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  Bernard was wearing a peculiar suede leather bag strapped diagonally across his chest. He lifted up the top flap and asked me to smell the contents within. I couldn’t describe what it smelt like but there was that initial rush to the senses that makes you quickly addicted. Next his ‘girls’, the dogs, were allowed their turn. They remembered that distinctive scent. They knew what their master wanted from them. They tore back and forth in large zigzags across the back section of the property where the oak trees had been planted many years before, then one of them gave a sudden frantic yelp and a bark, calling her master to come quickly. The girls were busy scratching the ground and putting their muzzles to the earth; they started digging frantically to their goal.

  I couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t it meant to take hours of careful walking and deciding where to look? Obviously these dogs had seen the treasure map before; it struck me as strange that Bernard could direct them to the back of the garden and within ten minutes they had struck gold. Clods of earth were flying up everywhere. The soil was rich, black and friable. The dogs suddenly stood still, barking incessantly in case the truffle moved, which of course it would not. Bernard bent down and dug with his hands until he pulled out a small black nugget, patting both dogs on the head and talking to them in low undulating tones — he was proud of his girls. They needed a reward for their good work. A little dry dog biscuit was pulled from a pocket. Bernard shook the excess soil from his hands and continued to talk in low whispers to the dogs.

  The entire property was unfenced, which was a worry now that we had Zorro the Wonder Dog. Bernard explained to me some basic rules about truffles:

  1. Never admit where you found them.

  2. Never share with anyone else (except neighbours).

  3. Truffle dogs need to be trained for years before they hit their potential.

  4. Unfenced land meant that hunters for animals and truffles could ‘accidentally’ come onto my property, reaping the rewards.

  The dogs lay down in a heap, exhausted from their flurry of activity, while Bernard showed me some of the delights and mysteries of my property. There was bark missing from many of the trees at a height of about two metres, which he said was from deer rubbing their newly formed antlers. The soft earth behind the tumbling-down garden shed at the end of the property exposed a mass of prints that did not belong to my cats. Bernard pointed out a clear two-pronged hoof mark: it was obvious that the prints belonged to wild boars that had foraged for roots and other food in the rich soil. They too were looking for truffles. He asked if I realised that I was also sitting on a very large subterranean water table. This was liquid gold, as I had quickly worked out during our first hot summer. All I needed was a deep bore hole drilled down to it. The severe lack of water was an increasing problem for everyone, so those who had it were truly blessed. Gripping me by the hand and staring maniacally into my eyes, Bernard told me that we were excellent neighbours. He had the hunting skills and the dogs, while I had the truffles on my land: a perfect combination. The truffles from the first search would be solely for me and from then on, we would share fifty-fifty. It sounded like a wonderful idea. We shook hands and continued with the search. I made a mental note to find out how much it would cost to fence a hectare of land. That would have to be my Christmas present. There was always the slim possibility that Zorro would find such a trove of truffles that it could pay for the fencing.

  As he was leaving, Bernard whispered to me softly that there were other spots high up in the hills behind the village where he knew consistent areas for growing truffles. If I would like, one day during the Christmas holidays we could even take his guns and hunt some wild boar. Although hunting and shooting was a solitary sport and certainly not one for women, Bernard was prepared to show me some of the delights of Provence that the average tourist would never see.

  ‘You know, Bernard, I am not exactly a tourist. I may not be French but I am planning to live here for a very long time.’ I felt that I had to correct his misconception.

  ‘Madame Taylor, no matter how long you live here, no matter how proficient your French is, you will never be anything but a tourist for the people around here. Likeable, admittedly; an extremely hard worker, granted; but it takes generations to become a real Provençal. For example, look at the way you stack your wood; you don’t even put it under cover. The plants you have planted in the garden are very pretty but they will not survive the winter. Please do not let me start on your dog. He lives and sleeps inside the house; he isn’t trained to heel or sit, and no wonder — one minute you speak to him in English and the next in French. He digs in your vegetable garden. Who would want baby carrots with tooth marks? Do you understand how rich that plot of land is? You could grow anything. Instead of a huge crop of vegetables you have planted a large gas cylinder.’

