by Dick Rosano
“I meant the truffle hunt,” he stammered.
Just then, Alfonso walked past their table, stopped suddenly when he recognized Nicki and Paolo, and spun around to greet them.
“Buona sera, signorina,” he said reaching for Nicki's hand, as he offered Paolo only a nod. “And what brings the two of you to this restaurant.”
Nicki didn't dislike Alfonso but thought of him as light and somewhat lacking in maturity. Francesco could have better friends, she thought, but then again, she didn't think it wise to interfere.
“We were hoping to hear some more rumors about the truffle problem, maybe even find someone who knows more than rumors,” Paolo said, although he was seriously eyeing the menu as he spoke.
“Rita and Stefano had to return to Genoa, but they decided it would be a good idea for us to stay here, find out what we could, and help them resume their search for affordable truffles when they return next Monday.”
A young woman sidled up to Alfonso and put her arm around his waist. She smiled sweetly and spoke in friendly terms. Alfonso wrapped his arm around her shoulders and introduced her as Lidia.
Lidia was pleasant and almost shy, finding herself the lone stranger in this group of friends. But Alfonso made it a point to include her in the conversation and Nicki warmed to her also. Her dark hair and hazel eyes set were a colorful contrast to her white complexion, and she seemed to have a genuine personality that made her easy to converse with. Alfonso was a bit flighty, Nicki thought. Perhaps this girlfriend would keep him grounded.
Alfonso and Lidia excused themselves, just in time for the main course to arrive.
Paolo and Nicki exchanged stories about their lives before the Ristorante Girasole and Alba. Paolo described the family farm, how his father labored in the vines every day, and how he wanted to go to America.
“Why America?” Nicki asked.
To Paolo, it seemed a strange question. “Doesn't everyone want to go to America?”
“I don't,” she said, shrugging her shoulders to accentuate her lack of interest in such a plan. Nicki explained that everything she had ever wanted was in Italy. America was a nice place, she said – and she drew a jealous look from Paolo when she said she had already been to New York and Washington – but she couldn't live without the people, the culture, the family structure, the food, wine, and art of Italy.
“Would you leave all that behind?” she asked him.
Nicki might have wanted an answer from Paolo, but he needed more time to think, so he treated her question like it was rhetorical. And he thought about his family, his father, and how his mother seemed to loosen her bonds on him while somehow holding him tight to her breast.
Nicki told Paolo about her family's farm, the vegetables that they grew for themselves and for the alimentarii, the little grocery stores in the village, and how she and her brother and sister were proud of growing their own food.
“Being close to the earth was, by itself,” she said, “a reward in life.” Paolo noticed how she softened as she talked about that life before.
Then Nicki told Paolo about how her father had died working on the farm. She looked down at her plate, pushed the meat around a bit with her fork, and let out a little sigh.
She paused, and Paolo respected her with his silence. When she continued, Nicki explained how it had been an accident on the farm, something to do with the tractor and a malfunction.
She explained that she couldn't stay at the farm anymore. “I go home twice a year to see my mother, and I miss her so much.” With this she couldn't fight back the tears that gathered on her eyelashes. She flicked her finger at one drop that threatened to spill onto her cheek.
They shared the rest of the dinner in greater silence, but still talked about their lives a bit. Paolo got to know more than the flirtatious charm he saw so often in Nicki.
Chapter 32
Morning Plans
Morning seemed to come earlier than usual the next day. The excitement of the truffle festival created an indescribable energy that caught everyone up in it. The streets literally filled with tourists and hungry foodies, who were pouring into this quiet city every hour, many of whom did not want to miss the Palio degli Asini. The annual race featured donkeys commandeered by locals from the borghi, or neighborhoods, vying for the victory in a race that mixed humor, stubbornness, and pageantry.
The atmosphere was infectious and swept Paolo along. His thoughts were still on the truffle harvest and every so often his mind drifted back to the Rita's assignment. As the festival atmosphere mingled with his thoughts of missing truffles, he even wondered whether this tension added to the mood of the town during this season.
