by Dick Rosano
A chill air filled the space between Nicki and Francesco as Paolo looked on.
Chapter 45
What Now?
He knew she'll be thrilled – thrilled! – to hear that the hunter's body had been discovered. Actually, he was a bit nervous himself. He didn't like loose ends either. But as before, he had trouble separating his concern about the dead body from his fear of her.
“Yeah, I already heard,” was how she started in when he called her.
“Kind of stupid, right?” she continued.
“No,” he responded, defensively. He wasn't going to let her just walk over him; he was going to fight back.
“Well,” she spat out, “what now?”
“I don't really care,” the man began, weakly, but he was trying to build a case. “He's dead, so what? Maybe they'll think he's the one who stole the damn truffles, and he was murdered because of it.”
This sounded crazy before he even finished saying it. Her long silence on the phone made it clear that she agreed, and that she was really pissed off.
“You've got to leave. Now”
“That's ridiculous,” her partner blurted out. “There's no connection between the truffles, the hunter, and us. Besides, we're almost done here.”
“You are done here,” she said with finality.
He protested lamely. Although her silence made it clear that she wasn't going to change her mind, the man decided he wasn't bound by her, or their partnership. He would decide for himself.
Chapter 46
La Terrazza da Renza
The first sound Paolo heard that morning was his telefono, perched fortunately right next to his bed in Locanda Cortiletto d'Alba.
“Pronto,” he said, the Italians' typical phone greeting.
“Paolo,” came a woman's voice. Still half asleep, Paolo couldn't place a name with the voice, although he guessed it was either his mother or Zia Rita.
“Paolo,” came the voice again. By now Paolo was awake, at least enough to recognize his aunt's voice.
“Si, Zia Rita. Buona mattina,” he said, “good morning.”
“Actually,” she corrected, “it's near midday.” But her chiding was accompanied by a discernible humor, as Rita had come to know Paolo's sleep pattern.
“What is happening up there,” Rita queried.
Sitting up in bed and scratching his scalp, Paolo yawned before answering. “Nothing much. We have asked many of the trifolài what they think happened. The talk all over Alba is about the truffle harvest, and how the crop is down and the price is up. And we talked to Edoardo…” Here he paused as if suddenly remembering something.
“Oh, yeah,” he said as he emerged from his near-sleep state. “Edoardo wants us to visit him today because he found something.”
It was Monday, the day after the Palio, and Alba was quieter than on most days of the year. Since the Palio was a central event in the city, the “morning after” produced a collective hangover that would permeate the town.
“We're coming back up today,” said Rita. “We'll arrive by train about five o'clock in the afternoon. When are you meeting with Edoardo?”
“For lunch. We'll be back in Alba by the time you arrive.”
“D'accordo,” she said. “We can meet at Cortiletto d'Alba around six.”
Paolo flipped the phone closed, yawned again and stood to stretch his back. He had just turned toward the shower when a knock came at the door. He opened it and stepped back in surprise at his visitor.
“Ciao.” Francesco stood before him, showered and dressed, a fact that made Paolo a bit embarrassed, but he let him enter the room.
“Why does Nicki care so much about the truffles?” Francesco asked. His annoyance at Nicki's questioning had grown since the day before, and Paolo was sensing a significant rift between the two young people.
“Nicki wants to know because the loss bothers her. Rita wants to know for the restaurant, so does Stefano. And I want to know because I'm discovering how much tartufi mean to the people of Alba. The better question is, why don't you want to know?”
Francesco peered at him momentarily, his eyes growing cold, and then he breathed deeply before letting out a long sigh. Calling on his family business, Francesco said, “Of course I want to know. My father is a trifolào, and I am training to take his place. Why wouldn't I want to know?”
Paolo was not apt to accept such a weak defense.
“So,” Paolo replied, “what do you want?” After the words escaped his mouth, Paolo realized that they were not the most polite. But he decided not to retract them or rephrase them.
