by Adam Schell
“Mio Dio!” the old woman exclaimed as the boy howled. “Why in heaven would the Lord make a child so useless and unruly?”
With hardly a hitch in the workings of his hands as he too picked olives, the Good Padre said, “So we may learn to love without condition.”
“Gian,” sighed Cosimo. Every hair of his body stood on end. He turned his head and caught the eyes of the Good Padre. They seemed to be waiting for him—massive, brown, preternaturally radiant. Cosimo felt a ray of light explode inside his chest. He thought he was dying. A death without pain. It felt like an orgasm, not of the loins, but of the heart. As if his heart were exploding! His body went weak. His knees buckled. He crumpled to the ground. No, he crumpled into the ground, like he and the earth and the olive tree and the sky and the old woman and the boy and the priest were all one. He began to sob. Sobs that seemed to undo all the anger and sadness that bound his heart. He felt an overwhelming sensation of being loved and of loving, and that everything in life was somehow perfect and existed to be loved without condition. “It’s beautiful,” Cosimo mumbled as he sobbed, “so beautiful.”
As he now lay in bed, listening to the nearby humping and panting of whores and men—very likely his friend Benito— Cosimo reconciled himself to the fact that it would all be over soon, his foray into peasant life. No good thing goes on forever. Indeed, it would no longer be good if it did. He would give himself a bit more time, maybe a week. No question, he was learning a great deal about himself, the land and the common folk. His soft flesh was at last beginning to firm from all the hard work and it was nice to be around his long-lost cousin Bobo, even though they had yet to share anything but an occasional quizzical glance. But Cosimo missed his son, odd as the boy might be; he was excited for the second chance he knew he’d been given—a chance to love his son properly.
14 The Initiation of the Children: so sacred were olives and grapes to Tuscan village life that it was tradition for a village priest to gather all the children and lead them in a day of work upon the village’s primary orchards and vineyards at the beginning of the harvest season and to perform a series of blessings over the vines and trees.
In Which We Learn
the Best Way to Rob
a Donkey of His Vigor
It was early, several hours before the village would arise and begin to gather in the piazza for the Festa, yet nearly everything was set—Giuseppe’s plans included. It had always been the custom to put the piazza in order on Saturday, hold the feast on Sunday and leave the cleaning of the piazza until Monday. This was done to allow the men of the village a rare morning of leisure and the women more time to cook up their dishes for the evening feast—an extravagant communal affair.
It was commonly thought that the one-armed Drunken Saint arrived in the village in the late afternoon. Accordingly, the donkey race, which commenced the Festa, would not begin until the sundial’s shadow touched five. After the race, tables would be arranged, the women of the village would bring forth their dishes and a great meal would be shared among the entire village, with special attention lavished upon the winner of the donkey race. As night arrived, torches would be lit, minstrels would take up their instruments and the dancing would commence. The wine, however, followed no timetable. It would flow from morning well into the night, as it was both tradition and expectation that each vineyard and winemaker would provide a fair share of their best juice and that every villager would get spectacularly drunk.
The absurdity of twelve riders racing twelve donkeys and gulping twelve wine goblets for twelve laps around a makeshift track with their right arms tied behind their backs whilst pummeling one another with their left hand was not lost on the villagers. But it was also a serious matter in which not only pride and bragging rights were at stake, but a good deal of coin. In actuality, it was common for each Capitano dei Quadranti to wager a great deal on the success of their rider.
Capitano dei Quadranti? Ah, yes, this tradition was believed to have been started by children playing in the piazza. The piazza was the geographic center of the village and at the center of the piazza stood the statue of the Drunken Saint. Among the many marvels of the statue was the goblet held in his left hand; it had been sculpted and positioned in such a way that it served as a perfect sundial. It was believed that a century or two past, a group of boys playing bocce in the piazza had divided themselves into teams according to the specific hour of where they lived as indicated by the sundial’s shadow. By the time these boys had grown into men, a tradition had started and the entire village had divvied itself into hourly quadrants (quadranti), each represented by its unofficial leader (capitano), usually the most powerful and wealthy man of their little slice of village, or at least the best bocce player. It wasn’t long until rivalries, more friendly than vicious and usually involving bocce, emerged between the various quadranti; for instance, the One-Hours felt themselves superior to both their neighbors at twelve and two, and so on.
