by Dick Rosano
“But they weren't involved in Alfonso's murder,” Francesco said, more of a plea than a statement.
“Doubtful,” remarked Lucia, whose life spent in northern Italy put her in closer contact with the Zingari and the rumors about their lifestyle. “They're decent people who prefer to live beyond the bounds of mainstream Italian life.”
“More power to them,” said Stefano. Rita looked at him and chuckled, unsure what to make of her husband's comments at times.
“What are we going to do tomorrow?” asked Paolo.
“I've been thinking about that and I believe we should retrace our steps a bit,” said Tomaso.
“By the time we crossed the border,” Francesco added, “which I'm sure Lidia also did, it was dark. If there is any evidence of her itinerary, we wouldn't have seen it tonight.”
“Si,” agreed his father. “I think we should drive back to the border tomorrow morning and drive along the road back here, looking for clues.”
“We don't have to go all the way back,” interjected Nicki. “The guard at the crossing saw Lidia driving a truck full of truffles. We only need to go that far back.”
“D'accordo,” chimed Tomaso, and they turned their attention back to the plates that were arriving at the table.
“Un altra bottiglia di vino,” Stefano told the waiter through a mouthful of food. “Another bottle of wine.” The waiter was close enough to the Italian border to understand such simple instructions in that language, but still sniffed at the rudeness of this patron for not speaking to him in French.
Before long, the conversation turned back to truffles.
“The Périgord truffles are as expensive as the Alba truffle, right?” suggested Paolo, showing off bits of his recent education.
“Si,” nodded Tomaso, but before he could finish his statement, Lucia interrupted.
“Si, but that doesn't make them better. The French market everything as better than anybody else's, wine, food, clothes, but price isn't the only measure.”
“We have spent our lives in food,” added Stefano, “and we've tasted both.”
“And just because we're Italian doesn't mean we can't tell the difference,” suggested Rita.
“But truffles are consumed all over the world,” Paolo began, “why would the world pay more for the Périgord?”
“Aha!” said Tomaso, “That's where you're wrong. The French market their Périgord for more money in Europe, but in the rest of the world, the white truffle from Piedmont is piu caro.” It was a linguistic irony that, in Italian, the word for “expensive” was the same as the word for “dear.”
Talk wound about different aspects of the truffle, including that the seasons were different for the white and the black truffles. As Tomaso pointed out, the Périgord was not even available yet – it was normally harvested in spring – and so they couldn't have had a meal with truffles that night in Le Tagine.
There was a brief silence at the table, as all realized the import of that information.
“Unless, there were white truffles around,” Tomaso intoned solemnly. He called the waiter over and asked innocently if there were any items on the menu that featured fresh truffles.
“But, no, monsieur, truffles aren't here yet,” the waiter gasped, clearly insulted that this foreigner would come to his restaurant and not even know that the glorious Périgord was still months away.
The waiter's rebuff didn't dissuade Stefano, though. He was the only one at the table whose nose for tartufi could even approach that of Dolce's. Stefano rose slowly, asked the waiter where the bathroom was, then walked a long, round-about way in that direction, in an arc that took him past the swinging door of the kitchen.
His face beamed, his eyes lit up, and he couldn't conceal his discovery from his friends at the table. He even gave an exaggerated sniff at the doorway to ferret out the evidence. Nodding his head, he signaled to the tablemates that he had certainly found the scent of Tuber magnatum coming from inside. Stefano returned to the table to decide what to do next.
But without pausing, Tomaso called for the waiter, saying “This meal is wonderful. We are in the restaurant business in Italy and we'd like to congratulate the chef. Is he here?”
“Oui, monsieur. Just a moment,” and he left to proudly herd the chef out to this table of admiring patrons.
Admiration was not what they had in mind, though. No sooner had the chef appeared at their table then Rita began her gentle grilling.
