by Adam Schell
Grave-robbing, chided La Piccola Voce, the little voice inside Benito’s head, which so often spoke in opposition to Giuseppe’s wishes, is a task for only the truly wretched. Benito had foraged for truffles in many places and under a variety of circumstances. He had dug his hands into all kinds of soil, but never had he done so in such proximity to a tombstone, particularly an Ebreo tombstone.
Benito had never actually met an Ebreo. According to the village’s recently deceased padre, Ebrei in general, and this clan in particular, were especially worthy of suspicion and contempt. They had planted their fields with a strange red fruit that the old padre derisively referred to as Love Apples straight from the Garden of Eden. Benito had no idea what a Pomo di Amore was, nor did he fully recall what transpired in Il Giardino di Eden, but he knew it wasn’t good and the little voice inside his head told him to let the dead rest in peace.
Benito turned to his boss for a cue. He had known Giuseppe since the very first day he arrived at the olive orchard, and the decades of familiarity had bred their share of contempt. Like many other itinerants looking for a few weeks’ work harvesting olives and pressing oil, Giuseppe and a then thirteen-year-old Benito were randomly assigned as harvesting partners and given the none-too-pleasant task of denuding the fecund olive trees of their fruits. Six years Benito’s senior, Giuseppe was from day one something of an older brother figure to Benito, albeit an often sadistic and corruptive one.
Despite his arrogance and wicked temper, Giuseppe possessed a trait that Benito had never seen in any of the villagers: ambition. Within a few weeks of their first meeting, Giuseppe quietly and seductively shared with Benito how he planned to one day own orchards, and that maybe, maybe, he would bring Benito along as foreman. Such talk captivated Benito. He had never been considered in anyone’s plans, not even his parents’, who, until the day they died (an earthquake caused their hovel to collapse on them as they slept), had scarcely set a place for him at the dinner table. Hence, his inclusion in Giuseppe’s schemes and dreams was enough to secure Benito’s desperate adolescent devotion.
Giuseppe demanded this devotion, and throughout much of Benito’s youth, he doled out severe punishment upon Benito for even the slightest show of disloyalty. La Punizione, Giuseppe called it, as his uncle had called it before him, and he used this disciplinary tactic to such effect that by the time he finally did come into possession of his own vineyard and olive orchard, he had molded Benito into an entirely devout and dependent underling—or so he thought. In actuality, their relationship was bound by odious abuse and a villainous secret, and as unions of guilt are often marked by contempt, rancor and bizarre dependency, so too was the relationship between Giuseppe and Benito.
Benito swallowed hard as the little voice inside his head shouted, You coward! You servant to a murderer! Don’t do it! But as the heel of Giuseppe’s finely crafted brown boot came crashing down upon the rickety wood fence, Benito did indeed do it. He squelched the little voice, trampled the fence and gave in to the sows’ euphoria as they charged at the truffle-scented spot of earth. Oh, how a part of him, a part that he’d come to hate, still loved to make Giuseppe happy!
Six inches under the soil Benito’s fingertips grazed the bulbous heads of two extraordinarily large truffles. He wriggled his digits deeper to snap the truffles from the root they grew upon. It was a strange-feeling root: smooth, straight, ivory-like, unlike any he had ever touched. In the midst of his delight Benito was able to suppress his suspicion, but for days afterward the root’s imprint upon his fingertips proved indelible. No matter how often he grated the tips of his fingers across his rough wool trousers, Benito could not scrub away the unnerving thought that he had unearthed the two most splendid truffles he had ever seen from the thigh bone of a recently dead Ebreo.
4 A crossbow arrow.
5 Ebreo courtesans, sometimes referred to as La Sorella di Ester, the Sisters of Esther, a secret association of exquisitely trained courtesans who operated in many of Europe’s leading cities and were rumored to have infiltrated the highest reaches of society.
In Which We Learn the
Shared History
of the Tomato & the Ebreo
Sunday was a special day on the farm, a year-old family ritual in which Nonno, Davido, his six aunts and uncles, their five children and any guests would gather around the table for a relaxing afternoon feast. Considering that in two Sundays Davido would be married and living in Florence for the next twelve months, the moment he and Nonno returned from Florence Davido went straight to the kitchen, doing his best to cook away all the anxiety that simmered inside him.
