Sacred Sierra (19 page)

I’d read about the clandestine nature of truffle dealing in other countries, but this seemed even more under the counter and obscure than I had imagined. Perhaps a certain suspiciousness in the local character. Salud’s father had been right in general: the mountain people of Castellón were fairly tight-lipped about most things, untrusting and always looking out for a chance themselves, a quality brought on, one
imagined
, by the harshness of the surroundings. I’d heard an anecdote about an old local man effectively stealing some fields from his neighbour by taking advantage of a loophole in the land registry, even though his neighbour was a doctor and had once saved his life by giving him first aid while he was having a heart attack. That meant nothing to people here: you got what you could by screwing the other guy, even if you owed him your life.

I couldn’t help but draw comparisons with drug markets I’d come across in the past. But even scoring dope or cocaine hadn’t been quite as difficult as this. In such environments you knew a place to go and before long someone approached you – it was, after all, a market, and they wanted to sell their produce. Here it was as though the sellers would run as soon as they spotted a possible buyer.

After a third drink it was beginning to feel decidedly warmer. I thought about having a bite to eat to soak things up a bit, perhaps crawling over to one of the more comfortable looking chairs away from the bar and having a bit of a snooze until it was time actually to ‘see’ something. But my contact suddenly slipped from his chair and moved very quickly towards the door. I was slow to react and he was outside and moving out into the car park before I realised what was going on. The moment had mysteriously arrived. I scurried out and crunched through the crusted snow in his footsteps. He stopped and I caught up with him. Without turning his head he said, ‘Can you see it?’

I couldn’t see a damned thing, but his eyes were clearly focused on something in the middle distance. I blinked and stared, closed my eyes for a few seconds, hoping they would adjust to the darkness, then opened them again to see just the faintest of lights flickering out there among the few parked cars. Around it were several figures, perhaps three or four, huddled together.

‘That’s it,’ my contact said. Some barely perceptible hand movements were taking place, a cough, a low voice, then the light was switched off and everyone moved away in separate directions. It had finished as soon as it had begun.

‘That’s it?’ It was so quick I could scarcely believe it. My contact had already turned away and was walking back towards the bar.

‘Move!’ he said, catching my hesitation. The tension was there – no
one
wanted to be taken for the wrong sort round here. What were they worried about, I wondered, as we shuffled back towards the bright lights of the bar. Policemen? Tax officials? Perhaps dodgy truffle dealers selling some of the plain-tasting Chinese variety. Spend a few thousand on some of those and you wouldn’t be very happy. Might even be tempted to reach for your shotgun.

My contact gave a low grunt as we reached the bar. One of the men involved in the transaction we had just seen had arrived at the door at the same time. He winked at my contact, then frowned as he saw me coming up close behind.

‘With me,’ my contact said. The other man nodded, but his suspicion was plain to see. Once inside I offered him a drink but he refused point-blank.

I thought of heading off, but my contact held me back. He wanted to give it time, see if the other man might warm over the course of the evening. He was a seller, and had some plantations near here. It might be useful for me to talk to him. But it was going to take some time.

The truffle dealer talked to the barman and occasionally to my contact. After a few minutes I decided to go to the loo.

When I came back the atmosphere had changed. As soon as I sat down the dealer pulled his stool over and started to speak. ‘So you’ve planted some truffle trees. How many?’

It was a start. I called to the barman. This time the dealer accepted my offer, and we struck up a conversation. And over the course of the next hour he let me in to the secrets of the truffle world.

*

The winds here are given names, and are considered to have unique characteristics. They can be drawn on a dial-figure, called a
rosa dels vents
. Starting from the north and circling clockwise, they are as follows.

The
Tramuntana
, the fierce, cold north wind which comes from behind the Pyrenees – from across the mountains:
transmontanus
in Latin. A Tramuntana can blow for days and days, arriving suddenly in the autumn to bring a swift end to the remains of summer, but the skies it creates are of an intense, sparkling blue, with visibility so clear you can see as far as the Montgó in Denia, or the Columbrete Islands off the
Castell
ón coast. Traditionally it will only blow for an odd number of days, so if it passes into a second day you know it will still be there the next morning; if it continues for a fourth day, it will carry on into the fifth, and so on. It is said that this wind can drive people mad.

