Dying on the Vine (14 page)

He shook his head. “Can't understand it,” he said.

“They don't taste that great to me, yet some people are willing to pay a thousand dollars a pound for them.”

“The Italian white truffle is getting to be popular because it's less than half the price,” I pointed out.

“The customers who will come to my delicatessens won't want those,” he said firmly. “They'll want the best and that means the black truffle.”

“You probably know that there's steady trade in white truffles that have been turned black.”

“That's what I've heard. Now there's a ‘black' market if ever there was one. Just how do they do that?”

“They soak the truffle in tannin solution, then set it in a bowl containing an iron salt.”

“Isn't there any way of spotting truffles that have been counterfeited that way?”

“There is,” I said. “Take a cut with a knife and the veining is different. The false one—the white truffle—doesn't show the characteristic light-colored veining of the black truffle.”

“I'll have to remember that.”

The two men were becoming more heated. We moved a little closer to hear their dialogue. The seller was scoffing at the amount offered by the prospective buyer.

“This isn't a turnip I'm selling you, it's a truffle,” he said acidly.

The other snorted. “It should be a blue truffle at the price you're asking.”

“I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll let you have it for eighteen hundred francs—and that's only because you're married to my cousin. If it was anybody else, believe me, the price would be double.”

The haggling continued. Masterson turned to me.

“We've seen black truffles, you mentioned Italian white truffles, now this guy's talking about blue truffles. What's the story on them?”

“They don't exist. It's a hoary old Provence legend. It's like King Solomon's mines, the Holy Grail, or a fragment of the True Cross.”

Masterson nodded toward the two men.

“They've broken the price barrier. I think they're about to finalize.”

He had evidently been in enough price negotiations to be able to recognize the signs. Sure enough, one nodded, then they shook hands. The buyer wrapped the truffle in a paper napkin and stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket. Notes changed hands. They ordered another cup of coffee and all evidence of a business transaction was gone.

Masterson was shaking his head in a mixture of admiration and amazement. “Extraordinary way to do business. No one has ever been able to cultivate the truffle, did you know that?”

“So I understand. Lots have tried, though.”

“That alone makes it unique among the foods we eat.” Masterson was obviously intrigued by this dirty-looking, unappetizing tuber that he wanted to sell in his delicatessen chain.

We passed an ancient pickup truck, open at the back so that the tailgate provided a convenient negotiating platform. A whole family had apparently struck it lucky, for truffle hunting is not unlike gold mining in that chance plays a major role. A bottle of red wine, unlabeled, stood there, its contents lubricating a deal involving a few ounces of the ultimate delicacy.

“The Romans loved truffles, didn't they?” Masterson asked.

“Yes. Caligula was especially fond of them and ate great quantities. Then in the Middle Ages, they were so revered that it was believed they grew only where a bolt of lightning had struck the earth.”

Masterson motioned toward a bench on the edge of the parking area where a small park had forced its way into existence under the plane trees despite the sandy ground. A man who looked like a farmer held a small balance in his hand, a simple affair of aging bronze. We moved a little closer. The balance pan with weights on it crept higher as the man poured chopped truffles into a bag on the other pan.

“I just mentioned the Romans,” Masterson said, awestruck. “That's exactly how they sold truffles in those times. Two thousand years might not have gone by for all these people care!”

“Going to make any purchases?” I asked him. “Or do you only want to soak up the atmosphere?”

“Main thing I want to do is get knowledgeable enough that I can make sure my buyers are getting a good deal. Most food commodities are straightforward, but truffles and truffle dealing are all mysticism and tradition.” He shook his head in bewilderment and I smiled involuntarily.

He gave a wry grin. “I know—I shouldn't let it frustrate me, but this is a whole new world for me. It's hard to accept that the rarest foodstuff we have is bought and sold off the backs of trucks and using weighing scales the way the Romans did.”

“I can understand that. Of course, in Paris, you could buy truffles in a more sophisticated environment. …”

“And at higher prices—no, no, I wouldn't have missed this for anything. How do people know about it, though?”

“Word of mouth mostly. There's an occasional handwritten notice nailed to a tree in neighboring villages”

“Well,” he said, “let's go back to the square for a while and then I'll buy a truffle or two just for the experience. Will they take a platinum card?”

“They probably won't take a French bank note over two hundred francs. I understand that forged five-hundred-franc notes are coming in from Holland again.”

We watched a few more transactions being negotiated. An unshaven young man came into the square on a noisy motorcycle and set up shop with some small and grubby specimens spread out on the saddle of his bike. One enterprising character in a bulky hunting jacket had a moving van that was empty except for three or four dozen bottles of juice in which fresh truffles had been marinated. A large woman in a plaid shawl had a picnic table with small packets of truffle shavings for sale, but she wasn't doing much business.

“They are too easy to adulterate,” I told Masterson.

Eventually, he bought a fine-looking truffle, firm and fleshy, very dark in color. He paid a thousand francs for it, which pleased him immensely. He was probably getting more satisfaction out of this than some of his million-dollar deals and it was no doubt a rare occasion when he conducted a transaction personally and walked away with the merchandise in his hand.

The seller was a wizened old man with a face nearly as dark as the truffle. The price Masterson paid was maybe higher than longer haggling might have secured but he was impatient and the amount was presumably trivial to him.

What are you going to have your chef do with it?” I asked as we walked away.

“I have three chefs,” Masterson said. “One French, one Italian, and one Japanese.”

“Don't they disagree all the time?” I asked, determined not to approve such extravagance.

“I try to keep them segregated. Each has his own responsibilities.”

“Which one will get the truffle?”

“I'll probably have them share it and see who can make the most imaginative use of it. They're all pretty inventive. What do you suggest?”

