by Adam Schell
As many an old wife will attest, few things hang as pendulous as the poached scrotum of a skinny old man recently emerged from a hot tub. Thus, indelicate and hostile as Nonno’s intention may have been, the act was lost on the Good Padre. He turned and saw the entirety of the old man’s gesture, dangling and jangling from skinny thigh to thigh, and thought not of the genital distinction between Ebreo and Cattolico and all that it had come to signify, but rather of overripe figs, still clinging to their branch in late October and swaying in the breeze.
The old man closed his robe at twenty paces, just as the Good Padre rose up from kneeling beside the tomato plant. “Greetings, neighbors,” the Good Padre called to the approaching pair.
Nonno, whose mind was sharper than his vision, looked up from the tying of his robe and promptly felt the faculties of his brain grow cloudy. The man before him was physically enormous, a near water buffalo sheathed in a humble mendicant’s frock. Nonno felt an impulse, a vague notion scurrying about his mind that somehow evaded full comprehension. He had difficulty locating a reply and after a dumbfounded moment he heard himself say, “And greetings to you, my friend.”
Davido remained a step behind his grandfather. The late afternoon sun lay at a perfect angle, cutting long shadows and painting the land in golden light—the kind of light that makes old sights appear new and new sights appear magical in their amber clarity. The kind of light that’s easy on the eyes and beckoned Davido to stare longer and harder than he normally would. Davido had seen people of all shapes and colors over the course of his life in Florence and during his many visits to Venice. He had seen Moorish slave traders the color of sand, and Indian spice dealers the color of red earth. He had seen old Greek sailors lashed and baked by a lifetime of wind and sun to the texture and hue of dried apricots. He had seen English society women the porcelain shade of pure cream just wrung from a cow, glistening bluish-white. He had seen slaves from the Dark Continent the color of roasted carob beans brewed to liquid, some with a touch of milk, some without. He had seen turban-wearing silk merchants from the East with skin the color of walnut shells. He had seen Orientals with complexions the color of cheap, second-pressed olive oil, more yellow than green. But never in his life had Davido seen a man as singularly unique as the one before him now. For Davido and only one other in the village could see and comprehend the Good Padre’s true color: purple, deep, dark, entirely eggplant purple.
The Good Padre smiled broadly at the approaching pair, acknowledging the older man first and then the younger one with a gracious nod. Briefly, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. “’Tis a sweet and piquant air,” he said, gesturing to the tomato plants at his left, “and the flavor?”
“Oh, good visitor,” said Nonno through his mind’s fog, “most fair.”
“And is it a fruit or vegetable?”
“’Tis a fruit, I believe, but eaten more like a vegetable,” answered Nonno.
“Aha,” sighed the Good Padre, “and is it a fast-taking seed?”
“Oh, yes, good shepherd,” Nonno answered, his wits returning. He would show this Cattolico rhymer a thing or two. “Like a weed.”
The Good Padre continued his line of questioning. “And is it like the pepper that when green is tart, but ripe’d to red means ready?”
“Indeed again, good pilgrim,” said Nonno, “most heady.”
“Hmm, and is this fruit truly called a Pomo di Amore?” “Not by us,” said Nonno with emphasis. “We share not your fixation with that story.” The Good Padre chuckled.
Davido glanced a bit sideways at Nonno. He had no idea his grandfather was such a good rhymer.
Nonno continued, “And while it indeed be lovely and a color not unlike a ripe apple, we call it an apple of gold.”
“Pomo di oro?” said the Good Padre.
“Nearly,” replied Nonno. “Pomodoro.”
“Pomodoro,” repeated the Good Padre as he let the R’s and O’s roll about his tongue. “Pomodoro. Pomodoro. ’Tis a good name. Yes, yes, a good name, indeed.”
Enthusiastically the Good Padre turned to look over the sprawl of ripening rows. “And where shall these ripe pomodori find a home?”
“Well,” said Nonno, “what the church forsakes, we sell to the Ebrei of Florence, Venice and Rome.”
