Toujours Provence Read online

  I followed him indoors to the cool, truffle-scented kitchen, and he poured marc into two thick tumblers. I must call him Alain, he said, pronouncing it with a good Provencal twang: Alang. We went into the sitting-room, where the shutters had been closed against the sunlight, and he squatted in front of the television set to put a cassette into the video machine.

  ‘Voilà,’ said Alain. ‘It is not Truffaut, but I have a friend with a camera. Now I want to make another one, but more professionnel.’

  The theme music from Jean de Florette started, and an image came up on the screen: Alain, seen from the back, and two dogs walking up a rocky hill, Mont Ventoux and its white crest in the far background. A title appeared – Rabasses de Ma Colline – and Alain explained that rabasses was the Provencal word for truffles.

  Despite the slightly shaky hand of the camera operator and a certain abruptness in the editing, it was fascinating. It showed the dogs scenting tentatively, then scrabbling, then digging hard until Alain nudged them aside and, with enormous care, felt under the loosened soil. Every time he came up with a truffle, the dogs were rewarded with a biscuit or a scrap of sausage and the camera would zoom jerkily in to a close-up of an earth-covered hand holding an earth-covered lump. There was no recorded commentary, but Alain talked over the pictures.

  ‘She works well, the little one,’ he said, as the picture showed a small, nondescript dog studying the base of a truffle oak, ‘but she's getting old.’ She began to dig, and Alain came into the shot. There was a close-up of a muddy nose, and Alain's hands pushing the dog's head away. His fingers probed the earth, picking out stones, scooping patiently until he had made a hole about six inches deep.

  The film cut suddenly to show the sharp, alert face of a ferret, and Alain got up and pushed the fast forward button on the video machine. ‘That's just rabbit hunting,’ he said, ‘but there is something else here which is good, and not often to be seen today. It will soon be history.’

  He slowed the film down as the ferret was being put, somewhat unwillingly, into a rucksack. There was another sudden cut, this time to a clump of oak trees. A Citroën 2CV van lurched into the picture and stopped, and a very old man in a cloth cap and shapeless blue jacket got out, beamed at the camera and went slowly to the back of the van. He opened the door and took out a crude wooden ramp. He looked to the camera and beamed again before reaching into the back of the van. He straightened up, holding the end of a piece of rope, beamed once more and began to tug.

  The van shuddered, and then, inch by inch, the dirty pink profile of a pig's head emerged. The old man tugged again, harder, and the monstrous creature swayed unsteadily down the ramp, twitching its ears and blinking. I half expected it to follow its master's example and leer at the camera, but it just stood in the sun, vast, placid, unaffected by stardom.

  ‘Last year,’ said Alain, ‘that pig found nearly 300 kilos of truffles. Un bon paquet.’

  I could hardly believe it. I was looking at an animal that earned more last year than most of those executives in London, and all without the benefit of a car phone.

  The old man and the pig wandered off into the trees as though they were taking an aimless stroll, two rotund figures dappled by the winter sunshine. The screen went dark as the camera swooped down to a close-up of a pair of boots and across to a patch of earth. A muddy snout the size of a drainpipe poked into the shot, and the pig got down to work, its snout moving rhythmically back and forth, ears flopping over its eyes, a single-minded earth-moving machine.

  The pig's head jerked, and the camera drew back to show the old man pulling on the rope. The pig was reluctant to leave what was obviously a highly desirable smell.

  ‘The scent of truffles to a pig,’ said Alain, ‘is sexual. That is why one sometimes has difficulty persuading him to move.’

  The old man was having no luck with the rope. He bent down and put his shoulder against the pig's flank, and the two of them heaved against each other until the pig grudgingly gave way. The old man reached into his pocket and palmed something into the pig's mouth. Surely he wasn't feeding it truffles at 50 francs a bite?

  ‘Acorns,’ said Alain. ‘Now watch.’