Waiting for him there, Davido found a surprise—the best thing he’d come upon in the last three days. Rabbi Lumaca and a small entourage from the town of Pitigliano were visiting to discuss wedding plans and they brought with them a fine pair of bronzini, just pulled from the waters that very morning and packed in salt. Fresh fish was a splendid treat for all, especially Davido, as it afforded him more leeway with the restrictive Ebreo dietary laws than did preparing a meal with meat. How it was that a few brief biblical passages stating that one should not cook a calf in its mother’s cud got extrapolated into a set of food laws so elaborate that one could not even place cheese and meat upon the same table, not even with poultry, was beyond Davido’s sense of logic and gastronomy. How could one cook a chicken in its mother’s milk?
Fish, on the other hand, gave Davido the opportunity to work with cheese, which he enjoyed greatly. Ever since he and his kin began raising their own animals, Davido had rather lost his taste for meat. The idea of eating one of the cows, goats or sheep that he had helped rear and could not help but adore now had little appeal. Thankfully, the farm’s five sheep, four goats and two cows were needed for their milk, not their meat. Even the farm’s thirty or so chickens—more valuable for their eggs, soil-nourishing manure and insect-eating prowess— got to live a long life before finding their way into the cook pot or onto a spit. While meat had become of less and less interest to Davido, vegetables and cheese—vegetables he grew and the goat, sheep and cow’s milk cheeses he and Uncle Uccello had begun to make—had never before been so precious and delicious to him.
Cooking too. Since moving onto the farm, the preparing of food had taken on a whole new attraction for Davido, and he threw himself into it with all his heart. It was the culmination of the cycle of life that so enamored him: earth, seed, plant, blossom, vegetable, fruit, cutting board, cook pot and finally table. It was also something that came naturally to him and that he did exceedingly well, the one thing he understood and did better than Nonno ever had.
Back in Florence, Davido’s grandfather seemed to have a mastery of everything in which Davido struggled and Ebrei were judged by. Though they lived humbly in Florence (best not to raise the suspicion of the ruling gentile class), every Ebreo knew that Nonno was the richest man in the ghetto and the de facto leader of the Ebreo community. His life story was legendary. At age twenty-three, little older than Davido, back in Toledo, Nonno’s skill with numbers had vaulted him to the position of finance minister for Ferdinand and Isabella. He had voyaged with Cristoforo Colombo and spent ten years living among the island natives before returning to Europe. The man was smart beyond comprehension; in addition to Italiano, he spoke Spagnolo, Francese, Portoghese, Tedesco, Latino, even the ancient Ebreo language which was only used for prayer. And sometimes, when his grandfather’s siesta slumber was especially deep, Nonno could be overheard mumbling in that bizarre tongue that he claimed to have learned from the Indiani of Il Nuovo Mundo. But when it came to the farm and kitchen, Nonno was all thumbs and none of them green. True, the old man loved his tomatoes and was singularly responsible for introducing them to Europe, but his expertise was only in eating them. Here, among the trees and plants, fruits and vegetables, cook pots and roasting fires was where Davido shined, and his illustrious Nonno had little choice but to defer to his knowledge and instinct.
Despite an early rise, a three-hou
r donkey ride from Florence, a two-hour effort in the kitchen, a full belly and the cool weight of tomatoes shading his eyes and perfuming the air around him, Davido couldn’t sleep. This was especially disconcerting to him, as just being around his tomato plants tended to calm his mind and deepen his breath. There was something about the smell of tomato plants that Davido adored so profoundly that from first planting in early May through last picking in late October, he would sneak away to siesta in between their rows every day, with the zeal of a young lover off to visit his paramour. With certainty, he could be found just a few dozen meters from the barn, between the first and second rows of plants, lying on his back with a ripe tomato upon each eye to block out the sun and young green leaves under his nostrils to sweeten his suspiration. To him, the plant’s fragrance was sublime and sacred. A scent that transcended his olfactory organs to purify his heart and cleanse his mind.