However trivial the rivalries between quadrants may have been throughout the year, in the days leading up to the Feast of the Drunken Saint they would gain in energy and by feast day come gloriously to life. A week before the feast each Capitano would nominate Un Cavaliere di Quadranti (a Knight of the Quadrant) to jockey a donkey and race for the glory of his hour-quadrant. Over time, each Quadranti also adopted a color, and on feast day the donkeys and Cavalieri would arrive in the piazza dramatically costumed in the colors of their quadrants and with their hours prominently displayed on their chests. The race, in fact, had come to be known as La Battaglia degli Orari (the Battle of the Hours).
The Cavaliere who won the annual race had a wreath of olive leaves and grapevines placed upon his head and was named Santo Del Giorno. As Saint for the Day, the victorious Cavaliere was treated like royalty, awarded eleven months’ worth of wine and oil by the eleven losing Quadranti and given a trio of kingly duties that he must perform: Brindisi, Richiesta e Degustazione. To toast, request and taste. First, the triumphant knight would raise his victory goblet and lead the village in a toast honoring the Drunken Saint, beseeching him to bless the year’s crop of grapes and olives. Second, he would assume the role of village sire and make a kingly request that could not be denied. It was tradition that the request be humble so to minimize the likelihood of acrimony on feast day and it usually involved something harmless, like making public one’s affection and asking a favorite girl for a kiss upon the cheek. Though, on occasion, if the winning Cavaliere felt especially bold (as was the case with Mari’s father some twenty years prior), he might ask for a woman’s hand in marriage.
And finally, before the great meal was served, the victorious knight was blindfolded and the village’s leading wine-makers, six in all, would set a cup of their best juice before him. The knight would sip from each cup and then declare one wine superior. For the winemakers, almost always captains of their quadrants, this was a high-stakes contest. The winning winery was awarded the yearly papal contract to supply wine to both the village church and the Vatican in Rome—fifty cases with nine bottles per case. Not only was this a great honor, but a well-paid contract and the opportunity to visit the Vatican as a guest of the Holy See for an evening.
The tasting contest was also an entirely crooked event and the underlying reason why the various Capitani so desired to see their Cavaliere win the Battle of the Hours. In the weeks leading up to the race, each Capitano—including those without a prominent winemaker, but aligned with one— would spend hours training their Cavaliere to distinguish the wine of their quadrant from all the others. Hence, on race day, even the drunkest Cavaliere could pretty well discern the wine of his quadrant.
The feast that followed the race was the collective work of the women of the village, all bringing a dish or two. Wine for the enormous communal meal was supplied by the various winemakers of the village, but wine for the Drunken Saint’s race was the singular responsibility of a Capitano. Each year a different captain had the duty of bringing forth his fine
st wine, thirteen Jeroboame 15 bottles, twelve for the riders and one precautionary extra should the Saint come back to life. This year that duty fell to Giuseppe, captain of the Twelfth Hour. And so it was that Giuseppe, Capitano della Dodicesima Ora, on the morning of the Feast of the Drunken Saint, rolled his horse-drawn cart into the empty piazza, carrying thirteen Jeroboame bottles of his finest red wine (well, not exactly his finest; those he’d sold to a count in Pisa), eleven of which were infused with a potent extract of Fungi di Santo. He would drug the Cavalieri—all but Benito and the Ebreo.
Giuseppe crinkled his brow, surprised to find anyone in the piazza at this early hour, let alone Benito. God knows, given the chance, the man slept like a pig in cool mud on a hot day. But even from across the piazza Giuseppe could tell it was his underling slinking about and intuited immediately that Benito must be up to something. Figlio di Puttana, thought Giuseppe, detecting an odd bob and gesticulation to Benito’s movement. Curiously, Benito was in the pen where the donkeys were kept the night before the race, held there so they would be equally rested and well fed before the competition.