Again, Francesco looked at his feet. The gesture was one now recognized by Paolo as vintage Francesco. Observing it in other settings, Paolo knew that Francesco did this whenever he wanted to hide his feelings, or shield his eyes from view in order to mask what he was about to say.
“I want to find the truffles, but we're not going to find them by badgering the trifolài every day.”
“Do you want to go to the polizia?” Paolo asked.
“No, no,” Francesco said emphatically.
“What then?”
Acting defeated, Francesco just shrugged his shoulders, adding, “What's the use of seeing Edoardo today?”
“He wants to see us. Edoardo knows of our interest, he respects the measure of our concern, and he is heart-and-soul connected to the most famous product of Alba.”
“Barolo,” Francesco muttered.
“What?” asked Paolo, not hearing the single word response from Francesco.
“I said Barolo!” Francesco nearly spat the word out, letting his anger overwhelm him. “Barolo is more famous than truffles.”
“Maybe,” Paolo conceded, “but Alba wouldn't be Alba without the white truffle.”
Francesco turned to leave; Paolo shut the door behind him and prepared for the day.
About an hour later, they met outside the hotel. Nicki was even more beautiful than before, wearing a flower-print sun dress that showed off her figure, and her eyes sparkled with what Paolo assumed was the excitement of the day's plans.
“No, Paolo,” she corrected. “It's because I am anxious to show you the little town of Castiglione Falletto.” She smiled brightly at Paolo while saying this, knowing that Francesco was standing just a few feet away.
With this she linked her right arm through Paolo's as Francesco fumed over being overlooked by her. Nicki knew full well what she was doing, and how this slight would affect Francesco, but she wasn't doing it for spite. She was still mad at him for not caring more about the plight of the truffle harvest, and her patience was growing thin.
For his part, Francesco decided to remain a part of the trio. Leaving them now might be a salve for his ego, but he felt a growing need to accompany them in their quest to uncover evidence of the a crime – a prospect that made Francesco increasingly uneasy.
Getting out of Alba is always tricky, as it is in most of the ancient cities of Italy. But once outside the city proper, the road to Castiglione Falletto straightened out and, in just about twenty minutes, they had arrived at the outskirts of the tiny town that was their destination.
So small was Castiglione Falletto that only a few streets dissected the town. In addition to an ancient castello – what medieval Italian town didn't have one? – there were only about three restaurants and a handful of shops. Francesco pulled quickly up to the curb just above a sharp decline in the roadway, alongside La Terrazza da Renza. It was the most quaint of the restaurants in the town, and the friendliest. Renza, the owner, was a portly woman whose excellent menu was respected by eager diners from a large area beyond Castiglione Falletto's borders.
The three walked from the car to the terrace overlooking the Piedmontese countryside. Edoardo was ensconced in a corner table. He surveyed the terrace from this perch in a way that clearly conveyed that this was his table. As an elderly gentleman, a famous trifolào, and a venerated member of the town, such premier status would be expected. However, the rest
aurant still wouldn't have assumed this was “Edoardo's table” if he had not routinely graced their dining room and left handsome tips to go with his meals.
“Buon giorno,” he said, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome but without rising. As the elderly statesman in truffle craft, he didn't have to rise to greet the visitors. While he seemed quiet and a bit secretive in Bottega del Caffè in Alba, in territory that was less like his home, here in Castiglione Falletto he behaved very much like the mayor of the town. The change in behavior was so remarkable that Paolo even wondered whether Signor Edoardo was, in fact, the mayor.
They each ordered from the menu, complementing their dishes with two bottles of wine – a white Arneis and a bottle of Gattinara, a red wine made from nebbiolo, the same grape which yielded Barolo from more selective vineyards.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments while getting the meal going, then Edoardo surprised them by bluntly stating that he believed the truffles had been stolen.
“Sono stati rubati.” he said.