Now, as any wise parent will attest, few things create quite as much curiosity in children as the quietly confident and completely abnormal behavior of an adult, and it wasn’t long before Davido’s siesta habits were mimicked by most of the farm’s children. The youngsters were Davido’s cousins, the children of his aunts and uncles who had moved onto the farm at Nonno’s insistence. As such, few of their parents took umbrage to the tangle of limbs and leaves that slumbered away the afternoons. And on the occasion when his curious siesta practices were called into question, Davido simply replied that they were a recipe for sweet dreams. And indeed they were. After growing up amongst the reeking, congested labyrinth of Florence’s ghetto, these rolling acres of farmland and forest that Davido now called home carried a breeze so restorative that in thirteen months a lifetime of foul smells had been nearly eviscerated from the corridors of his nostrils. That was, at least, until this last visit burned the ghetto’s stench back into his nose.
Beyond all of the other bad memories, Florence in the summer carried an especially rancorous odor that undid any and all peace of his afternoon siesta. Yes, he was satisfied with the preparations he’d made for lunch that day—indeed, the fish was especially delicious—but something about the pasta wasn’t quite right. The flavors were too thin and ill-combined. Noodles squirmed upon the palate from the virgin lubrication of olive oil. Tomatoes slid across the tongue and burst under tooth, diluting the other flavors. The piquant dried goat cheese and the fresh basil were a nice touch, but, as a whole, the dish was strangely unsubstantial, inconsequential and ultimately disconnected. The pasta neither left the mouth with a robust impression nor stuck to the ribs with satisfaction. This culinary inadequacy very much undermined the quality of Davido’s rest. Lying there, under the weight of the plant’s fruits and leaves, Davido could not help but feel that the tomato and the pasta could be better combined.
The truth was, despite his complete adoration of the tomato, Davido didn’t entirely understand it. Neither did Nonno. None of the books on farming he’d bought in Florence even knew the tomato existed. True, while growing up in the ghetto he and his sister would propagate a few seeds each spring and grow a dozen tomato plants from pots in the courtyard of their building, always collecting the seeds from the largest, best-looking and best-tasting fruit. But that was hardly the large-scale production he was into now. Everything about the tomato was a process of experimentation, and while the crop was producing this year in spectacular fashion, it was the phase after the tomato was ripe and picked that troubled Davido the most.
There were thousands upon thousands of tomatoes to be dealt with. Just keeping up with the demands of harvesting such a bountiful crop, let alone the myriad other farm-life demands, was a near full-time affair, and Davido was placing great pressure on himself to conjure up other uses for tomatoes. The trouble was, besides precious little spare time for experimentation, when it came to cooking the tomato, Davido was flummoxed. The fruit emitted a great deal of water when heated and while this was acceptable for the braised bronzini—the sauce more on the brothy side—for pasta it just wasn’t right.
Neither was this whole business about marriage! The weekend had been awful. Florence was hot and stunk like shit and piss, just like it did every summer. The visit with his bride-to-be had been a fiasco, burdened by the enormity of the commitment placed on the two young people. And if there had been even a flicker of hope in Davido’s mind it was emphatically extinguished after he presented her with a gift basket full of ripe tomatoes. Her reaction was one of utter indifference, and she three times refused her father’s invitation to indulge in one of the sweet fruits in front of their guests—a deflection that slammed the barn door of Davido’s heart. Fine, Davido begrudgingly recognized, she wasn’t a monster, but she was a girl, a child still, and she had none of the earth in her that Davido craved. Her skin was fair and her demeanor meek. Her wrists and ankles were so thin that Davido imagined they would snap beneath the toil of working a shovel into the soil. And as the moments of their visit dripped by, her continual glances at Davido’s hands—which, despite much scrubbing, still held remnants of the farm under his fingernails—made clear her fear of country life. She would never make it on the farm, and though she and Davido shared few words with each other, they both seemed to know it. Likewise, Davido would never make it in Florence. Florence was death to him, the death of his mother, father and sister. If he had to leave the farm to marry and live in Florence for a year, he would die as well.
