by Adam Schell
“You ingrate,” snarled Mari, “you pathetic ingrate. ’Tis cruel to a dog to compare you to such and a waste of my breath to argue as much. So get thee gone. Scurry off to the tavern. Lap up the words that rot your brain. Swallow as praise what should be shame. But drink down this with your roguish stout: what my father did kindly take in, I’ll one day put out. For what was mine by birth shall be mine in life. Now, get thee gone.” Mari waved the back of her hand at Benito in a dismissive gesture.
Oh, groaned La Piccola Voce, that was quite an onslaught and you deserved every word of it. Yes, indeed, you are a coward. A jealous coward who would need to drink four buckets of beer to subdue the truth this girl has spoken. To think, all that this girl’s father did for you, and all the cruelty you have done unto her. You, you are less of a man than a twelve-year-old boy in a dress!
Benito had no reply for Mari or the little voice inside his head. He watched her turn away from him the way one might turn away at a funeral from the corpse of a person he secretly despised. Benito grabbed his satchel and his jug of wine and shuffled away.
Mari listened to Benito’s footsteps fall off into oblivion as she worked her cloth over the neck of an oil jug about the size and shape of a wine bottle. Her eyes closed as she gripped the jug’s neck, hard, the way one might when a bottle suddenly becomes a weapon for bludgeoning. Her imagination erupted to life. An elixir of vengeance flushed through her veins. How good it would feel to chase down Benito and smash the jug across his head. But who was she kidding? Benito was merely an arm of the beast. And in an instant her mind’s eye set upon Giuseppe, until both the bottle and Giuseppe’s head were broke to bits, bizarrely shimmering with olive oil the very way her father had when he was killed.
Mari’s jaw clenched as she opened her eyes, rolled her neck and looked to the sky. Her hand was still gripped upon the jug’s neck, her mind ablaze in anger. Mari sighed. It was too much for her to process in silence and she found herself, as she often would, speaking her thoughts aloud. It was something her father had done and a behavioral trait common amongst the villagers. “’Tis good to speak the thoughts aloud in private,” her father said from time to time when she would catch him talking to himself, “for God can hear them more clearly.”
“Does not God in heaven,” Mari said in quiet fury, “see who’s blameless and who’s at fault as bloodless wounds of mine are rubbed with salt? Oh, father, if only fate had born me as a son, then by no man my inheritance undone. Must I stomach this womanly plight and lose what’s mine without a fight? As curs’d law condemns me in servitude to pigs, yet if born a man, I’d snap their legs like twigs, and run the blood of he who’d dare to spoil all in life for which father did toil. Woman, though, must suffer and concede whilst law and land condones greed. But not I! By heaven, I’ll have revenge upon the wretched knave who doth usurp with impunity and feast upon my father’s grave.”
Oh, how lewd! La Piccola Voce protested as Benito brought his hand to his mouth and wrung a thick globule of wine-scented saliva from his tongue. How wretched, the little voice continued, how absolutely wretched. The ranting, though, was of no use. Hiding there, in the shadow of a building’s doorway, just off the piazza, Benito felt the desire in his belly swell as the saliva in his hand commingled with the sweat and grime of his body to form a most unsavory lather. He focused his vision upon Mari, beautiful Mari, alone in the piazza. It was as if there was a demon inside him that begged for release each time he left her company—a demon that ravaged his body and scorched his mind with wanton thoughts, and blazed too hotly for the little voice to hold any effective council. “Oh, shut up,” Benito whispered sharply as he smacked his head against the wall beside him, knocking the little voice off its feet.
Across the piazza, Mari set an earthen jar of olives onto the wagon-bed, when something caught her eye. The lowering sun had moved directly into the alley space between buildings, and, in the periphery of her vision, she saw her shadow stretching across the piazza’s cobblestones. Her shadow was huge and the image brought with it an overwhelming sensation that as a little girl, perched upon her father’s shoulders, she had once before thrown a shadow across the piazza much like this one.
