‘But why did they explode, René? I have never quite understood.’
He waves away my question impatiently. He has never elucidated on why such a phenomenon should have happened. Perhaps he does not know. When I first heard the story I doubted the verity of combusting tree trunks but I have since read that it is a fact of that winter.
‘More than half the olive trees in Provence were destroyed by that frost, which lasted almost three weeks. It was an agricultural disaster. Not only the Provençaux farmers but the people of the south, la France méridionale, still judge it to be the worst olive calamity since record-keeping began in 1739. Six million trees were damaged and one million perished. Trees that had been growing on those farms for centuries. Imagine the distress. The northern Mediterranean olive industry was in crisis. “We are ruined,” predicted the majority. “Are we living in Siberia or Provence?” Despair set in. Some found comfort in a surfeit of pastis, while others, one or two, turned their hunting rifles against themselves. They were the pessimists of the bunch, the non-believers.’
Here, René refills his glass. His face is growing more flushed. He looks merry.
‘When the weather improved, the oléiculteurs who remained, those who were not drunk or bankrupt or buried ten feet under in the village cemetery, set to work. They dug up and tore out the old roots, burned them, tilled their lands and began to replant the fields and hillsides with vines or sunflowers or whatever crops would survive in their particular district. “Finish with olives! Good riddance!” they cried vehemently. But a handful of the wiser and, some would claim, wilier farmers weighed up the situation, took stock and, against all odds, these stoics decided to fight back. “L’olivier est l’arbre de l’éternité,” they declared with deadpan conviction. “You can flirt with other crops, but you’ll see, the olive tree is the eternal tree.”
‘Their sanguinity, their naïve credo amused certain of their serge-clad neighbours seated in the village squares sipping their apéros in the shade beneath the plane trees, playing pétanque, giggling about their fellow countrymen behind their backs. “By this time next year, old so-and-so will be on his knees, you’ll see, and we’ll be able to buy his farm for a sou.” Those were the avaricious dreams whispered between them.
‘But, elsewhere, in the peaceful harbour and silence of their groves, the handfuls of obstinates were busy at work. They were sawing back their wasted trunks sheer to the ground and when they had finished, they wiped their brows and they waited. They did nothing while their neighbours continued to mock and gossip.
‘Over the following seasons those weathered faces paced their groves; they inspected and tidied their grounds tendentiously. And within the year their determination was rewarded. Slowly, small delicate shoots began pushing through; pale, feathery growth encircling the deadwood remains of the wizened stumps. These oléiculteurs chose the hardiest shoot from each of their trees, staked them, cared for them and remained patient. And day by day the trees grew and flourished. Within six years, maybe eight, the farmers began gathering their crops and selling them for astronomically high prices. Mais, oui, Carol. And not for nothing were these agriculturalists to be seen driving through the country lanes in their new Citroën vans, triumphant smiles breaking across their leathered faces, for they had accurately calculated that French table olives and olive oil would be at a premium for decades to come. They could name their price and, being canny Provençaux merchants of the land, they swiftly did so and were rewarded with healthy bank accounts. You see, there were far fewer olive farmers, fewer harvests and their returns were all the greater.
‘Now, almost fifty years on, there are olive-farming families who will proudly take you on a tour of their groves striped with half-a-century-young, fruit-producing trees. And they will hail those oliviers as the perfect example of the resilience, the immortality of the olive tree. “Eh, voilà, the tree of eternity,” they exclaim. Quite a morality tale, eh, Carol?’
What I enjoy most about hearing René relate this story is noting the embellishments he slips in between one performance and the next. He has never before given such emphasis to the financial aspects. The first time, I don’t believe he even alluded to the gains the farmers hoped to pocket if they stuck with their beloved olive trees and succeeded in re-establishing their farms. I say nothing. He exhales as though puffed from exertion and empties the remains of the rosé bottle into his glass.