  He muffled a laugh and a snort of derision.

  ‘No. In short, you are very nice but not wise, n’est-ce pas? I have watched the plumbers digging holes and draining the pond. It breaks my heart that you have no idea.’

  I was dumbfounded that he held me in such contempt.

  ‘I don’t understand why you have never said anything to me before. Why did you not come here and tell me where the water was on the property?’

  ‘You see, madame, that is the Provençal way. We keep to ourselves. Your business is yours and mine is mine. I will keep my word and take you truffle hunting or mushroom gathering when the time is right but you will always remain a tourist.’

  My next question was about my dog, and already I was getting prepared for the reply, which did not surprise me. How to train the dog? What to do with him? Now I had allowed the dam to break open. There was no stopping Bernard: he was going to tell me everything that I had done wrong. Zorro was a very headstrong male dog that needed a strong male presence to dominate him. I had made a very poor choice in the animal; as a woman I would have great difficulties training one like him. His advice was to take the dog back to the breeders and get a full refund — again he snorted. I should have taken a female dog and chosen a breed much smaller and less trouble. I nodded my head in agreement. Deep down in my heart, I knew that Zorro was not destined to become a highly trained truffle dog. As I went inside to the warmth of the fire, I could see that Bernard was right. There was Zorro with his head stuck inside a cereal box, hitting his head on the floor trying to remove it.

  That night as I lay in bed with the strong Mistral wind howling and licking at the windows, I wished that I had taken more notice of things like double glazing for windows and the state of the shutters on the house before signing on the dotted line. (It was only many years later, when the time came to do some renovations on our family home, that I discovered the true extent of the problems, such as the complete lack of insulation in the walls and roof.)This night, the violent and turbulent wind descended from Lyon down the Rhône Valley until it reached Marseille, taking a short cut across the Luberon. It was finding a way through every crack and pushing against every pane of glass of our home. No wonder the houses built in the true Provençal manner turn their backs to the north and have only minute windows.

  Apart from the howling wind, there was something not quite right in the house in the middle of the night; pulling my fluffy white dressing gown around me tightly, I went to investigate. There was no evidence of smoke, gas or other lethal vapours. The children were in their beds fast asleep in some dream-filled land. For a nice change the puppy was sound asleep. I had finally conceded that it was too cold to let him sleep outdoors, so a little bed made from a cardboard box, already well chewed, had been made up in front of the fire. I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and that’s when it hit me.

  A remarkable scent was wafting from a ceramic bowl piled high with truffles, most the size of large walnuts. That afternoon Bernard had been beside himself with glee, insisting that I had the entire crop, but I could see him calculating a visit before Christmas to ensure that his family, too, had the joy of truffles in the stuffing, in the sa
uces or in the salad. The odour was overwhelming, a full-frontal attack on the senses. I had never experienced anything that was so exotic, so romantic, and so unbelievably addictive. The thought of going back to bed was out of the question. Water was boiled for the tea and cookery books were sought from the shelves. I spent the best part of the night sitting in the kitchen breathing in the delicious nutty perfume while reading through French recipes to see how I was going to use my little nuggets.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Joyeux Noël 2002

  Yet again, Christmas was already giving me more grief than pleasure. It would just be the three of us, as nobody in the family was able to drag themselves from the Sydney summer: the champagne sparkling water, the fine sand, the long hot summer days, the cricket and the wonderful array of tropical fruit in season. Life at the Wild Thyme Patch just couldn’t compete. Our days were short, the temperature was plunging, the heating non-existent; in brief, the only thing that I could use to entice family or friends over for a quick stay were our elusive truffles and nobody was convinced that something that looked so odd was worth travelling for more than twenty-four hours in a plane to try. When Claire invited us to join their Christmas festivities, we gratefully accepted. Claire’s house was up the hill from St Saturnin les Apt, set in the middle of a cherry orchard. Mimi and Harry squealed with delight. Going to Claire’s meant that at least there would be another child the same age, and that meant fun in anyone’s language.

