by Dick Rosano
Everyone at the table chuckled at this, and scattered comments recalled Stefano's earlier sentiment. Italians view their government with suspicion, but also with the patience a parent shows a child. The bureaucrats aren't thought of as evil, simply unskilled, so how would such a gaggle of incompetents be able to pull off a diabolical plot such as this?
Tomaso spied a friend and scientific ally, Riccardo, eating alone at the bar, and waved him over. Just as the waiter returned with the bottle of mineral water and Freisa, Riccardo, who is a mycologist by education and training, came toward the table. By Tomaso's urging, Riccardo squeezed another chair among the six at the table, eliciting groans from the waiter who now must bring back a table setting he had just removed.
“Riccardo Cuneo, you know Francesco,” Tomaso began, and Riccardo and Francesco exchanged greetings. Following protocol, Tomaso introduced Rita and Stefano next, and the three shared polite handshakes. Then Tomaso introduced Paolo as Rita's nephew.
Displaying a theatrical flair, and knowing that the paunchy, middle-aged Riccardo wanted most to be introduced to the prettiest girl at the table, Tomaso paused for affect, then introduced Nicki.
“Mi piacere,” Riccardo said with affection, reaching across the table to warmly take her hand, “my pleasure.” Nicki was gracious and appreciative of the attention, but was also eager to show that she had more than beauty to offer this table.
“As I was telling everyone just before you arrived, Signor Cuneo…”
“No, per favore,” Riccardo waved his hand to dismiss her words, “I am Riccardo. Hearing Signor Cuneo, especially from you, makes me feel old.”
Continuing, Nicki said, “Okay, so, anyway, Edoardo told us this afternoon that he is convinced that the truffles have been stolen. What do you think, Signor…, scusi, Riccardo?”
“Of course, yes, of course,” he began. Riccardo looked the part of a university professor, which he was, and he appeared to be gathering steam for a lecture on the mycology of the white truffle.
“As we all know, Tuber magnatum is an elusive treasure. It reappears in roughly the same spots each year, but with varying intensity and concentration. And sometimes the spots themselves may change.”
Sure enough, his answer to Nicki's question was beginning to sound like a scholarly paper.
“The tartufi last year were abundant, and generally appeared exactly where the trifolài expected them to be. But this year, they didn't.”
Looks were exchanged around the table, each diner wondering why Riccardo was describing, in such detail, what everyone in Alba – or all over Piedmont – already knew.
The waiter approached the table with a tray of antipasti. No one had ordered it but in this establishment it came with the meal. There were piles of aromatic olives, layer upon layer of roasted red peppers, herb-scented grilled eggplant, several types of cheese, and marinated mushrooms. With a clatter of plates, the waiter passed out the service to each place, retrieved serving pieces from his back pocket, and then made a slight turn to his left. Glancing back at the table before departing, he saw that the wine bottle was empty and said, simply, “Un'altra?”
“Si,” said Stefano, knowing that with seven people at the table, another bottle of Freisa would be needed before embarking on the grand wine of the evening.
“Edoardo approached me at the lab to ask about viruses.” With this statement, Riccardo regained everyone's interest, although by now he had to share their attention with the delectable appetizers on the platters before them.
“He asked whether we could decide if there was a virus or something, a fungus on a fungus, if you will.” Riccardo laughed at his own joke but elicited only polite smiles from those chewing through their food.
Between bites, Tomaso expressed his opinion that there was, in fact, a virulent pest that could lay the harvest in le Langhe to waste. He had barely expressed this fear when, in his excited suspicions, he worried aloud whether the centuries-old tradition of truffle excellence was in jeopardy.
“No, non c'e problema,” Riccardo said, “there's no problem.” Continuing on, Riccardo explained that his studies and tests – and he reminded the gathered guests that Edoardo had brought him both soil and truffle samples – had found no evidence of virus or bacteria or other pest.