“The choice is unlimited. Truffles go into soups, salads, sausages, and soufflés. You can put them with lobster, oysters, veal, fish, poultry, pasta. They improve everything eatable.”

We returned to the spot where Helmut had left us and stood talking until the cream Rolls cruised up to us out of nowhere and we climbed into the luxurious air-conditioned interior. Helmut made a neat turn despite the narrow crowded street and we flowed out of Aupres in quiet comfort.

I was appreciating some of the advantages of being a multimillionaire.

T
HE VIETNAMESE GIRL IN
the cleaner's brought me my clothes accompanied by a cheeky grin. “Boss say, next time, drink white wine not red.”

I walked round the square to La Colombe. It was close to lunchtime and I wondered if the enigmatic dowser from Wales, Elwyn Fox, would be here. He had given me the impression that it was a favorite hangout of his. Sure enough, he was sitting in the same place at the end of the bar. I took the stool next to him.

He finished draining his stein and turned casually, then greeted me cordially when he recognized me. “Ah, the journalist! How are ye? What'll ye have?”

“I'll join you in a beer,” I said, and the barmaid manipulated the pump handle with a deftness born of long practice.

“Heard anything new about Emil?”

“No,” I said, “but I don't really expect we will, do you? He was gored by a wild boar and it is hardly likely to confess.”

The barmaid set the two beers in front of us and Fox took a long swig of his as if he were dying of thirst. In addition to being weather-beaten, I noticed that his skin was bad and that he had several small warts. His eyes were alert though, brown and lively as a squirrel's.

“What about the dowsing? How's that going? Having any luck?”

“It's a slow business. Frustrating at times.”

“Must be,” I commiserated. “Go weeks at a time without any success, I suppose?”

“Aye, sometimes.”

“But you're always successful eventually, I believe you told me.”

He nodded and drank more beer. The Welsh nation has a reputation for being loquacious but Fox wasn't living up to it. He emptied his beer glass and I watched as the barmaid refilled it. Maybe that was the answer … I waited until he had taken several swallows and tried again.

“I'm always looking for spinoffs,” I said. He gave me an inquiring look.

“I came here to do an article on wine and vineyards. Poor Emil's death gave me the idea of another article on wild boar in Provence—it would go well in a hunting magazine. Now you've given me another idea.”

He looked dubious. “I have?”

“Dowsing. Anything along those lines is popular today—New Age, they call it. People are interested in flying saucers, crop circles, spoon bending, angels, Bermuda Triangle, Atlantis … Dowsing fits right in, could be fascinating.”

He didn't display any great enthusiasm for the idea. “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly.

“I'll bet you've had all kinds of exciting experiences.”

He drank beer while he thought. I hoped he wouldn't think as deeply as he was drinking.

“Costa Rica was what you would call exciting.”

“In what way?” This was like pulling teeth. I hoped the beer was strong enough to be effective.

“The Nicaraguan rebels were particularly active at that time. The area I had to work in was under dispute by both countries and in those jungles, nobody really knows where the frontier is.”

“Bad time to be looking for water,” I said, and his muttered “Aye” struck me as being hesitant. I followed it up.

“Costa Rica had a water shortage? With all those rain forests?”

The barmaid came, anxious that Fox's well wouldn't run dry for lack of beer. I mentally applauded her timing, wanting to keep the Welshman well lubricated. When he had lowered the level in the new glassful, his reservations about talking to me were evaporating and we were getting to the congenial man inside.

“It wasn't water I was dowsing that time. It was oil.”

“You dowse for that too? Find any?”

He grinned with satisfaction. “I found it. Trouble was, due to the war, the Costa Ricans couldn't get equipment in to drill for it—and without oil exports, they couldn't finance the war.”

“And you were in the middle of the shooting?”

“I was bombed and shot at by both sides,” he smiled proudly.

“I should have realized you dowsed for other things than water,” I said, keeping the conversation moving. “I remember reading about Uri Geller—when he became famous with his spoon bending, people said, ‘If you're so clever, why can't you make yourself a millionaire?' So he did—he located mineral deposits for the mining companies and made a million dollars in less than a year.”

Fox nodded. He seemed relieved at the change of topic.

“I met Geller. Very impressive, he was. Some called him a phony but he wasn't that. They called him a showman too, and that he certainly was. Funny how people think that if a person is a showman, he can't be genuine.”

“A legacy of the great Barnum,” I said.

“He had an explanation of his own powers, did Uri,” Fox went on. “He told me he had a very severe electric shock from his mother's sewing machine when he was a boy. It was only after that his powers were first noticed.”

He was still talking about Geller. I wanted to get back to Fox.

“But you're primarily a water diviner, aren't you? You mentioned some work looking for oil as well but with you, isn't it mainly water?”

My question made him nervous and he fidgeted with his beer glass.

“Water's more of a challenge, y'see. It's part of nature, that's what makes it so difficult. Divining is finding the location of a material that is different from its surroundings. Water is not that different—it's one of the basics … earth, air, fire, and water, that's what our ancestors believed our world was made up of and that's what makes water harder to find.”

He drank the last mouthful of beer and looked wistfully at the glass. “I suppose I should be going.”

“I should too,” I said.

“Back to the vineyard?”

“I can't wait to have another delightful session with the charming Simone. Is she running for Miss Cordiality again this year?”

Fox chuckled. “She is a bit of a grim girl, isn't she? O'course, you can get just as much information from Lewis. He's a smart lad, knows all about the place.”

“Lewis Arundel? Does he? I might try him.”

I put a couple of notes on the bar. We said farewells and I left. A backward glance as I went out the door saw him ordering another beer. His mention of leaving had evidently been a ploy to terminate our conversation. I tried to work out what it was in our conversation that made him edgy. What did he have to hide?