Nicki was shocked. She had heard other rumblings, but dismissed them. But to hear Edoardo say this, well…
“Perche?” Francesco asked, almost to rebuff Edoardo's studied opinion.
“Because,” Edoardo began, but paused for effect, “there's no sign of a virus.”
“How do you know this,” Paolo interjected.
With a proud smile, Edoardo sat back in his chair. “I have many contacts in this business. You forget who I am.” He proceeded to explain how he was allowed to accompany some of the trifolài to their fields, where he took soil and truffle samples and marked the location. These samples he delivered to the agricultural labs, who analyzed them.
“The scientists are sure there is no virus,” he reported, but with a glint of mischief in his eyes Edoardo added, “but they learned more about the type of soil and progress of the truffle by doing this.”
With Paolo's agricultural upbringing, and the rush of information about truffles that he devoured since arriving in Alba, he absorbed much about the management and growth of truffles through reading the books about local culture that generously adorned each room in the Cortiletto d'Alba hotel. From his reading, he knew that different types of trees produced different types of truffles, so it was no surprise that the soil could have an effect also.
And he knew that mycologists had studied truffle culture for decades, with some success unraveling the mystery of the fungus. So hearing Edoardo claim that more had been discovered was both intriguing and a bit surprising, but Paolo was not about to question the maestro di tartufi!
“But how could they be stolen?” Francesco persisted.
“Non so,” Edoardo admitted, “I don't know.” His earlier bravura proclamation lost some of its credibility since Edoardo had nothing to offer as proof. Francesco stared off into space, Nicki seemed lost in thought, and Paolo focused on Edoardo, sensing that there was something unsaid.
“But you seem so sure the tartufi were stolen. But you have no idea how?”
Edoardo emptied his wine glass as all eyes turned to him.
“It's just that tartufi don't just stop growing. I've been pulling these little diamonds from the ground for seventy years, and my father did so for fifty years before me. They've always been there, and they were there last year. How can they just not be there today? There must be ladri, thieves, at work here.”
Paolo noticed the slightest flinch in Francesco, a twitch in his left cheek that couldn't be hidden. He couldn't process it, but decided that this was a disturbing sign from his tablemate. What did Francesco know about truffles and thieves?
Chapter 47
Ristorante dell'Enzo
After a slow awakening, by afternoon the city was teeming with people, as if the spectators and riders had recovered from the previous night's reverie and were ready for another day to celebrate the truffle festival. Sidewalk cafés were full – even between meals – shops were doing a brisk business, crowds roamed the piazzas and side streets, and glass clinked here and there among the cafés with tired feet giving in to thirsty mouths.
Paolo and Nicki spent the morning questioning restaurant owners and trifolài on the piazze, but they didn't learn anything new. They walked the city and talked about their lives., Paolo stood five inches taller than Nicki and when she was on one of her long narratives about life in Italy, she would occasionally look up at him for emphasis. From this angle, her eyelashes seemed longer than usual, adding an alluring accent to her already radiant face.
With the possible exception of her sister, Nicki didn't remember spending so much time talking and sharing life's secrets with anyone as she was doing with Paolo. The investigation that Rita and Stefano had left them to pursue – with its numerous dead ends and clueless responses – created an abundance of dead time that Nicki and Paolo filled with shared stories of their childhood, families, and life experiences.
Francesco saw them walking past the church on Piazza Risorgimento that afternoon and drew near. Nicki offered a cool “hello,” but nothing more.
“Rita and Stefano are coming back today. Are you joining us for dinner tonight, right?” she asked.
Francesco paused to consider the “right” answer, wondering if the question was meant to elicit a “yes” or a “no,” but then he nodded.
“Si,” he said, a warble of guilt fluttering in his throat, “and papa will also be there.”
Francesco sensed a strain between himself and Nicki, a problem he blamed on the truffle disappearance.
Nicki and Paolo made their way back to Cortiletto d'Alba to take a short afternoon break. Paolo had already retrieved his key from behind the desk and Nicki approached the clerk to request hers. With the key, the clerk handed her a note which Nicki read on the way to her room.
