Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (29 page)

  I can't really blame them. The audience this evening is a group of local
trufficulteurs
called together in response to the shooting. Even Dan Brown couldn't conjure a secret society as tight and impenetrable as this lot. They listen but they don't say anything. I am sitting at the back. In front of me are three rows of men. Bald spots alternate with cloth caps, ski jackets with leather jackets. The smell of truffles is wrapped around these men like a cloak. A forensic examination would find shards of the tuber under their nails, and in their hair. It's cold in the hall. Outside it has begun to snow. It's a few days before Christmas and people are anxious to get home before the roads close. As darkness falls the luminous green exit sign becomes prominent. There's an emergency door with a push-bar handle that'll take me straight out onto the streets.

  So far there's been a lot of talk from the police. They only have so many cars, so many officers, the amount of land to cover is vast, expecting them to provide round-the-clock protection to
truffières
is unrealistic. However, and this is why we are all here, there mustn't be a vendetta. People must not take justice into their own hands.

  'Every time you see a suspect car, you must give us the number plate, the time and the date. Even if the plate is false, we can do something. And if a suspect is apprehended a number of times early in the morning, or late at night, he better be able to justify his presence.'

  There was silence. People stared at the paint on the walls, the ceiling, mud-stained boots. They shifted in their seats, and the legs of chairs squeaked on the cheap plastic floor. It appeared the meeting was breaking up without any progress having been made.

  'What happened could have happened to any of us.' The speaker wore a blue jacket and had a silvery-white crop of hair. 'He was a good man, and we will do all we can to help his family. Justice is badly served to consider such a man an assassin. All he was doing was protecting his property. Next time, you won't find the body – it'll be leg irons and the Rhône or a hole in the ground.'

  The police officers stood, arms crossed, lips pursed. Unwittingly, they'd multiplied their work. Wheel clamping was beyond their remit, let alone digging for dead poachers.

  Another man stood – cloth cap, patches on the arms of his jacket, and trousers that sagged around a large derriere. 'We are armed because we know the robbers are armed. Go to the Carpentras market, and speak to the buyers; if we are robbed, it's not to make omelettes.'

  The inference was clear – if the
voleurs
had been gourmands rather than businessmen, lining their stomachs rather than their purses, they might have been forgiven. However, it was obvious that the stolen truffles were destined for the world market, rather than the table of a hungry peasant.

  'Last year I was robbed three times in a week,' shouted an angry farmer. 'I fenced off my trees – the next night they came with wire cutters.'

  'And you,' an accusatory finger was jabbed at the police, 'you call us here, and you've never caught a single person.'

  Tempers were raised. An uneventful meeting was suddenly transformed. People clamoured for their turn to speak. Fists and arms were waved in wild gestures, prescribing full circles in the air. The gendarmes looked on, impassive.

  'Everyone knows who the robbers are,' shouted another man.

  The lead gendarme had had enough. He stepped forward and slowly removed a notebook and pen. Flicking through the pages, he found his place.

  'Perhaps you would like to give me their names.'

  The hall went quiet. Snow drifted past the window. The engine of a car was revved and revved again. The rear door to the room swung open and a latecomer entered. The man leant against the wall and folded his arms. Cold air seeped into the room and I shivered. Nobody spoke.

  'Come on, if you want this to stop, give me names.'

  The men looked at each other, waiting for someone to break the code of silence. Ears were rubbed, hats taken from and then replaced onto heads, jacket collars raised and then lowered, scarves wrapped in ever tighter nooses.

  'Why don't you help?' The gendarme snapped his book shut.

  'I once made a police statement and accused a robber. What happened? Nothing.'

  
'C'est vrai.'

  
'Il a raison.'

  Men muttered to their neighbours and the tension left the room. The reason none of them were speaking was police incompetence. It had nothing to do with the fact that in tough times, with truffles scarcer and scarcer, they each suspected the other. Far better to blame the police than name a neighbour.