It was an innocent question, spoken with the sincerest curiosity, but from the old man’s reply the Good Padre knew it had been misperceived. Bertolli had told him full well how the old padre had been quite nasty toward the Ebrei and personally forbade them from bringing their “Love Apples” anywhere near the village.
Nonno said nothing and let the air thicken for a moment. He was dubious of gentile inquisitiveness. Such pleasantries were usually veiled threats that cloaked a desire to be the recipient of a bribe. “And now, my pleasant and curious friend,” said Nonno, “let us bring this papal inquiry to an end. Report this to your diocese and village priest, it should suffice, this serpent’s fruit still be solely an Ebrei vice.”
“Papal inquiry?” said the Good Padre. “Oh, sir, please, ’tis not the reason of my visit.”
“What a pleasant surprise t’would be if it isn’t,” said Nonno. “Now, if you will be so kind as to wait here, we shall fetch our papers of proprietorship.” Nonno stepped in the direction of the barn.
“Please, sir!” the Good Padre called after Nonno. “I did not come to question your legitimacy.”
Nonno had been satisfied by the way he’d handled the priest thus far. It was a good lesson for Davido too, but something about the priest seemed so imminently likable. “No?” asked Nonno, turning back around to face the priest.
“No,” repeated the Good Padre. “I do not care to see your papers or question your legitimacy. I come only with well wishes and good tidings.”
Nonno’s brow furrowed doubtfully. “Very well, say your piece.”
“Well, sir, I am the town’s new priest.”
“And what happened to the shepherd of old?”
The Good Padre paused for a moment as his enormous mouth lit up with the beginnings of a smirk. “Perhaps, fair gentleman, this will put you at greater ease, but that honorable old herder was undone by a horrid disease.”
Nonno’s face, mapped with lines of loss and laughter, grew toward the latter. “Is it so?”
“I’m afraid,” said the Good Padre, lowering his eyes, “indeed.”
Nonno stepped toward his grandson and grabbed Davido’s elbow with a squeeze of excitement. “What a shame,” said Nonno, “how unfortunate. We are so sorry.”
“Yes, unfortunate,” said the Good Padre, “unfortunate, indeed.”
“Now, tell me, noble priest, did he suffer in his passing? Surely, there must be details?”
“Well, gentle neighbor,” said the Good Padre with an intentional clearing of his throat, “for one so pious and respected it seems both ironic and absurd, and though my eyes did not see, I will, for new love, repeat what I have heard. ‘Twas that horrid New World disease—the Spanish scourge, wrought upon those who could not control the urge. And as these things travel, from a conquistador’s phallus, to a Naples brothel, to a Tuscan palace; like the wind scatters yeast, all the way down to our village priest came the ghastly menace that eats from cazzone to brain, devouring one to incontinent shame. Now I say this knowing he will be sorely missed, but our former shepherd died, ball-less, brainless, in his own shit and piss.”
“Sifilide.” Nonno drew in a short, quick breath. His stomach muscles tightened. He knew the disease well. Half of Cristoforo Colombo’s crew had contracted it. He heard the words repeat inside his head: ball-less, brainless, in his own shit and piss. Feeling his old bones and body go suddenly young, he began to laugh; he could not help it. A rich laugh, a deep laugh, a laugh that jiggled the belly, shook his organs and opened the Pandora’s box of pain that lay at the very bottom of his soul. And what emerged was a vengeful laugh, a healing laugh. The kind of laugh that takes on a life of its own, sweeping up both Da
vido and the Good Padre, buckling their knees, bending them at the belly and causing family and stranger alike to hug and cling to one another as they crumpled to the earth. Laughter that affirmed one’s belief in God, that somehow there is an absurd and perfect order to the universe. A laugh so rapturous one forgets what one was originally laughing about. A seizure of joy: contagious, delicious, divinely incorrigible.
“Now,” attempted the Good Padre for the fourth time as he lifted himself from the ground and brushed the hay and dirt from his robe, “as the sun does ebb and your hot tub awaits, let me share my tidings.”
Davido helped Nonno to his feet.
“By all means.” It hurt Nonno’s sides to speak.
