Provence - To Die For

by Jessica Fletcher

  I piled the dried-out potatoes and carrots in a bowl and left them on the counter—they’d probably be good for soup—and went outside. The air was crisp but not cold, and reminded me I was due for another walk in the woods. I pulled open the garage door to hunt for a paper or plastic bag. The gray cat pushed her head through the hole under the stairs and meowed at me.

  “Hello, kitty,” I said, kneeling down so I could reach behind her ears, her favorite place for scratches. She accompanied me as I circled around the bicycle and waded through the machinery and cast-off furniture to the back of the garage. A large shopping bag stood against the wall. Inside were unopened cans of acrylic paint. As I stacked them on the floor, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d never seen Martine’s studio. She must have a special place to paint, I thought. I eyed the rickety stairs to my right, wondering if they led to her workroom.

  “That’s where you are,” Mallory’s voice said from behind me. “I wondered where you’d gone to.”

  “I’ve found something to hold Martine’s clothes,” I said, lifting up the empty shopping bag, and angling to avoid the sharp edge of an old scythe that was lying against a box.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for the bag and putting a hand out to steady me as I stepped gingerly over a pile of wooden planks. “You’ve got another visitor, and this one’s brought eggs.”

  “Monsieur Telloir,” I called out as I exited the garage, brushing cobwebs off my sleeve. “You’re just the man I want to see.”

  Chapter Eight

  We got on the road at seven. M. Telloir had declined a cup of coffee and a slice of Mme Roulandet’s cake; he was impatient to start out. It was a chilly morning, but high, wispy clouds promised a sunny day. Dressed in a warm sweater, long woolen skirt, and low-heeled shoes, I locked the door to the farmhouse behind me. I’d decided not to invite Mallory to join us—she seemed perfectly content with that—and had left her sleeping in Martine’s bed. It was going to be hard enough to find Daniel and get him aside for a private conversation without the added worry of keeping an eye on a teenager.

  On reflection, it seemed silly to worry about a girl who’d been traveling around France on her own for months. But now that she was, nominally at least, under my care, I felt I owed her parents the courtesy of keeping track of her. I was eager to speak with them when they called, and contemplated calling them myself if I could figure a way to pry their number out of Mallory without her getting upset and leaving in a huff. I couldn’t imagine what the Cartrights had been thinking when they agreed to allow Mallory to wander abroad by herself.

  While I’d never had children of my own, I did have young nieces and nephews and cousins, and knew that none of their parents would have considered for a second allowing a teenager to wander in Europe, not only un-escorted but without an adult informed of her whereabouts. But maybe I was old-fashioned. In Paris I’d seen groups of teenagers who seemed to be touring together without a grown-up leader. Perhaps today’s teenagers were more mature than they’d been years ago; maybe their parents trusted them to behave appropriately, and that trust was rewarded. Mallory certainly was polite, and, truth to tell, I hadn’t seen her act irresponsibly. It was possible she’d been calling her parents every step along the way. Still, no matter how trustworthy a young person was, there were many untrustworthy adults ready to prey on a youngster without adult supervision.

  Mallory had said she was eighteen, technically an adult herself in many parts of the world. But I suspected she wasn’t being honest about her age. That was another concern altogether. “Oh, stop it, Jessica,” I told myself. “She’ll be fine back at the farmhouse, and you have things to do.”

  I’d given M. Telloir only the barest facts yesterday when I’d asked to accompany him to Carpentras, but he was well informed by the time he drove up in his old red Peugeot. Marcel and Mme Arlenne had been very busy making sure all of St. Marc was up to date on the on-dit.

  “Too bad about the chef,” he said, when I’d settled myself in the passenger seat.

  “Yes, it was,” I replied.

  “And your passport.”

  “I’ll get it back soon, I’m sure.”

  “Did they find the weapon that killed ’im?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “ ’E had a good restaurant.”

  “Have you eaten there?”

  “Non! Trop cher Too expensive.”

