by Dick Rosano
With the streets of Alba crowded with the truffle-hungry tourists at this time of year, the would-be smugglers expected the crowds to help them to remain inconspicuous.
“We'll probably see each other in a while,” he suggested, “right?”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “In Alba is where I set the bait. I can't be seen with you.”
“Okay,” he reminded himself, “we're in this for the money.”
Chapter 8
Bringing Evil to Alba
Shaking hands required a man to offer his right, even the ugly scarred appendage that he was left to carry around with him. So he reached out to the farmer and shook his hand with an air of nonchalance and confidence.
He had checked on this farmer earlier, before traveling here from Modane. The farmer was a truffle hunter, and he had innocently accepted the hired task, making plans in advance of the smugglers' arrival.
“Digging for truffles is a delicate business,” said the trifolào, with hand gestures to illustrate his point that the unearthed gems be treated with great care. “Scratching or cutting the surface reduces the value of the find. You use a zappino to gently lift the truffle from the earth.”
“A zappino is a small pick,” he continued, chuckling at the confused look on his guest's face, then he handed over the little tool.
That laugh made the smuggler mad. “You'll not be needed much longer,” he thought, casting a malicious gaze upon his host. He hefted the zappino in his hand. It felt good, strong enough and just the right length. It could be used as a weapon.
The old farmer's look turned gray then, and his brow knitted together in one long V-shaped furrow.
“What is it?” asked the visitor.
Without lifting his head, the old guy dusted the ground with his toe and peered upward at his guest so that the pupils of his eyes were lightly shrouded by the downcast eyelashes.
“Claudio died yesterday. He was a good friend and a skilled truffle hunter.” He paused and looked at the zappino.
“They found his body in the field,” he continued, “where his dogs had laid down beside him.” With a tremor of suspicion in his voice, he added, “They said he must have tripped on the roots of the tree, and…” pausing to look at the digging tool once more… “he fell onto his zappino.
“That's pazzo!” the farmer said, “crazy. Claudio could not have done that.”
The old guy didn't have to spell it out. Seeing the sharpened pick in the smuggler's hand, he felt a hint of concern, as he would suspect any outsider when a friend was recently killed.
The farmer was left to brood for his lost friend as the man returned to his rental car and drove down the road to Alba. Returning to the festive mood of the village and the street parties that claimed the night, the smuggler spied his accomplice on the next block. She was talking to a young couple and laughing it up. By their hand signals he could tell she was asking for directions.
“Funny how she can turn off the evil in her eyes,” he thought, “and turn gracious and almost girlishly shy when it suits her.”
She had a look that lit up her face. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks swelled with a broad smile, even the freedom of her gestures described someone who was happy and excited about being here in Alba, knowing no one, and interacting with strangers easier than she interacted with her partner in crime. It was a great act.
At that moment he wondered whether he was just a pawn she was using to complete this deal. A needed partner to finish off details that she, along, couldn't do.
They were standing only about twenty feet apart – he assumed that distance would be enough. Just as she was signing off with that couple, she looked at him and winked. She had known he was there the whole time and didn't say anything. Of course.
That wink reassured him and he settled down. It wasn't just the wink, it was the impish smile on her face that won him over.
The other couple turned to leave and he contemplated going up to her and pretending to be flirting, just a guy on the street in Alba, in search of a girl. But she used the slightest side-to-side motion of her head and a subtle flick of her fingers hanging down by her hip to warn him not to try.
His thoughts drifted to Claudio, with a zappino sticking out from between his ribs.
“We're in it for the money,” her gesture said. “No killing.” But he wondered about the dead farmer.
Chapter 9
No Compromise
The next morning he returned to the farm to continue to develop his relationship with the trifolào. The truffle harvest had just begun, but it was slight; the real crop wouldn't be coming in for a couple of weeks. Just enough time for the smugglers to launch their plan.
“The truffle hunter I hired – stupid man,” he thought to himself driving up the dirt-rutted lane, “has already taught me all that I need to know. Today, we'll be out in his fields testing my abilities.”
“You know, we won't be searching for truffles in the daytime, not really,” the farmer said.
The visitor didn't really intend to search for truffles with the trifolào, anyway. He had promised to help the farmer find a new market for his truffles, a promise that encouraged the farmer to teach the methods and share the crop.
“We can harvest more truffles,” the thief added, a further enticement, “then we can deliver them to market and split the profits.” Or so he said.
The farmer was one of the new breed of trifolài, a bit outside the fraternity of truffle hunters, someone who would rather make money than preserve the tradition of the specialty. He was the perfect target for the smuggler.
“Today, we're just practicing,” he told the farmer. And that was true, but the visitor wondered for a moment how few things he said anymore that were true.
“But if I'm going to help you find more truffles, I need to know how to get to them without damaging our crop.” He fingered the zappino and imagined plunging it into more than the earth.
