Tomato Rhapsody

by Adam Schell

  “Good God, you idiot!” Giuseppe leaned back and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Get a grip on yourself.” Giuseppe wiped a droplet of ale from his chin and patted down a few others dotting his vest. “Barmaid.” Giuseppe snapped his fingers and pointed at Benito’s empty mug.

  Benito readied himself for some quip as the barmaid refilled his mug—some awful jab about yesterday’s humiliation, but none came.

  “Piss off,” said Giuseppe to the barmaid the instant Benito’s mug was full. “Now,” Giuseppe returned his attention to Benito, “with our plan that lies twofold, ’tis the other route we take hold.” Giuseppe tapped his ring upon the table deep in thought. “Hmm, what to do, what to do? Bobo!” he shouted across the tavern. “Come hither with paper and a quill”—Giuseppe turned back to Benito—”so I may play this through.”

  Giuseppe snapped his fingers before Benito’s face. “Eh, pay attention now. Take from Coglione a case of good wine—ours. Then upon my horse-drawn wagon to the Ebrei in double-time. Have Bobo do the bidding, whilst you do the waiting. Bobo will say that the wine is from me, a victory bequest, whilst Bobo slyly does his mistress’s request and drops the young Ebreo a secret note, which for his purposes my stepdaughter wrote. Now, tonight, I’m off to test her will and guarantee that tomorrow she’ll be at the mill. Then, while all are off tossing crumbs and cleansing soul, tomorrow, in hiding, you’ll play the mole.” Giuseppe reached inside his vest and removed his recently acquired three-segmented telescope. He placed it before Benito.

  Benito looked wide-eyed at Giuseppe.

  Nodding at his underling, Giuseppe signaled that he was indeed trusting him with his prized possession. “In the distance, upon Mari spy, lie in wait. We’ve set the trap, Benito, now let the Ebreo take the bait.”

  Bobo the Fool sauntered over carrying paper, ink and quill.

  “Sit,” commanded Giuseppe. Benito slid over. Bobo set the paper down and dipped his quill. “Now write,” Giuseppe went on. “Tomorrow. Morning. At the olive mill.” Giuseppe paused, searching for the right words. “With bated breath.” Giuseppe was especially curt when it came to letter-writing.

  Bobo looked up with eyes that seemed to say, That’s it?

  Giuseppe’s expression grew stern. He did not like revealing so much to the fool. “Sign it,” said Giuseppe, “Mari.”

  Bobo raised his eyebrows inquisitively, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew well that Giuseppe masked his near-illiteracy not only with bullying but overpaying.

  “Give it here.” Giuseppe took the paper and pretended to peruse it.

  Bobo and Benito shared a quick glance at the ridiculousness of this gesture.

  “You write like a woman,” Giuseppe said snidely. Giuseppe folded the paper into the shape of a proper letter. He reached for a candle and dripped some wax onto it, forming a seal. After blowing on the wax to quicken its drying, he slid the letter back to Benito, stood up and reached into his pocket. “Half each,” said Giuseppe, dropping a money purse before his underlings. “Now,” Giuseppe looked to Benito, “is there anything for which you lack?”

  Benito slid the telescope into his pocket, placed his hand upon the letter and shook his head.

  “Then fill in the fool and move this play to final act.”

  18 To Toss Crumbs: an ancient Etruscan ritual that followed a village’s grape and olive feast, whereby the devout filled their pockets with crumbs and dirt, then traveled to a river and tossed the crumbs into the water as a symbolic act of purification. Once the crumbs had floated off, the devout would then plunge into the river. This was done so one could approach the sacred acts of grape-and olive-harvesting clean of conscience and spirit. With the spread and adoption of Christianity the ritual also came to include a baptismal procession led by the local priest.

  In Which We Learn

  of Broken Stairs & Spilled olives

  “Birds chirp and vineyards bloom and I float like the plume.” It was a warm and delicious evening as Mari strolled amidst the olive orchard, heading for the mill. By all practical accounts, Mari should have been exhausted. She’d hardly slept last night and then done nearly a full day’s labor cleaning the piazza, but it mattered not. She was beside herself with happiness and bubbling with energy. Her lips still tasted of tomatoes and Davido; her fingertips were still imprinted with the outline of his flesh. It had been quite a kiss and the possibility of going home and ruining such a rhapsody of feeling by crossing paths with Giuseppe was so totally unappealing that she’d set out for a walk in the orchard, found an eagle feather lying upon the ground and then, like her father before her and so many in this story, she began to speak of her joy aloud:

