Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog

by Jamie Ivey

  Snuffle leaps from his resting place, tail in the air, head low to the ground, fur bristling with aggression. I fumble for the torch. I know it's somewhere by my foot, but in the dark of the borie my fingers struggle to locate it, ranging over dust and stone. Finally I have it. I swing the beam onto the orchard and all is quiet. The leaves are still falling silently like heavy snow.

  With Snuffle to alert me, I can afford to sleep. I roll out a camping mattress and snuggle into my sleeping bag. I close my eyes and realise that I am nearly warm. I wait for sleep to envelop me, but my brain is still working fast. Every day I fight with the building company over some unforeseen element of the construction. The extra charges are mounting up and we are at their mercy, captive clients desperate to get their house built. I'd never appreciated that the construction process would make me feel this hounded.

  We are building a home, concentrating on the tiny details that we hope will bring us joy, guarding some money for a fireplace, to tidy the garden, to buy the paint for the shutters and the interior. The boss of our construction company is building her balance sheet, attempting to pass on as much as possible of the rising cost of materials and labour. Each day is a stressful tug of war between these two conflicting aims. Just when I need to spend more time on my wine business, to develop new sales, to finally get our website up and running, I am assailed with the minutiae of construction. Nearly two years after we started, it still isn't clear whether we will have enough money to finish the project.

  This week the roof is due to be finished. According to French tradition, we are going to host a party for the builders and some friends. Only part of me feels like having the fête. People have promised me that it will get easier once the work starts on the inside. There will be fewer surprises, fewer unexpected costs. I hope they are right. At the back of my mind I am still worried about the illegally large wall. The additional centimetres have brought with them endless angst. We've sunk everything into the project and yet, come completion, the planning office at the préfecture could force us to knock it down. Then there's the chance the foundations will not hold, and that the clay soil will triumph. As yet there have been no more cracks, but I check the walls every day.

  I drift into truffle-filled dreams. The borie becomes a sauna. The coals hiss steam. Someone adds more water. I look again at the coals and realise that they are actually truffles. The aroma of the tuber is so overpowering it becomes difficult to breathe. I cover my mouth with a towel to avoid choking on the fumes. I wake with a start to find Snuffle sitting on my face. He whimpers for food. Outside the leaves still fall. Underground, the truffles are expanding. I can sense it. I look at my watch: it's 4 a.m. The poachers will be leaving their warm beds, making their way to their preferred trees, waiting for the first chink of dawn. I close my eyes and hope that sleep will come again.

  This time it's the truffles I can't get out of my mind. All the literature says my orchard is perfect for truffles. The study from the bank confirmed the trees were infected with the spore for Tuber melanosporum, the black diamond, the second most expensive truffle in the world after the Piedmont white. The trees are planted the ideal 10 metres apart. The oaks are the recommended mixture of the three producing species. Last Easter, under the light of the full moon, I climbed each oak and pruned the largest branches to ensure that plenty of summer sunlight hit the soil below. Heat, moisture, aspect, soil type, the cycles of the moon – I am as obsessive as a vigneron. It isn't about the money, though; the determination stems from a desire to prove we haven't been duped into buying the plot of land by the myth, rather than the reality, of a truffle harvest.

  Once more sleep comes, disjointed and filled with unpleasant dreams. In the Bar du Centre, my locals' beer glass – a wine glass, a tumbler, whatever receptacle is to hand – is replaced by the standard 25-cl serving and then, horror of horrors, by the litre mugs reserved for the Dutch and German tourists. In the corner Serge titters unpleasantly, chewing on tobacco that drips like black tar onto the table. He crosses and raises a saw, chopping each of the legs from my stool in turn, until I am squatting on the floor, trying to reach my drink, which is still resting on the bar. Somebody knocks the glass onto my head and beer hisses through my hair like boiling water through a colander.