“As politics oft be the Church’s tide,” said the Good Padre, “good news in the current does here reside. Ironically, politics, competition and greed have spurred a noble edict to be decreed. Hence, the ruling Meducci with their power to persuade have moved the Church to declare Tuscany now a land of free trade.”
Nonno’s brow crinkled in disbelief. It was one thing to share a laugh and heartfelt moment with a gentile—a priest, no less—but to believe that decades of economic restriction had just been lifted, well, that was too much.
“Oh,” said the Good Padre recalling the document he carried. He reached into the fold of his frock and, careful not to dislodge the tomato he’d hidden there, took out the papal letter. “Here.”
Nonno furrowed his brow as he reached for the letter and realized that it was in two pieces—torn imperfectly in half.
“Long story,” said the Good Padre apologetically to the old man, who, by facial expression, seemed to understand that some things in life were beyond explanation.
Nonno held the two pieces of the letter as if it were one document. Davido leaned toward his grandfather so he too could read the decree and immediately felt a jolt of nerves. He recognized the signature. It was that of the Meducci. Both he and Nonno had seen that signature before. It graced the bottom of a very sad letter written to them some two years ago and signed in just the same way, though that signature had been streaked and smudged by tears.
“Your pomodori,” the Good Padre said after a moment’s pause, “by law, are now welcome at any market in Tuscany, including ours.”
Davido waited for his grandfather to take the lead, but Nonno seemed a bit confounded and had yet to look up from the letter. Davido knew why and took it upon himself to continue with the priest. “You are saying we are free to sell our fruit?”
“That and any other economic pursuit,” answered the Good Padre.
Davido turned to his grandfather to be certain that he’d fully heard the news. While he did seem to register what the priest had said, the old man did not look nearly as pleased as his grandson.
“Hmm,” said Nonno with a skeptical frown as he folded the letter and handed it back to the priest.
“Well,” said the Good Padre, tucking the tattered letter into the fold of his frock, “peace be with you.” He stepped toward his mule and vaulted his enormous thigh over his mount with a grace surprising for one so large. The Good Padre paused before prompting his mule. He felt uneasy about leaving them with little more than words upon a torn parchment. “Neighbors,” he said, “have you ever set foot in the village?”
“No,” answered Davido. “Not in all your time here?”
“Your predecessor did not encourage it,” said Davido.
“Ah.” The Good Padre nodded contritely. “I have heard. Well, despite the failings of the few, there is much goodness in these villagers.”
“I do not doubt that,” answered Nonno, “but goodness of heart, so often, is little match for malice of head.”
“True, dear man, true,” said the Good Padre as he turned and looked directly into Davido’s eyes, “but the question is, from which organ do you wish to be led?”
Davido felt a sudden burst of energy hit him right in the heart. He felt his knees go momentarily weak and his eyes flush with tears as he heard the priest’s voice repeat itself inside his head: But the question is, from which organ do you wish to be led?
“Who’s to say,” the Good Padre continued, “how this news here, come evening mass, will bode upon the rabble’s ear? But there is much goodness in this little village. As I too am new to this hamlet and can attest. And if tomorrow’s market you’re brave enough to attend, perhaps we can move this superstition to an end. Now, as for me, at mass and market, I’ll preach my part, that buying your produce be the way to start.” The Good Padre gave a gentle prod to his mule. “Now peace be with you, and Godspeed with tomorrow’s dawn. I will wait at market.”
Davido was stunned, his pulse raced and his eyes were still misty with something like delight. The whole meeting with the Good Padre had been overwhelming and he wanted to shout, Yes, he would be there at market with a thousand pomodori, be anywhere but Florence. “Wait, wait!” Davido yelled.
The Good Padre slowed his mule and turned back over his shoulder.
“Do you like vegetables?” asked Davido as he hurried over to the closest tomato vines.
The Good Padre smiled—a smile of a thousand words.
