by Adam Schell
“So be it. Proper Italian, then.”
“And I’m not going to speak of Colombo, either. God knows, we’ve got enough lined up against us today without invoking the memory of that madman.”
“Good God,” said Davido, “just talk of something to distract us from the mess we’re about to enter.”
“I’ll speak about the donkey.”
“Very well,” replied Davido.
“’Cause you’re an ass too,” said Nonno with a smirk. Davido laughed, thankful for the distraction. Nonno drew a deep inhalation. In truth, he was happy to have something to talk about as well. A proper man, he always felt, should be a good storyteller and relayer of insights and information and contain in his lexicon a breadth of subjects upon which to hold court. Without so much as saying, Nonno was pleased that his grandson seemed to think so too, and he secretly liked the idea of his stories living on after his death. Not to mention, Nonno loved donkeys and considered a good donkey, like the one that pulled his wagon now, to be something of a talisman. A donkey was all Colombo left him with those many years ago when he was abandoned by that scoundrel on the hot and forested island of Guanahani. Had it not been for the exquisite she-donkey, Nonno never would have survived.
And so Nonno began, as he had a hundred times before, usually to the entertainment of children, secretly hoping that one day his Davido would recount the wonders of the donkey to his grandchildren in much the same way. “In the order of all things equine,” Nonno said as he sat up a little straighter on the wagon seat, “donkeys are naturally smarter than horses. They have larger brains, live longer lives, have better eyesight and hearing and a vastly superior digestive system to that of horses. In fact, a donkey’s belly can extract nutrition out of virtually any plant. Barbed shrubs that would lacerate a horse’s gut and kill it, a donkey will merrily eat and prosper upon. Even the milk a she-donkey produces is more easily digestible and nutritious than that of any cow. And donkey cheese—oh, to taste a thing so fine! —sweeter and creamier than the best mascarpone in all of Lombardy!”
Davido cocked his head to the side with Nonno’s last statement. That’s a new twist, better than mascarpone?
“When it comes to brain power,” Nonno continued, “few creatures rival the donkey. They have an intelligence and temperament far more sophisticated and resilient than that of the horse. Unlike their larger cousins, a donkey cannot be spooked. When startled, the donkey will not bolt and abandon either human or pack; it will simply remain still, assess the situation and then act accordingly. Additionally, the largely held belief that donkeys are stubborn is a misconception. What may appear as obstinacy is actually evidence of the creature’s intelligence. Unlike a horse, a donkey will not walk where the footing is loose, will not drink from unclean water, such as a filthy horse trough, and will not willingly engage in any activity that it deems contrary to its well-being.”
Davido smiled to himself. It had been some time since he’d last heard Nonno wax rhapsodically over the donkey, but it was still clear, the old man’s opinion of the horse had certainly not changed.
“Indeed, if one takes a closer look, is it not revealing that even the Bible hints at the donkey’s near-supernatural intelligence and loyalty? Of all the creatures mentioned in the Torah, it is only the donkey through which God takes voice, chiding the prophet Balaam to be more patient and respectful.” Nonno turned to Davido. They could hear the sound of music and revelry and see the village entrance. “Pay special attention to this next part, it’s important that children understand.”
Davido nodded, though both he and Nonno knew he was not really listening.
“To the Children of Israel,” Nonno continued anyhow as they passed through the village’s large open gate, “the donkey has always been revered. From the moment the Romans expunged us from our homeland, the donkey has been the only pack animal available for us. Even as the centuries passed and our people settled in the villages and cities of Europe, we’ve maintained our connection to the donkey. During the holiday of Purim—that joyous celebration that recalls the biblical story of Esther—Ebreo communities the world over hold donkey races and donkey pageants so that every Ebreo child is raised to value and adore the donkey. For if ever there was a beast akin to our people, with its sagacity and knack for survival, it’s the don—”
And then the sounds of revelry and the pounding of their hearts grew too loud, so that Nonno could hardly hear himself think, nor Davido hear his grandfather speak. But it was all true, everything Nonno had said about the donkey, especially the part about Purim. So much so that when Nonno and Davido rolled their wagon into the piazza, pulled by their own beloved donkey, and saw the assemblage of festooned donkeys and costumed riders parading about the piazza, there was a wonderfully familiar quality to the scene.