“Oh, my father,” Mari repeated sadly, “what trick of gloaming does this light and shadow play upon the eye that memory serves so clearly all that’s by and by? Is this the manner departed spirit takes sight, here to comfort me in time of plight? Does earthly desire once in heaven grow so mild that your spirit would not venture back to comfort child? Tell me, father, art there eyes in heaven? Does death not bring some reprieve, or do you look down on all that’s lost and grieve? And what rest, what salvation could soothe the soul, when all thou built in life in death is stole? The land, the fruit, the daughter, the woman once your wife, all the fouled legacy of your life. No, t’would be better heaven blind than behold all that plagues my mind, for surely such rage corrupts your heavenly bliss with all on earth that is amiss. And there is much amiss here, father. There is much amiss.”
With her eye still cast upon her shadow, Mari began to gather up the burlap cloth that draped the entirety of the olive stand and hung down to the cobblestones. Feeling something roll against her foot, she looked down, drew a quick breath and felt her heart flutter. There, resting against her sandal was a ripe Love Apple. She moved her head from side to side to make sure she was alone. Seeing no one, she dropped the bunched-up burlap upon the stand, knelt down and scooped the Love Apple into her hands. It felt good beneath her fingertips and palms; its skin was smooth and it had a meatiness to it that tempted her palette and brought to her mind’s eye the delicious image of the tomato boy as clearly as the fruit before her. His skin, the color of honey; his eyes, as lovely and green as the Cerignola olives that Mari loved so dearly; his hair, a tussle of brown curls as enticing and unruly as a bowl of papardelle noodles tossed with butter and porcini mushrooms. And his lips—his beautiful lips—which seemed to struggle so valiantly against a desire to smile when they’d looked upon each other at market. Mari could already tell that he was sweet and wise and witty in a way no other boy of the village was.
Filled with thoughts of the tomato boy, Mari brought the Love Apple to her own lips. She thought nothing about the cleanliness of the cobblestones on which the Love Apple had rolled. She thought only of the tomato boy as her lips parted and slid across the fruit’s taut skin. Only of him as her nostrils caught a whiff of the Love Apple’s aroma—fennel tops, fresh basil, wet earth the morning after a rainstorm. Only of him as her jaw muscles engaged and the fruit’s skin burst beneath her teeth. Only of him as a river of flavor fell upon her tongue and her eyelids floated shut. Oh, goodness! Juices ran down her lips and chin; she never imagined a thing could be so sweet.
Nor had Benito ever imagined a sight could be so bitter, but bitter it was, a bitterness that wilted the demon desire burning inside him and brought the ranting little voice inside his head back to life. It’s one pain to know that the object of your affection does not love you, but it’s a far worse pain to know that the one you love loves another. And what could it be but love, feared Benito, that could bring Mari to do such a thing? To bring a Love Apple to her lips and indulge it with all the wantonness of Eve giving in to the serpent. What could it be but love? thought Benito, as a tear of anguish streaked his grimy cheek.
In which We Learn
the old Bite Test
“Psst,” came a whistle, and with a clown-like flair Bobo halted his stride. He was standing in the middle of one of the town’s streets, just in sight of the tavern. “Psst,” the sharp whistle rang out again, bouncing between brick and cobblestone.
With exaggerated effort Bobo began to search out the source of the sound. He looked left, he looked right, but the whistle was not to be found. He looked up, he looked down and let his head lead his body in a circle. He looked past corners and under his boots and in his shirt pockets. Search as he might, the source was elusive to Bobo’s ear, until from a second-floor balcony cam
e the call, “Mutton-head, up here.
“Yes, up here, fool,” Giuseppe repeated from his step-daughter’s balcony some ten-plus feet above the street. Giuseppe tossed a small cloth bag down to Bobo.
The satchel jingled with coins as Bobo caught it. He held it up to his ear and gave the bag a shake. Bobo frowned. Not surprisingly, the satchel felt a bit light to him.
“Just open it,” said Giuseppe.
Bobo undid the leather string that held the satchel fast and spilled its contents into his hand. Four coins in all, one bronze, two silver and one gold.
“Oooh,” Bobo sighed as he raised the gold piece before his eye for greater scrutiny. He brought the coin to his mouth, placed it between his rear molars and gave it the old bite test.
“Of course it’s real, you idiot,” snapped Giuseppe from the balcony. “Now, piss off to the tavern. If I have any bidding for you, I will let you know.”
