Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (31 page)

  Off guard, concentrating more on electrical problems than
trufficulteurs
with shotguns, and answering instinctively, I said,
'Pourquoi pas?'
Why not?

  Franck's car was a little old Fiat. The worn cloth of the seats, the dusty floor mats, the plastic trim, the entire interior reeked of truffles. On the dashboard was a curious device which is perhaps best described as a spirit level for cars. A line ran through the centre of an image of a car, and as the gradient increased so the line moved perilously near to the roof of the car, which, as Franck explained, was tipping point.

  'It comes in handy when parking in strange places, or making a run for it.'

  I consider myself quite an expert on the local roads. If I see a track I haven't been on, I take it just to find out where it goes. Before I got into the car with Franck I had proudly boasted that I'd been on every road in our village. No longer. Franck opened my eyes. Chains across dirt tracks: simply lift them up and pass underneath. Bushes blocking the way: drive through them. No entry signs: ignore them. There was nowhere Franck's little Fiat couldn't go. A maze of undiscovered trails charted the hillside, and a driver with no concern for the undercarriage of his car and one of Franck's spirit level devices could pass from Provençal village to village without the need for main roads.

  On occasions we came dangerously close to tipping up. I formed the impression that Franck was taking the scenic route to his truffle trees. After half an hour in the car, the village was still in sight, but we'd weaved along such an intricate pattern of tracks that there was no chance of me finding the way again. Franck's dog sat on his lap as he drove. It was a miniature white poodle called Fred that belonged in the handbag of a Parisian grandame rather than rooting around in the Provençal
garrigue
. Snuffle sat on my lap wagging his tail enthusiastically at his new friend, unaware that he was about to be given a master class in
cavage
.

  
'Et voilà, nous sommes ici.'

  Franck brought the Fiat to a juddering halt, driving it deep into the undergrowth. It was a struggle to open the door, but eventually I prised it open. Snuffle and I slipped out.

  'Quiet.' Franck raised his hand. 'Can you hear something?'

  I shook my head.

  'Helicopter, Lyon to Marseille, commercial flight, nothing to worry us.'

  We stood still. The surrounding pine trees swayed in a gentle breeze. It was cold and damp, the shadows long, and the atmosphere uninviting. Still Franck held his hand in the air to keep me from moving.

  'OK, on my signal, run as fast as you can towards the clearing. Don't look back. Go.'

  Snuffle and I set off at a sprint. I could hear Franck and Fred the poodle pounding the earth beside us. The subterfuge seemed ridiculous. We were in the middle of a wood, miles from anywhere. We'd listened for a good five minutes to check there was no one else around and now both of us were sprinting like we were being chased by a pack of Dobermanns.

  'Good, that went well.' Franck was panting from the exertion. 'See those vines over there? Go.'

  Up we sprang. I felt like I should have been wearing camouflage clothing and have smeared my face with warpaint. To keep Franck happy, I crouched as low to the ground as possible when running, coming to a skidding commando crawl finish.

  'Is all this really necessary?'

  'You'd be surprised. Right now there'll be at least five other truffle hunters on this hill. Everybody knows it's the last weekend of the season. They'll be checking the trees they know produce and watching for signs of movements. If they get lucky, they can capture another hunter's tree. Some people just hide in the woods, and wait and watch, changing location with every moon. Eventually they always get lucky and discover other hunters' trees.'

  'But who does this land belong to?'

  'Parisians – they're only here in July, no idea they've got truffles.'

  'At least we're not going to get shot at.'

  'Not here,' said Franck. 'Let's get started. Fred'll show the way.'

  Franck's first truffle-hunting site was in the corner of a field of vines. A row of oak trees ran alongside. As we approached, a cloud of flies rose from the ground, making it almost impossible to breathe without inhaling a lungful of insects. The earth between the vines was littered with heavy stones and still covered in the crisp frost. I fumbled in my pocket to check I had Snuffle's treats. The ends of my fingers were already numb and heavy with cold and the tips of my ears burnt a bright red.

  
'Allez Fred – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'

  Franck spoke hurriedly to Fred as the poodle zigzagged between the vines, nose to the floor. Each time the dog paused Franck would ask
'C'est là?'
but then Fred would move on and Franck would repeat his previous mantra,
'Allez Fred – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'
The words were whispered under his breath, presumably in case there were any other truffle hunters nearby. The tone of voice, the urgency and the repetitive nature of the command reminded me of farmers and their sheepdogs as they tried to round up livestock into a pen.

  
'Allez Fred – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche! Bien, c'est là.'

  Fred had stopped and was pawing vigorously at the ground. Franck moved the poodle aside, took a large screwdriver from his pocket and began to dig furiously. As the hole became deeper he took large handfuls of earth, pushing them right under his nose, so that soon his nostrils were caked with mud.

  'There's one here,' he said handing me some dirt and encouraging me to sniff. Franck was right – the crumbling cold soil smelt unmistakeably of truffle. He continued to dig, always smelling the earth to work out whether he was getting closer or further from the truffle. Eventually the tuber emerged, caked in mud, pockmarked, and smelling as strong as a teenage boy's bedroom. The first person to ever eat a truffle must have been desperately hungry.

  Fred the poodle continued his search. In the next quarter of an hour he unearthed six more truffles. Each time Franck rewarded him with a small piece of saucisson, and then the hunt continued.