“Like Purim,” Nonno leaned over, close to his grandson’s ear, and then added dryly, “if Haman 16 had won.”
“Ay,” said Davido, as he too saw the connection. Like Purim, he meant to answer, but just then he made the other connection—the one his eyes and heart sought. His vision found her, there amid the crowd, filling a goblet from a wine barrel. And it was like Purim; only, Queen Esther could not have been half as beautiful.
Mari too looked up, and found Davido’s eyes; and from her eyes to her heart to her lips, she could not help but smile. She had not seen him since their kiss of last week. He was so lovely, she had been longing to see him, even scheming to see him. And if, as she’d prayed every night, he did come to the feast, she had a plan at the ready. Beginning with the wine: Mari had not watered it down as Giuseppe had commanded. Instead, she poured it full-strength and had brought two more barrels than Giuseppe had ordered. She’d tapped the barrels earlier than in years past, then filled goblets and bottles by the dozen so that, even now, she could see the elated effects of strong wine upon the spirits of the crowd. She would get them drunk, every man and woman of the village. So drunk that their eyes would go bleary and their memories faulty. Thus, if by chance any reveler may happen to see Mari and the Ebreo boy sneak down an alley to share a kiss, surely they’d dismiss such a sight as the play of too much wine upon the mind.
“Like Purim,” Nonno repeated.
“Oh, yes,” Davido agreed, as he pried his eyes from the girl, “like Purim.” To Davido, the whole scene really was like the Carnevale di Purim back in the ghetto Florence, the way he remembered it from his childhood—the food, wine and minstrels; the men dressed in their ridiculous costumes and mounted upon adorned donkeys. Even the antics of the spindly fool, babbling about something or other and riling the crowd, reminded him of the way the villainous Haman was portrayed and mocked at the Purim festival in Florence. But then the fool’s eye caught sight of the “guests” rolling into the piazza and he moved his tongue in their direction. And suddenly, for Davido, it didn’t seem like Purim at all.
16 Villain of the biblical Book of Esther who attempted to destroy the Ebrei of Ancient Persia.
In Which We Come
to Better Understand the
Symbology of the Drunken Saint Statue
Heads and eyes turned. The strumming and drumming of the minstrels petered out. The crowd went quiet with disbelief. They had come. There, before the villagers, escorted by the Good Padre and Bertolli, as many had feared but prayed would not be so, were the Ebrei and their wagon full of forbidden fruit.
“Welcome! Welcome, at last,” Bobo repeated as he gestured to the Ebrei and then to the Good Padre. “My, how twelve-plus-one days did pass quite fast.”
“Indeed they did,” said the Good Padre. He had made sure this time he was a better host. He and Bertolli had waited for the Ebrei at the village gate and then personally escorted the young man, his grandfather and their wagon full of pomodori into the piazza.
“And your health?” said Bobo with a quick pat of the Good Padre’s belly. “The question of our anticipation.”
“Never better,” answered the Good Padre. “Not a stitch of constipa
tion.”
Bobo raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Hmm, not the runs, the shits, cramps or gas?”
“No.”
“Or desperate sprints to the outhouse with fire in the ass?”
“No.”
“Not boils, or seizures, or fits of cold sweat?”
“No.”
“Or waking at night with your gown soaking wet?”
“No.”
“No locking of jaw, aching of joint or loss of sight?”
“No.”
“No reeling, no writhing, no fits of devilish fright?”
“No.”
“You mean,” said Bobo, “after twelve-plus-one days and twelve-plus-one accursed berries, not a moment of ill health, not a pain, not a worry?”
“Exactly,” said the Good Padre. “I’m healthy as can be.” The Good Padre reached his hand into the back of the wagon and took out a tomato. “Here, after all your talk, you should be first.”
Bobo lifted his hand and exuberantly wagged his finger.
“Oh, no, no.”
“Is Bobo not a man of his word?”
“Depends which words,” answered the fool, with raised eyebrows.
Nervous as he was, Davido almost burst out laughing.
“Come now,” said the Good Padre, patting his belly affirmatively. “Do you not trust what you see before your eyes?”