The
Gregal
, a generally cold wind which blows from the north-east. Sailors used to watch out for it as it was ideal for setting sail for Greece, hence the name, the ‘Greek wind’. Modern fishermen are less fond of it, however, especially for the storms it can produce. Their attitude is neatly summed up in the proverb:
Vent de gregal, mal
– ‘the Gregal is a bad wind’.

The
Llevant
, or
Levante
in Castilian, comes from the east. This is the basic wind from the sea, and the name is commonly used to describe any breeze coming roughly from that direction, in opposition to the
Ponent
, which comes from inland, from the west. If it is not too strong, it can be a soothing, slightly humid wind, warming in winter and cooling in the summer: the wind that blows when all is right with the world and everything is in its place. Yet it is known also for its high waves and occasional stormy weather. It often picks up in the evening, as the local saying goes:
el Llevant s’alça tard i es gita dejorn
– ‘the Llevant gets up late and goes to bed in the morning’. The name refers to the movement of the sun in the east ‘rising’.

The
Xaloc
comes from across the Sahara from the south-east, and its name comes from the Arabic
sharq
, meaning ‘east’. It is a hot, humid wind which leaves a film of dust and sand over everything, especially if it brings rain with it.
Plou fang
, as people say here, meaning ‘It’s raining mud’. Sailors like it, as long as it doesn’t come in too hard:
Vent de xaloc, ni massa ni poc
, goes the cry, almost like a prayer – the Xaloc wind: neither too strong nor too gentle.

The
Migjorn
, the ‘midday’ wind, blows directly from the south, but because of its rarity is often confused with the Xaloc and Garbí. It is an unloved wind, considered good neither for sailing nor fishing.

The
Garbí
, or
Llebeig
, blows in from the south-west, often bringing heavy rains. It is common at dawn, but as with other winds blowing from inland it has a bad reputation:
Vent de Llebeig, perdut et veig
– ‘With a Llebeig you’ll get lost’, as the sailors say. The name comes from the Arabic
gharb
, meaning ‘west’.

The
Ponent
, or
Poniente
in Castilian, blows in directly from the west. It is the archetypal ‘ill-wind’, to the extent that all anyone has to say is ‘
Fa Ponent
’ and everything from a headache to a bad harvest to a fall on the stock exchange can be explained away. The wind is invariably dry, blowing in over the Spanish plains, causing temperatures to nose-dive in winter and soar in summer. A Ponent during the summer months can turn most places into ghost towns, as people either flee to somewhere cooler or shut themselves inside their homes, drawing the blinds and shutters against the choking oven heat. Reflecting a general dislike of anything that comes their way from the west, another local proverb says,
De ponent, ni vent ni gent
– ‘Neither wind nor people from the west’. The name refers to the ‘setting’ of the sun.

The
Cerç
, or
Mestral
, comes from the north-west. A cold, dry wind, it is particularly disliked by farmers for the crop-destroying frosts it can bring with it. If the cold itself doesn’t do damage to new shoots, the ice crystals of the frost intensify the sun’s rays, ‘burning’ the blossom of fruit trees.
Ha fet mes mal que el Mestral
, as they say – ‘It’s done more harm than the Mestral’.

Of all these, the prevailing winds, thankfully, are the Llevant and Xaloc combined, the most loved of the family, although the Ponent can come a close second. Penyagolosa, whose peak is about six kilometres from the farm, shelters us from the worst of the northerly winds, but the Tramuntana, which blows strongest towards the end of February and into March, can cause great damage, often uprooting trees, Arcadio says. Much of the firewood used for the following winter comes from trees broken into pieces by these winds.

*

A whirling, wailing mass of animal cries filled the little square as we stepped out from an adjacent alleyway to watch the start of the festivities.