They practiced on trees near the farmhouse, the trifolào didn't want to wander into the fields in daylight and expose the location of his truffle fields to prying eyes. After an hour, they returned to the farmhouse. The farmer was warming up to this stranger and asked him in for a quick meal but he declined.
“I need to return to Alba,” he said, “to make arrangements for the sale.” Another lie.
The farmer's dog was not as trusting as his owner and seemed to sense a certain wickedness in this visitor. The dog knew the man, but was beginning to act suspicious around him.
Chapter 10
Port of Tripoli, Libya
Two men sat close together at a table beside the docks in the Port of Tripoli. Each had a tendency to seize his cup of coffee like a bear seizes her cub; not with fingers on the handle but by palming the ceramic vessel and wrapping his thick fingers around it.
Their conversation went in spurts, several comments exchanged in seconds, terse words with few syllables, followed by long moments of silence. Both were grizzled and muscular, although the attractive muscles of youth were now shrouded by the folds of midlife's layers.
One wore a close-fitting flannel hat; the other wore a stocking cap familiar to men who spent their lives on the sea. Both were veterans of hard times and knew not to turn down money where it could be found.
“We're to sail up to Genoa, without stopping at ports along the way. The port there is so busy that the masters can't keep up with boats that tie down along the quay.”
“Okay. Then what?” asked the other.
“Find a truck,” said the first. “Nothing showy, gotta be inconspicuous. Can't steal it, have to buy it so no one's gonna be looking for it for a while.”
“Whose money?” asked the second.
“Ours.” The first man paused, recognizing the doubt in his partner's voice. “I've worked with her before. She'll pay.”
They sat for long moments after that, sipping their coffee and staring out at the ships they once dreamed would be their ticket to adventure. That was when bot
h were young and foolish. Now they were old and broke. The sea took their youth, stole their families, and left them with empty dreams.
The first man put down his cup with a clunk, indicating that it was empty and he was done. Before he could rise from the table, the second had one more question.
“How much is it worth?”
“More than you've made in the last five years,” came the very simple answer.
Chapter 11
Waking Late
The work had been nearly completed among the vines. Paolo slept later than usual, mostly to his father's disappointment. Dito was too old to remember that a young man needed, or wanted, more sleep. Especially in the morning with a slight chill in the air. That made it so much better to roll over in bed and sleep until noon.
Dito had worked hard most of his life. His father had been gruff with him just as he was with Paolo. But, with his own years multiplying, Dito decided that his own father was right. Sleep is necessary, but a man was supposed to get up with the sun and be productive.
So when he passed his son's bedroom door he glanced in. With a slight hesitation in his step, Dito moved on. It was not an argument that a father won with a son. Besides, Dito said to himself, soon Paolo would be gone and – at this he looked down at his feet – maybe not return.
“Non capisco,” he mumbled to himself. “I don't understand.”
Later in the morning, when Dito was already out in the barn, Paolo stumbled into his mother's kitchen. Catrina was done cooking breakfast, and she wagged her finger at her son for his long hours in bed, but otherwise didn't upbraid him.
“It's midday,” she said, a chiding remark said with a mother's smile. “What would your father think?”
Paolo knew what his father would think. But what was the point? They worked sunrise to sunset during the growing season, and even longer during the harvest. Now that the season was over and there was nothing to do, why get up early?
“What does papa do in that barn, anyway?” he asked.
“He does what he has to do. He keeps busy,” was her reply.
“But what does he have to do?”
Catrina's look was a mixture of patience and love. “He has to keep busy.”
Chapter 12
Caffé Rossetti
There was an upside to not being together in Alba. She was always telling him not to drink so much wine.
“It'll blur your judgment,” she said.
“Like choosing you for a partner,” he almost blurted out one night.
In Alba, the birthplace of Barolo and other magnificent Italian wines, not partaking of the vinous treasures would have been a sin. Red wine, white wine, even many sparkling wines made from Cortese and Moscato. He couldn't drink them all, but he didn't mind making a serious go of it.
So he found a shady seat on the sidewalk outside of Caffé Rossetti, and relaxed. Piazza Rossetti itself was small and just off the main pedestrian thoroughfare, so he didn't think he'd run into anyone that he didn't want to see. Like his accomplice, or the truffle hunter he hired.
But the piazza still had the glow of the Old World: young girls in their pretty dresses, young men following close behind, mamas and papas with younger kids in tow. Old men gathered at café tables and arguing about the latest soccer score. It was easy to settle in and just watch the world go by.
Alba was growing on him.
“I had never been to Alba before we hatched this plan,” he thought, but he intended to return when it was over – with the millions of euros that he expected to have then.
But she didn't want that. She said a smart criminal never returns to the scene of the crime. A smart criminal.
“And we're in it for the money,” he repeated to himself, once again.
Chapter 13
Erase the Complications
After sating himself on food and wine at Caffé Rossetti, the man returned to the farm the next day, and the dog's natural suspicions were once again on display.