  I wake. The sky is hovering between night and day, the stars have disappeared, and smudges of watery grey dissolve the black. The moon is still visible, but paler, disappearing by the second as the sky brightens. Snuffle is on his feet by the door of the borie. He's quiet, but his posture makes me think he's heard or seen something. His head snaps to the left and he barks fiercely with anger. He's gone, chasing into the bushes, tail outstretched behind him. I kick my legs like a drowning man, forcing the sleeping bag from my body. I grab the torch and then discard it, realising it will be useless. I follow Snuffle, tumbling down the hill away from the truffle trees. Down I go, pulling up my belt-less trousers as I run. Snuffle is still barking. Unbelievably, I am catching up with him. Perhaps he has them cornered. He comes into sight, all black, big paws scrambling at the bark of a tree like a baby bear. Catching my breath, I look up. Rather than the dark eyes of a Provençal peasant, there's a cat. I shake my head in despair.

  'Come on Snuffle, let's go and find the truffles.'

  It's cold, really cold, back up by the oak trees. The ground is solid and white. The fallen acorns are encrusted with ice. Their cups resemble the frosted rim of a cocktail glass. The flat light is lifting, the trees emerge from amorphous dark shadows. The pale leaves on the evergreen oaks are visible; seconds later, so is the crumpled tinder-brown foliage of the other trees. Wet air carries the smells of the night, the combined rasping, rooting breath of hundreds of animals and the shivering perspiration of the undergrowth. An anaemic sun offers only the memory of warmth.

  'Over here!' I call to Snuffle and crunch my way over branches and twigs made brittle by the freeze, snapping them like ancient bones. I change the tone of my voice. It becomes gruffer, more commanding. We are at work. This is what we have waited the whole night for, defending our patch. The truffles are now ours by dint of our ownership of the land and our ceaseless vigil. One tree at a time, we mustn't miss them by hurrying.

  Snuffle is alert and focused. His small feet scurry across the ground, taking him first in one direction then another. There is no pattern to his movement. It is so random and haphazard that an observer might think him deranged. All the time, though, Snuffle's nose is to the ground, his brain working hard to filter the multitude of scents and isolate the black diamonds. In my pocket I have his favourite treat of small chopped-up pieces of saucisson. He knows the food is there, he's seen it and smelt it, and he knows what he has to do to earn the reward. The work is exciting, exhilarating. I watch my dog's every movement, anxious not to miss his signals.

  The first three trees have not produced and we move on. There's no need to panic yet. Truffles appear erratically. These same barren trees might in following weeks be surrounded by the tubers. All across the valley, this scene is being repeated. Dogs scampering across the ground, pausing, and pawing at the earth. Their owners following closely behind, alert to the dog and any untoward sounds that might indicate they are being watched. It could be the owner of the land, or worse still, a rival hunter trying to identify truffle-bearing trees.

  Six trees down and Snuffle's enthusiasm is waning. He looks plaintively at me, demanding recompense for the work he has done. I withhold the saucisson and he returns to work, but at a reduced speed. A suspicion grows in my mind that he knows there are no truffles. He's going through the motions for my sake, but the telltale smell is just not there. Another two barren trees and we are at the far side of the orchard. The borie where we spent our cold night is only just visible. My limbs feel suddenly stiff, and tiredness assails me. I rest a hand on the trunk of a tree. Snuffle has finished searching. He's lying on the ground panting, looking patiently up at me. I offer him some saucisson, which he gratefully accepts.

  Perfect cond
itions, no possibility that someone was here before us, and yet still no truffles. After all the training and work, it's incredibly disappointing. The chill is oppressive. I cross to the borie and gather my possessions, folding the sleeping bag away and quickly shoving the remains of my belongings into a rucksack. The tips of my toes sting with pain. I'd remembered layers of clothing but foolishly only worn one woolly pair of socks. My feet are heavy and unsteady as I traipse back through the pines, stumbling where the gradient is steep. Wisps of cloud shroud the village. The clock tower spears through one such puff, and the iron framework from which the bell hangs hovers weightless in the air, severed from the body of the building. It's a strange and beautiful view. One to be treasured and added to the rich repository of sights and smells that make up our life here.