Idly sampling some of the roasted pepper, Paolo inwardly wondered what Riccardo had done with what was left of the truffle “samples.” Observing his corpulent physique, Paolo doubted that this mycologist would dispose of them other than in a consumable preparation.
They each contributed their own thoughts, between bites, while the waiter returned with another bottle of Freisa. He distributed the entire contents of the bottle among the seven glasses, topped off their water glasses, and stood waiting for instructions.
In Piedmont, a land-locked region of Italy, seafood is still served though it comes mostly from the region to the south, Liguria. In fact, the two regions have developed a vibrant exchange business, trading the wine and grain from the north for the olives and seafood from the south. In this way, Piedmont is able to deliver a broad array of food all prepared by talented chefs.
The tablemates took advantage of this largesse. Beginning with soma d'ai, thick slices of bread rubbed with garlic, olive oil, and salt, they proceeded to fuller dishes of meat, seafood, and pasta. Rita recalled having tinche all'agro at Enzo's before, a fish that is floured and sautéed then topped with a sauce of vinegar, lemon, and sage. Stefano wanted beef, so he selected brasato al Barolo, with a side of the area's famous polenta.
Nicki ordered fricandeau astigiano, another dish of beef with a sauce of garlic, rosemary, onions, sage, and white wine. Francesco and Paolo decided on gnocchi alla bava, while Tomaso and ordered a fresh fish specialty of the day.
The waiter returned to the bar, handed the order to that man who stood polishing glasses, and circled the dining room to reach another table ready to place an order.
“But wait,” interjected Paolo, addressing Riccardo. “You said there's no problem. And I'm sure that finding no virus is good. But there is still the problem of the missing truffles. Are you confident that we can eliminate virus from our list of possible reasons for the failed harvest?”
“Si, my young man,” he replied. Then, with a broad smile and a wave of his glass toward the table, Riccardo added, “I vote for government conspiracy!”
There was little amusement shown for his jocular attitude, since most of the people at the table still showed concern about the present – and future – of truffles in Alba.
“Alright,” said Tomaso, “we're down to theft or government conspiracy,” but he said this last with less enthusiasm than the mycologist showed.
“There's as good a chance that global warming is to blame,” said Francesco. The thought was ridiculous, and he meant it in rueful jest, but Nicki wasn't amused.
They talked about these possibilities as their dishes arrived, but all quickly came to the conclusion that, if global warming and government conspiracy were just ridiculous myths, then theft was the only likely cause.
“But who could do that,” Tomaso nearly boomed. “Who would do that?” he added for emphasis.
So they were stuck. Slowly coming to the realization that the tartufi had been stolen right from the ground, the conversation flagged.
“Per favore,” Stefano said, waving his fork in the direction of the cameriere. “Please bring a bottle, no, two bottles of Conterno Fantino Barolo,” nodding his fork for emphasis, he added, “the Sorì Ginestra.”
“D'accordo,” said the waiter, offering his first smile of the evening. He seemed to like large parties, especially those who ordered expensive wines.
Chapter 48
Catching Up
He knew Lidia had help with the truck. She would need it because she couldn't drive both car and truck at once. And he knew where she would stash the truck, just where he had stashed the other car several days ago, so this time he didn't have to follow her to catch up.
H
e waited till the right hour then got in his car and drove north toward the French border, back to Modane where all this had begun. The truck could take care of itself; he wanted to see Lidia before she disappeared into the French countryside. At this late hour, he knew she'd spend one more night before moving on. She had her habits, too, although she thought he didn't know.
He also knew that she would, truly, disappear with everything they'd worked to achieve. He had learned from her; just as she didn't trust anyone, he knew he couldn't trust her. So he assumed Lidia would take everything and leave him.
“That is, if she didn't kill me first,” he thought.
She didn't like loose ends. Otherwise, why did she insist that he kill the hunter? He was just teaching me, but that came too close to disclosure for her. He understood killing the fishermen a bit better, although those guys probably would have just disappeared back into their world and been no threat to them.