  He let out the clutch and we bumped along on the dirt drive as he turned around the big tree in front of the house and started toward the main road. The car had an earthy, moldy odor to it, the air inside damp, and the windows clouded with condensation. I loosened the top button of my jacket, and wondered what could have happened to create such a strong smell. Perhaps the car had had a leak and the upholstery was mildewed. I cracked the window to let in a little fresh air.

  “Non! You must leave the windows closed,” he cried out in agitation, gesturing frantically.

  I jumped at the outburst. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Pour les rabasses,” he said, cocking his head toward the backseat.

  I turned around to see a wet towel draped over a lumpy canvas bag on the seat.

  “What’re rabasses?” I asked.

  “Rabasses? Truffles. It is the Provençal word for truffles.”

  “You have truffles in there?”

  “Oui!”

  “That’s what I smell?”

  “Oui!”

  “Why do you want them wet?” I asked.

  “Not wet, just ‘umid. I try to keep them like the soil they were found in. If they dry out, c’est terrible.” He made a fist and shook it.

  “I see,” I said. “That would spoil the flavor.”

  “No, no,” he said, disgusted. “Do you know what they call them? Black diamonds.”

  “Black diamonds,” I echoed.

  “Yes. And like diamonds, one sells the truffles according to the weight.”

  “Oh!” Now I understood. If the truffles dried out, they’d lose weight, and M. Telloir would receive less money for them. At several hundred dollars per kilo—more, by the time they reached Paris—his truffles were a precious crop indeed, and every lost ounce was costly.

  He drove slowly down the dirt lane before stopping at the end of the drive across from Mme Arlenne’s house. He looked both ways, then pulled out into the lane of traffic even though a car was speeding toward us. There was a blare of horns as the infuriated driver jammed on his brakes and swerved around the Peugeot. M. Telloir honked back in irritation.

  We rode in silence. I tried to ignore M. Telloir’s driving and concentrated instead on taking shallow breaths until I became accustomed to the pungent aroma of the truffles. It was a smell I would not soon forget.

  The road wound away from the village and merged with a larger one, snaking down the hill toward the highway. Here and there were lines of tall cypress trees that defined a farm’s border or served as windbreaks for the occasional stone houses that hugged the thoroughfare. We passed fields of grapes, their bare vines twined around lines of string or propped up by wooden supports. M. Telloir pointed to a grove of olive trees. Their trunks were gnarled and their branches reached out, nearly touching those of the neighboring trees.

  “It’s good Martine, she keeps ’er trees.”

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  He smiled. “Beautiful, yes, but what is of importance, they give fruit,” he said. “Today, too many farmers, they are cutting them down.” He made a slashing move with his arm.

  “Why would they do that?”

  He shrugged and raised both his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “Why? They cut them to plant the grapes instead,” he said. “There is more money to be made with grapes. But they will learn it is not so easy. Martine’s trees, they’re old and don’t require much. Grapes are more work.”

  “Martine told me you pick the olives for her,” I said. “What do you do with them? Do you cook with them yourself?
”

  He shook his head. “Non. I bring them to the market, or if there is a big ’arvest, I sell them to the mill, where they press them for olive oil. We share the profits.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted olive oil from Provence.”

  “The best olive oil comes from Provence,” he said, tapping the steering wheel vehemently.

  “The only olive oil I’ve ever seen is from Italy.”

  He grunted and a frown creased his brow.

  “But of course, all the Mediterranean countries make olive oil,” I said, half to myself, hoping I hadn’t offended him. “And Provence is on the Mediterranean, too. I’ll have to make sure I bring home some olive oil. Perhaps you’d recommend one for me when we’re at the market?”

  Mollified, he launched into a discussion of the merits of different olive varieties and the best blend for oils. I listened but looked away from him, focusing on the scenery so I couldn’t see him gesturing with both hands off the steering wheel at what must have been seventy miles an hour.