What is he doing? thought Giuseppe as he neared the pen. He was in no mood to be dealing with Benito at this early hour. He was nervous as is and his bruised buttocks and torn anus ached immeasurably. It made walking unpleasant, sitting difficult and the taking of a shit a supremely brutal act. And to think that his own stepdaughter had done this to him—that wretched bitch!—only made the pain worse. And now, reflected Giuseppe as his wagon drew closer to Benito, I’ve got my other asshole acting up.
“Oh, yes,” Benito whispered salaciously into the donkey’s ear. “That’s it, good donkey. Think happy thoughts, happy-naughty thoughts of green grass and mares in rut. That’s it, sweet donkey, think the thought that cracks your nu—”
“Good God, Benito!” gasped Giuseppe, truly astonished. Not even he could have imagined this.
A burst of nerves shot through Benito as he turned to find Giuseppe just outside the pen; he hadn’t even heard the wagon approach. “Vaffanculo,” Benito sighed. The motion of his arm paused. His grip loosened. His heart pounded. “What are you doing?” asked Giuseppe. Benito shushed Giuseppe angrily. “’Tis all part of playing the Ebreo.”
“This?” Giuseppe’s eyebrows lifted incredulously. “Little do you know,” answered Benito. “No donkey does well a day’s rigor when in the morn it spills its vigor.”
“Ah, I see.”
Benito returned his full attention to the donkey at (and in) hand. His arm was already aching and he didn’t have the time to waste explaining himself to Giuseppe. It was far harder work than he’d envisioned and he was only on his third donkey, with three more to go. (The five she-donkeys were currently separated, in an adjacent pen.) The problem for Benito was that he-donkeys were temperamental creatures, not easily brought to erection, let alone climax. One could not simply masturbate a donkey. No, a he-donkey needed a bit of romance. Before the beasts could grow anything close to a proper bastone they had to be seduced with a blindfold over their eyes and a cloth scented with the pungent musk of a rutting female draped over their nose. And then there was the motion, a long, arm-exhausting stroke that required a firm grip, a thorough slathering of olive oil and the tiniest pinch of clove. All of which led to an explosion that dangerously bucked and tossed Benito from side to side. It was hard, messy and dangerous work, but a necessary part of his masterful plan, and the last thing Benito wanted was that arrogant bastard screwing it up.
“You’ll see,” said Benito derisively. “Come the race, six of these he-studs, robbed of nectar, will move like duds. But my donkey,” Benito made a quick gesture to his donkey in the corner, “heavy of sack and full of vigor, will lead the attack.”
“Well,” said Giuseppe, sniffing warily, “be quick about it. And cover up too this musky stench. Let no nose catch whiff of skunk that Benito is anything but his usual bawdy drunk. But be not drunk. Sip much but do not imbibe, save your kidneys for the ride. Before the race, the less you’re deemed of merit the more you stand to inherit. For he who’s overlooked is he who overtakes. Now, in terms of the crowd, between me and the fool we’ll loosen both tradition and rule, and raise the doubt and speak the speech that puts the Ebreo within your reach. Then, Benito, it’s up to your wiles and might, to protect the Ebreo and squash every other knight. Ride, drink and battle like a roguish lout, make the Ebreo in contrast appear honorable and stout. The more you take the role of brutish Goliath, the more the crowd to the David aligneth. Yes, give him some lumps, but let him land some too, for the battle must appear contested and true. I know, of course, you’re the man of greater wit and power, but for us to profit the Ebreo must win the hour. So as you round the final bend, keep in mind the bigger end, and give not temptation the upper hand. Let him have the victory then we his land.”
Giuseppe sat up in his wagon seat. “Remember, Benito, often is the man with more, he who’s shrewd enough to lose a battle so to win a war.” Giuseppe gave a snap to the reins. His wagon lurched forward. “Adieu, till the feast.”
Benito nodded, and grunted his good-bye, eyeing Giuseppe as he rolled his wagon across the piazza.