Bobo bowed slightly, clicked his heels, slid the coins into his pants pocket and stepped toward the tavern. He walked a few paces, just out of sight of Giuseppe’s balcony, and then, with complete nonchalance, pulled a ripe Love Apple from his pants pocket. He scrutinized it briefly then polished it against his not especially clean shirt. Bobo brought the tomato to his nose, gave it a slight sniff, then opened his mouth and took a large bite. “Mmmm,” Bobo hummed, eyebrows raised in approval.
In which Davido Contemplates
His Fate & Curses
a Roman God
“Cupid, curs’d, meddling Cupid!” bemoaned Davido, “’Tis no wonder the name so rhymes with stupid. Pudgy, errant, pedant, fat with impish rhyme and reason, to set my eyes upon the fairest treason and shoot me full of this seditious nectar turning me to Paris when tradition demand me Hector. Oh, curs’d Cupid, such poor aim as to miss by a mile and set an Ebreo heart upon a gentile.”
Davido had never actually cursed Cupid before. As a monotheistic Ebreo, he’d never given the mischievous Roman love god much thought; but considering the suddenness and irony of emotions that assailed Davido, Cupid seemed a natural foil. The trip home from the village had been brutal— brutally silent. Nonno hadn’t uttered a word, but between the frequent heavy sighs of “Oy” and the constant pulling at his beard, Davido could practically hear what was on his grandfather’s mind.
From the moment they packed up their stand and left the piazza, Davido understood the bind in which he had put Nonno. Indeed, for Nonno it was a winless choice between postponing the wedding or alienating and, even worse, possibly antagonizing the local populace. Not to mention the potential loss of the bride’s price already paid, and the logistics and embarrassment of delaying a wedding a mere thirteen days away. But nonetheless, Davido’s immediate feelings as the wagon rolled out of the village and toward home were ones of immense relief. In no way could he see himself marrying that skinny-ankled little girl; the day’s events had, it seemed, delayed that. However, as their journey back to their farm continued, Nonno’s anguish began to wear on Davido. So much so that by the time they turned onto the entrance-way of their farm, the ramifications of Davido’s desire and the day’s drama were more than enough to return his feet to the ground and plant them firmly in a pile of merda of his own making.
“Tell me, Cupid,” said Davido as he now walked alone between the rows of tomato plants, “when you dipped your arrow in amorous potion and set it fly in romantic motion, did you have not the slightest inkling about into whom your love arrow’d be sinking? To aim and shoot in such wretched haste, to undo a wedding and set a bride’s price to waste. To conflict me so of heart and head, that I know not which more I dread—this sorrowful choice, both ways a sin: deceive my heart or deceive my kin? Why in heaven’s name could you not bless my life and enchant me to love the one who’s to be my wife? What have I done to deserve such a horrible, wonderful hex that you deal this Ebreo from a Roman text? For what choice have I but to risk all there is to spoil, as my veins, my heart, do run with olive oil?
“Oh, dear God!” said Davido suddenly aware of his own speech patterns, “my head’s amok with foolish glory, my tongue rhyming like a rimatori. But to speak such thoughts aloud, to act upon this joy, would surely turn this patch of Tuscany to Troy. Yet why I do curse—should I not rejoice? Is not all this talk of Cupid but my secret desire’s voice? Just this morning did I not arise convinced that Florence would be my demise? That better to set Nonno and all my kin to stew and rankle, than wed that girl of puny wrist and skinny ankle. Yet never did I imagine such power to manifest and call this Cupid to my behest, aiming my vision, perfect, ‘tween the figs and melon, piercing me with this sight of Helen. So that in an instant, timeless and fleeting, my heart did know new reason for its beating. Transforming songbirds’ call and all my eyes do see into the voice, the lips, the scar upon the knee. So that all I think, all I hear, all I see, speaks to me of one thing: Mari, Mari, Mari.”
In Which We Learn
the History & Artistry of the
Sicilian Dieci Dita Marionette
Sitting there on one of the tavern’s bar stools, finishing off his mutton shank and fourth goblet of wine, Luigi Campoverde, chef for Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third, Grand Duke of Tuscany, suddenly realized that he hadn’t been this drunk since his teenage years at the monastery when his Sicilian mentor traded a three-hundred-year-old illuminated Bible for a double-magnum of sparkling wine from Piedmont. Luigi had not thought he was especially inebriated tonight, but as he turned in his seat and looked over the lively tavern, for an instant, through the crowd, he could have sworn he saw his boss.