For her part, Nicki was less intrigued with the festival and focused more on the absence of Francesco. “He seems to be so distant,” she thought, as she searched the crowd for signs of him.
Paolo and Nicki sized up the day and tried to decide who they could talk to after what little they got from Giorgio and Bruno, something to further the investigation and respond to some of Rita and Stefano's questions. Since the scheduled events of the truffle festival didn't begin until later in the day, Nicki tried to get Paolo back on track and refocused on the assignment they had regarding the mysterious disappearance of most of the truffle crop.
“We've got to find out more about the truffles,” she said. “It's Saturday, the festival will occupy most of our attention – and the attention of the trifolài – and we need to find out more before they come back on Monday.”
Paolo nodded in agreement, while Nicki's own attention was split looking for Francesco.
“Let's go to some of the restaurants,” Paolo suggested. “Truffles mean more to them than anyone in this town. Surely they're already investigating the problem.” It was an incontrovertible statement, and Nicki nodded assent.
A sonorous chirp from Nicki's cell phone called her attention and, looking at the display, she quickly punched in the “receive” button.
“Francesco, tu dov'é?Perche? Lavori alla fattoría? Ancora? Quando ritornerai?
Even though she cupped her hand over the phone – having a tiff with one's boyfriend is not what a girl wants others to hear – so she was muffling her words, but her tone alone convinced Paolo that she was angry.
She carried on a brief conversation, then softened a bit as Francesco's words seem to calm her. By the end of the call, Nicki smiled, nodded her head once again, and slowly put the phone back in her pocket.
“Andiamo,” she said curtly, turning about and heading down the street without waiting to see if Paolo kept up. He did.
By now Paolo was accustomed to Nicki's blend of gentleness and command, so he shook his head with a chuckle, and caught up with her.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To Bottega del Caffè, in Via Alfieri.” The name didn't mean anything to Paolo, but Nicki's purposeful stride made him choose simply to follow her and not ask any more questions.
After a brief two-block walk, they approached a sidewalk spread of umbrella-topped tables. Paolo took in the rich, lusty aroma of freshly brewed coffee before they came even with the wide-cast doors of Bottega del Caffè. Just as Nicki was turning in toward the interior of the café, she nearly walked into Lidia, who was talking over her shoulder and not watching where she was going.
“Ciao, Nicki,” Lidia said warmly. “How are you? We had the best meal last night. I told Alfonso we should follow you around to find the best places to eat.”
Nicki laughed it off, but replied, “We just follow the suggestions of my employer, Paolo's aunt. She knows everything about food and, apparently, everyone in Alba who knows about food.”
As Alfonso waved goodbye to the barista and joined Lidia at the door, they slipped sideways to allow Paolo and Nicki to enter, waving on their way out the door.
“Nicki spends a lot of time with him,” Alfonso said, serving as protector for his friend Francesco.
“Well, maybe Francesco is not making himself available
enough,” countered Lidia.
Nicki walked up to the cashier and ordered a cappuccino and a double espresso for Paolo, by now knowing what her companion liked to drink in the morning.
Paying for the order, Nicki then took the ticket to the counter to present to the barista. With the deft motions of a man accustomed to filling hundreds of these orders each day, the barista swiftly produced a large steaming cup of cappuccino for Nicki, and a piping hot, though conspicuously smaller, cup of black liquid for Paolo.
They moved their treasure to a nearby table that was elevated for standing patrons, and Nicki looked around the room. Her eyes darted from table to table, then came to rest on a smallish man who wore a cap pulled down upon his head, and workman's clothes hung from his slight frame. Paolo shifted his gaze to the man but held his questions. In a moment, Nicki looked up at Paolo, cocked her head in the old man's direction, and walked over to greet him.
“Ciao, signore.”