“With you,” Bobo pointed from the priest to the Ebrei, “or them? The eyes tell their lies.”
“My goodness,” said the Good Padre. “What, then, does Bobo need?”
“I will tell you.” Bobo looked suspiciously from the Good Padre to Davido. “Foreign fruit, foreign face, I’d trust it more if he raced the race.”
Who is this damn fool, thought Nonno, as he moved his eyes about the crowd. There were hundreds packed into the piazza, certainly every villager and nearby farmer, far more than he saw at market last. Nonno’s vision searched until he found the familiar faces awaiting his gaze. They nodded back to him. Thank God, Rabbi Lumaca had gotten the letter he’d sent with Davido last Sunday and honored his request. They were the toughest Ebrei of Pitigliano (not that the Ebrei of Pitigliano were especially tough): butchers and blacksmiths and masons, dressed today like any other gentile peasant. Truthfully, Nonno did not think his life or his grandson’s was in jeopardy. He found Italians tended to mix wine and revelry well, growing more amorous than vicious with their drunkenness. Nevertheless, Spain had left its scars, and Nonno was too old and wise to venture naked into a lion’s den.
“Oh, by heaven!” The Good Padre threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Join the donkey race? Only if he rides upon your back. For who could be a bigger ass?”
“Listen to your fool,” Bobo said, addressing the crowd’s laughter. “Foreign fruit, foreign face, it’d serve us all if he’d race the race.”
The crowd began to boo and jeer. Davido felt his skin bristle as the fool, again, gestured in his direction.
“Do you see, Good Padre?” Bobo gestured to the crowd. “Do you not hear? Go ahead, serve the fruit, but we’ll taste only fear. And then what good the bet, what good the bite, if we honor word but taste only fright?” Bobo turned to the crowd. “I ask you all: is this how this day among days was meant to start, by opening the mouth yet closing the heart? Is this how we would taint this day of our greatest pride? No, I say, better to open first the heart, then the mouth after the Ebreo does ride.”
“Pride?” scoffed Benito from atop his donkey. “When our fool claims pride, ’tis time to run and hide.”
The crowd broke into laughter and Benito sat upright on his donkey, sucked in his belly and puffed up his chest. He felt almost regal in his purple Cavalieri outfit with its fine silk, fancy colors and large Roman numeral twelve upon his chest. Giuseppe, however, was not so pleased. You deluded, blubbering idiot, he thought, what are you doing? Contrary to his orders, Benito was not acting nearly drunk enough and now, as he had explicitly told him not to do, Benito was running his stupid mouth.
“No, no, do not say that, friend,” said Bobo with a surprising earnestness as he stepped forward and took hold of Benito’s left wrist. “I am not so horrid and ill-natured a fool to undo the day in which goodwill should rule. T’would be to the spirit of Saint and village a great disgrace, if a thirteenth rider didn’t join the race.”
Giuseppe inhaled the wine-scented air. Thirteenth rider was his cue to enter the fray, but as he opened his mouth, another voice emerged.
“But an Ebreo?” spat Vincenzo from atop his donkey. “This puny Ebreo?” He gestured dismissively toward Davido. “T’would be a double dishonor to Saint and vine.”
My goodness, thought Davido, recalling the last time he saw the pork merchant, what have I done to this man?
“True,” said Benito mockingly toward Vincenzo, “best to shorten the field for the old, fat swine.”
The crowd laughed. It was true, and Vincenzo’s fat face— stuffed and bulging under his red hat—turned crimson with anger. He was already married and too old to be racing in a young man’s event, and his yearly participation in the race had become something of a village joke. But as Capitano del Quadrante Otto, Vincenzo could appoint as Cavaliere whomever he liked, and for the ninth year in a row, he liked himself.
“Vaff,” Vincenzo scoffed at Benito. “You too have your share of years and fat.”
“But not such a share as that,” replied Benito as he reached out with his left hand and gave a soft squeeze to Vincenzo’s fleshy bosom. “I say, let the puny boy run, for all I care.”
“You will pay for that upon the track,” said Vincenzo.
“Really?” said Benito as he raised one finger before Vincenzo’s face. “Not even one lap ‘fore you’re off your donkey and on your back.”
