the drifting pink blossoms of spring. Nature's clock does not allow the mind to tarry or dwell, instead thoughts are driven ever forward by small changes in the surroundings; the first buds of spring, the heavy late summer grapes falling from the vines, the first pumpkins of autumn, and the heady smell of fires in the hearth heralding winter. Tonight, though, the clock has slowed.
The dead hours until dawn loom. There's nowhere else to look, there's nothing else to see. With my torch I've examined every notch, mark and scratch on the interior walls. The crumbling dust of erosion, the etchings of lovers' names, even what looks like the remains of a swastika. Some of the stones are stained. Water, grease, oil, blood – the rock has imbibed them all. The shelter smells of centuries of agriculture, of rotting wooden implements, rusting iron, stale grain, mould-eaten clothes, wet crumbly rock, of decay, of another, more industrious age. It also smells, if such things have smells, of hardship, of flight, of war. Finally, undeniably, like an undertone in a fine perfume, it smells of truffles.
I imagine my predecessors in this conical structure of stone. First the farmer, who day by day constructed himself a shelter. Every time he overturned a suitable rock in the fields, he would have carted it to this high plateau, and lodged it in the walls of the nascent building. The ridges in the ground show that the land up here was once ploughed, but the main purpose of this lookout, high above the village, must have been for shepherds. Generations of the same family sheltering from the wind, rain and heat, repairing and maintaining when necessary, subsisting on flatbreads studded with olives and tomatoes.
Then, the more recent history. A family of Jews fleeing the narrow streets of the village. Climbing, always climbing, as the torches of the Germans waltz below, the barking dogs becoming more distant and intermittent as they make good their escape. Finally, the relief as they find the promised shelter and huddle inside, all five of them, with their backs curled against the stone walls.
A year or so later, rifles are lined against the wall, a box of grenades, a radio and some explosives. Resistance fighters visit periodically, stocking up for distant raids, speaking in hushed whispers as they fasten the leather straps of the guns and ammunition belts, transforming themselves from peasants to soldiers. Then the last incumbent of the war, a German deserting his comrades in the village. Allied warplanes circle overhead. In irony, in desperation, the soldier carves the swastika into the stone.
Next comes a Frenchman returning from war-ravaged lands, longing above all else to create and to grow. Fingers that once visited destruction now gather the acorns from other truffle-infected trees and sow them in a line in front of the borie. Like me, he is summoned to this spot by the first frost of winter, sitting and waiting, determined that no scavenger will beat him to the truffles.
Outside the moon is full and ripe, bright enough to cast shadows. Each branch, each twig, each leaf finds its twin stretched on the ground beneath. The stars are visible in their thousands, with the constellations obvious to all, and the North Star resplendently dominant. There is near silence. Only the sound of leaves fluttering through the branches and settling on the ground. The noise is gentle, and calming, like fat flakes of snow nestling onto a landscape already muffled by a heavy fall.
Underground, I imagine the earth trembling. As the temperature drops the fungus awakens, called by the moon and the cold into life. The gossamer threads that connect the spores to the trees hum with nutrients and the truffles swell and bloom, inexorably pushing the hard frostbitten earth aside. Their ripe infectious smell recalls the heavy spring rain, and the life-saving August storm; pungent and irresistible, the tubers will double and then triple in size. By morning, the field in front of me will be alive with black diamonds. And just like me, every truffle hunter in the village will be waiting for first light to rush to their favoured spots. The purpose of my vigil is to ensure that nobody gets to my trees before me.
<
br /> This year, the truffle season began with blood. The weather to the north of us has been more extreme and the first truffles are already on restaurant tables. In this initial greedy flurry of activity one man lost his life. A plantation owner, who'd endured a catastrophic drop in his truffle harvest the previous year, decided to take matters into his own hands. He waited up all night, with the cold metal of a rifle resting across his lap. A sound in the field alerted him. Only the accused knows whether the shot was intended as a warning but it certainly wasn't fired into the air. If the court is generous, they'll find he was aiming at a nearby tree; the reality might be he was aiming where he hit – the heart.
In the context of such an event I am hopelessly underprepared. Here I am, armed only with a corkscrew, accompanied by a dog so vicious he once fled a cat. I'm not after revenge, or out to scare people, I just want knowledge. Last year we didn't find a single truffle. Is there a possibility that the trees have stopped producing, or could somebody be getting there before me? I am determined to find out. If a competitor comes, I hope a simple shout will be enough to scare him off.