  Chapter 24

  At the front of the room three gendarmes are scanning the gathered crowd. These officers are not the slick, sunglass-wearing, motorbike-riding, fag-smoking, gun-toting youngsters that hang around roundabouts eyeing up the girls. No, they are sérieux, older, wiser, with guts that testify to a working life of two-hour lunches and complimentary wine for the boys in blue. Their paunches hang over their belts and bars of fat collect under their chins. Heavy bags slouch from their eyes. Haircuts are universally short, trimmed right back to the scalp, like a football hooligan or a boxer. There is an air of fatigue crossed with despair. It comes from the way they stand, all drooped and despondent, going through the motions for the sake of form.

  I can't really blame them. The audience this evening is a group of local trufficulteurs called together in response to the shooting. Even Dan Brown couldn't conjure a secret society as tight and impenetrable as this lot. They listen but they don't say anything. I am sitting at the back. In front of me are three rows of men. Bald spots alternate with cloth caps, ski jackets with leather jackets. The smell of truffles is wrapped around these men like a cloak. A forensic examination would find shards of the tuber under their nails, and in their hair. It's cold in the hall. Outside it has begun to snow. It's a few days before Christmas and people are anxious to get home before the roads close. As darkness falls the luminous green exit sign becomes prominent. There's an emergency door with a push-bar handle that'll take me straight out onto the streets.

  So far there's been a lot of talk from the police. They only have so many cars, so many officers, the amount of land to cover is vast, expecting them to provide round-the-clock protection to truffières is unrealistic. However, and this is why we are all here, there mustn't be a vendetta. People must not take justice into their own hands.

  'Every time you see a suspect car, you must give us the number plate, the time and the date. Even if the plate is false, we can do something. And if a suspect is apprehended a number of times early in the morning, or late at night, he better be able to justify his presence.'

  There was silence. People stared at the paint on the walls, the ceiling, mud-stained boots. They shifted in their seats, and the legs of chairs squeaked on the cheap plastic floor. It appeared the meeting was breaking up without any progress having been made.

  'What happened could have happened to any of us.' The speaker wore a blue jacket and had a silvery-white crop of hair. 'He was a good man, and we will do all we can to help his family. Justice is badly served to consider such a man an assassin. All he was doing was protecting his property. Next time, you won't find the body – it'll be leg irons and the Rhône or a hole in the ground.'

  The police officers stood, arms crossed, lips pursed. Unwittingly, they'd multiplied their work. Wheel clamping was beyond their remit, let alone digging for dead poachers.

  Another man stood – cloth cap, patches on the arms of his jacket, and trousers that sagged around a large derriere. 'We are armed because we know the robbers are armed. Go to the Carpentras market, and speak to the buyers; if we are robbed, it's not to make omelettes.'

  The inference was clear – if the voleurs had been gourmands rather than businessmen, lining their stomachs rather than their purses, they might have been forgiven. However, it was obvious that the stolen truffles were destined for the world market, rather than the table of a hungry peasant.

  'Last year I was robbed three times in a week,' shouted an angry farmer. 'I fenced off my trees – the next night they came with wire cutters.'

  'And you,' an accusatory finger was jabbed at the police, 'you call us here, and you've never caught a single person.'

  Tempers were raised. An uneventful meeting was suddenly transformed. People clamoured for their turn to speak. Fists and arms were waved in wild gestures, prescribing full circles in the air. The gendarmes looked on, impassive.

  'Everyone knows who the robbers are,' shouted another man.

  The lead gendarme had had enough. He stepped forward and slowly removed a notebook and pen. Flicking through the pages, he found his place.

  'Perhaps you would like to give me their names.'

  The hall went quiet. Snow drifted past the window. The engine of a car was revved and revved again. The rear door to the room swung open and a latecomer entered. The man leant against the wall and folded his arms. Cold air seeped into the room and I shivered. Nobody spoke.

  'Come on, if you want this to stop, give me names.'