“Is that so?” said Vincenzo as the crowd howled with delight.
“Ay.” Benito smiled, knowing firsthand the prodigious sum Vincenzo’s donkey had ejaculated just this morning. “Not even one lap.”
“Care to wager?” asked Vincenzo.
Che stronzo! thought Giuseppe, through the hooting and howling and snorting of the crowd. These idiots shall make a mockery of my intentions. He could risk no more of this. “Oh, you flap-mouthed fools!” snapped Giuseppe with a poorly veiled air of lightheartedness. He stepped between the parade of donkeys. “I would wager that all this good wine go sour before either of you paunchy slobs takes the Battle of the Hours. Now,” Giuseppe pointed to Bobo, “king of all fools, can you not find a better forum to take your pleasure?”
“But Bobo speaks to the common treasure,” answered Bobo.
“Treasure? My God.” Giuseppe looked to the clear sky above. “I fear a sudden thunder; our fool seeks to protect and not to plunder.” Though many were privately weary of Giuseppe, he was not without his charms, and his unique ability to take the piss out of Bobo brought many to laughter. “As they have their feasts, we have ours, and it’s not for an Ebreo to battle among the Hours. We agreed not to brotherhood, only to taste, so hold your fool’s tongue and its treasonous haste.”
Bobo frowned. “Do not mistake the truth for treason. Bobo does love his village, Saint and season.”
“Love?” said Giuseppe with a chuckle. “Oh, I see. It is by love and not foolish tricks that you toss the puny Ebreo into the mix.”
Again with the puny, thought Davido rather self-consciously. He did not like being degraded before the girl and subtly squeezed his own thigh to confirm his manliness. Though, it was hardly the beefy haunch of the purple-clad ogre before him, it was not the bookish chicken leg it used to be, either.
“Yes,” said Bobo. “It is by love.”
“And what today,” asked Giuseppe, suddenly concerned that he was doing too well in an argument he need lose, “of all days, does inform our fool to speak of love and not of scorn?”
“Our very Saint,” said Bobo as he gestured to the sculpture of the one-armed Drunken Saint at the center of the race oval.
“Oh, this sho
uld be good,” said Giuseppe. “Tell us, then, fool, what secret and symbol in our Drunken Saint do we not see?”
“Notice,” all heads turned as Bobo pointed to the statue, “but one heart’s arm 17 to do less harm; belly full, fat with the good of life; countenance sweet, devoid of strife; satchel brimming with fruits of tree and vine; goblet overflowing with sacred wine. And as if to prove this merry lack of greed, he rides—as we race today—upon the humble steed. By donkey, grape and goblet our patron does slyly teach the earthly length of heaven’s reach. Yet how by Saint are we to revel free of heart and mind, when here we see and soon we eat what is not of our kind? Hence, to keep sweet grape and Saint from turning sour, the boy must do battle as the thirteenth Hour. Our Saint would want it so.”
Even Benito knew a perfect opportunity when he saw one, and in the midst of the collective silence he dismounted his donkey, stepped to the table adjacent to the race track, lifted from it his enormous wine bottle—the one to which he’d added a great deal of finely ground hot pepper—walked over to where the Ebreo boy sat atop his donkey-drawn wagon and extended the bottle to the boy.
Davido thought of the last Purim festival he’d attended some two years ago in Florence, in which he competed in the donkey race and was promptly and ignominiously knocked off by a boy not even his own size. That was before he became a farmer. He hoped he was stronger now—he certainly was more familiar with donkeys. His sister was still alive then, which naturally led Davido’s thoughts to her. She’d had a bit of a wild streak and would have relished the situation her brother was currently in. This led Davido to think of the girl he was meant to marry on this day; she seemed to possess no adventurous side. And this thought moved Davido’s eyes to find Mari’s—eyes that seemed to be waiting for his. And then the run of Davido’s thoughts halted and fixated upon one. “I will race,” Davido heard himself say as he reached out and took the Jeroboame wine bottle from the man who held it. Davido saw the lips of the girl he adored curl ever so slightly upward, as if she was proud of him, and this, but for an instant, made Davido feel invincible. “I will race!”
