Black Diamond

future. The baron had introduced him to one of his old army friends from the Algerian War, Hercule Vendrot, who lived near Ste. Alvère, the town that was to truffles what Château Pétrus was to wine lovers. Hercule had visited Bruno’s property, lunched well, given his advice on what trees to plant and where and returned every year since to enjoy a meal and to stir up the leaves under Bruno’s young oaks to see if the flies might be dancing. The two men had exchanged war stories, admired each other’s dogs and become friends.
    At first, they made a point of hunting and then dining together at least twice a year, once on Bruno’s land and again on Hercule’s. Their meetings had steadily become more frequent, lubricated by the fine wines on which Hercule spent the money he made from his truffles. Three years ago, Hercule had pointed out the first sign of
terre brûlée
around Bruno’s sapling oaks, the ring of dark earth that seemed to have been scorched. Bruno had his truffles and had made two hundred euros in his first year, but fewer than a hundred in the second. He was hoping for much more this year and a steady future income that would never come to the attention of the tax man.
    The formal market started when the doors opened to the modern glass-walled building that the city fathers had constructed beside the churchyard. Now they even had an online market, but Hercule had taught Bruno that the real business was transacted before the market opened. And much of the trade was done outside the building as it always had been, men in ancient overcoats with patient dogs at their heels, discreetly slipping from their pockets small handfuls of truffles wrapped in newspaper. Some were standing there already, each of them solitary, glancing almost furtively at his neighbors along the street, wondering what treasures the rivals might bring. They looked, to Bruno’s professional eye, deeply suspicious, like a collection of voyeurs trying to summon the courage to spy through bathroom windows. It made the prospect of joining their ranks unappealing. He planned to sell his own truffles in the town market.
    The baron led the way up the steps onto a small terrace and into the café opposite the church. The windows were steamed up, and as he opened the door a rush of noise came from inside, where thirty or forty men and their dogs crowded into a space designed for half that number. Desirée, the only woman in the room, was serving croissants and
tartines
, ringing up sales at a furious pace, while her husband manned the espresso machine.
    Hercule was taking his coffee at the corner of the bar and signaled to Desirée for two more when he saw them squeezing their way through to him. A big man, his back starting to stoop now that he was well into his seventies, Hercule had sharp blue eyes and a fringe of white hair under the beret he invariably wore. His thick white mustache was brown in the center from the Gauloises he smoked. His elderly mongrel Pom-Pom, a legendary truffle hunter, craned his head forwardto sniff at Bruno’s trousers, picking up the scent of his dog, Gigi. The three men shook hands and turned to the counter where Desirée had placed three coffees, three croissants and three large cognacs. Like the cognac at dawn when they went hunting, it was a ritual.
    “
Salut
, Bruno, show me what you’ve got.”
    He nodded when Bruno turned toward the bar. Sheltered by the baron and Hercule, he took out his small parcel and opened it so that only Hercule could see. The beret dipped, and even over the noise in the café Bruno heard him sniff.
    “Not bad for
brumales
. Mine aren’t ready yet, and prices always go up the nearer we get to Christmas. I know who’ll want some of that. But let’s finish our breakfast first.” He downed his cognac and ordered three more to tip into fresh cups of coffee.
    Thirty minutes later, they were in the churchyard and talking to a
renifleur
, one of the scouts who bought on behalf of a group of Bordeaux restaurants. The scout pulled out a small scale, and Bruno was pleased to receive six twenty-euro notes in return. He offered one of them to Hercule as commission, but he waved the money away.
    “I asked you here,” he said. “We need to talk. But I’ll take a look in the market first, just to show our faces.”
    A small knot of men was gathered at the door. Bruno recognized his counterpart in Ste. Alvère, the town policeman, Nicco. Bruno shook hands with him, a much older