  The men looked at each other, waiting for someone to break the code of silence. Ears were rubbed, hats taken from and then replaced onto heads, jacket collars raised and then lowered, scarves wrapped in ever tighter nooses.

  'Why don't you help?' The gendarme snapped his book shut.

  'I once made a police statement and accused a robber. What happened? Nothing.'

  'C'est vrai.'

  'Il a raison.'

  Men muttered to their neighbours and the tension left the room. The reason none of them were speaking was police incompetence. It had nothing to do with the fact that in tough times, with truffles scarcer and scarcer, they each suspected the other. Far better to blame the police than name a neighbour.

  On my way out I was accosted by a young man in a business suit. In his hands he held a pile of pamphlets for his security company. He thrust one of the leaflets into my hand. The title read, 'Laser protection, the only way forward for the truffle industry.' A photo showed a line of truffle trees criss-crossed by a mesh of beams. 'Anyone breaks the beam and our armed response team will be with you in minutes,' said the young man in a cheery manner, as if he was promising the swift delivery of a pizza, rather than the arrival of a collection of Uzi-wielding ex-servicemen.

  Fires blazed in a circle around our new house, punching a hole in the snowstorm. Someone played a jaunty tune on a violin. The music, when mixed with the snow and the flickering light, gave the scene a surreal, almost theatrical feel. The smell of roasting meat drifted on the air.

  Snuffle heard my car arrive and came roaring towards me. Leaping up on two feet he resembled a performing circus bear. After the requisite minute of patting he lost interest and flung himself around in the snow. His favourite game appeared to be springing into the air to try to catch the falling flakes. Given the vicious abandon with which he snapped his jaw shut, he might have been trapping leaping salmon rather than particles of frozen water. For variation, he charged around in a circle and then at full speed headbutted the gathering drifts.

  Inside the house a group of about fifteen people were gathered. Coffee cups and a bottle of wine were balanced on pieces of brick and wood. A concrete mixer had been filled with snow and was in use as a temporary fridge. A kettle suspended over the fire whistled. Tanya was sitting in a camp chair, wrapped in a warm blanket. One of the builders was rolling a ball towards Elodie, who was whooping with delight. Another builder was perched on a window sill with a violin on his lap. The face of Madame Roland, the directrice of the company, was hidden by an enormous fur hat. Such was its size and squashed aspect, it appeared a raccoon or similar animal had fallen from a skyscraper and plastered itself onto her head.

  'Et alors, Jamie, vous êtes content?' She waved her ha
nd dramatically in the direction of the new roof.

  I nodded my assent. In fact, I was troubled. The meeting with the gendarmes had disturbed me. When we'd bought the plot of land the truffle trees had seemed an added attraction, an opportunity to share in the mystique of Provence. The stories we'd heard in the bars made cavage – the practice of hunting for truffles with a dog – seem like a romantic profession. Theft was involved but the fact that the object being stolen was effectively a mushroom made the whole crime seem trivial. To the English mind, at least, it had been amusing – so redolent of the Provençaux, always thinking of their stomachs.

  The meeting had changed my perspective. The readiness with which everybody had admitted to carrying guns was scary. My midnight vigil had seemed a slightly eccentric way of ensuring nobody got to my truffles before me; unbeknown to me, it had also been dangerous. The atmosphere among the trufficulteurs was sour. Shoot first and ask questions later, was the repeated refrain. The thieves would presumably take the same view. Did I really want to be involved in this? Did my family? All for the sake of a couple of thousand euros a year.

  Adding to my concerns was the lack of guests at the party. We'd invited most of the people we knew in the village but only a scattering had turned up. All right, it was snowing, but the house was scarcely a kilometre away and there was under an inch on the ground. In my head our falling popularity was inextricably linked with the story of the construction of the house. My relationship with Ange was still terrible. Ange and I saw each other maybe once or twice a week, passing on the street or in our cars. Neither of us bothered to even look at the other, staring stonily ahead. For a couple of minutes afterwards I always felt angry. Unwanted thoughts tormented me. What was being said about us behind our backs, and by whom? Would our life here ever get back to normal?