‘Santé.’ He lifts his drink and clinks it against mine. ‘The olive is the tree of tenacity, endurance and faith.’ He seems exceptionally pleased with himself. ‘So you see, Carol, in spite of the mistakes you have been making, you and your nincompoop city ideas about farming, with industry and faith and a sprinkling of much-needed common sense’ – he emphasises these last words – ‘you will be able to repair the damage. This is not an irreparable situation. I will help you, but you must listen to me and follow my advice.’
‘René, I don’t doubt that the groves are hardier than I may have suggested. Of course, I am worried and disappointed by this year’s results, but I am not in despair, and I certainly do not intend to shoot myself! What’s more, there are others all around the Mediterranean basin who strive to achieve their “nincompoop” ideas and succeed in producing first-class organic oil.’
‘Not in Provence. Carol, we have flies, worms, maladies here that we need to protect against. No, my very best advice to you is to spray the trees, young and old alike, immediately. Do it before the week is out. You can count on my assistance. I’ll give you the juice for nothing.’
These are René’s final words on the subject.
But, still, I stubbornly refuse his offer.
Once upon a time I might have accused Michel of bagging for himself the least strenuous fraction of the farm’s responsibilities, the paperwork, but that was in the days before I became acquainted with French agricultural bureaucracy. Now I am not so sure. He returns from the town hall a while after René has departed, looking stressed and in an uncommunicative frame of mind. I had hoped to run René’s thoughts by him and receive his support – ‘Yes, chérie, you are making the right decision. You are not being stubborn’ – but when I see the expression on his face I decide to leave it until later.
‘How did it go?’
‘They cancelled the fine. Did you get through to the pool company?’
‘There’s no reply and no answer machine. I’ll try again later.’
‘Here.’ On his way through to his office he hands me the mail he has collected from our letterbox at the foot of the drive. I call after him, ‘Well done for the fine!’ but he has disappeared.
Michel rarely if ever loses his temper. He expresses his displeasure by retreating into silence. If possible he will disappear off on his own and remain unforthcoming until he has shrugged off whatever is bothering him and he is ready to talk. I have learned not to intrude on this private time of his. So I accept the small batch of letters and set about the preparation of lunch. As I begin to lay the garden table I notice that one of our letters is from the Chambre d’Agriculture. Ever hopeful that it could be feedback relating to our farm’s AOC status – the coveted AOC, Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée, awarded for the finest-quality produce – I rip open the envelope, but no. Instead it contains our olive oil classification. A fellow arrived here some months ago and requested a bottle of our produce which he took away with him to have tested. This letter, stamped and signed by the Chambre d’Agriculture, is the result of those official testings. It includes evaluations on the quality, taste and acid content of one bottle of oil, pressed from last year’s harvest. The oil we are using now.
As I unfold the page, I call to Michel to come and read it with me. He does not answer. I scan the results hungrily. Even before I have gleaned its entire contents my eyes are moist with glee. I hurry to find him, certain that it will make him smile too, and come upon him kneeling in the parking, head bent in concentration alongside Quashia, clutching strips of a discarded sheet, now in use as
oil rags. The two strimming machines are laid out between the men on the hot asphalt. They are threading the nylon yarn into the spools and cleaning the spark plugs ready for a strenuous afternoon’s work.
‘One jolly piece of news to arrive with the mail you brought up is our very first “commentaire organoleptique sur l’huile d’olive, ainsi que la mesure du taux d’acide oléique”.’ I read this first bit aloud and then, as I hand him the letter, I add, ‘I think it will tickle you.’
Michel does not take it from me because his hands are smeared with grease. I hold on to it as he rises and leans in to read it and then bursts out laughing. ‘Terrific!’
Quashia looks on queryingly. He cannot read French so there is no point in showing it to him. Instead, Michel reads it out to him, playing the humour to the hilt.
‘The acid content in our oil is suitably low, zero-point-seven. This is excellent news, Monsieur Q. It confirms that we are farming oil that can bear the label “extra virgin”.’
Oil requires an acid compound of 0.8 per cent or less to earn this ticket.
