Provence - To Die For (16 page)

The sight of a chef in his gleaming white coat and tall toque making his way through the throng started a buzz among the patrons. As if by signal, they moved back to open a path for him. He disappeared in the back by the bar.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Claude ‘Arvé. ’E has a three-star restaurant in Cannes. They buy over four hundred kilos of truffles every year.”

“Do you know Daniel Aubertin from the Hotel Melissande?”

“Only by reputation, but it’s possible I know ’is face.”

“He’s the one I need to see.”

‘If ’e cooks, ‘e will be ’ere.”

Outside the window was a man in a long green coat, the sleeves and capped top edged in gold. He held a brightly colored flag with a red symbol in the center. I noticed several others dressed in the same livery.

“Is the market about to start now?” I asked.

“They wait for more to come.” He poked his chin in the direction of a stout man in a shabby blue jacket with two sets of zippered pockets. “See Jean-Paul there? ‘E is a courtier, a broker. ’E is not so large. The pockets, they are filled with cash. ’E buys for a consortium in Paris.”

Standing next to Jean-Paul was a beefy young man in black leather. Probably his bodyguard, I thought.

“Et voilà
Albert Belot, next to the lady in the red jacket.”

“Who is he?”

“Gave up farming and planted ‘is land with oak trees to grow the truffles. Everyone, they think ’e’s crazy. Did not make money for years. But ‘e’s crazy like a fox. Those trees, they make the truffles. ’E’s rich now.”

Albert, who was dressed similarly to the other men in the room in a nondescript jacket and gray wool cap, clutched a blue-and-rose-patterned cloth bag, heavy with the prized tubers. It was hard to tell the professionals from the amateurs, except perhaps by the size of their bundles. Wrapped in ski jackets, field jackets, wool corduroy, and tweed coats; in rubber boots, sneakers, and sturdy heels; wearing caps, berets, or bare-headed, they brought their truffles to market in plastic bags, canvas sacks, leather purses, or bulging pockets, all equal in their eagerness to place their treasures before the men who would judge them—the chefs and the truffle brokers.

In a booth diagonally across from ours were two men with their dogs, mangy creatures with dirty coats and unkempt whiskers. The same could be said of their owners. The animals lay peacefully under the table while the men hunched over coffees, each with one hand roped to his dog and the other resting on his sack of truffles. Their presence reminded me of why M. Telloir had come to Carpentras.

“Where will you find the man selling the dog?” I asked.

“‘E will be ’ere later, at the end of the market.”

“Do you know what kind of dog it is?”

“Doesn’t matter, if ‘e has the good nose,” he said, tapping the tip of his own. “Some say the Labrador, ’e is
un bon chien truffier,
a good truffle dog. ‘E can smell them from fifty meters. But a big dog like that, ’e takes up too much room in the bed.
Moi, je préfère le petit chien.
I prefer the little dog.”

“The dog sleeps with you?”

“It’s harder to steal the dog if ’e lies next to the master.”

When I thought the addition of one more person would split the walls of Le Club, a cry went up and the restaurant began to empty. It was nine o’clock—we’d been there for an hour. The wait was worth it, I thought, when the pageant began with the assembly of members of the black-caped Confrérie de la Truffe and green-coated Confrérie des Vignerons, the brotherhoods of the truffle and the winegrowers. The crowd in the brasserie spilled out onto the sidewalk, where a U-shaped setup of empty wooden tables was arranged against the building. In their distinctive hats, medals dangling from their necks, multihued banners held aloft, the brotherhoods, which I was happy to see included a few sisters, took their places in a line behind the tables and sang the official ode to the truffle, their voices enthusiastic if not always on key. The anthem was followed by a fanfare from trumpeters in red-and-green berets and crimson jackets with white ruff collars, their uniforms and long horns harking back to medieval days.

“Do they do this every week?” I asked, delighted with the festivities.

“Non,”
M. Telloir replied. “Today is opening day, so we make a fuss.”