  Shortly before eight, we arrived in Carpentras. The city was much larger than I’d expected, and I was glad M. Telloir knew the way. He followed the broad avenues that led to the center of town, and then turned off into a warren of small streets. They reminded me of the narrow lanes of Avignon, built for mules, not cars. Finding a place to park was a difficult assignment, especially with the competition from vehicles owned by merchants who’d arrived before us to set up for market day. Eventually, M. Telloir crammed the car between two others in a space in front of a notice posted on a pole that threatened dire consequences to all who left their cars there. Once in the space, however, he had to back up again to let me exit the car. How he managed to squeeze himself out, along with the damp sack of truffles, I’m not sure, but at eight A.M. we presented ourselves at Le Club on Place Aristide Briand along with close to a hundred others milling about in front of and inside the bar.

  A combination brasserie and pizzeria, according to a sign that ran along the awning, Le Club was jammed with people apparently unaffected by the overpowering mixture of truffles and cigarette smoke that permeated the air. My eyes watered, and I tried to maneuver myself to stand near the door, hoping for a little air as people entered and left. A group of men had gathered around the bar in the back, some drinking coffee, others sipping beer, wine, or brandy. M. Telloir had elbowed his way to the counter and emerged ten minutes later with two cups of the strongest coffee I have ever attempted to drink. A few of the tables in the front were available. We took a seat near the door and watched the parade of farmers and trades-men, housewives and students, sophisticates and peasants, all of whom had come to sell their Tuber melanosporum. On the table next to us, someone had laid a portable scale for use when the bidding got serious. A dangerous instrument, it had a sharp hook at the end of a chain attached to a long metal bar. A movable lead cylinder allowed its user to determine the weight by sliding it along the calibrated bar till the two sides balanced.

  The sight of a chef in his gleaming white coat and tall toque making his way through the throng started a buzz among the patrons. As if by signal, they moved back to open a path for him. He disappeared in the back by the bar.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Claude ‘Arvé. ’E has a three-star restaurant in Cannes. They buy over four hundred kilos of truffles every year.”

  “Do you know Daniel Aubertin from the Hotel Melissande?”

  “Only by reputation, but it’s possible I know ’is face.”

  “He’s the one I need to see.”

  ‘If ’e cooks, ‘e will be ’ere.”

  Outside the window was a man in a long green coat, the sleeves and capped top edged in gold. He held a brightly colored flag with a red symbol in the center. I noticed several others dressed in the same livery.

  “Is the market about to start now?” I asked.

  “They wait for more to come.” He poked his chin in the direction of a stout man in a shabby blue jacket with two sets of zippered pockets. “See Jean-Paul there? ‘E is a courtier, a broker. ’E is not so large. The pockets, they are filled with cash. ’E buys for a consortium in Paris.”

  Standing next to Jean-Paul was a beefy young man in black leather. Probably his bodyguard, I thought.

  “Et voilà Albert Belot, next to the lady in the red jacket.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Gave up farming and planted ‘is land with oak trees to grow the truffles. Everyone, they think ’e’s crazy. Did not make money for years. But ‘e’s crazy like a fox. Those trees, they make the truffles. ’E’s rich now.”

  Albert, who was dressed similarly to the other men in the room in a nondescript jacket and gray wool cap, clutched a blue-and-rose-patterned cloth bag, heavy with the prized tubers. It was hard to tell the professionals from the amateurs, except perhaps by the size of their bundles. Wrapped in ski jackets, field jackets, wool corduroy, and tweed coats; in rubber boots, sneakers, and sturdy heels; wearing caps, berets, or bare-headed, they brought their truffles to market in plastic bags, canvas sacks, leather purses, or bulging pockets, all equal in their eagerness to place their treasures before the men who would judge them—the chefs and the truffle brokers.

  In a booth diagonally across from ours were two men with their dogs, mangy creatures with dirty coats and unkempt whiskers. The same could be said of their owners. The animals lay peacefully under the table while the men hunched over coffees, each with one hand roped to his dog and the other resting on his sack of truffles. Their presence reminded me of why M. Telloir had come to Carpentras.

  “Where will you find the man selling the dog?” I asked.

