Two small-time mobsters with a stake in the place lunching together? Michel told me I was being fanciful.
The remaining tables had soon filled up with groups of men, municipal types, heavies in shades, dark suits, brown shoes, Sicilian style. Was it fanciful to observe their relationship, their embraces with the owner of the joint? A carload of police arrived, pulled up directly outside, barring the view to the water and the semi-constructed marina. They were escorted to a table, served liquorice-thick espressos and then sent off with bags of hot food. Our plates arrived. Mine was sublime. The same white wine as those who had ordered on my behalf. Still, the two other restaurants on this slip remained silent and unoccupied, aside from one pair of pale-skinned tourists.
‘Perhaps the other establishments haven’t paid their protection money,’ I joshed.
I wanted to visit the tonnare. Alas, it had been transformed into a hotel. Instead, we climbed up into the old town, to take photographs of the view and to amble about the narrow inclines. Up in the old quarter, an Arab feel to the place: flat roofs, cubed houses, market stalls of vegetables, looking out over the calm Med towards distant mountains, hazy in the hot afternoon.
Down a cobbled cul-de-sac, more an elongated square than a street, at the end of which lay the upper level of a castle now transformed into a museum, I raised my camera to shoot an elegant row of trees, acacias, I think, too heavily pruned to identify, with Michel centre stage walking among them. The terraced houses, each with its own wrought-iron balcony and slatted shutters, were shades of a sun-bleached rose or pink, like the morning sky at daybreak. Blossoms and creepers straddled them. Pots full of flowering geraniums on every doorstep. It was a natural, uncontrived southern Mediterranean spectacle. I tilted my camera’s lens to capture the opposite terraces and caught within the viewfinder the image of a huddled quartet at an open front door. I lowered my camera and sidled forward, to eavesdrop on the conversation. Two of the four were young men, twenties, dressed identically in white shirts, one short-sleeved, the other creased arms rolled to the elbows, and black trousers. Legs apart, they crowded an elderly couple who were pinned against their open front door. The old man, a wasting figure, mid-eighties, clad in lightweight grey outfit that resembled a prisoner’s uniform, was attempting to edge forward, arguing weakly in a strangled, overworn voice. His bespectacled, robust wife, black crocheted shawl about her shoulders, was leaning against the frame, looking perplexed, distressed.
‘You owe eight hundred euros,’ claimed one of the two. Rent collectors, insurance men, racketeers? Surely this pair were members of the famed picciotti? Foot soldiers of the Mafia.
One of the thugs stood arms wrapped across his breast while the other drew out a paper, a file. ‘See, here are the figures. Eight hundred euros.’
‘But it’s not accurate,’ whimpered the grizzled old bloke while his wife muttered words I could not pick up on.
The second of the collectors was sent to their car, strutting, marching determinedly, to fetch – what? – further paperwork, trumped-up proof, a gun, an eviction order? The couple were getting visibly agitated. So was I. Michel, who had reached the entrance to the museum, was calling me from the top of a flight of steps, beckoning me to ‘get going’. I circuited the scene, snapping fast, aware that, were I to be observed, my camera might be snatched or accidentally knocked from my hands. What did I hope to achieve with the recorded information? There was nothing I could do to assist this elderly couple, but my heart went out to them. I switched off my camera and hurried after my husband who was by now inside the museum.
There, on display within a series of glass cases, was the history of tuna fishing and its role in this community’s heritage. I wondered about the frail old man outside. Had he spent his working life at sea, a skilled fisherman out on the boats in all weathers, hauling in those goliaths, playing his part in the bloody slaughter known as the mattanza? And those two young collectors of debts who, in spite of their different sleeve cuts, looked as though they were in uniform – why had they been harassing the octogenarian and his wife? Questions I would never know the answers to.
Time to leave, but leaving left an ache within me, a heart sore. Time to return to our intruder: just a fly, a minuscule fly.
Time to go home.