The formal ceremonies over, the market began in true. The crowd that had waited so patiently in the bar now fought for space at the tables, where they could plunk down their bags and entice a chef or broker, or even a well-heeled private customer, to judge their wares. M. Telloir pushed me before him to the front of the line, shouldering aside others less aggressive. When we reached the table, he gently laid his truffle sack on the table and waited for a visit by one of the brokers. Chef Harvé was one of four chefs in white uniform who made the rounds of the sellers, poking their heads into sacks and breathing heavily to allow the scent of the truffles to fill their sinuses. I tried to see the faces of the others, but two of them had their backs to me.

A man came over to us, reached into the sack, and pulled out one of M. Telloir’s prized pieces. It was about the size of a plum and looked to me like a clod of dirt. The broker squeezed the truffle, turned it over in his hand, dug his thumbnail into its side, and then sniffed it, holding it first under one nostril and then the other. He dropped the truffle back in the bag, wrote a number on a small pad of paper in his palm, tore off the top sheet, and stuffed it in M. Telloir’s hand, then moved on to the lady next to us.

“Poufft!
They’re worth more than that,” M. Telloir exclaimed, crushing the offer and stuffing it in his pocket. “Chef ’Arvé will do better for me.”

“What was he doing to your truffle?” I asked.

“They look to see if it is hard and black inside,” he replied. “It is necessary to check. There are many who are not above using black ink to change the color, or poking pellets inside to make the truffles weigh more.”

I looked with new eyes at the men and women vying for the attention of the experts. Were there swindlers among their ranks? Naively, it hadn’t occurred to me that such a situation could exist in a country market in Provence. But sadly, con artists will surface anytime a profit can be made.

“Daniel!
Venez ici!
Over here,” a man called from a table on the other side.

One of the chefs at a table opposite us raised his hand and went to greet his next truffle seller, his back to me.

“Is that Daniel Aubertin from the Hotel Melissande?” I asked the lady next to me.

“Oui,”
she replied. She draped a damp cloth on top of her basket, then left to bring her chit to the brasserie to collect payment. Two people took her place.

I turned to M. Telloir. “That’s the man I came to find,” I whispered to him, pointing to Daniel across the way. M. Telloir grunted, but his attention was focused on Chef Harvé, who was working his way toward us, checking each bag on our side of the table. M. Telloir opened the top of his sack to expose the clutch of truffles he was selling and watched intently as the chef plucked the largest one and cut a nick in it with a wood-handled knife. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I said.

Once I was away from M. Telloir’s side, it was not easy to navigate the crowd. People pressed in from behind trying to reach the tables. It was each for himself. There was no line and no orderly procession. I waded out to the edge of the throng and jumped up and down, trying to get a glimpse of Daniel. It would be just my luck to have him stroll back to M. Telloir’s side of the U when I’d reached the other. I could see the tops of four toques over the heads of the people in front of me. Taking a chance that one of the two on the left was Daniel’s, I circled around the crowd and joined the people trying to reach the buyers. By the time I made it to a table, M. Telloir was gone from our space on the other side. Daniel was off to my right, not too many people away. He was several years younger than Guy, I realized, about thirty years old, young for a master chef, I thought. Notwithstanding the chilly temperature, a sheen of perspiration covered his brow. I rested my handbag on the rough wood and waited.

“Daniel, me now,” a boy next to me shouted.

“I’m coming. A little patience.”

The youngster removed a handful of truffles from his pocket and held them out to the chef.

“So much noise for this,” Daniel said, winking at him. He picked up a few pieces from the child’s hand and held them under his nostrils, breathing in slowly.
“Bon!”
he said, and wrote a number on a paper and dropped it on top of the truffles.

“Merci,
Daniel. Next week I’ll have more; you’ll see.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that before.”

“It’s too cold for the flies; that’s the problem,” the boy said, pushing away from the table.

“Say hello to your papa.”

At last Daniel reached me. He pulled my handbag in front of him and opened it, surprised to see not truffles, but the usual items a woman carries with her. “I don’t know how to bid for this,” he said, laughing.

“Oh, no,” I said, grabbing my bag. “I just want to talk with you.” I put out my hand. “We met yesterday. I’m Jessica Fl—”

“I see reporters after the market, not now,” he said, and moved on to the woman next to me. A big man stepped between us and shoved his bag at the chef.