Quickly, sliding a pruning knife from his back pocket, Davido snipped off a cluster of a half dozen or so ripe tomatoes. “Here,” he said, catching up to the Good Padre’s slow-moving mule. “Take these pomodori. Eat the first few plain, they’re delicious, maybe with a touch of salt and olive oil.” Davido placed the tomatoes into the priest’s enormous hands. “Then take the others and slice them into bite-sized wedges. Toss with olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, salt, sheep’s cheese and fresh-cut mint. Remember, it’s mint that lends the dish a summer’s hin—”
Davido heard a thud and felt a tremor through the tendons and muscles of his feet and ankles, like that of a small earthquake. A prickle of fear now shot through his body as he scrambled to and knelt over the fallen priest. Thank goodness, thought Davido, that it wasn’t a far fall off his short mule, that the earth was soft, his back quite large and there was no rock to hit his head upon.
After a few seconds of ecstatic darkness—his entire being tossed and glistening with tomato, mint, cheese, olive oil and the entusiasmo and love in the boy’s gesture—the Good Padre opened his eyes and his vision came to focus upon the sweet face of the young Ebreo. “The Pomo di Amore?” he asked dreamily.
“Yes,” answered Davido.
“Are they injured?”
Davido glanced down and saw that the cluster of tomatoes had taken the fall gently, cradled between the priest’s huge hands and belly. “No.”
“Grazie Dio,” said the Good Padre with a deep sigh that deflated his belly and freed the illicit tomato hidden in his cassock. “Thank God.”
How wonderful, thought Davido, as he noticed a lone tomato gently roll from the folds of the Good Padre’s garment. A priest has stolen the forbidden fruit.
7 Grand Seal of the Meducci: a ring and document that verifies the holder has a direct relation to the Meducci and is afforded privileges and protection by the Duke of Tuscany.
In which We Learn
the Origins of
Our Heroine’s Name
Nearly twenty-two years past, a troupe of Neapolitan minstrels, who had been hired to play for the newly ascended Grand Duke of Tuscany, got lost en route somewhere between the undulating hills, mountainous peaks and vineyards of central Tuscany. By early evening, the disoriented and disheartened players headed up a twisty road, rolled by an olive orchard, continued under a medieval archway, trotted past a small stone church with a striking statue of the Virgin and wound up in the middle of our village’s piazza on what happened to be the hamlet’s most raucous and significant feast day.
The minstrels were from Naples and therefore quite familiar with the drunken antics ritually celebrated in the honor of one saint or another; but the troupe found the festive antics of our particular village, which combined drinking and donkey racing, so absurdly captivating, they stayed to observe the outco
me. It was a heated competition eventually won by a strapping and inebriated young man. Upon victory, the young man professed his love for his sweetheart and asked for her hand in marriage. When she said yes, the crowd erupted with such intoxicated glee that the minstrels got swept up in the merriment, assumed their instruments and began to play.
Tuscans have historically been gifted builders, artisans and winemakers, but when it came to the making of music, no one in all of Italy could compare with Neapolitans. Accordingly, as the feast neared its end, the villagers begged the players to leave them with one of their glorious songs. It was a simple ballad, one renowned throughout Naples, entitled “Oi Mari.” It told of a lovesick young man as he stood before the window of the woman he loved. It was sunrise and the young man lay in hiding, praying for his love to arise, come to her window and open it to let the sun in so he may gaze upon her splendor.
The day’s champion was so moved by the song that he decided right there, if his first child was a girl, Mari would be her name. Ten months later, he and his wife did have a girl and they named her Mari: the very Mari who is the heroine of this story. However, it didn’t become tradition to serenade Mari with her namesake song until after the untimely death of her father and the laming of her mother, some ten years ago. It began one market day in spring when the Cheese Maker, a plump-bellied and sweet-natured man whose stand occupied the first slot in the market row, took notice of the little girl’s vacant eyes and lost expression as she entered the piazza. Recognizing her sense of loss, the Cheese Maker spontaneously began to serenade the young girl. Well, it has never taken much prodding to bring a Tuscan to song, and no sooner had the first verse of “Oi Mari” left the Cheese Maker’s lips then, one by one, all the vendors at market took up the ballad.