10
In order to put the farm on the organic road, we were obliged to declare ourselves ‘bio en conversion’. Bio en conversion described the transition, a process that takes three years, from conventional farming to organic. Once back from Sicily, we set up a meeting with Cécile, the new technician from Agrivert. Like Nadine, she was a young woman in her mid-twenties, dark-haired with creamy skin and alert, piercing eyes. She, too, was fired by a passion for this alternative way of life. We sat her beneath the magnolia tree, gave her a cool glass of mineral water and set to work. I had supposed that as a technician she would walk the groves and discuss the condition of the trees, but not at all. The purpose of this rendezvous was paperwork: a long series of questions and explanations, followed by more questions. The usual. What is the square metreage of the estate; how much is dedicated to olives; what farming methods were we practising; what products had been used here? Which mill did we frequent?
‘You realise you will probably have to press your olives elsewhere. I will send you the list of those offering bio pressings. I am fairly certain that Gérard’s is not among them.’
I was sad to hear that we would be obliged to make this change.
A droll fact was that, no matter where else in France we bought a plot or chose to live, once we had declared these parcels of olive groves organic, whatever other groves we owned, they were also obliged to be registered for the same ticketing. This, Cécile explained, was to guard against deception. A farmer might declare one small zone bio while farming other areas conventionally and then attempt to palm off the produce from all surfaces as pesticide-free.
An astute assessment of the wily Provençal mindset?
If we wished to grow non-organic apples, vegetables, wine or any other crop alongside our organic olives that was fine, which I found rather curious. Surely the pesticides from other produce fell on to the same land surface?
We would be subject to spot investigations. The experts would have the right to enter at a moment’s notice to test the soil or any oil of ours kept on the premises. They might take cuttings from trees, if they saw fit, while a body known as the Committee of Certification (it had a communist ring to it, methought!) might also request an analysis.
All of these activities had to be paid for. By us. Not once, but annually. And, warned Cécile, they could be rigorous during the first three years while we were en conversion. The approximate cost for all this was somewhere in the region of five hundred euros a year. I recalled those farmers who had sat round the lunch table those months back. The poor fellow whose cri de cœur had been: every day I ask myself whether I shan’t just chuck it all in. How many bottles of olive oil did one of those men have to sell to earn himself the price of the label that stated production biologique? Frankly, it struck me as steep and I said so.
‘Oh, but you can reclaim it all,’ encouraged Cécile. ‘And you can also apply for an annual credit against your income tax, an allowance of twelve hundred euros.’
I doubted whether those hay-baley blokes had 1200 euros’ surplus between them on their annual taxes.
‘Well, why not simply cancel the charges?’
Both she and Michel answered in unison. ‘It’s a different department.’
French bureaucracy! It was ludicrous.
‘Still, why must it be so prohibitively expensive?’ I insisted. ‘If we were earning our living from these olives, we would not be able to afford it. Surely it discourages farmers from making the shift?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a young department and there’s not much support for us yet.’
What about Sarko’s Round Table and their promises to raise awareness, to assist farmers’ comprehension of the principles of org
anic farming, to reduce pollution levels in surface and groundwater?
She laughed. ‘A lot has been spoken about it. Little so far has filtered down into the day-to-day economics of running organic businesses. Only 2 per cent of French agricultural holdings are bio, but the good news is that 7.6 per cent of this region, PACA [Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur], has made the shift.’
‘Why is the percentage so much higher down our way?’
‘Converting olive farms is, as you know, challenging. There is still a great deal to be learned whereas it is relatively straightforward to manage vineyards organically so that accounts for the higher figures in this southern area.’
The products on offer to aid us in this shift were those I had already investigated. There had been no new developments in the ensuing months. As Cécile enumerated them, I rejected them. The good news was that Psyttalia lounsburyi was not a washout. On the five farms where baskets had been hung, the flies had reappeared at two. This gave INRA and the organic minds cause for optimism. The experiments were to be repeated. I offered our holding but it was impossible. The same five estates were to be used during the five years of experiments.