  “The plume carried upon the winds of love, the plume that falls from tail of dove. The plume adrift on these warm currents, the plume that sets my soul a-errant. To plume and wander lost amidst the timeless moments of our tryst. To ride and float, plume and careen, to plume myself on pleasures unseen. Oh, Father in heaven, I have met the noble soul who fits my half into a whole. And now I plume, plume and blush, on what so moves my heart to flush and sets my mind to plan and scheme that I may once again kiss the dream. But more than kiss, oh sweet plume dipped in ink, write the tale into which I sink. A story whereby true love transcends all who might condemn, and he and I and our sweet fruits commingle to meet a happy, happy end.”

  Mari held the plume to her heart as she rounded the corner and entered the olive mill, her spirits soaring. But her flight of fancy was short-lived. There, sitting on the steps leading up to the office, was Giuseppe. Mari’s heart sank, her plume fell to the ground and the sweet taste in her mouth soured. He sat on the fourth stair from the bottom, just one step above the still-broken third stair. Next to him rested a bucket-sized clay jar of olives. He was looking into the jar, poking around with his fingers.

  “Amazing,” he said, a twinge of menace to his tone, “the things one can find beneath a broken step.” Giuseppe plucked an olive and popped it into his mouth.

  Mari felt her body flush with rage. Giuseppe was defiling the very olives she had spent the better part of a year curing, the ones she wished to share with Davido. Mari did her best to ignore Giuseppe and strolled through the mill in silence as if she had a specific reason for being there.

  “You have no greeting for me, daughter?” Giuseppe spit the olive pit out of his mouth and onto the floor.

  Mari was silent. She busied herself with the straightening of some equipment in the corner; a broom, a long, stiff-bristled brush for cleaning the olive press. It was all she could think to do.

  Giuseppe clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth; his fingers picked another olive from the brine. “What is it with mine women, I do beseech, that hath so withered their organ of speech? Your mute mother has excuse at least, as it’s only language that distinguishes women from beast.” Giuseppe popped the olive into his mouth. “Ah, but perhaps a good beast could put my womanly woes to end,” he said whilst obnoxiously chewing on the olive, “for ’tis true what they say, that dog be man’s best friend. And gladly I to suffer some shit and piss upon the floor than endure such silent barking a second more.”

  “A dog?” shot back Mari. She could not help herself. “T’would think Benito was more than ‘nuff the mutt.”

  Giuseppe spit out the olive pit. “And he doth have such puppy dog eyes for you.”

  The comment irked Mari. “What do you want, Stepfather?”

  “Funny you should say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “Step,” said Giuseppe as he looked between his legs at the broken third stair. Giuseppe leaned to his right, lowered his hand and knocked over a board, mallet and a dozen nails that rested against the side of the stairs.

  Mari felt her throat tighten.

  “Do not,” Giuseppe looked directly at Mari for the first time, “embarrass me. I am all that stands between your mother’s penury and you in a nunnery.”

  Mari scowled. “Are you threatening me?”

 
; “Goodness no, daughter, I am merely stating the reality of the situation.”

  “The reality,” repeated Mari, “is that you’re a fiend who does little more than repossess that of others, including their land and their mothers.”

  Giuseppe clucked his tongue remonstratively. “To think such ill thanks you bequeath and reduce my gesture to common thief?”

  “Oh, no, far more evil than petty thief is he who preys upon a widow’s grief.”

  “Watch your tongue, you ingrate girl,” said Giuseppe, obviously trying to control his temper. “Lest you forget: you and your mother’d be destitute had I not married that crippled mute. A widow and her impish daughter with not a coin in hand. Po and the church would have scoffed up this land.” “Your kindness is lost on me, sir.”

  “Be that as it may, my fury is not. Do not embarrass me.” “One cannot embarrass the shameless,” Mari sneered. “You will not,” repeated Giuseppe severely, “embarrass me.” “Good God, Stepfather, of what do you speak?” “I have housed and fed you for ten years—” “Upon land fattened by another,” Mari interrupted. “Shut up, girl!” Giuseppe yelled. “’Tis bad enough I have to waste a dowry on you.”

  “What?” Mari flushed with panic. Does he know of Davido? “I will have my recompense.” “For what?” shot back Mari.

  “For the bread my labors have fed you. For the roof and shelter I’ve afforded you. For the dowry I am forced to give.”