  
'Allez Fred – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'

  Snuffle sitting by my side, watching attentively, reminded me of a substitute at a football match, nerves mounting, his side losing, desperately trying to get the coach's attention so that he could get onto the pitch. Franck moved us on 50 metres or so. I took Snuffle off his lead and pushed a recently unearthed truffle under his nose. We were off.
'Allez Snuffle – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'
Compared with the more experienced Fred, Snuffle's progress was much slower. He frequently doubled back on himself, sniffing the same piece of ground. Eventually, he stopped and scratched away at the soil with his paws. Franck swooped in with his screwdriver, quickly excavating a hole.

  
'Bien, Snuffle.'
I enthusiastically patted my dog and handed over a small piece of cheese.

  Franck handed me the soil to sniff and I inhaled deeply. 'Nothing.'

  
'Rien,'
Franck confirmed. 'Never give your dog a treat until you are sure he's found a truffle.'

  
'Allez Snuffle – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'

  Snuffle started again, working his way between the vines. Within a minute he was scratching away with his paws. This time I took Franck's screwdriver, ramming it into the icy ground and levering away the soil. Deeper and deeper I went, pulling at a great clump and holding it to my nose. I smelt nothing at first, but then very faintly I thought I detected the odour of truffles. I handed the soil to Franck and dug away.

  'It's there, but it's deep – try a little to your left,' guided Franck as I handed over more soil. I put the screwdriver down and used my fingers to push away the soil. Bent double, peering into a hole in the ground, I felt like an archaeologist trying to prise a rare find from an earthy tomb. With my nails I probed away, grating them across the dimpled surface of a truffle. Franck bent next to me and used the screwdriver as a lever. Slowly the truffle emerged, breaking free from the ground, until in the palm of my hand I held a great big, delightful, malodorous lump of black diamond. My heart thumped with pleasure.

  'Well done, Snuffle!' I fished an enormous piece of cheese from my pocket. Snuffle wagged his tail with delight.

  
'Allez Snuffle – cherche! C'est où? C'est là? Cherche!'
We were off again, riding a giddy wave of success. In the next five minutes we unearthed another two truffles and for the first time I began to appreciate what it was to be a true truffle hunter. It wasn't about the money or the secrecy, or even the seductive taste of the truffles, it was about the thrill of the search, working at one with your dog, putting into practice all the training, and then the elation of the find. It was addictive, adrenalin-fuelled fun. Base jumpers should give up throwing themselves off buildings and get truffle dogs instead.

  For the next hour we snaked through the hills in Franck's Fiat. A few times the line on his spirit level teetered on the tipping point, but somehow, miraculously, we always rocked back down onto all four wheels. We stopped at three other locations and each time the routine was the same: park the car in the bushes, wait for five minutes to check nobody else was around, then scurry as fast as possible to the truffle trees. On occasions we saw the cars of other truffle hunters between the trees. Franck recognised the make and model of each car and could even tell me the breed of dog of each of the hunters. Once another hunter had been spotted there appeared to be a code of conduct that dictated both parties should go their separate ways. Franck kept the truffles we discovered in an egg carton in the glove compartment of his car. We'd quickly accumulated nearly two dozen truffles. At this time of the year they tended to be small but Franck estimated that he could get about 250 euros for the lot in Carpentras market.

  The last site we visited was closest to the village and for the first time we'd parked the car on a tarmac road, several hundred metres away from where we'd ducked into the undergrowth. We were walking back down this road, dogs trotting happily at our sides, four more truffles for the egg box in the car, when it happened.

  Warm fingers of light crept through the gaps in the hedgerow, stretching along the tarmac and engulfing the little Fiat. The running and ducking, digging and scraping had made my limbs weary and I moved with the satisfying heaviness of a good morning's work. The problems at the
chantier
, the
augmentation de puissance
, the intransigence of the EDF engineers seemed distant worries, easily solved. I was alive with the joys of living in Provence, at having finally successfully drawn back the curtain and peeked in at the secret world of the truffle hunter. Already I couldn't wait till next winter, when surely our
truffière
would start producing.

  A branch jutted across the road and I reached up to move it away. As my fingers stretched towards the tree, one of the leaves was sliced in half. My hand was only centimetres away as it happened. There was a distant bang and a rift simply opened up in the centre of the leaf. The two halves floated silently to the ground. Terror must have registered on my face.

  'Run!' shouted Franck.

  'But…?'

  'Run!' Franck was off, sprinting towards the car. Ducking inside he quickly popped the lock on my side and started the engine. The car was already moving as I launched myself through the open door. The dogs chased after us, leaping into the air like dolphins chasing a boat. After a minute Franck stopped to let them catch up. They barked excitedly as they climbed in and we rested, looking out of the window at the postcard-pretty village and checking every now and again that we hadn't been followed. The palms of my hands ran with sweat. Somebody had just shot at me.

  I glanced at Franck. He seemed perfectly calm, a seasoned veteran of such incidents, able to put them behind him in an instant. A smile slowly crept across his face.

  'Could it have been a mistake?'

  Franck shook his head.

  'A hunter after wild boar?' I pressed on.

  Franck began to laugh. Gently at first, but eventually his whole body was overcome with giggles.

  'What?'

  'Your sniper,' Franck paused for breath, 'was a tractor engine starting up.' Franck covered his head with his hands and rested his convulsing frame against the dashboard.

  'And the leaf? You saw the leaf?'

  'Leaves fall from trees, it's nature, insects, the wind.'

  Franck's face was red with amusement. My face was red with embarrassment. I'd behaved like a child who'd read too many ghost stories.