Abruptly, Davido sat up from his troubling siesta, causing the tomatoes that had been covering his eyes to roll down his torso and bounce off the heads and limbs of several slumbering children. He needed to forget about Florence and skinny ankles. He needed to practice his rhyme. He needed to come up with a proper tomato sauce!
“Wake up, wake up,” urged Davido as he began to shake, jostle and tickle bellies. “Wake up and listen to me, children.” Davido reached across the row and plucked a ripe tomato from its vine. “’Tis time you learn the history of our fruits, ‘cause in it lies our roots.”
The half-dozen children awoke with a giggle. They had heard this story several times over the last year, but no one seemed to tell it like their zio Davido. “Now heed well, children, this story here, of why we hold this fruit most dear.” Davido held the tomato in his hand before the children and lowered his voice as if revealing a secret. “A thousand years past by Imperial Rome’s hand, we were scattered from the Holy Land. Thrown to the desert to find our own way, and a new land where the Ebreo could stay. And after centuries of hardship and pain, our ancestors arrived in Spain. Toledo is where our family history did first grow, with the Golden Age of the Spanish Ebreo. A time in which our people reached their finest hour, and our Nonno sat among the halls of power. Don Judah el Hebreo was then our Nonno’s name, and he was chief accountant for King Ferdinand, Queen Isabella and all of Spain. But after years of service at the king and queen’s side, there arose a hateful tide. This awful spell was called the Inquisition, and it put all Spain’s Ebrei in a horrible position.”
Davido squeezed hard and burst the tomato in his hand, sending juice and seeds squirting. The children shrieked and giggled. Davido leaned in. “But the king and queen did not want Nonno to go, for no one counted the bean better than their Ebreo. However, in that year ending in nine and two, something else was a-brew. A man named Colombo was about to set sail upon a voyage thought destined to fail. You see, Colombo believed the world was round, and to the west new lands to be found.” The children’s heads turned quickly as Davido pointed his finger in the direction they all mistook for west. “So, to save our Nonno from the Inquisition, Ferdinand and Isabella appointed him chief accountant of Colombo’s expedition.
“The ship set sail and after thirty-three days reached the new shore, where Colombo and his men went forth to explore. They went in search of gold and treasure, leaving Nonno behind, as their greed would bear no measure. But alas, Colombo was sorely mistook, for our Nonno did more than keep the book. Resilient, adventurous and contemplative, Nonno used the years to study the land an
d befriend the native. He learned of their speech and custom and dance, and then one fateful night, as if by chance, the natives shared their sacred fruit, the very one that here takes root. When Nonno departed this mysterious place, the natives, in an act of friendship and grace, gave him a sack of tomato seeds most fine, so one day he may start his own vine.
“Now, Colombo, an Italian, spoke fondly of his home, and the fertile lands ‘tween Milan and Rome. So with survival and the tomato on his mind, Nonno decided this region he would find. And off the coast of Genoa Nonno bid a secret adieu, to Colombo and his loathsome crew. And as Colombo described, indeed, Nonno found this perfect plot to lay his seed. So for our family and fruit, dear cousins, always revere, for it’s been sacrifice and love that brought us here.”
Davido finished his history lesson and allowed the children to bask in the rich, imaginative silence. Let them believe, he thought. Let them believe in a little magic. In time they will come to know all things: of Davido’s sister, of La Sorella di Ester and of her life sacrifice; of their Nonno and of how he stole away from Colombo’s ship with not only a sack of tomato seeds but enough gold and riches to bribe half of Italy.
In Which We Meet
Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci III,
Grand Duke of Tuscany, &
Learn of His Decree
It was that moment of the day, the day in which we meet Cosimo the Third, when the sun’s first rays cracked the horizon, sifting through the fine lace curtains of Cosimo’s four-horse-drawn carriage and falling upon his face. Behind closed eyelids, Cosimo’s pupils constricted, rousing him from the enervating state that sadly passed as his nightly sleep. Slowly, Cosimo opened his eyes and his vision came to rest upon a grapevine-combed horizon glistening under Sunday morning’s late August dew. My God, thought Cosimo, with the day’s first workings of his mind, if only I were a farmer.