Giuseppe then dismounted next to the wine table set up aside the track. It was a long table with the numbers one through twelve etched into it, and the place where the riders would stop during each lap and gulp down their goblet of wine. Giuseppe now unloaded the wagon, placing each enormous wine bottle upon its proper hour. Earlier he had marked the two untainted bottles with a small drop of wax and was sure to place one of them now atop Benito’s number: twelve. He had not let Benito know about tainting the wine bottles with Fungi di Santo. The man had too much foolish pride and would certainly take drugging the competition as a slight to his own abilities. In any event, Giuseppe reasoned, the less he knows the better.
Giuseppe bent down and set the other untainted bottle, the one for the Ebreo boy, underneath the table. The movement, however, caused his anus to spike with pain. He gritted his teeth and thought of Mari and of the Ebreo boy. You two, I’ll undo with the drug of lust.
“Figlio di puttana,” Benito spat as he watched Giuseppe mount the wagon and leave the piazza. “You’ll see.” Benito slathered his hand with olive oil, added a pinch of clove and set his grip upon a new donkey. “You’ll see. Twelve laps and twelve wines that make the match is where my double-cross I’ll unhatch. Six he-donkeys will be slow upon the course and those who ride the shes I’ll finish off by force. Now for the Ebreo, curs’d swine, I’ll put hot pepper in his wine. I’ll twist his gut and bend his ear, I’ll rot his belly with pepper and fear. And, yes, Giuseppe, as part of my trap, I’ll take the Ebreo to the final lap. But the brute Goliath of which you hope to persuade will seem the noble Cristiano on Crusade. And in Benito the crowd will align and forgive as I take two lumps for every one I give. Then we’ll see, Giuseppe, which way goes the crowd, as Benito battles true and proud. Even Mari will see the boy she did formerly seek compared to Benito is feeble and weak. And through this Battle of the Hours, you’ll see, Giuseppe: I’ll capture her heart and assume your powers. For all you’ve planned, today I’ll rebuke, as Benito leaves the Ebreo in his own puke. And with my victory wish, I’ll break our creed and unveil the depths of your heinous greed. Before Mari and all the village I’ll reveal your murderous idea to loose that pulley wheel. So think low of me, Giuseppe, hold me as least, for by day’s end ’twill be Benito who wins Mari and wears the wreath.”
15 Jeroboam was the first king of the ten tribes that comprised the Kingdom of Israel. The name Jeroboam means increase of the people, and for reasons uncertain was the name given to triple-sized wine bottles that held three liters, or the equivalent of twelve goblets of wine.
In Which We Learn
of Donkeys & Purim
Davido felt like an overripe tomato decomposing on the vine. All the notions and desires he had felt so clearly were suddenly turning to mush. Surely, Davido’s mind reasoned as the wagon’s wheels bou
nced incessantly, today’s donkey ride to the village must be worse than the unwanted walk down the wedding aisle he was originally set to do? Really, would it be so bad marrying that skinny-ankled girl and living in Florence for a year? he pondered. He knew Florence, he knew what to expect there. But as he and Nonno rolled along the road toward the village—toward the feast— baking in the late-afternoon sun, everything he was heading toward was a mystery, and a terrifying one at that.
“Tell me the story,” pleaded Davido, “of you and Colombo and your years in Il Nuovo Mundo.”
Nonno clucked his tongue dismissively. “What, you need a story?”
“Oh, come on, Nonno.” Davido needed something, a story, a tale, anything, to stay the decomposition and keep the tomato of his mind from falling entirely off the vine. “The anxiety is killing me.”
“Ha,” Nonno sniggered, “we’d be lucky today if anxiety is the only thing that seeks to kill us.”
Davido brought his hands to his head in anguish. He was sure she’d be there. It was her village’s feast, after all. And while this thrilled him, he was petrified that her father, or brother, or suitor, or suitors would be at the feast too. Of course, he wanted to see her, but dear sister in heaven, he thought, I kissed a Cristiana village girl, and if one of hers doesn’t kill me, if Nonno finds out, he will.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Davido blurted. “Then practice on me again, so I may one day tell my children and grandchildren.”
Nonno let go one hand from the reins and pulled at his beard. “That’s very manipulative.”
“Well,” Davido asked, “did it work?”
“Fine,” said Nonno begrudgingly. “But I’m not speaking in that moronic country rhyme. God knows, we’re sure to hear enough of that blabber today.”