“Excuse me,” I said to the man who’d pushed me aside, but I couldn’t see over his shoulder. I called out to Daniel. “I’m not a reporter. I just want to talk to you.” But I’d lost my place at the table and wasn’t sure he’d heard me. Two more people squeezed in front of me, pushing me farther to the back of the mob. I couldn’t see the table anymore, nor where the chef might be. I was jammed in the middle of the impatient truffle sellers who were not about to yield their space. It was impossible to stand still. People kept pushing past me, and eventually I was carried back to the street, grateful to escape the pack.

I straightened my coat, checked the contents of my bag, and zipped it up again. I walked along the edge of the group and peered through the window of Le Club to see if I could spot M. Telloir. At one table, the lady in the red jacket was weighing a net bag of truffles. Beside her, an elegantly dressed woman with a silk scarf tied carelessly at her neck counted out bills for the exchange, and talked to someone on her cell phone. I opened the door and stepped inside. The odor was still strong but not as overpowering as it had been earlier. Perhaps my nose was becoming accustomed to the scent. M. Telloir was nowhere to be seen, but two men dickered over a bag of truffles in a corner, with a small group watching and waiting their turn. Finally one wrote something on the palm of his hand and showed it to the other, who nodded solemnly. The buyer spat in his palm and rubbed it on his thigh. He opened a cardboard box and removed a stack of bills, turning his back on the observers while he counted out the payment. He folded the bills and gave them to the seller, who emptied his bag into a bushel basket at the buyer’s feet. The next man handed his slip of paper to the buyer and the scene repeated itself.

While the business dealings took place around me, I sat in an empty seat and waited, assuming M. Telloir would look for me there if he couldn’t find me in the throng. I was able to monitor the activity at the tables through the windows, and follow the movement of the four toques. When the crowd on the sidewalk began to thin, I went outside again. Daniel was talking to the man M. Telloir had pointed out to me earlier, the one with the orchard of oak trees. The chef had removed his toque and held it under his arm while he wiped a handkerchief over his brow The man M. Telloir had called Albert was speaking in low tones, his eyes glancing around furtively. He touched the chef on his arm and walked away, turning at the corner. Daniel watched him, then leaned down to pick up a heavy bag.

“There you are,” M. Telloir said, taking my arm. “It’s time for the man with the truffle dog. Would you like to come? Or do you prefer to wait ’ere?”

“I’d love to see the dog,” I said, “but I have to speak...” I looked around for Daniel, but he’d disappeared. “Oh, no, where did he go?” I searched the remaining faces, thinking he might have donned a coat that covered his white uniform. But no handsome, curly-haired man was nearby. “I’ll meet you here,” I said to M. Telloir, and ran toward the comer where I’d last seen Albert. I looked up the cobbled street and thought I caught sight of someone in white entering an alley between two buildings. I hurried to follow, hoping it was Daniel. When I reached the passageway, I peered around the corner. A man holding a heavy bag was pulling on a brown coat over his white jacket. He had dark hair—I couldn’t see if it was curly—and was walking quickly. Twenty yards ahead of him, another man carrying a bag and wearing a dun-colored jacket and gray cap turned left. When the chef turned left as well, I entered the alley. It was a short footpath between two streets with ivy-covered stone walls on either side, probably enclosing gardens. The branches of trees reached over the walls, the sun was shining, and birds were singing. It would be a pleasant walk if I hadn’t been so intent on not losing my quarry. At the end of the passageway, a young couple entered the alley holding hands. They smiled at me, and I smiled back as we passed. When I reached the street, I glanced back at them to be sure no one was watching me and casually turned left, as the chef and the man he followed had done. I saw them halfway down the street on the other side, standing at the rear of a car. Their backs were to me. I walked slowly, staying on my side of the road but keeping them in sight.

Albert opened the trunk and pulled out a bushel basket. I stepped into a doorway and pretended to examine the contents of a shop window. Through the corner of glass, I could see the men as they emptied Albert’s bag into the bushel basket and spread the blue-and-rose-colored sack on top. Daniel then emptied his bag over the cloth. A pile of potatoes fell out, obviously meant to camouflage the real contents of the bushel basket.