“Ciao, signorina,” the man answered dubiously. There was a look of recognition in his eyes, but the strained look made it apparent that he couldn't place a name with the beautiful face gazing back at him. In seconds, Paolo appeared at the table also, merely following Nicki, but his appearance at the table produced a subtle alarm in the old man. Now instead of just trying to place the girl across from him, the man seemed to suddenly perceive that he was being challenged.
“Lei é…?” he asked. “And you are…?” looking first at Paolo, then back to Nicki.
“Ah, signore, you don't know me. I'm Nicki, the waitress at Ristorante Girasole, Rita's place in Genoa.” The man nodded slightly in recognition of the restaurant's name. “Rita said I could find you here, and that perhaps you could teach us something about tartufi.”
With that the man sighed, not for want of knowledge about truffles, but as a sad reminder of the state of this year's harvest. Nicki introduced Paolo and the two newcomers were invited to sit at the old man's table.
“This is Edoardo,” she said, looking at Paolo. “He is the smartest and most reliable trifolào in all of Piedmont.
At Nicki's extravagant description, a big grin spread across Edoardo's face and his head bobbed twice as if to rebuff – at least mildly – her compliments.
Nicki looked directly into Edoardo's eyes yet addressed Paolo, telling him how the old man had hunted truffles in the woods around Alba for many years. Edoardo's eyebrows lifted in an age-old Italian gesture to say, “yes, many years,” but without admitting how many. Nicki went on to praise his skills, but mostly she focused on Edoardo's knowledge of the tuber, the ways of the trifolài, the market, and even the vagaries of pricing over the decades.
“What do you think has happened?” Nicki asked him directly. In a town where truffle is king, she knew everyone was talking about the harvest and she didn't have to elaborate.
Edoardo sighed again and looked down at wrinkled hands that he had wrapped gently around the warm cup of cappuccino on the table before him. He thought for a long time, as if he was processing all the information he had received in the preceding days, and he honestly wanted to explain to Nicki what he thought was the problem. He looked at her, mostly ignoring Paolo, and began with a very technical analysis.
“You know, the truffle is a strange thing. We have studied it for centuries, discovered the trees it likes to grow around, and fought with the right animals to harvest it.” Edoardo continued to refer to the truffle as it, and seemed to be giving it a personality in the process.
“The white truffle is the most confusing of all,” a comparison to the Périgord black truffle, what most gourmets considered the only challenge to the supremacy of Piedmont's Tuber magnatum. “It moves around and sometimes surprises us by turning up in the roots of trees that so far were not growing a crop. Then the next year, it disappears again.”
Nicki waited patiently while Edoardo's mind ruffled through the scientific minutiae from wild harvest to the tartufaie, or truffle farms. Paolo sat rapt at the words, although there was so much information spilling out of Edoardo's mouth that he couldn't process or retain all of it.
“Most people think that oak and hazelnut trees are best, but those are not alone. The truffle is mischievous, and likes to have us wander the hills trying to find it. But don't bother the trees that have lots of brush and weeds at their base,” Edoardo said, making the point that green growth at a trees foundation was usually a sign that no tubers would be found below.
Now he was wandering off into a world of his own, communing with the truffle rather than the two people who sat with him, and Nicki had to bring him back to the present.
“Edoardo, where have the truffles gone?”
“Non so,” he said with a shrug, “I don't know,” a confession was made with real emotion. “I don't know, but they can't be gone forever.”
Paolo, warming to the conversation, now spoke. “Do you remember another year when there were so few truffles?”
Edoardo paused to consider this, staring off to a spot in the café that was somewhere behind Nicki. Again, he sighed, and said, “No. Never.”
“And last year was good, si?” Nicki asked.
“Si. L'anno scorso e' superbo!” he replied with gusto.
All three exchanged glances across the table, a silent way of acknowledging that the facts don't fit. Alba couldn't have had a superb harvest last year and next to nothing this year. There was more to the story than met the eye, eyes which on Edoardo seemed now to be watering.