  On my way out I was accosted by a young man in a business suit. In his hands he held a pile of pamphlets for his security company. He thrust one of the leaflets into my hand. The title read, 'Laser protection, the only way forward for the truffle industry.' A photo showed a line of truffle trees criss-crossed by a mesh of beams. 'Anyone breaks the beam and our armed response team will be with you in minutes,' said the young man in a cheery manner, as if he was promising the swift delivery of a pizza, rather than the arrival of a collection of Uzi-wielding ex-servicemen.

Fires blazed in a circle around our new house, punching a hole in the snowstorm. Someone played a jaunty tune on a violin. The music, when mixed with the snow and the flickering light, gave the scene a surreal, almost theatrical feel. The smell of roasting meat drifted on the air.

  Snuffle heard my car arrive and came roaring towards me. Leaping up on two feet he resembled a performing circus bear. After the requisite minute of patting he lost interest and flung himself around in the snow. His favourite game appeared to be springing into the air to try to catch the falling flakes. Given the vicious abandon with which he snapped his jaw shut, he might have been trapping leaping salmon rather than particles of frozen water. For variation, he charged around in a circle and then at full speed headbutted the gathering drifts.

  Inside the house a group of about fifteen people were gathered. Coffee cups and a bottle of wine were balanced on pieces of brick and wood. A concrete mixer had been filled with snow and was in use as a temporary fridge. A kettle suspended over the fire whistled. Tanya was sitting in a camp chair, wrapped in a warm blanket. One of the builders was rolling a ball towards Elodie, who was whooping with delight. Another builder was perched on a window sill with a violin on his lap. The face of Madame Roland, the
directrice
of the company, was hidden by an enormous fur hat. Such was its size and squashed aspect, it appeared a raccoon or similar animal had fallen from a skyscraper and plastered itself onto her head.

  
'Et alors, Jamie, vous êtes content?'
She waved her hand dramatically in the direction of the new roof.

  I nodded my assent. In fact, I was troubled. The meeting with the gendarmes had disturbed me. When we'd bought the plot of land the truffle trees had seemed an added attraction, an opportunity to share in the mystique of Provence. The stories we'd heard in the bars made
cavage
– the practice of hunting for truffles with a dog – seem like a romantic profession. Theft was involved but the fact that the object being stolen was effectively a mushroom made the whole crime seem trivial. To the English mind, at least, it had been amusing – so redolent of the Provençaux, always thinking of their stomachs.

  The meeting had changed my perspective. The readiness with which everybody had admitted to carrying guns was scary. My midnight vigil had seemed a slightly eccentric way of ensuring nobody got to my truffles before me; unbeknown to me, it had also been dangerous. The atmosphere among the
trufficulteurs
was sour. Shoot first and ask questions later, was the repeated refrain. The thieves would presumably take the same view. Did I really want to be involved in this? Did my family? All for the sake of a couple of thousand euros a year.

  Adding to my concerns was the lack of guests at the party. We'd invited most of the people we knew in the village but only a scattering had turned up. All right, it was snowing, but the house was scarcely a kilometre away and there was under an inch on the ground. In my head our falling popularity was inextricably linked with the story of the construction of the house. My relationship with Ange was still terrible. Ange and I saw each other maybe once or twice a week, passing on the street or in our cars. Neither of us bothered to even look at the other, staring stonily ahead. For a couple of minutes afterwards I always felt angry. Unwanted thoughts tormented me. What was being said about us behind our backs, and by whom? Would our life here ever get back to normal?

  
'Jamie, vous êtes content?'
Madame Roland asked again.

  
'Oui, je suis content.'

  'Well, you shouldn't be.' Miriam rejoined the party. She'd been nosing around on the first floor. 'Tiles are unevenly laid. The whole thing will probably collapse under the weight of the snow. There are more cracks in the walls, the building's being tossed around like a boat – surprised if she'll see spring.'

