THE CREAM-COLORED ROLLS Royce Phantom that pulled up at the entrance to Le Relais du Moulin caused most of the heads breakfasting in the garden to turn. I drained my coffee cup and went out to the vehicle as though this were just part of an everyday scenario.
Grant Masterson greeted me as I joined him in the capacious and luxurious backseat that was large enough to hold board meetings. He was scanning a computer readout of what looked like stock market reports.
“Beautiful morning for a truffle market.”
“No wonder the Greeks, the Romans, and the Moors all liked Provence,” I said.
The Rolls moved onto the driveway so smoothly and silently that there was no sound except the slight crunch of gravel.
“That’s Helmut up there at the wheel,” Masterson said. “Master chauffeur.”
In the driving mirror, Helmut met my eyes and inclined his head slightly. He wore a peaked cap and under it looked to have a very close-cropped haircut. He looked tough and capable and I wondered if he doubled as bodyguard too. A man as wealthy as Grant Masterson must need one.
“Three terms in the Legion,” Masterson said, “so when he wanted to quit and take a quieter job, I snapped him up.”
“The French Foreign Legion?”
“Of course. Helmut’s from Bremen but he likes the soft life down here on the Côte d’Azur, don’t you, Helmut?”
The chauffeur’s eyes moved fractionally and his cap dipped a quarter inch in recognition. Masterson leaned forward and touched a button. “Coffee?” he asked. Mounted in the back of the seat before us was an electronic coffee maker. It was quiet but still made more noise than the Rolls’s engine. I was tempted to ask for a cappuccino but I just said, “Thanks, I will.”
The liquid in my cup stayed as calm as if we were stationary even though we were cruising at least sixty miles an hour around the curves. Masterson pushed the computer sheets away. “I enjoyed your party,” I told him. “I talked to some very interesting people.”
“Bertrand—from the casino—for instance?”
“No, I missed him. The professor held several of us enthralled, though.”
“Ah, yes, planetary influences … unfortunately a lot of people associate his ideas with astrology whereas his theories are quite sound and based on scientific evidence.”
“So I gathered. I was particularly interested in his ideas on improvements in wine.”
“He does sound very convincing,” Masterson agreed.
“Do you have any financial interest in the wine business?”
“Not really. My delicatessen chain will sell wine, but only because the two go together—when people buy delicatessen goods, they often like to buy their wine at the same time. That means, of course, that we can only sell the better vintages.”
We rolled almost silently through the countryside, climbing steadily.
“How’s the article coming along?” he asked casually.
“I’m behind schedule due to finding the body,” I said, assuming that he knew about Emil.
“Body?” he asked in alarm.
I told him about it. “I hadn’t heard,” he said, and I reflected that a multimillionaire is probably concerned about events on a higher plane.
“Sanglier, they think?”
“Yes.”
“Vicious creatures, or so I’ve heard. I’ll probably think twice before ordering it in a restaurant again.”
It was still early as we drove into Aupres but already cars were lined up on the grass verges coming into the village—an indication that the parking areas were full. Such a problem, however, meant nothing to Grant Masterson. Helmut simply drove to the center of the village, dropped us, and nodded when Masterson told him to come back in a couple of hours.
Aupres was a typical market village and its square was the venue for the twice-weekly market that saw produce coming in from the farms. The Hôtel de Provence sat behind iron gates on one side and the town hall, with three steps leading up to it to emphasize its importance, fluttered a large tricolor flag from a long white pole. Vehicles were parked everywhere including a number of places they shouldn’t occupy, but on such occasions the law turned a blind eye. Vans, trucks, and pickups dominated and the area set aside for motorcycles was just as crowded.
“You probably know more about this,” Grant Masterson said, “but I asked around and it seems that the whole village is the venue for truffle sales. Any farmers or hunters who find truffles can bring them here and sell them, and the buyers may be commercial or entrepreneurs or just anybody who wants to buy a truffle.”
“So I believe. I’ve heard that this village has hardly changed since Roman days when it comes to truffle marketing.”
“Look over there,” Masterson said.
At one of the tables in front of a tiny bar, two men were arguing and we edged closer, trying to appear uninterested. An empty coffee cup was near each of them but their mutual attention was on a plate on which sat an ugly, dirty, misshapen, knobbly lump of fungus the size of a walnut.
“Looks like a turd,” said Masterson inelegantly, “but it’s really a black diamond.”
It was a truffle, the most sublime food known to man and by far the most expensive on earth.
“It’s been brushed,” I pointed out to Masterson. “They used to sell them just as they were pulled from the ground—the idea being that they were in their natural state. On today’s market, the price is so high that the weight of even a few particles of soil clinging to them makes them more expensive, so now they usually brush them.”
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.