  “Bread I have always baked, a roof my father tarred and shingled. And as far as a dowry, I would not assume so much of you.”

  “Shut up, you insolent girl!” Giuseppe violently stomped his foot upon the bottom stair. “You are of marrying age. I have been in contact with suitors, older men of wealth and means; fine, fat, rich and boring. Men whose blood runs blue.”

  Mari glared at Giuseppe. She felt her life was being drained from her. “I would sooner take a knife to my heart.”

  “Then best you whet your blade.” Giuseppe stood up. “You will marry whom I command, when I command, and you will go to your wedding bed a virgin. Blood will mark your nuptial sheets or I will pitch you to a nunnery to rot, and toss that crippled mother of yours to a dank asylum.” Giuseppe glared at Mari so to better burrow his words into his stepdaughter’s head. “Rest assured, what I lose in coin, I will gain in title.” Then he stepped off the stairs, letting his right hand trail behind him, catching the lip of the olive jar with his index finger and insouciantly tipping it over.

  Mari watched the olives and liquid spill and splatter onto the floor.

  “A little salty,” said Giuseppe as he made for the barn door.

  Mari heard the door swing shut.

  “Fix the step,” she heard Giuseppe say as the iron bolt slid into place. She was locked in.

  In which We Learn

  of Rivers, Oceans & Sauce

  Better to a nunnery, thought Mari as the first rays of sun shone through the windows and she heard the dead bolt slowly slide open and the mill door creak. It had been a long and angry night on a dusty floor. Yes, she fixed the third stair (she was not a stupid girl), fixed it perfectly, so perfectly that Giuseppe would hardly think to check the fifth stair, which Mari made certain would surely come apart in the near future. She would be damned if she would marry a monster of Giuseppe’s choosing. Better to a nunnery, better to Davido—much better to Davido. I too will have my recompense, thought Mari, as she readied her bucket and waited for the door to open. Ten years of abuse has been enough.

  Davido had hardly slept. It was a word and a wagonful of excitement that kept him awake. Tomorrow, that was easy enough to understand. At the olive mill, yes, he knew where that was. With bated breath. Oh, mio Dio, to think that Mari was waiting for him with such eagerness was itself overwhelming. But morning, that was the part of the note that confused him. What did she mean by morning? Morning is made of many hours, especially for a farmer. Was Tuesday not a work day, he thought? Will I not be seen by a dozen millworkers? Can I really take such a risk? How can I not? For her, how can I not?

  Thank heavens, at least, thought Davido, Nonno had gone off to Pitigliano on Monday for an overnight stay and had not been present when the fool dropped off the wine and note. To visit with a Cristiano village girl, Nonno would have none of it. Just the idea that a village girl had the temerity to write such a note and have her servant deliver it could have very well meant a year in Florence for Davido and certain marriage to that skinny-ankled girl. But morning, what did she mean by morning?

  All night the question plagued Davido, right up until this very moment as he approached the olive mill. He had chosen early morning. Actually, it had chosen him. He could not sleep; he could not stand the wait, so he put on his monk’s robe, laid the heavy cross around his neck, mounted a donkey and trotted off with the first hint of sunlight. The morning air was cool and crisp, but underneath the heavy robe Davido’s stomach was aflutter with butterflies and he could feel the drops of nervous sweat gathering in his armpits. The anxious perspiration carried with it a stink too, a body odor that added to Davido’s nerves. He fanned fresh air into the robe every few minutes and even pulled some cypress needles from a tree as he strode by and rubbed the rough green and fine-smelling fur under his armpits—anything to smell better for her.

  The mill was empty—grazie Dio!—but the door was bolted shut. Why, thought Davido, is she not here? Is there another entrance? Let me just have a look inside. Madness, yes, I know. Nonno would not approve. But how can I not? For Mari. Dear sister in heaven, bless me, he told himself as he slid the bolt and pulled the door ajar, just enough to peer his head inside. And then, out of the shadows, it came! Panic-stricken, Davido inhaled and sucked the burning oil right into his mouth. It blinded his eyes and burned down his neck. I am dead, he thought, I am dead!

  Mio Dio, Mari gasped, I have done it a second time. She dropped the empty bucket of oil and ran to him with a purpose even greater than that which she’d heaved the oil. Ran and jumped into his oil-drenched arms. Pressed her lips onto his oil-covered lips, ran her tongue into his oil-covered mouth and kissed him.