“We can't have lost it,” he exclaimed with obvious sadness. From his earlier personalization of the truffle to the emotion he now demonstrated, it was clear that, to Edoardo, tartufi were a part of him and a part of the history and a part of the culture of this town.
Chapter 33
Picking at the Surface
Later in the day, Francesco found Alfonso at the Akash wine bar on Via Vittorio Emmanuele. His friend was sitting alone and staring at his wine glass, as if looking for answers to life's questions.
“What do you think you'll find in there?” he asked Alfonso.
Looking up, Alfonso shrugged his shoulders and just said, “Nothing,” and looked down again.
Francesco sat down, still without drawing much of a reaction from Alfonso.
“Girlfriend problems, Alfie? She seems very nice. What's the problem?”
“It's not Lidia. I'm just worried about the truffles. They're gone, you know.”
At this Francesco leaned in closer to his friend and pressed him for more information.
“You remember that bet we had a couple months ago, about the computer program?”
“Yeah,” Francesco nodded.
“Well,” Alfonso paused and gulped. “It works.”
“Great. You can track people with the GPS chip in their phone. The police and phone company have been doing that for years.”
“Yeah, I know,” Alfonso said ruefully. “But they just track criminals and people under suspicion, right?”
Francesco leaned back and laughed. “I wish life was that simple. No, I doubt they only track criminals and people under suspicion.”
Alfonso took a sip from his wine glass as the waiter finally approached to take Francesco's order.
“I'll have a glass of Nebbiolo,” said Francesco, “and my friend here will have another.”
“Si, signore,” said the waiter as he retreated.
“People could use it for other purposes,” Alfonso continued. “If they had the right cell numbers.”
Francesco only nodded, but still didn't know where his friend was going.
“Are you trying to track someone, Alfie? Why? Who?”
Alfonso eyed him carefully, guiltily.
“Do you remember our debate that night weeks ago, over wine at Del Vino's?”
Francesco nodded, then chuckled, “Yes, well maybe no,” as he laughed. “I think we had too much to drink that night. I don't remember many details.”
“I said that all I needed was someone's cell numbe
r and I could track them from Rome to New York. Yeah, yeah, I know that was a stupid way to put it, but do you remember?”
Francesco knew his friend well. Alfonso was sometimes insecure and he liked to conjure up challenges to prove to people that he was a person to be reckoned with. On this day, Francesco saw this aspect of his friend come to the fore.
“Si, and you said you'd prove it if I gave you some cell numbers. I did,” Francesco remarked, then paused and searched the sky for a memory of whose numbers he had given to Alfonso.
“I gave you my cell number, and Tino's, and Raffaelo's. Maybe somebody else.”
“Roberto, Luigi, and Andrea,” Alfonso filled in. “Notice anything about those names?”
“Yeah, they're all friends of mine. Of ours.” Francesco held his look of confusion while the waiter returned with two more glasses of wine.
Alfonso leaned in a bit, which drew Francesco in with him.
“They're all sons of trifolài,” he whispered.
Francesco stared at him for a moment, sighed lightly in thought, then leaped to his feet.
“What!”
“Sit down,” Alfonso said, grabbing Francesco's sleeve to pull him back into the seat.
“You're not saying you tracked our friends to their truffle fields and robbed them?”
“No, of course I didn't, but…”
“But,” Francesco interrupted, “there's another reason. There are a thousand reasons. People talk about a fungus, some parasite, even a government conspiracy…”
“And a thief,” said Alfonso.
“This can't be,” Francesco's voice almost warbled in distress. “You couldn't have caused all this.”
“Not to put too fine a point on this, but you were egging me on. Saying I couldn't do it; daring me to try.”
Alfonso proudly claimed that his program could track the movements of every phone he entered into it, which is to say all the best trifolài in Alba. And the program stored data about their movements, and highlighted any spot, with specific geographical coordinates, where the cell phone appeared to linger for more than two minutes.