‘
Mis gatitos
,’ Marina purred as she carried a cat in each arm and headed towards the front steps outside the subdued Baroque church. By the large wooden front doors stood the village priest, all heavy glasses and dog collar, a serious expression on his face as an unorderly queue of locals trailed and heaved towards him across the flagstones. Each one was accompanied by at least one – and in several cases four or five –
animal
. Dogs on leashes, cats in people’s arms or in plastic-grilled boxes, half a dozen parrots and budgerigars in cages draped in cloth, two pigs, also on leashes, a grey horse, four donkeys, two white mules and a rabbit. The word going around the square was that one of the villagers was also going to bring along his python, but was waiting for the others to go first so as not to frighten their pets.

Above this raucous mass of man and beast, the priest was waving his hands and speaking in low tones as each person brought their animals to be blessed. Some lingered for a while, as though asking for special prayers – perhaps for a specific ailment or malady to be healed. Others just looked as though they wanted to gossip. The priest tried to maintain his dignity as best he could, back straight and stiff, a kindly if distant look in his eye. He seemed uncomfortable with the task, and I wondered if he had any animals of his own. He allowed himself to pat the odd dog on the head, but as for the rest he simply made the sign of the cross in their general direction, muttering some incantation under his breath, and then tried to dispatch the owner as quickly as he could. There were several dozen beasts to get through this afternoon: it might go on for a long time.

‘Of course,’ Concha said over the din and chatter, her breath heavy with wine and cigarettes, ‘the traditions of Sant Antoni date way back – long before Christianity arrived. This is an ancient rite of cleansing and to pray for a good year for farmers.’

St Anthony’s Day was a big event in this part of Spain: in many villages it was far more important than Christmas and had become the main midwinter festival. I enjoyed this: Christmas, that overworked and overvalued festival, had barely passed with the ringing of a church bell here. Just another fiesta, a minor one, in a string of many that were dotted throughout the year. Sant Antoni was the big one, the one you waited for and looked forward to. No presents, no Santa Claus, no fake snow sprayed on the inside of shop windows. No Brussels sprouts. It was bliss.

Officially Sant Antoni was held on 17 January, but with so many towns competing to hold the biggest and most important fiesta in the area they tended to stagger them so that people from one village could celebrate in the next, and then the next, and so on, thus extending the whole thing over a week or more. For a few days at least, during the
season
of the Sanantoná, you were unlikely to come across anyone sober, not even the local police.

St Anthony the Great –
el abad
, the abbot, as he was usually referred to here – had been an Egyptian hermit of the third and fourth centuries, and was regarded, much like St Francis of Assisi, as having a special gift with animals. The legend said he had once cured a group of piglets of blindness, and that henceforth the mother sow (or wild boar, in some versions) had protected him during his lonely existence in the desert. For this reason he was also known as Sant Antoni
del porquet
– ‘he of the pig’. Often regarded as the founder of Christian monasticism, he was also said to have been serially tempted by the Devil – trials which, needless to say, he was always able to overcome. This part of his story, like his connection with animals, had entered popular imagination, and as well as scores of pets and beasts of burden, characters dressed up in wildly demoniac costumes wandered around the square, beating drums and pulling faces at laughing, frightened children. They wore white tunics painted with black, red and green designs, hoods pulled over their faces and small flaps dangling over their noses, like beaks, almost like fantasy birds. They reminded me in some ways of harlequins; some, I noticed, were carrying short sticks which they used playfully to beat people in the crowd, particularly the girls.

‘Those are the
botargues
,’ Concha said. ‘Look at that one over there.’ She pointed and I saw a broad-shouldered man wearing a skirt and blouse, a headscarf tied over his head. ‘That’s the
filoseta
. Always played by a man, but representing the sexual temptations of San Antoni in the desert.’

He must have been in a pretty bad way, you couldn’t help reflecting, to have found anything tempting in what was on offer that evening.

The ‘devils’ were dragging a couple of other characters around by a rope. These, Concha told us, were St Anthony himself and a St Paul who was also renowned as a hermit: the two seemed to do a kind of double act.