‘Now, look here, what do you make of this, Quashia? The commentary on the official tasting is as follows: “The nose of the oil—” ’
‘Nose?’
‘That refers to its aroma. The nose, using their words, is described as “a combination of ripe apple, smoked meat and cocoa” while the taste is “slightly sharp, with flavours of green banana and cold cuts of sausage and hams”. Our oil has been pronounced, by these highly skilled agricultural control experts, to be “very long in the mouth”.’
Quashia looks bemused. ‘Long in the mouth?’ he repeats.
‘Let’s put it another way: the oil’s flavour lingers, it stays with you, which is also judged an important ingredient in quality control. All in all,’ concludes Michel with a certain flourish, ‘it would seem that we have deliciously high-quality if somewhat unusual-tasting oil! What do you say to that, Monsieur Q?’
Quashia lets out a shrieking, one-toothed hoot. These descriptions, which are colourful enough to our ears, are to him and his Arab way of looking at life totally absurd.
‘Our oil has a nose and a long mouth,’ he cackles. ‘And it tastes like banana-flavoured sausages! Not for me, then!’ Quashia loves to be amused. My play-acting frequently delights him, but I have rarely seen him so crippled with laughter and the sight of him rocking like an amused child makes Michel and me giggle all the more. We glance at one another and grin. Michel winks at me and it breaks the ice between us. I move in towards him and he wraps his arm about me, closing his grease-caked fingers into a fist around my bare shoulder, beneath my sleeveless T-shirt, leaving his blackened print on my flesh as he squeezes me tight. I feel a deep sense of relief that all is well between us and that this is what it means to be home.
Out of the Firing Line
During our absence from the farm, Michel’s name has been added to the mailing list of a weekly agricultural journal. We are not familiar with it and nor have we ordered it, but eight copies, packaged in clear plastic wrapping, await us. My first instinct is to chuck them in the wastepaper basket without a second glance but a coloured front-page spread about organic farming in the western Mediterranean catches my eye and I decide to flick through one or two of the issues. As it turns out, they make fascinating and useful reading, chock-a-block as they are with facts and dates relating to Alpes-Maritimes traditions, practices and customs. Twenty pages in each, written in a style which is casual and user-friendly on all matters of interest to those who enjoy nature or are involved in the cultivation or distribution of local produce.
I learn, for example, that the inland town of Opio, only a few kilometres from where we are, will be hosting a watermelon festival in early July and that Solliès-Pont, a village situated between Hyères and Toulon in the Var, benefits from a microclimate that is particularly conducive to the propagation of figs. It boasts an annual production of over 2,000 tonnes from a mere 233 hectares. In late August this humble commune celebrates its harvest of the ‘violette de Sollies’ during a three-day pageant. Elsewhere there is an annual bread festival. Baking is regarded as a time-honoured and noble artisan trade in France. The Fête du Pain de Saint-Martin-Vésubie is organised by an association dedicated exclusively to traditional French ways of living. It is a two-day event held over a weekend and culminates on the Sunday with the baking in the communal village oven of 400 kilos of giant loaves, which are then offered as prizes in the evening tombola! And there are a few fascinating titbits about olive farming. One article informs me that there remain approximately fifteen varieties of olive tree growing on our coastline that cannot be identified. Fifteen! All have been surviving on this southern lip of France since ‘antérieur au gel’, which translates as ‘before the frost’, and refers to the harsh winter of 1956 René has so recently depicted. It is clear from the article that 1956 is seen as a turning-point in the modern history of French oléiculture.
The telephone breaks into my reading. Noticing the clock, I see that it is already half-past ten. As I idly reach for the receiver, the answer machine kicks in. I decide to leave it and make my way through to the kitchen. It is time to take replenishments of fresh water to the men up the hill.