  I am not dead? Davido’s mind questioned itself as it sorted through that moment of confusion when one cannot distinguish the very cold from the burning hot. Davido’s oil-coated eyes opened and he saw the blurry figure of his attacker moving toward him. He felt a body lean against his chest as twice-familiar arms wrapped around his torso and twice-familiar lips pressed onto his. I am alive, every sense of his body affirmed, as his mouth opened in return and olive oil and lips and tongues commingled and danced for a third delicious time.

  Ed il fiume deve fluire verso l’oceano, wrote Pozzo Menzogna in his eloquent and definitive treatise on drama. And the river must flow to the ocean. Menzogna was writing, of course, about the importance in a third act to narrow the action around the story’s main characters and their dilemma. To increase the narrative’s current and build a sense of urgency as the story flows toward its “ocean of resolution,” as Menzogna put it. Accordingly, Menzogna postulated, by Parte Tre, the audience should have a keen understanding of the inner workings and desires of a tale’s characters and therefore the time is past for elaborate asides, introspection and excessive detail.

  And so, while it may be an interesting current to follow, Menzogna would in no way recommend we divert the balance of our tale’s current and dwell unnecessarily upon the procession of villagers en route to the river on this Tuesday morning of Tossing Crumbs. The reader will know in an instant that while Giuseppe’s pockets may have been filled with crumbs (as he trailed along with Mari’s crippled mother at the rear of the procession), it was only appearances he was keeping up and that he had no room in his heart or space in his mind to actually believe in such a foolish rite.

  In a state of mind very different from that of Giuseppe, Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third, Grand Duke of Tuscany in hiding, also walked the processional, cast his crumbs into the river and then surrendered himself to the Good Padre’s ba
ptismal plunge. There, as the cool waters washed over him, Cosimo felt the final burdens of sadness that had plagued much of his life simply wash away.

  His chef, Luigi Campoverde, still not of right mind from all the tainted wine he drank at the feast, was also amongst those walking the processional. He was walking out of sight of his boss, of course, but walking nonetheless. He had been unable to bring himself to leave the odd little town that he imagined to be so like the village of his birth, and he thought that a blessing from the priest might help restore his mind and ensure his job security.

  Benito, feeling soiled and foul and likewise unstable of mind, did not obey Giuseppe’s orders to spy upon Mari. La Piccola Voce would not let him. Instead, he walked at the head of the processional—well away from Giuseppe’s sight— desperate to be rid of his guilt and the little voice that was ruining his mind.

  Bobo, who was like a cat when it came to water, could not bring himself to be a part of the processional, and while he did not loathe the Good Padre as he had the last priest, he had too many secrets to hide and no place in his heart to forgive the Church.

  Bertolli, the Cheese Maker, Mucca, Vincenzo, Signore Coglione (always hopeful that a miracle might bring back his lost testicle), Augusto Po and all the other villagers made their way to the river where their indescribable Good Padre waited for them in waist-deep water like a giant yet gentle hippopotamus, washing away sins and absolving guilt; all the while fulfilling the divine curse cast upon him centuries ago—to shine a sliver of the Great Mother’s light upon each and every pale one.

  No, Pozzo Menzogna and his eloquent treatise on drama would not recommend we spend much time at the river. On the contrary, now is the moment to jump into the current of our young lovers’ day. To glean all that drove them into each other’s arms. To learn of how they kissed and slathered themselves with olive oil until Mari had the good sense to break the kiss. “It is not safe here,” she said, “we must go to another place.” To which Davido had the good sense to place his monk’s robe over Mari and hurriedly escort her back to his farm like a hired servant leading an old monk between monasteries. Of how the hours went by in each other’s company. Of how Mari spoke of the death of her father and the living death of her mother, the annoyance of Benito and torments of Giuseppe. Of how Davido spoke of the plague in Florence, his parents’ demise and the death of his sister (though he did not say how she died). And of how finding someone who could relate fully to the sadness that always sits in the heart of a child who’s lost a parent brought them both a feeling of emotional kinship that equally matched their more lusty desires for each other. Of how Davido kept stealing downward glances to gaze upon Mari’s wondrous little toes, shaped like baby eggplants, her ankles, not too thick, nor too thin, but perfect and strong. Of how Mari breathed in a little deeper each time she passed near Davido and how his musk of body odor mixed with the slightest scent of cypress formed a smell so delicious to her that if it were a pudding she would have eaten a bucketful. And of how their simple lunch of tomatoes and olives and cheese and wine and figs and bread and olive oil was the tastiest meal either of them had ever experienced.