‘So what is your approach to be?’ she enquired. Apparently, it had to be declared.
I threw a glance at Michel. ‘One of our first goals has to be the regeneration of the soil, to return it to a pesticide-free state at every level. This cannot be achieved during the first year, I know, but the process can be got underway. Otherwise, nothing,’ I stated.
She scribbled my response on to her form.
I had been advised by Vincent to grow a wide selection of plants in the groves. ‘We will follow the philosophy of diversity, recommended by your colleague from Avignon and, at the termination of every harvest, Michel will ensure that any residual fruits – forgotten olives, fallen ones and those that have remained on the branches unharvested – will be cleared away and burned. This will deny the flies their wintering abodes.’
‘Good, good,’ she cried, still scribbling.
‘When we find a suitable opportunity and a beekeeper, we intend to reintroduce honeybees to the land. Otherwise, I would like to leave the earth to heal. I would prefer that the olive trees redevelop their own equilibrium.’
‘And that will be it?’
I nodded. Michel confirmed it.
She left us with a word of warning: ‘Your production is bound to diminish in the early stages. That is to be expected and it is for this reason that the government offers the twelve hundred euros’ tax credit.’ She also gave us a list with the addresses of four companies. These were experts. Our strict instructions were to contact one of them immediately, to carry out an analysis of our holding. Once they had seen the property, counted the trees, gauged our potential level of olive production, they would request signatures on a contract, to be filed at the Chambre d’Agriculture and also in Brussels.
This would be our official declaration.
Michel telephoned one of the four bureaux the very next day and within forty-eight hours we had received an estimate for their work and a one hundred and forty-one-page form to complete. A book of rules accompanied it, forty-two pages of small print!
‘I’m glad it’s you who deals with that side of the farm,’ I joshed.
Cécile copied us in on the appraisal she had forwarded to the organic officialdoms stating that we were ‘perfect material’. The experts came, the contract was signed: Engagement pour la conversion.
It was rather terrifying, but the first step had finally, finally, been taken. We would shortly be back on the olive body lists. From this day onwards, we would be classified as Olive Farm: bio en conversion.
I was nervous, a little daunted, for reasons I could not quite identify – honouring my commitment to the earth, perhaps? – but I was deeply satisfied that Michel had made this gesture alongside me. He also wrote all the letters to the olive bodies which had rejected us or crossed us off their lists. Bio en conversion, he informed them!
‘We’ll see,’ he said, ‘where this takes us.’
With pen and paper in hand, I paid a solitary visit to our oil supply. In a cool, dark corner of our ‘summer kitchen’ within the basement floor of the villa, I set to a little arithmetic. I wanted to calculate, just in case. Forty litres remained in Paris at our broken-down home outside the city, which was sufficient, just about, for our needs when we were there, for possibly the next twelve months. Here at the farm, decanted and settling in five inox, stainless steel containers: three hundred and fifty litres of recently pressed oil. Aside from those, there were forty-seven recycled wine bottles, each goldened by three-quarters of a litre. Plus there were two magnums once rosy with excellent local wine and today accommodating our juice. My sums showed me that we possessed 388.25 litres of oil. Oil, rich in polyphenols, which would assure its longevity and its fine quality. With careful management, allowing for the fact that Quashia was supplied, as were several members of our joint families – and I hated being stingy, so I calculated accordingly – we could live off our stock, if the worst came to the worst and we lost everything because Dacus attacked and we did not counter-attack, remaining oil-autonomous for approximately two years. This haul would buy us the luxury of time to research and find alternatives.