It was obvious she had to kill Alfonso. She had stolen his computer program allowing us to find all the truffle fields, and he would soon realize this. She would consider his death to be unavoidable.
The only one who knew more about her than Alfonso was her partner. The way he saw it, one more death was also unavoidable.
He pulled his car to the curb outside the hotel in Modane. It was already ten o'clock and many of the restaurants were closing. Just like in Italy, the cities in France stayed up late and people ate evening meals lasting close to midnight but, also just like in Italy, the rural areas turned down much earlier. Lidia would already have eaten her dinner. She would be in her room.
A bribe for the hotel clerk and a smile was all it took to convince him that the man was the guest's fiancé, long on the road and anxious to see his lover upstairs. He gave the visitor a key to the room without much effort.
The man climbed the stairs quietly and walked down the carpeted hallway with broad, soft steps. At Lidia's door he paused and considered the lock. He would have to turn it and open the door without a sound. Lidia would have a weapon by her bed and he did not want to risk a showdown. He wanted to win this battle without a struggle.
The lock yielded easily and the doorknob turned without a squeak. There was a sliver of light coming from the left as the man slowly swung the door open, just enough for him to step through.
Lidia stood less than ten feet from him, her back turned as she studied something on the desk by the window. He took two tentative steps toward her, reaching a spot just an arm's length away.
“Hello, Lidia,” he said. Although he had surprised her, she did not startle. She just turned my way and stopped.
“Hello, Ruger,” she said. “I didn't expect you tonight.”
The few seconds that passed seemed like an hour. We exchanged glances, and her stare went from his face to his right hand.
“What's that?” she asked, catching the glimmer of the metal pick in my hand.
“Oh, it's a zappino,” he said. “A truffle pick,” he added, as he rolled the weapon back and forth between his fingers.
“I see.” With that she brought her gaze back up to his face and he once again saw that black, empty look she gets sometimes, when she is at her scariest.
Chapter 49
La Passeggiata
After the meal at dell'Enzo's, the entire group walked out the door and into a traditional Italian scene: the evening passeggiata was on full display. Riccardo excused himself to return home.
“Students may stay out late at night dreaming up difficult questions to ask il professore,” he said. “But il professore cannot stay out late at night if he intends to answer all those questions!” With a tip of his hat, and a kiss for Rita and Nicki's hands, he turned about and headed down an avenue of sidewalk cafés.
“We have no choice,” said Stefano with resignation. He wasn't referring to their actions, but to the realization that the tartufi were most likely stolen.
They walked on in silence for a while, separating into couples, with Tomaso and Paolo taking up the rear. Suddenly, a man stepped out from a darkened doorway and approached them.
“Are you the ones inquiring about the truffle harvest?” he asked, addressing Tomaso and Paolo.
The others were a couple of steps ahead but overheard the question and stopped to listen.
“Of course we're asking,” began Tomaso, “but so is everyone.”
Then, shrugging his shoulders, Tomaso asked the man what he knew.
“There are three rumors,” he began, but was interrupted by Francesco who had returned to join them.
“Yes, there are three rumors, virus, government plot, and thievery.” Francesco omitted global warming, but Paolo almost chimed in out of sheer absurdity.
“But, no,” the stranger remarked. “Two of the rumors are for fools. No virus could occur that suddenly, and that widespread, without some forewarning. And the government, well those people might mess up our lives and our finances, but they wouldn't dare to mess up our food!”
By then, everyone in the group had collected around the stranger. Since he understood what they already knew, he must have accepted the premise that thieves were to blame. So what did he know that might help them?
“I was in my truffle field a few nights ago and I heard rustling among the trees,” he began his story.
“Where?” asked Paolo, then he immediately realized that such a question is never asked of a trifolào.
The stranger looked at him dismissively, then continued.