Drunk or not, Luigi turned back to face the bar, knowing that some curiosities in life are better left unsatisfied. Perhaps, thought Luigi, I have the sitting drunkenness, or, more accurately, the standing drunkenness, where one does not realize the extent of his intoxication until he stands up and finds his knees weak, his head cloudy and the tavern casting about like a ship in rough seas. What else could explain the sight of Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third, Grand Duke of Tuscany, sipping ale at a crowded village tavern and sitting shoulder to shoulder with the barnyard rhymer who accompanied yesterday’s pompous truffle broker?
Luigi had not planned on getting so pie-eyed when he first sat down at the tavern some two hours ago. He’d meant only to have a piece of cheese, a few olives and a glass of wine before the rump-numbing mule ride back to the villa. Truth was, Luigi was anxious to return to the villa. He was too suspicious and paranoid a fellow to much enjoy being away from his kitchen. The Meduccis had many enemies and Luigi would be damned if a poison was going to pass before his nose and into his kitchen. It was well known that a chef of a poisoned lord was certain to follow his master to the grave— culpable or not. The problem was, the wine, cheese and olives were so delicious that Luigi needed a second order to confirm his palate’s first impression.
Two rounds of wine, cheese and olives would have been enough for Luigi, but when the spindly fool from the market sat down on the stool beside him and had a fragrant and succulent-looking mutton shank placed before him, well, Luigi wasn’t going anywhere. Although now, with the shank eaten and his spine prickling with fear that his boss—should it really be him—may come to wonder why the lady duke’s brocade was around the neck of the tavern keep, Luigi knew it would be wise to take his leave. The idea of leaving, though, was a sad thought and Luigi gestured to the tavern keep for one more refill of his wine goblet. The wine was good and free, and Luigi did, after all, hate the idea of missing the puppet show.
Despite nearly twenty years of marriage and successfully fathering three daughters, Signore Coglione, the tavern keep, was suspected by most villagers to be something of a finocchio. His ancestors, who’d arrived in the village some three centuries ago and opened the tavern-brothel, were from Greece, and everyone knew that Greeks were ancestrally predisposed to man-love. This cultural stigma was furthered by an unfortunate childhood run-in with an ill-tempered goose and the resulting permanent nickname of Signore Solo Co
glione. Not to mention, Signore Coglione’s penchant for fancy tunics and flowery vests did not make him appear especially manly in anyone’s eyes. Certainly, the colorful brocade he now wore around his neck would do little to masculinize his image. Nevertheless, eating, drinking and whoring were such cherished pastimes of the men of the village that none dared offend Signore Coglione. Thus, the suspicion that he was a finocchio was rarely mentioned.
Good-natured as he was and queer as he seemed, Signore Coglione was no pushover. He had a Greek’s shrewdness and a way with money, and did not make a habit of giving things away for free; but it was such a lovely brocade and the stranger at the bar swore that it was from the Orient and had once been worn by the lady duke herself. Regardless, it was, without a doubt, the finest and most splendid piece of fabric Signore Coglione had ever felt, and to think he received such a gift for a few pennies’ worth of mutton, wine and cheese!
As if the silk around his neck was not good news enough, the tavern was crowded and full of life and the prospects for a performance by Bobolito were excellent. Everyone was up in arms over the day’s events at market and, as it had been done for centuries, the men of the village gathered at the tavern for a de facto forum. Even Augusto Po, the puckered-ass miser, was present. In short, everything was how it should be, how Coglione’s ancestors would want it to be. Even Signore Coglione’s nephew, Bertolli, was in the kitchen doing the dishes, busy learning the trade that he would one day take over. Coglione scanned the barroom smugly. Vincenzo, the self-important cacasotto, was still wearing his Love Apple-stained tunic from market with all the sanctimony of a false martyr. Coglione could see that Vincenzo was drinking fast and hard to muster his courage, as Vincenzo would soon be rising to address the tavern as he often did. It was just the kind of false bravado that often inspired Bobo to bring out Bobolito. And this, above all, had Signore Coglione bubbling with delight; for Coglione, as well as nearly every resident of the village, loved that puppet.