“Chef, the food is wonderful, but my husband detected an aroma from your kitchen even more wonderful than our own food. Your dinner, no?” she said with a conspiratorial wink.
“Oui, a man's got to eat, of course,” chef replied.
“But the smell is intoxicating,” added Stefano. “It's truffles, no?”
The chef suddenly looked suspicious and glanced around the table. Even that oaf of a waiter couldn't tell what he was eating, but these people in the dining room could smell it?
“No?” Stefano repeated.
“Yes, but they are only the inferior Italian truffles,” the chef said, then wanted to retract his comment in the midst of this table of Italians.
“Well, not inferior, but clearly out of season.” It was clear the man would never have a career in politics.
“Where did you get tartufi this far from Italy?” asked Lucia. It was a bold question and without particular merit, since truffles were bartered throughout Europe and the world. But she wanted to keep the attention – and questions – directed at the chef. Raise his temperature, maybe.
The chef explained that a woman had dinner there earlier in the evening. He detected the aroma of truffles on her coat – yes, he had to emphasize to his guests, chefs can do that – and so he asked if she was in the truffle business. The question took her by surprise, but instead of saying no, she made up a quick story to cover herself. The chef could tell the woman's truffle enterprise wasn't for him, but he longed for the taste.
“Even the Italian kind,” he said.
“What did you do?” Rita asked.
“I bought one from her. It was strange, though. She reached into her pocket and produced only a single truffle. It was so aromatic!” he exclaimed, almost losing his train of thought. “But she had only that one and yet she sold it to me. Pagan!” he spat out. “Didn't she know what she was holding?”
They got as much information as they could from chef, and realized that Lidia had been there before them, but they couldn't account for the truck. Paying the bill, Tomaso offered his thanks for the meal, and they left to return to warm, welcoming beds.
Chapter 60
Even the Lies are True
The next morning, everyone rose early, even Paolo, although it took some gentle encouragement from Lucia to get him up and in the shower.
Meeting out on the sidewalk, they found a place for a quick breakfast, then returned to their vehicles to continue their quest.
“I think we should look around Modane to see if we can find Lidia,” suggested Nicki, looking very much like she'd wring the woman's neck if they found her.
Before any action was taken, a French policeman approached, escorted by Captain Mussino from Alba. Inquiring looks circulated among the seven, and Dolce gave out a low growl.
“Monsieur, this is Captain Mussino from Italy,” said the policeman.
“Si, we know Captain Mussino,” said Tomaso, as the Italian policeman nodded and turned to the Frenchman.
“These are the people inquiring about truffles?” he asked.
“Oui, and as you can see they've stayed the night and have no luggage,” he responded. “Seems suspicious, no?”
“Si, si,” Mussino replied, but dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “I know who they are and….” surveying the group, “I know why they are here. May I speak with them alone.”
“No, monsieur, this is my country, my town. I will remain.”
“Okay,” Mussino conceded. He then proceeded to question Tomaso and the others ab
out their activities over the last twenty-four hours. Tomaso decided not to anger the captain by skirting the truth, so he detailed their encounter with the Zingari, their race over the border, and their encounter with the border guard. He included all the details that concern the truffle hunt, but omitted reference to Alfonso's murder, since he couldn't be sure that Mussino had shared that with the French policeman.
“So,” Mussino began thoughtfully, “you haven't found the truffles, haven't found this Lidia woman, but you decided to spend the night here in Modane. Why not go home?”
“We were tired and, besides, we intended to resume the hunt today,” said Francesco.
Mussino and the Frenchman conferred, then the group overheard Mussino explain that the truffles belonged to them, so there was no crime in them pursuing their own possessions. He, Mussino, had been involved in the investigation of the theft and – he added in a lowered voice – “that other matter.”
Stefano was the only one close enough to hear that last whispered part, but smiled in approval of Mussino's wise maneuver. He could have concocted some fiction about his presence in France, something no doubt dark and dangerous, but without mentioning murder, and maintained the Frenchman's confidence by referring to it as “that other matter.”