  The children were all on holidays and were ready to go to the Christmas market that brought Apt to a standstill every year. I had thought about travelling to the north of France to visit the world-famous Christmas markets in Strasburg but this year I needed to cut as many financial corners as possible. Diesel prices were constantly going up and a long car trip to northern France to look at a market when we had a divine one on our own doorstep in Apt just didn’t make sense. No travel for us at the moment. I would deal with the financial problems first thing in the New Year.

  Apt was decked out from head to foot in Christmas lights. During the weeks leading up to Christmas the council workers were up and down cranes, installing the kilometres of tiny lights that would be the showpiece of the town’s Christmas decorations. Already it was looking spectacular. The tall column in the centre of the main square had lights covering the entire structure, and they then spread out across the square in a canopy of lights and shapes. Everywhere was decked out in lights. The busy market town had come alive, and instead of looking slightly tawdry and tacky, it had taken on a sleek and upbeat look. In the middle of the main roundabout was a 400-year-old olive tree alongside three cypress trees — a Provençal tradition representing welcome. Large urns had been placed discreetly at the base of the trees, holding yet more Christmas lights. The locals often remarked with pride that the lights were made in France and graced not only monuments large and small across France — not forgetting all of the Parisian monuments, in particular the Eiffel Tower — but also several big shopping centres in America, Europe and the Middle East. It was extraordinary the way in which the Christmas lights flooded the town with joy, changing it from a little country town to one that made your heart sing with happiness and pride. In Sydney, an excess of fireworks had become the traditional way of rejoicing a celebration: the Millennium, the Olympics and the New Year. Every year, they became ever more successful in painting the inky-black skyline. The effect was outstanding but short-lived, as the Sydney City Council battled tightening budget restrictions.

  There was something magical about driving through Apt every night of the week when the lights were sparkling and rushing down in cascades of moving, coloured luminosity. People were tending to return to their summer habits, drinking a small aperitif at the end of the working day in the main square in order to take full advantage of the magnificent display.

  The main parking area in Apt had been reduced to a bare minimum as the oversized marquee was erected for the Christmas market. Inside there were stalls selling their wares: turkeys, capons (the very large castrated roosters) and free-range corn-fed chickens; lavender honey; wines; oils; olives; fois gras; snails in cans, ready to be served in pre-washed shells with lashings of hot garlicky butter; fougasse à l’huile (a delicious soft oily bread); fruit confit (citrus fruits, slices of melon and figs conserved and dried in a heavy sugar syrup); calisson (a heavy sugary fruit paste rolled into lozenges and covered in a glossy white sugar layer); dried or fresh floral decorations with Christmas candles squeezed in between the flowers and leaves; scented soap bars or large bottles of Marseille liquid soap; decorations for the house; and santons, or figurines. The santons took up a vast section of the marquee. They were available in all sizes, depending on the size of your crèche. There was a selection of standard Mary, Joseph and Baby Jesus and Three Wise Men figurines, but in order to personalise your crèche there were also farmyard animals and figures representing all the trades and parts of daily life. There were little stables to house the animals and little alcoves and shops for the tradesmen, and pastimes ranging from the basic butcher, baker and candlestick maker to the less well-known ones such as the stick gatherer for the baker’s oven or the men playing cards. There were mini pumps so that you could have a running stream or a miniature fountain, diminutive trees and shrubs, fake grass and moss and different types of outbuildings to add interest to the scene. Everything had to match in size to give the correct perspective. The prices matched the size, so the stand selling the thumbnail-size animals and figures was three people deep. Mimi and Harry hopped from foot to foot begging to have our own crèche. Small economies had to be made and it was starting here.