“I thought it was a wild animal, maybe a truffle dog that had escaped his owner, so I approached carefully. Suddenly, there was a light, bright but not big, and then it went out.”
“Was it a camera flash?” asked Nicki.
“No, longer than that, but not a flashlight because the light didn't have a beam. It just glowed, then went out. So I ran toward the trees because they were mine. Well, the truffle field was mine anyway. And I heard the rustling again. As I approached, my feet made sounds as I ran through the dry leaves, so the rustling stopped for a second, then it too ran off.”
Knowing Italians' superstitious nature, Rita laughingly asked if it was a forest sprite.
“Of course not,” the stranger replied with some irritation. “I know sprites. I've seen them before, and this was not one!”
“What do you think it was?” asked Tomaso.
“Just as the rustling sound was escaping me, and I followed its sound to track its direction, whatever made the sound approached the edge of the woods. There was only a little moonlight, but there was enough that I saw a man, hunched over, but it was clearly a man.” And then to Rita, he repeated, “Not a sprite.”
“Did you go to your field?” asked Stefano.
“Si, but it was dark and I didn't have my dogs with me. I didn't plan to hunt that night. Too bad, because they would have bitten his leg off.”
“Was there enough light to see anything?” Stefano persisted.
“With my hands, I could tell that the ground was disturbed. I never leave it like that. Any respectable trifolào knows he has to smooth the ground after harvesting, or otherwise people will come by in daylight and see where the harvest took place. Then our secret will get out.”
Paolo was enjoying adding this new chapter to his repertoire of truffle knowledge.
“When you harvest the truffle, you smooth the dirt. But all this takes place at night, in the dark,” Paolo stated, as the stranger nodded assent.
“So, you are able to smooth the dirt so well, in the dark, that someone walking by in the daylight can't tell you've been there?” Paolo asked.
“Si. To be a trifolào, you must know many things, including how to cover up your tracks. Or else, you will own the truffle field for only one year!” Then, looking aside, he admitted that sometimes he uses the faint glow of his cell phone to check his work.
There was little more he could offer in terms of details or identity, so the group thanked him for his insights and wandered off.
They chose a ta
ble at the nearby café and their conversation wound through many topics, all except for truffles, which each and every person was relieved to avoid for a time. When Nicki turned to ask Paolo a question, she realized that he wasn't even beside her anymore. She looked toward the café where she discovered Paolo talking to a leggy brunette with deliciously red lipstick and a curvaceous body.
Chapter 50
Prima Colazione
Through the years, Rita and Stefano had returned to Alba, taking three days off on two consecutive weeks, to find the best truffle deals and bring the precious fungus back to Ristorante Girasole. It was a much-anticipated holiday, one that allowed them to blend business with the pleasure of visiting Alba, one of Italy's truly convivial old cities.
This year, they returned to find little to bring back and, although they tried to enjoy revisiting familiar restaurants and cafés, the disappointment with the truffle harvest laid heavily on their hearts.
The morning after their return to Alba, Rita and Stefano's thoughts were on each other. Restaurant owners worked long hours, and usually late into the night, so it would seem logical that most would sleep late into the morning. But most seasoned chefs and restaurateurs also knew that they had little time to themselves, which made dewy mornings in friendly cities a welcome mini-holiday. Rita and Stefano felt just this way, settling into chairs at their table at Caffé Revello.
Their talk centered on the menu at Ristorante Girasole, and they avoided as much as possible the topic of truffle dishes, which would be difficult to sustain this year. They talked about other menu items, focusing on the staple of Genoa, seafood.
“I think we should offer a few more options with beef and veal,” said Stefano. He knew his wife's talents could easily include this, and he wanted their dining room to be celebrated for her unique style of cooking.
Rita sipped her cappuccino and listened to her husband's comments, but she could tell he was just trying to distract her from the specific problem with the truffles. She occasionally looked directly at Stefano, found a few moments of attention to give him, and followed his train of thought.