  “‘E will be ’ere later, at the end of the market.”

  “Do you know what kind of dog it is?”

  “Doesn’t matter, if ‘e has the good nose,” he said, tapping the tip of his own. “Some say the Labrador, ’e is un bon chien truffier, a good truffle dog. ‘E can smell them from fifty meters. But a big dog like that, ’e takes up too much room in the bed. Moi, je préfère le petit chien. I prefer the little dog.”

  “The dog sleeps with you?”

  “It’s harder to steal the dog if ’e lies next to the master.”

  When I thought the addition of one more person would split the walls of Le Club, a cry went up and the restaurant began to empty. It was nine o’clock—we’d been there for an hour. The wait was worth it, I thought, when the pageant began with the assembly of members of the black-caped Confrérie de la Truffe and green-coated Confrérie des Vignerons, the brotherhoods of the truffle and the winegrowers. The crowd in the brasserie spilled out onto the sidewalk, where a U-shaped setup of empty wooden tables was arranged against the building. In their distinctive hats, medals dangling from their necks, multihued banners held aloft, the brotherhoods, which I was happy to see included a few sisters, took their places in a line behind the tables and sang the official ode to the truffle, their voices enthusiastic if not always on key. The anthem was followed by a fanfare from trumpeters in red-and-green berets and crimson jackets with white ruff collars, their uniforms and long horns harking back to medieval days.

  “Do they do this every week?” I asked, delighted with the festivities.

  “Non,” M. Telloir replied. “Today is opening day, so we make a fuss.”

  The formal ceremonies over, the market began in true. The crowd that had waited so patiently in the bar now fought for space at the tables, where they could plunk down their bags and entice a chef or broker, or even a well-heeled private customer, to judge their wares. M. Telloir pushed me before him to the front of the line, shouldering aside others less aggressive. When we reached the table, he gently laid his truffle sack on the table and waited for a visit by one of the brokers. Chef Harvé was one of four chefs in white uniform who made the rounds of the sellers, poking their heads into sacks and breathing heavily to allow the scent of the truffles to fill their sinuses. I tried to see the faces of the others, but two of them had th
eir backs to me.

  A man came over to us, reached into the sack, and pulled out one of M. Telloir’s prized pieces. It was about the size of a plum and looked to me like a clod of dirt. The broker squeezed the truffle, turned it over in his hand, dug his thumbnail into its side, and then sniffed it, holding it first under one nostril and then the other. He dropped the truffle back in the bag, wrote a number on a small pad of paper in his palm, tore off the top sheet, and stuffed it in M. Telloir’s hand, then moved on to the lady next to us.

  “Poufft! They’re worth more than that,” M. Telloir exclaimed, crushing the offer and stuffing it in his pocket. “Chef ’Arvé will do better for me.”

  “What was he doing to your truffle?” I asked.

  “They look to see if it is hard and black inside,” he replied. “It is necessary to check. There are many who are not above using black ink to change the color, or poking pellets inside to make the truffles weigh more.”

  I looked with new eyes at the men and women vying for the attention of the experts. Were there swindlers among their ranks? Naively, it hadn’t occurred to me that such a situation could exist in a country market in Provence. But sadly, con artists will surface anytime a profit can be made.

  “Daniel! Venez ici! Over here,” a man called from a table on the other side.

  One of the chefs at a table opposite us raised his hand and went to greet his next truffle seller, his back to me.

  “Is that Daniel Aubertin from the Hotel Melissande?” I asked the lady next to me.

  “Oui,” she replied. She draped a damp cloth on top of her basket, then left to bring her chit to the brasserie to collect payment. Two people took her place.

  I turned to M. Telloir. “That’s the man I came to find,” I whispered to him, pointing to Daniel across the way. M. Telloir grunted, but his attention was focused on Chef Harvé, who was working his way toward us, checking each bag on our side of the table. M. Telloir opened the top of his sack to expose the clutch of truffles he was selling and watched intently as the chef plucked the largest one and cut a nick in it with a wood-handled knife. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I said.