Late spring in all its fullness was busting forth. I could feel the earth swelling beneath my steps. Our winter had been a rainy one, wetter than most, and the dormant plants had gorged themselves on the gifts from heaven. Now they had woken up, harkening to the bugle call, and they were impatient to spread their seeds. Walking the land with the dogs fed me energy. It was crawling with life and brought on an unexpected sense of excitement. ‘This is a new time,’ I repeated to myself. ‘A new way is dawning.’ Even the farming magazine we had been subscribing to for a number of years had begun to run regular features on the advantages of conversion. ‘Cherish your earth,’ stated the magazine, ‘and remember that an organic garden is rarely a sick one.’
I took it as wholehearted support for our new direction. In the earlier years, after I first signed up for this agricultural weekly, I would have been hard put to find any articles about alternative methods of farming.
As Latz said, make the decision and life falls into step, but one burning question remained: would Quashia fall into step or would he carry out his threats and quit the farm? We both agreed that it was essential to choose the optimum moment to break it to him.
As the days grew longer and lighter, Michel and I took to rising at dawn. Breakfast – coffee sweetened with honey, fresh fruit, goats’ milk yoghurt – was over by six. Then both to work, grateful for the brief lull before the onslaught. Now that the Portuguese were at work on the upper garage level, directly beyond our bedroom and my den, the dust was crawling into my sinuses and grit ear-marked the pages of my books. I was obliged to relocate files, computer, photographs and all the rest of my working materials elsewhere. Some mornings, I transported everything I needed across the garden to our pleasance, our Bedouin Bar, with its splendid view over the sea. Quite by accident, I had discovered that our internet connection was picking up even at that distance so I bagged it as my serene corner of connection. I could not leave equipment or books there overnight due to humidity or morning dew, but it was such a pleasure to work from there that I had no objection to transporting everything through the lengthening grasses. Inevitably, on the days when I had set up this haven, the men did not show.
When I was not writing, I was grubbing in the earth, planting, digging in sixty young lavender bushes, a mix of varieties I had found at the nursery, introducing them in among our principal bed of mature lavenders. I bought a box of watermelon seedlings and suggested to Q that we choose a corner and prick them out. I was looking for distractions, creating new interests, knowing that the moment was approaching when he must learn of our decision, for the olive flowers had departed and loaded branches of tiny fruit buds had appeared.
In the early evenings after the Portuguese had packed u
p and the noise had abated for a few short hours, Michel and I strolled the grounds with the dogs though we could barely spot them within the growth. Everything was bolting, be it shrubs, wild garlic, feral herbs. I could not identify some; I had never seen them before. Since we first cut back our newly purchased jungle, two decades earlier, the land had never been given such free rein and I was revelling in it, as I supposed the plants were, too. Perfumes, scents abounded; it was a veritable apothecary. Jasmine was climbing walls, orange blossom had broken out: a heady concoction. The apple trees, though, were showing signs of leaf curl or their own version of it. I paused to take stock of the damage. It was unlike the peach and apricot fungus that had turned the foliage a lovely autumn red. The apples were hosting small grey mites living on the leaves’ underside. I had no idea whether it would damage the potential fruits, small as cotton buds. Painstakingly, I picked from the trees every leaf that had been infested and squashed it between my fingers. The sensation made me want to gag and left my fingers sticky, viscosy. After, I returned to the house and washed my hands assiduously.
‘If this heat continues Dacus will soon be raring to go,’ I called from the bathroom. I was also asking myself whether the longer grasses, the unruly garden, were encouraging predators. We were possibly susceptible to new invaders while the land built up its own complex webs of resistances. ‘Michel, we have to speak to Quashia.’
‘Yes, I’m planning to have a word with him in the morning.’
And then, overnight … a wild boar invasion. The long stone wall to the rear of the lavenders where I had been digging had been buckled in three places.
‘We cannot uproot and move them all now,’ I said to both Michel and Quashia as we gazed down upon the disastrous doings revealed in daylight. This was not the season to be lifting out mature bushes and shifting them. It was too late. Several had begun to peduncle, a few were in spiked bud while others, the English variety known as Lavandula angustifolia, ‘Hidcote Blue’, were colouring at the tips, close to flowering.
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