After a brief consultation, the two policemen turn back toward Tomaso and the others.
“Okay,” began Mussino. “You can go search for your truffles; we will search for Lidia.” Turning to the Frenchman for approval of the next statement, Mussino added, “Starting right here,” pointing to the ground at his feet.
Such is a familiar signal among Italians and it warned Tomaso and the group to turn and be gone. Which they did without delay.
They retrieved their vehicles and made a quick exit, heading south toward the border to retrace their path from the previous evening. Modane is just off the main road, so in a few minutes they found themselves nearing the border control point.
Tomaso veered toward the shoulder of the road when he spied the post, knowing that Lidia and her truck had passed at least this far together. Lucia turned her car sharply too, to keep up with Tomaso, and the two vehicles made screeching U-turns that drew the guard's attention. They sped off, no doubt leaving suspicions in the mind of the guard whose duty it was to protect the border from illicit crossings, but they were gone before he could react.
Driving once again in the direction of Modane, Tomaso lowered his speed and everyone concentrated on the shoulders of the road and the sweeping environs on either side. It was pastoral land, mostly scrub grass, with occasional rolling hills that formed the foot of the mountains farther in the distance. The roadway and immediate shoulder had little to interest them, and it seemed like they might be wasting their time. Kilometer after kilometer rolled by through barren hills and twists and turns in the N543 highway.
The cars climbed a long hill at the base of the French Alps and arced along a curving road to the west. At the crest of the climb, they discovered a large rest stop occupied by numerous trucks and cars with foreign plates. Tomaso inquired whether anyone had to stop, and looked in his rearview mirror for acknowledgement from the ladies.
Instead of a signal he would have expected, he saw instead frantic waving from the women in Lucia's car. Rita pointed toward the left, with exaggerated hand signals, to an old canvas-covered truck that looked out of place among the eighteen-wheelers, white panel trucks, and moving vans.
Tomaso swung left and cut through the lanes to approach the truck. By the time he had brought his truck to a stop, Dolce was already bounding out of the back. Barking and signaling to the truck that Rita had indicated, Dolce drew everyone's attention, even from the unshaven drivers of the rigs parked around the lot.
Francesco and Paolo ran fastest, but Lucia easily kept up with Stefano, as the seven reached the old battered truck. Even without Dolce's help, every one of them knew that there were truffles inside the vehicle. Paolo stepped forward, pulled on the canvas back, and stared in wonderment at a dozen cloth bags tossed carelessly atop one another inside the truck. The aroma was now strong, and distinctive.
The others approached carefully, as if they were nearing sacred ground. Stefano was shaking his head in disbelief, Lucia was smiling and nearly laughing. Tomaso had his arm around Rita's shoulder, and they both were actually crying. Francesco stood back a step, hoping that this find would return him to his father's graces.
There it stood: a truck filled nearly to the brim with the world's most elusive, and most expensive, edible treasure. They stared at a trove worth untold thousands – millions? – of euros. Each entertained different dreams. Rita and Stefano were mentally scrolling through all the recipes in their portfolio, Lucia recalled the love her father had for this fungus, Tomaso simply shook his head in amazement, knowing that he had never – and never would again – witness this many tartufi in one place for the rest of his life.
Francesco was relieved, but couldn't dispel thoughts of Alfonso. Nicki was sure that, somehow, this was going to translate into many more truffle dishes to ferry out to the dining room of Ristorante Girasole.
Lucia tried to put it into words, to explain to Paolo how this tuber, normally seen in quantities that could barely fill your hand, was as dear to her father and her father's father as his own family. An incipient tear emerged from the corner of her eye, lingered for a second, then began a slow descent down her cheek.
“And to me, too,” she added. “The tartufo is a culinary divinity, but it is also a firmly held tradition, a practice that bonds the Piemontese to each other, and each generation to the next. The secrets, mysteries, superstitions, even the lies told about it are all true.”