“We arrive this afternoon. Let's meet at Ristorante dell'Enzo for dinner at eight o'clock.” It was signed by Rita, although Nicki hardly needed the reminder.
At the appointed time, they met at Enzo's, Paolo and Nicki walking from the hotel and Rita and Stefano appearing out of the crowd on the street at the same time. The interior of dell'Enzo's was slightly dimmed and soothing, with white tablecloths covering the tables, chairs of dark wood, a broad expanse of bar sporting about a dozen stools, and a colorful array of bottles decking out the backdrop. A refined grace permeated the room and soft tunes of Italian crooners filled the air.
A middle-aged man appeared, sized up the group and directed them to a table for four.
“Ma, signore,” began Stefano, “there will be two more.” With that, the host spun on his heel, found another table near the window with more room, and quickly arranged the settings on the table to accommodate six people. As he cradled unneeded glasses and table cards, he leaned into the guests and waited for a preliminary order.
“Il menu, per favore,” Rita said while she lowered herself into the chair. “A bottle of l'acqua minerale, and a bottle of Cavalotto Freisa.” It was clear that Rita had her heart set on a big meal, skipping right past her usual choice of white wine to start and ordering one of Piedmont's very pleasant reds. It was also clear that this would not be the last of the wines to grace the table that night, and starting with Freisa presaged a move up to something big, no doubt Barolo.
Tomaso appeared in the doorway, scanned the room, and found the table of his friends. He started toward them as Francesco entered behind him.
“Buona sera,” he said, with hugs and kisses for Nicki and Rita and heartfelt handshakes for the men. “Come state?” he added, “how are you?”
“Bene, grazie, ma ho fame,” Stefano replied, rubbing his stomach to emphasize that he was hungry.
Francesco greeted the table as his father had, and then sat next to Nicki. By accident, Paolo occupied the seat on her other side; as such, both men's conversations would be passed in front of Nicki throughout the meal.
Rita carried her excitement onto the subject of food generally, and truffles specifically. She seemed energized by the r
eturn from Genoa, and was more animated that night than when they saw her last. First, she reported to Paolo that she had spoken to his mother who asked about his welfare, which prompted Nicki to smile and squeeze his cheek to mimic what she was sure his mother would do. He brushed her hand away but had to smile at the attention.
Rita also reported that Ristorante Girasole was doing great business and that everyone was eagerly awaiting the truffles.
Stefano interrupted her to tell how the guests at the restaurant were also anxious about the sudden disappearance of Nicki, then he smiled and looked at her in admiration.
Rita smiled too, but sometimes wondered why Italian men have to flirt with young women so openly. Shrugging her shoulders, and dispatching with her husband's interruption, Rita returned to the subject of the tartufi.
“You think they're anxious about losing Nicki; wait till our customers find out they're missing their truffles!” She threw an apologetic glance at Nicki, not wanting to compare her to a delicious morsel.
“What are the Albese saying?” Rita asked Tomaso.
“Everyone has their own idea, mostly rumors. Thieves, viruses,” Tomaso began. “The rumor I like best is the one about a government conspiracy to punish the trifolài for tax-dodging by destroying the crop.”
“Hmpph,” muttered Stefano. “Italian governments change over every few months, but if they tampered with the tartufi, they'd be executed before they had a chance to resign.”
Nicki looked at Francesco, expecting him to reveal what Edoardo had asserted earlier that day, but he just stared at his plate and seemed reluctant to speak. After waiting for him to take the lead, she turned back to the table and addressed Tomaso.
“Edoardo said he thinks the truffles have been stolen.”
Tomaso knew Edoardo well, as did all serious truffle hunters, and no one doubted his wisdom.
“How does he know this?” he asked.
“Well, that's the problem,” began Nicki. “He has no proof, but he has dismissed all other possibilities. And he only laughs at the government conspiracy theory.”