  The kneeling figure straightened up from the earth and curned to the camera, one hand outstretched. In it was a truffle slightly bigger than a golf ball, and in the background the old peasant's smiling face, sun glinting on his gold fillings. The truffle went into a stained canvas satchel, and pig and peasant moved on to the next tree. The sequence finished with a shot of the old man holding out both hands, which were piled high with muddy lumps. A good morning's work.

  I was looking forward to seeing the pig being loaded back into the van, which I imagined would require cunning, dexterity and many acorns, but instead the film finished with a long shot of Mont Ventoux and some more Jean de Florette music.

  ‘You see the problem with the normal pig,’ said Alain. I did indeed. ‘I am hoping that mine will have the nose without the…’ He spread his arms wide to indicate bulk. ‘Come and see her. She has an English name. She is called Peegy.’

  Peegy lived inside a fenced enclosure next to Aain's two dogs. She was scarcely bigger than a fat corgi, black, pot-bellied and shy. We leant on the fence and looked at her. She grunted, turned her back and curled up in the corner. Alain said she was very amiable, and that he would start training her now that the season was finished and he had more time. I asked him how.

  ‘With patience,’ he said. ‘I have trained the Alsatian to be a chien truffier, although it is not his instinct. I think the same is possible with the pig.’

  I said that I would love to see it in action, and Alain invited me to come with him in the winter for a day of hunting among the truffle oaks. He was the complete opposite of the suspicious, secretive peasants who were said to control the truffle trade in the Vaucluse; Alain was an enthusiast, happy to share his enthusiasm.

  As I was leaving, he gave me a copy of a poster advertising a milestone in truffle history. In the village of Bedoin, at the foot of Mont Ventoux, there was to be an attempt on a world record: the biggest truffle omelette ever made, to be ‘enregistrée comme record mondial au Guinness Book’. The statistics were astonishing – 70,000 eggs, 100 kilos of truffles, 100 litres of oil, eleven kilos of salt and six kilos of pepper were to be tossed, presumably by a team of Provençal giants, in an omelette pan with a diameter often metres. The proceeds were to go to charity. It would be a day to remember, said Alain. Even now, negotiations were in progress to purchase a fleet of brand new concrete mixers which would churn the ingredients into the correct consistency, under the supervision of some of the most distinguished chefs in the Vaucluse.

  I said that this was not the kind of event that one normally associated with the truffle business. It was too open, too public, not at all like the shady dealings that were rumoured to take place in the back streets and markets.

  ‘Ah, those,’ said Alain. ‘It is true there are some people who are a little…’ he made a wriggling motion with his hand ‘…serpentin.’ He looked at me and grinned. ‘Next time, I'll tell you some stories.’

  He waved me off, and I drove home wondering if I could persuade Frank to come over from London to witness the attempt on the omelette world record. It was the kind of gastronomic oddity he would enjoy, and of course Vaughan the General-Domo must come too. I could see him, impeccably turned out in his truffling outfit, directing operations as the concrete mixers swallowed the ingredients: ‘Another bucket of pepper in there, mon bonhomme, if you please.’ Maybe we could find a chef's hat for him, in his clan tartan, with matching trews. I came to the conclusion that I shouldn't drink marc in the afternoon. It does funny things to the brain.

  2

  The Singing Toads of St Pantaléon

  Of all the bizarre events organized to celebrate the mass decapitation of the French aristocracy 200 years ago, one of the most bizarre has so far gone unreported. Not even our local paper, which frequently makes front page stories out of incidents as minor as the theft of a van from Coustellet market or an inter-village boules contest – not even the newshounds of Le Provençal were sufficiently well informed to pick it up. This is a world exclusive.

  I first heard about it towards the end of winter. Two men in the café opposite the boulangerie at Lumières were discussing a question that had never occurred to me: could toads sing?

  The larger of the two men, a stonemason from the look of his powerful, scarred hands and the fine coating of dust that covered his blue combinaisons, clearly didn't think so.

  ‘If toads can sing,’ he said, ‘then I'm the President of France.’ He took a deep pull from his glass of red wine. ‘Eh, madame,’ he bellowed at the woman behind the bar, ‘what do you think?’

