Anything Considered by Peter Mayle

formula, a serum, that would guarantee the consistent growth of
Tuber melanosporum
—given the right trees and climate and soil conditions, obviously, but they’re not difficult to find. There are hundreds of thousands of hectares in France that are suitable.”
    Bennett, feeling like a backward student, held up his hand. “What did you call it—
Tuber …
?”
    “
Melanosporum
. The black truffle. It’s also known, quite inaccurately, as the Perigord truffle. Here in Provence, it’s called the
rabasse
. It grows at random—up till now, at any rate—on the roots of hazelnut or oak trees. It’s said to be heterotrophic.”
    “Really?” said Bennett, nodding vigorously in incomprehension.
    “Closer to the animal than the vegetable. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
    “Absolutely.” Bennett doubted that his Scotch would last as long as the lecture, and wondered what all this could possibly have to do with his revised terms of employment. But Poe seemed to have mellowed in his role of instructor, and Bennett sensed that trying to rush him might be a mistake.
    “I won’t burden you with too many details, but to apréciatethe genius of my boffin, you should know that the birth of a truffle is a very haphazard process. A question of spores.”
    “Ah,” said Bennett, “spores.”
    “From a rotting truffle. During the period of putrefaction, a spore can be transported—by insects, birds, wind, whatever—from one spot to another. If it should find a hospitable tree, such as the pubescent oak, it will attach itself and feed off the root. And if conditions are right, it will grow.”
    “Remarkable,” said Bennett.
    “Indeed. But not predictable. As any farmer will tell you, Mother Nature makes an unreliable partner.” Poe examined the long, wrinkled cylinder of ash that had grown on the end of his cigar, and flicked it into the fireplace. “And that has been the problem. People have tried, God knows. There was the Somycel plan, the Signoret plan, the INRA plan—all schemes to make truffles grow to order. None of them worked. But where the French government has failed, Mr. Bennett, my boffin succeeded—with some considerable assistance from me, I might add. I set him up. Bought a patch of land in the Drôme, built him a laboratory, gave him time—years of time—gave him money. Also, I gave him what he really wanted. Recognition.” Poe nodded. “I believed in him. And he didn’t fail me.”
    What a charitable soul you are, thought Bennett. And I bet you want nothing in return. “Well, congratulations. It was quite a gamble, wasn’t it?”
    “And it paid off. Two years ago, the oaks on my landin the Drôme were treated with serum injected into the roots. The first season, we had a success rate of seventy percent. The second season was over ninety percent. Imagine, Mr. Bennett, being able to produce tons—year in, year out—of a commodity that sells for anything between three and eight thousand francs a kilo. We’re talking about very substantial amounts of money. Millions.” Poe tapped the side of his nose, echoing the gesture of the sly French peasant. “And of course, because of the nature of the business, a great deal of that would be in cash.”
    There was a moment of silence while Poe sipped his whisky. He put his glass down and leaned forward. “And now for the bad news.” His voice changed, as though it had been sharpened. The edge was audible, and Bennett felt a strong desire to be somewhere else.
    “The case,” said Poe, “the little case that was so generously handed over by your friend, contains everything—vials of the serum, the formula for manufacturing more, field notes, production records, application instructions, everything. Whoever has that case can control the truffle market. Now do you understand its importance?”
    Bennett’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Yes, but surely your man—you know, the boffin—I mean, he could make some more serum, couldn’t he?”
    “I’m afraid