  'Perhaps you'd like to point the problems out,' said Madame diplomatically, cleverly leading Miriam away. I'd already formed the impression that Miriam was a pathological doom monger. If she'd been on the passenger list of the
Titanic
, she'd have disembarked, having imagined some problem or other prior to departure. Doubtless she'd have told all the other passengers, but nobody would have listened.

  I rejoined Tanya. The early stages of her second pregnancy had been particularly uncomfortable. Every morning she was assailed by waves of nausea. Stoically she refused to let me look after Elodie, insisting I concentrate on the construction and the wine business. In the firelight her skin looked pale and her face drawn. The blood had drained from her lower lip and whether from the cold or otherwise she gave an involuntary shiver. The construction of the house was taking its toll. In some respects it was harder for her. Relationships with people in the village which she'd worked hard on were suddenly and inexplicably severed.

  For the first time in a long while we'd begun to reminisce about England, about what we missed, the convenience of being able to form friendships with people in our own language, without the inevitable cultural misunderstandings. Conversations like this had been relatively common when we first moved to France. However, they'd quickly faded as we became more and more immersed in life in Provence. Their re-emergence was perhaps a sign of the vulnerability we both felt. Perhaps it was also the pregnancy. It was only natural for Tanya to want to be with close family in a secure homely environment.

  Our hearts were in the new home, but every night we slept in the rented farmhouse apartment which was showing increasing signs of wear. In the morning we awoke to swimming pools under the windows and a strong draught seeping under the warped front door. Every couple of weeks or so I complained to Manu. He simply shrugged and said it was natural condensation. The damp had begun to affect all our health, with colds lingering longer than normal. Poor Elodie was suffering the most and her nose was streaming on a semi-permanent basis.

  Squatting down next to Tanya, I took her hand. She smelled of cough sweets.

  'Everything OK?'

  She nodded.

  'I'll drive you home if you like.'

  'No, I'll stay, time you carved the lamb.'

  Earlier we'd fashioned a table out of breeze blocks and some wooden planks. The meat smelt of charred rosemary, roasted garlic and crackling fat. The leg glistened in the firelight, its skin attaining a reflective sheen. As the snow fell outside, the builders, their boss, Miriam, Tanya and Elodie all huddled around, drawn over by the siren smell of the lamb. Together we were an odd bunch, brought together by the endeavour of building a house. As I sliced the meat onto plates I realised that despite these men working for us for nigh on four months, we'd hardly spoken. During my visits to the site there had always been a distance. The pace of their work would slow, they'd observe me, we'd say hello and goodbye and that was it. Normally there were two men working, sometimes three, exceptionally four. Superficially their features were similar to the Provençaux – dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin – however, they were taller, leaner and their colouration just a subtle shade deeper. The locals summed this all up in one word.
'Arabe.'

  I ate next to the man I judged to be the oldest. His stubble was flecked white, his skin creased, particularly around the eyes and on the backs of his hands. Eschewing the proffered knife and fork, he dissected the lamb with his fingers, pulling away strips of meat and dangling them into his mouth. He drank water rather than wine.

  'Is it OK, the work?' I asked.

  'It's not bad.'

  'Do you go to the village?'

  'Never.'

  Our conversation was punctuated by long intervals of silence and made harder by the fact that our French accents appeared mutually unintelligible.

  'Why not?'

  'Here we have wood for a fire, we have food, we have beds, we have music, what more do we need?'

  'Do you miss home?'

  'A little, we send the money back.'

  'And after this job?'

  'Maybe home, maybe another job.'

  The man ate his food quickly. Sitting with me made him uncomfortable and he was glad when he was finished and was able to reach for his cigarettes and head outside.

  I noticed that Snuffle had isolated a late arrival at the party. It was Franck, the electrician and parent at Elodie's crèche. Snuffle's eyes never left the man's plate. His tail wagged as if it were clockwork. Occasionally, the electrician tossed him a piece of lamb which disappeared in an instant.