  Madame looked up from sweeping the floor and rested

  her hands on the broom handle while she gave the matter her attention.

  ‘It is evident that you're not the President of France,’ she said. ‘But as for toads…’ she shrugged. ‘I know nothing of toads. It's possible. Life is strange. I once had a Siamese cat who always used the toilette. I have colour photographs of it.’

  The smaller man leaned back in his chair as if a point had just been proved.

  ‘You see? Anything is possible. My brother-in-law told me there is a man in St Pantaléon with many toads. He is training them for the Bicentenaire.’

  ‘Ah bon?’ said the big man. ‘And what will they do? Wave flags? Dance?’

  ‘They will sing.’ The smaller man finished his wine and pushed back his chair. ‘By the 14th of July, I am assured that they will be able to perform the Marseillaise.’

  The two of them left, still arguing, and I tried to imagine how one could teach creatures with a limited vocal range to reproduce the stirring
strains which make every patriotic Frenchman tingle with pride at the thought of noble severed heads dropping into baskets. Maybe it could be done. I had only heard untrained frogs croaking around the house in the summer. The larger and perhaps more gifted toad might easily be able to span more octaves and hold the long notes. But how were toads trained, and what kind of man would devote his time to such a challenge? I was fascinated.

  Before trying to find the man in St Pantaléon, I decided to get a second opinion. My neighbour Massot would know about toads. He knew, so he frequently told me, everything there was to know about nature, the weather and any living creature that walked or flew or crawled across Provence. He was a little shaky on politics and property prices, but there was nobody to touch him on wildlife.

  I walked along the track at the edge of the forest to the clammy little hollow where Massot's house was huddled into the side of a steep bank. His three dogs hurled themselves towards me until their chains jerked them up on their hind legs. I stayed out of range and whistled. There was the sound of something falling to the floor and a curse – putain! – and Massot appeared at the door with dripping orange-coloured hands.

  He came up the drive and kicked his dogs into silence, and gave me his elbow to shake. He had been decorating, he said, to make his property even more desirable when he resumed his efforts to sell it in the spring. Did I not think the orange was very gay?

  After admiring his artistic judgement, I asked him what he could tell me about toads. He plucked at his moustache, turning half of it orange before remembering the paint on his fingers.

  ‘Merde.’ He rubbed his moustache with a rag, spreading paint over his already garish complexion, which the wind and cheap wine had seasoned to the colour of a new brick.

  He looked pensive, and then shook his head.

  ‘I have never eaten toads,’ he said. ‘Frogs, yes. But toads, never. Doubtless there is an English recipe. No?’

  I decided not to attempt describing toad-in-the-hole. ‘I don't want to eat them. I want to know if they can sing.’

  Massot peered at me for a moment, trying to make up his mind whether I was serious.

  ‘Dogs can sing,’ he said. ‘You just kick them in the couilles and then…’ He lifted his head and howled. ‘Toads might sing. Who knows? It is all a question of training with animals. My uncle in Forcalquier had a goat that danced whenever it heard an accordion. It was very droll, that goat, although in my opinion not as graceful as a pig I once saw with some gypsies – now there was a dancer. Très délicat, despite the size.’

  I told Massot what I had overheard in the café. Did he, by any chance, know the man who trained toads?

  ‘Non. Il n'est pas du coin.’ St Pantaléon, although only a few kilometres away, was on the other side of the main Nioo road and was therefore regarded as foreign territory.

  Massot was starting to tell me an improbable story about a tame lizard when he remembered his painting, proffered his elbow once again, and went back to his orange walls. On the way home, I came to the conclusion that it was no use asking any of our other neighbours about events taking place so far away. I would have to go to St Pantaléon and continue my researches there.

  St Pantaléon is not large, even by village standards. There might be 100 inhabitants, there is an auberge, and there is a tiny twelfth-century church with a graveyard cut out of rock. The graves have been empty for years, but the shapes remain, some of them baby-sized. It was eerie and cold that day, with the Mistral rattling the branches of trees, bare as bones.