As the words poured out of Lucia's mouth, the others turned to listen. She was telling the story of the tartufi and Alba's trifolài in nearly poetic terms. Lucia's monologue captivated all of them, even the long-practiced and wizened old Tomaso, who smiled back in appreciation for her stories.
Then, she stopped. She had meant for her outpouring to reach Paolo's ears only, but when she realized that everyone was standing in rapt attention, she blushed. Each of the six smiled in appreciation and hugs swept the crowd.
“Where is Lidia?” Rita asked, looking around for some sign of a guardian for this treasure.
But when they realized that their activities had gathered a crowd of truck drivers, they reverted to the present and quickly summed up a plan of action.
“Let's drive the truck back to Alba,” Tomaso said, but then added, “we may have to bribe the guard again.”
“Why would Lidia just leave the truffles out here?” Rita continued, as she and the others looked around scanning the parking lot for her.
“I don't know,” replied Tomaso, “but it won't help us to just sit here and wait for her to return.”
Turning to Francesco, Tomaso then asked, “Do you still remember how to jump a truck engine?”
Nicki scowled, but Tomaso just laughed.
“We have a truck at the vegetable garden that has no keys,” he laughed. “They were lost long ago, so we just leave the two wires dangling below the dashboard and just start the engine by connecting them.”
Francesco climbed under the dashboard of the truck, reached up and pulled a handful of wires down. Separating the ones that didn't matter, he found the two that would do the trick. With a spark and a quick twist of the wrist, the motor roared to life.
He then climbed into the driver's seat and Paolo joined him. Tomaso and Stefano got in Tomaso's truck, and the women joined up in Lucia's car. Then they left in a caravan, heading back along highway N543 toward the Italian border.
Chapter 61
Heading Home
As they approached the border, they slowed to a stop. There were two vehicles stopped up ahead and Francesco, in the lead vehicle, strained to see who was standing beside them. The blue uniforms of two individuals were clear enough, although one wore a braid over the shoulder and the other didn't.
“That's Mussino and h
is French companion,” said Francesco, recognizing the cut and color of the municipal police uniform from Alba.
“What are they doing?” asked Paolo.
“Can't tell.”
By that time, Tomaso had left his truck and walked past Francesco in his, and strode up to the police car ahead. Francesco and Paolo watched Tomaso converse with the police, then he looked back at them and drew a finger across his throat. Resuming his conversation with the police, Tomaso waved his hands, raised his shoulders, and shook his head back and forth. Finally, he nodded…once, twice, then he turned to go back to his truck.
Passing Francesco who still sat with his hands on the wheel, he explained.
“Mussino and the Frenchman caught up to Lidia in Modane this morning, what was left of her. She had a zappino buried halfway into her chest.”
Rita, Nicki, and Lucia had left their car to hear what Tomaso had to say, and Stefano was close behind.
“They also had a watch out for her car. They arrested a guy, Ruger Klein, driving it. Didn't think much at first but it was a police K-9 unit that saw him. As the police officer was questioning this Klein guy, the dog in the back was going berserk,” Tomaso continued.
“Finally,” Tomaso said, “they let the dog out and he runs straight for the trunk of the guy's car and barks and jumps around.
“What was it?” asked Rita.
“Cocaine. Lots of it. Kilos and kilos of the stuff. It filled the trunk. Must've been millions of euros worth.
“So the truffles?” asked Francesco, almost sheepishly.
“When I explained to Mussino that we had found the truffles, abandoned, he was confused. But then we realized that the truffles were only being used as a cover for smuggling the cocaine.
“The aroma!” said Stefano.
“Si,” Lucia added, “the aroma would have covered up the smell of cocaine. It would make it easier to get past the guard dogs at the border.”
“Just like the border guard told us last night,” Nicki recalled. “That's why he was bought off with what he thought were just innocent truffles, not cocaine.”