  Claire and Raphaël were in the thick of the throng, fighting their way to the front of the stall so that Raphaël could choose another animal or something else to add to their collection. Their crèche had come out of its box and was ready to be installed somewhere in the house. This year, they had decided that it would be set on the side of a hill, and shoeboxes were at the ready to be cut and carved into shape. They had been up into the hills behind our village to gather a selection of small rocks, twigs, berries, moss and lichen and a small bag of earth. The moss and lichen would cover the cardboard, and once placed in the panorama, the small pebbles would be miniature boulders.

  That afternoon, Raphaël and the children went looking for more small stones and boulders to serve as the foundation for his crèche. Claire and I were in the garage stowing things away; more precisely, she was stowing while I was sitting daydreaming about Raymond. Holding a mirror in my hand, I could only think of Tennyson’s Lady of Shalot. The fair damsel lived on an island just upstream from Camelot, removed from the rest of the world, and spent her days staring at the outside world with the aid of an enchanted mirror, then weaving these images into a tapestry. Sir Lancelot’s arrival on the riverbank made the fair lady look at him without her mirror, thus causing it to crack from side to side, releasing a fatal curse. How many parallels could I draw between us? I lived on my own little island in the middle of France looking at life through my romantic prism, far removed from family, friends and Australia, and my impressions of people and life were distorted. My head was swimming in confusion. Claire called my name sharply, bringing me back from my momentary reverie, asking me to hand her the mirror that was beside me. But it slipped from my grip, cracking from side to side. I stared in total horror at the shards of mirror that surrounded me on the ground.

  ‘Claire, that mirror is going to bring me seven years’ bad luck.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. This is excellent.’ Scooping up one of the largest slivers, she found some fragments that she could work into the tiny crèche that this year was taking on mammoth proportions with Mimi and Harry’s help.

  ‘This year we want a babbling brook trickling down the hillside and Raphaël would like it to end up in a lake beside the manger. These pieces of mirror will be ideal. The rest we will use in decorations.’

  I was not sure how she was going to incorporate broken shar
ds of glass into Christmas decorations but Claire would find a way to work her magic. If only magic could fix my heart.

  Since September 11’s terrorist attack in New York, the world had been reeling in shock. At the beginning of 2002, the US launched Operation Anaconda to destroy al-Qaeda and Taliban forces in Afghanistan. Retaliation came when a bomb exploded in Bali on 12 October, killing 202 people. Only a few weeks later, Chechen rebels took 800 people hostage in Moscow; all of the terrorists were killed, along with more than 100 of the hostages, many of them children. It appeared that every time we turned on the television there was more strife somewhere in the world. By November 2002, no one was very surprised when a message was broadcast on the al-Jazeera network extolling the Bali and Moscow attacks and threatening in no uncertain terms that more were going to rock the world.

  Christmas was going to be a very quiet affair, especially with the continued talk on both French and English television of the increased fear of terrorism. The public was keenly aware and fearful of bombs in backpacks that could be detonated with the aid of mobile telephones. I cancelled my Christmas shopping trip to London because I didn’t want to tempt fate. The lure of the bright lights of London and shopping for books in real bookshops was a major temptation, compared to the monthly order that we made on the Internet, but I resisted. Mimi and Harry had asked me to stay, preferring to have their mother in one piece.

  Many clients who had contacted me in September and October 2002 to make bookings for summer 2003 were now not taking up my early-bird reductions. In fact, they were not taking up any offers. Even the Australians, who were extremely enthusiastic travellers, had become more concerned about personal safety and the fluctuations in exchange rates, preferring to stay close to Australian shores for their holidays. Every night I went over the projected figures; they were not looking very promising. I had seriously over-extended myself with the purchase of the Wild Thyme Patch; now with the drop in bookings for the following year, things were dire. As my financial consultant often said, the figures did not lie.