  An old woman was sweeping her doorstep with the wind at her back helping the dust and empty Gauloise packets on their way to her neighbour's doorstep. I asked her if she could direct me to the house of the gentleman with the singing toads. She rolled her eyes and disappeared into the house, slamming the door behind her. As I walked on, I could see the curtain twitch at her window. At lunchtime, she would tell her husband about a mad foreigner roaming the streets.

  Just before the bend in the road that leads to Monsieur Aude's workshop – the Ferronnerie d'Art – a man was crouched over his Mobylette, poking it with a screwdriver. I asked him.

  ‘Beh oui,’ he said. ‘It is Monsieur Salques. They say he is an amateur of toads, but I have never met him. He lives outside the village.’

  I followed his directions until I came to a small stone house set back from the road. The gravel on the drive looked as though it had been combed, the mailbox was freshly painted and a business card, protected by perspex, announced in copperplate script, Honoré Salques, Études Diverses. That seemed to cover almost any field of study. I wondered what else he did in between supervising choir practice with his toads.

  He opened the door as I was walking up the drive and watched me, his head thrust forward and his eyes bright behind gold-rimmed glasses. He radiated neatness, from his precisely parted black hair down to his noticeably clean, small shoes. His trousers had sharp creases and he wore a tie. I could hear the sound of flute music coming from inside the house.

  ‘At last,’ he said. ‘The telephone has been en panne for three days. It is a disgrace.’ He pecked his head towards me. ‘Where are your tools?’

  I explained that I hadn't come to repair his phone, but to learn about his interesting work with toads. He preened, smoothing his already smooth tie with a neat white hand.

  ‘You're English. I can tell. How pleasing to hear that news of my little celebration has reached England.’

  I didn't like to tell him that it had been the cause of considerable disbelief as close as Lumières, and since he was now in a good humour I asked if I could perhaps visit the choir.

  He made little clucking noises, and wagged a finger under my nose. ‘It is clear you know nothing about toads. They do not become active until spring. But if you wish, I will show you where they are. Wait there.’

  He went into the house, and reappeared wearing a thick cardigan against the chill, carrying a torch and a large old key labelled, in copperplate script, Studio. I followed him through the garden until we came to a beehive-shaped building made from dry, flat stones – one of the bories that were typical of Vaucluse architecture 1,000 years ago.

  Salques opened the door and shone the torch into the borie. Against the walls were banks of sandy soil, sloping down to an inflatable plastic paddling pool in the middle. Hanging from the ceiling above the pool was a microphone, but there was no sign of any of the artistes.

  ‘They are asleep in the sand,’ said Salques, gesturing with his torch. ‘Here’ – he shone the torch along the bank at the foot of the left wall – ‘I have the species Bufo viridis. The sound it makes resembles a canary.’ He puckered up his mouth and trilled for me. ‘And over here’ – the torch swept across to the opposite bank of soil – ‘the Bufo calamita. It has a vocal sac capable of enormous expansion, and the call is très, très fort.’ He sank his chin into his chest and croaked. ‘You see? There is a great contrast between the two sounds.’

  Monsieur Salques then explained how he was going to produce music from what seemed to me to be unpromising material. In the spring, when a bufo's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mating, the inhabitants of the sandy banks were going to emerge and frolic in the paddling pool, singing their songs of love. For reasons of genetic modesty, this would only take place at night, but – pas de problème – every birdlike squeak and manly croak would be passed via the microphone to a tape recorder in Monsieur Salques' study. From there, it would be edited, re-mixed, levelled, synthesized and generally transformed through the magic of electronics until it became recognizable as the Marseillaise.

  And that was only the beginning. With 1992 soon to be upon us, Monsieur Salques was composing a completely original opus – a national anthem for the countries of the Common Market. Did I not find that an exciting concept?

  Far from being excited, my reaction was deep disappointment. I had been hoping for live performances, massed bands of toads with their enormous vocal sacs swelling in unison, Salques conducting from his podium, the star contralto toad delivering a poignant solo, the audience hanging on to every squeak and gribbet. That would have been a musical experience to treasure.