Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (28 page)

  Then, the more recent history. A family of Jews fleeing the narrow streets of the village. Climbing, always climbing, as the torches of the Germans waltz below, the barking dogs becoming more distant and intermittent as they make good their escape. Finally, the relief as they find the promised shelter and huddle inside, all five of them, with their backs curled against the stone walls.

  A year or so later, rifles are lined against the wall, a box of grenades, a radio and some explosives. Resistance fighters visit periodically, stocking up for distant raids, speaking in hushed whispers as they fasten the leather straps of the guns and ammunition belts, transforming themselves from peasants to soldiers. Then the last incumbent of the war, a German deserting his comrades in the village. Allied warplanes circle overhead. In irony, in desperation, the soldier carves the swastika into the stone.

  Next comes a Frenchman returning from war-ravaged lands, longing above all else to create and to grow. Fingers that once visited destruction now gather the acorns from other truffle-infected trees and sow them in a line in front of the
borie
. Like me, he is summoned to this spot by the first frost of winter, sitting and waiting, determined that no scavenger will beat him to the truffles.

  Outside the moon is full and ripe, bright enough to cast shadows. Each branch, each twig, each leaf finds its twin stretched on the ground beneath. The stars are visible in their thousands, with the constellations obvious to all, and the North Star resplendently dominant. There is near silence. Only the sound of leaves fluttering through the branches and settling on the ground. The noise is gentle, and calming, like fat flakes of snow nestling onto a landscape already muffled by a heavy fall.

  Underground, I imagine the earth trembling. As the temperature drops the fungus awakens, called by the moon and the cold into life. The gossamer threads that connect the spores to the trees hum with nutrients and the truffles swell and bloom, inexorably pushing the hard frostbitten earth aside. Their ripe infectious smell recalls the heavy spring rain, and the life-saving August storm; pungent and irresistible, the tubers will double and then triple in size. By morning, the field in front of me will be alive with black diamonds. And just like me, every truffle hunter in the village will be waiting for first light to rush to their favoured spots. The purpose of my vigil is to ensure that nobody gets to my trees before me.

  This year, the truffle season began with blood. The weather to the north of us has been more extreme and the first truffles are already on restaurant tables. In this initial greedy flurry of activity one man lost his life. A plantation owner, who'd endured a catastrophic drop in his truffle harvest the previous year, decided to take matters into his own hands. He waited up all night, with the cold metal of a rifle resting across his lap. A sound in the field alerted him. Only the accused knows whether the shot was intended as a warning but it certainly wasn't fired into the air. If the court is generous, they'll find he was aiming at a nearby tree; the reality might be he was aiming where he hit – the heart.

  In the context of such an event I am hopelessly underprepared. Here I am, armed only with a corkscrew, accompanied by a dog so vicious he once fled a cat. I'm not after revenge, or out to scare people, I just want knowledge. Last year we didn't find a single truffle. Is there a possibility that the trees have stopped producing, or could somebody be getting there before me? I am determined to find out. If a competitor comes, I hope a simple shout will be enough to scare him off.

  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 conditions, 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.

A
t 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.