“The dog knew me,” he thought “and acted suspicious as soon as I got out of my car.”
“Hello,” the hunter waved at him as he walked from his barn. He seemed full of spirit that day. Apparently, he was in it for the money too.
“Hello. What is the plan for this morning?” the visitor asked.
The trifolào said they had been practicing under hazelnut trees, and there would be some truffles there. But now he said that his best crop comes from the oak trees on the northern part of his farm.
“I couldn't care less where he got his truffles from,” the smuggler thought to himself. “He still thinks I'm here to get his truffles.” Then it occurred to him that, when the farmer was gone, why shouldn't the visitor take the crop too?
Later that day he called her on the phone. She told him that she had set everything up. It was easy, she said, and he could hear the sound of feminine pride in her voice: She had fooled another man. He wondered how many men she had fooled - - whether she was just fooling him.
They talked about the next steps. Since she was ready and he had honed the hunting skills, they didn't need the hunter any more.
“I can't dig up enough truffles by myself,” he said, reminding her of his earlier concern about this.
She said she knew how to do it. He knew she had spent time in Alba before, but he didn't realize that this time included practicing truffle hunting.
“Work at night, sleep during the day,” was what she said.
They could share the locations, he said, split them up and get more done.
“It's the only way,” she said.
That evening, he returned to the farm. This time, the dog snarled and made him nervous.
He walked resolutely toward the barn, trying to convince the dog that he belonged there, and not to growl and bite him, but he made the man nervous. The farmer was not in the barn, but the dog followed the visitor in, just steps behind.
As he passed through the wide open doors of the barn, he looked up and saw a short metal bar, some piece of farm machinery, no doubt. He turned and glanced briefly at the dog, reached up to grab the bar, and spun around before the animal could react. The bar came right down on the dog's head.
There was a whimper, then a sound that sounded like “harrumph,” as the animal dropped to the earth. It was like the dog was getting in the last word. Well, it was his last word.
The man knew he had to reach the farmer before he came into the barn; if he saw the dog like this, the next step would be much more difficult.
He walked out of the barn, looking both ways before crossing to his car to retrieve the shovel. When he turned around, he saw that the farmer was already there, he was already walking into the barn. The visitor still had the metal bar in his hand.
He walked up behind the trifolào and saw that the farmer was standing there staring down at his lifeless dog. His arms were slightly spread, palms up, as if to say, “What's this?”
“That's appropriate,” the visitor thought, that they would both die together. He swung the blunt weapon down in a swift arc on the man's head.
“Didn't feel a thing,” the scoundrel told himself.
He returned to his car to get the shovel. Now he had to bury the dog and the man.
The two smugglers began hunting truffles in earnest that night. They had to get out there before full night fell, because the trifolài would come in the early morning hours. They didn't need dogs or pigs; she had already stolen the program from her boyfriend that mapped out all the best truffle-hunting grounds.
When the man unearthed his first truffle, he brought it to his nose.
“What a scent!” he exclaimed, “It was everything those boring foodies kept yammering about back at the restaurant.”
He was amazed and, at the same time, converted, and decided that he would save some of these and treat himself after they had smuggled the mother lode.
Chapter 14
Genoa
The Genovese know their food. In a land such as Italy, where
even peasants enjoyed an almost unfair portion of great meals, the Genovese believed they stood out.
And so it was that Rita and Stefano had such a following. Their restaurant on Via del Mare offered a broad range of dishes from the Ligurian region, but generously included specialties from up and down the Italian peninsula. Seafood dominated, but they also included Florentine sauces, Umbrian beef, Calabrian shellfish, myriad seafood delicacies from the Adriatic, and borderline-Austrian/German accents from the Tyrolean border on the north.
They shared cooking responsibilities and, while Stefano was the workhorse in the kitchen, Rita was the genius behind their menu. She could taste a dish and pick out all the ingredients, arranging them in order of quantity and even the time the ingredients were added to the pan. With Rita's uncanny sense of smell, Stefano wondered at times whether it was a distraction. When they walked through the market together before opening each day, he feared she would be overwhelmed and go a bit crazy.
Quite the opposite happened. Rita combined her sense of smell with her mental checklist of what she wanted for that day. Striding purposefully between the stalls with heavy smells of fresh fish, delicate aromas of herbs, and pungent odors of cheese, Rita would sometimes veer suddenly to one side and point right at the thing she was looking for.
“What a sense of direction,” Stefano laughed, “and what a sense of purpose!”
They stocked their pantry with eclectic items but managed to reserve space for foodstuffs that were true to the Ligurian menu. It was this approach that made Ristorante Girasole so popular with the locals.
And locals were their main stock in trade. They wouldn't mind having more tourists to drop in but, truth be told, the dining room probably couldn't hold them. As it was, the tables were full from the opening bell until lights out, making each evening an exhausting event and leaving Rita and Stefano, and their help, anxious to sit for a spell and nibble at their own dinner late after closing.