Slipping from slapping flip-flops into my running shoes, I ascend the serpentine track, skipping and leaping from shade to shade beneath the towering pines to avoid the amplifying heat. The ground is springy underfoot from the pine needles. The small rucksack on my back carries my provisions for the workers: bottles of cool, but not chilled water – it is judged unwise down here to consume very cold liquids in melting temperatures – a flask of coffee for Michel and another of verbena tisane for Quashia, plus the encouragement of a treat: fresh dates and slabs of dark chocolate.
Both men are grateful for the excuse to take a break. We choose ourselves a patch where the vegetation has been cleared and we can perch beneath a prehistoric Judas tree. Its one remaining upper limb – the others have been pollarded – as thick as an old ship’s mast, provides us with leafy cover.
It’s a while since I have been up here. Relaxing back against the nobbly liver-brown trunk, eyes raised through a canopy of evergreens, I reacquaint myself with this sky, with its rods of thick potent light, its dense, enveloping emptiness and its infrangible blueness, as blue as a kingfisher. All is quiet save for the pouring of refreshments and chatter at my side. I drink deep of the hush of morning. The dry climate is settling in for the season, permeating plants and soil. The air, filtered through a bouquet of fragrances, burns into my nostrils: the oniony scent of lopped herbage, which always conjures up poignant memories, and the heady pungency of rosy garlic. It grows like a weed on our land. I turn about me and spy a wilting cluster of its felled, pallid-pink umbels. Reaching for one, I crush a length of stalk between my fingers, sniff its tart narcotic aroma and lick at the glistening viscosity where it has dripped a snail’s trail across my palm.
‘It’s a pity I didn’t know these were here. I could have collected them for our salads,’ I murmur, but Michel is not listening. He is in amicable debate with Quashia; something to do with the shed.
Squatting on our haunches like a trio of monkeys, we munch the sticky dates, suck our coated fingers as if they were lollies and take stock of what is or isn’t all around us. Quashia reminds us that the coast has seen no rain in several months.
‘Dry as a biscuit. Might that be why we have so few olives this year?’ I suspect that he is as quietly concerned as we are by the dearth.
‘There are handfuls here and there,’ I protest, remembering René’s blatant accusations.
‘Yes, but the majority are on the saplings,’ chips in Michel. ‘I made a tour earlier this morning. The size of their fruit is quite remarkable; they look set to provide us with exceptional future pressings.’ We all agree. ‘And the trees themselves are shooting up fast, no longer resembling shrublets. They are in excellent condition.’
‘But the mature fellows are almost bare.’
‘A sabbatical? Mmm, perhaps that is what they have chosen for themselves.’
‘I doubt that we have sufficient to make even one trip to the mill, if we wish to maintain our classification as producers of single-estate pressed oil. And, with our AOC pending, I certainly don’t want to have to send off another batch of papers to the various oil bodies informing them that we have changed our status!’
Our summers are usually dedicated to the tending of our autumn olive harvest, spraying when needs absolutely must to avoid the black mouche, the fly that bores its way into the base of the drupe, installs itself there and destroys the olive’s ability to cling to the branch – we have tried fly traps but they haven’t solved the problem – and other insects and fungi that can attack the groves when the heat is brutal. So there is always a watchful eye trained on the trees’ wellbeing and precious fruit development, but if we decided to do nothing with our paltry harvest this year then our summer duties could be, if not negligible, then at least light.
It is not the season for pruning or planting. Watering, as always, will be the most arduous task. It is a time-consuming job because it must be done by hand; lugging brimming buckets, splashing and spilling, to and fro, scaling and descending. Not to mention heaving and dragging snake-like lengths of hosepipe from one corner of the land to another. When fastened together, they can measure up to a hundred metres. Pumped with water, they are unwieldy and heavy, but because Quashia has decided not to return to his family in Algeria for these mid-year months he will be around to manage this with us.
‘We could try marinating the drupes we have and if they are edible and delicious we could present the farm as a producer of table olives instead of oil for this one season.’
‘There’s so few, even for that,’ I sigh. ‘And the cost of husbanding them all summer may prove prohibitive.’
The Olive Harvest (The Olive Series Book 3) Page 3
