Tomato Rhapsody

by Adam Schell

  And how it all began so innocently as Davido shared with Mari his difficulty in making a proper sauce from the tomato, given that cooked tomatoes became too acidic. And of Mari’s simple suggestion to do what she did for the olive and add red wine. Of how they emptied basket after basket of ripe tomatoes into the enormous cauldron at the center of the barn. Of how it was Mari’s idea to crush the tomatoes the way women crush the grapes, rolling up pants and skirt and climbing into the cauldron. And of how titillating it felt to hold each other up and balance on each other as the thigh-high heaping of tender tomatoes burst under heel and squished between toes. How it was Mari who first squished a tomato onto the side of Davido’s head. Of how their tomato fight grew into tomato wrestling, their bodies slipping and wriggling against each other. Of the energy that grew inside them and between them, until that energy took on a life of its own and they were no longer Davido and Mari, but something else, something ancient that seemed to know the other in a way that transcended knowingness, and of how this energy was like a madness. Of how Mari used her fingers to paint tomato pulp across the lips of Davido. And of how their lips then came together mixing tongues and tomatoes as they kissed. Of how they kissed and licked each other with mouths so open that it was as if they wanted to eat through the other’s flesh. How kissing in itself was not enough. How clothes— anything that kept their bodies apart—became an enemy to them until they finally felt their naked flesh press against each other for the very first time. How the shaft of Davido’s pisello pressed against the soft muff of Mari’s farfalla. And of how, as their bodies slid downward into the mash and pulp of tomatoes, something else rose upward, spinning and reeling and twisting and turning until neither Davido nor Mari knew what was up or down, only what was together. How they pulled onto and into each other’s bodies, smashing tomatoes between their bellies. How the moan that came from Mari’s mouth was the greatest sound Davido had ever heard. And of how the act did not last long—a thrust, a sigh, an ecstatic clench—yet seemed to last forever. How time melted away as if there was no such thing. How their bodies twitched and spasmed as an eruption rose up through them, between them. And of how, for a sublime moment, they entirely disappeared into each other, losing all sense of where their bodies began and ended.

  This is what Menzogna would want us to know. How it was that Davido and Mari made love for the very first time in a cauldron filled with crushed tomatoes.

  They had been cooking for hours. It had been Mari’s idea. It was just too many good tomatoes to waste. They’d stoked the fire and swung the cauldron atop the iron fire ring—an invention that Mari found quite incredible. They’d peeled and roughly chopped half a bucket’s worth of garlic. They added olive oil and salt and oregano and bay leaves and chili flakes, the same spices Mari used to cure her olives. And once the mass of crushed tomatoes had begun to simmer they’d emptied four bottles of red wine into the cauldron, just as Mari had suggested. And then they waited—waited and stirred and made love, twice more and less frantically—allowing time for the crushed tomatoes, garlic, salt, herbs and red wine to simmer, reduce and thicken into a sauce. They also washed their clothes, scrubbing and beating and pounding until nearly all the olive oil and tomato juice was rinsed out. And after four hours, by early afternoon, a few hours before Davido expected Nonno’s return and their clothes were dry, Davido took the cauldron off the fire and swung it onto the iron cooling rack.

  And it was done. The sauce was burgundy-red and flecked with herbs, glistening in olive oil, yet thick enough to nicely coat the piece of bread Mari dipped into it and then fed to Davido.

  Davido smiled with delight. They had done it! Mari was right: the red wine and long, slow cook time had stewed the acid out of the tomatoes, leaving the sauce robust and the slightest bit sweet. It tasted of the sun and earth, and was exactly the flavor his palate had been searching for. Hungry after so much cooking and lovemaking, the two ate a whole loaf of bread, torn into pieces and slathered with sauce, careful this time not to soil their clothing.

  Davido sat on an overturned bucket, digesting the bread, the sauce, the immensity of his feelings for Mari. Mari was up, moving about the barn, and caught Davido staring just as she grabbed an earthen clip-top jar off a shelf, the kind of jar she’d filled with olives on a thousand occasions. “Just one,” she said playfully to Davido as her empty hand reached for a ladle.

  Davido’s eyes widened. “With sauce?”

  Mari let her smile reply.

  “It seems not a decent thing to do.”

  “Well,” answered Mari, sinking the ladle into the sauce, “he is not a decent man.”

  Davido’s expression crinkled.

  “What’s the matter,” asked Mari mischievously, raising her left eyebrow—a gesture Davido had already come to adore—”have you not the nerve to feed the wicked the dish they most deserve?”

  Davido couldn’t help but smile. “And what will you tell him as to how you acquired it?”

  “I will play to his vanity,” Mari replied formally as she struck a pantomime of servitude. “Look, sir, what the Ebreo boy delivered to the mill in return for your kindness at the feast.” She held the jar forward and bowed her head. “A sauce made from the tomato.”

  Davido looked at Mari gravely. “He treats you that poorly?”

  Instantly, Mari’s countenance went heavy with sadness and her eyes welled with tears. She did not answer. She did not have to.

  “Then let him eat,” said Davido. “Serve the knave a bucketful!”

  Mari’s expression lifted with a smile.

  “Now,” said Davido, intentionally lightening his tone, “what of the rest? I fear this sauce will go to waste. Are there not a hundred more scoundrels to serve?”

  Again, Mari’s lips turned upward with mischief.

  “I was only joking,” Davido answered her look.

  “Why not?” Mari shrugged her shoulders as she glanced from the cauldron to the shelf that held a few dozen randomly sized jars. “Jar it up and bring it to tomorrow’s market. You are the hero of the feast; they will eat anything you serve.”

  “Serve the sauce?”

  Mari bit her lip. “Our little secret.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh.” Mari waved her hand nonchalantly as if to wipe the concern from Davido’s brow as she stepped in his direction. “If grapes are squished beneath feet, then why not tomatoes between bellies? Besides, all things are purified by fire and boiling.” Then she kissed him upon the lips. “What harm in our little secret? Is it not a greater shame to waste something so delicious? Truly, no one will ever know. Plus, we should do it for us. Your feast day heroics opened the villagers’ hearts and minds, now let your sauce sway their stomachs in kind. Believe me, should we be courageous—or foolish—enough to make this anything more than a heartbreaking tryst, we’ll need to throw our prayers, our passions and our sauce into the mix.”

  Nervous, Davido glanced upward and caught the angle of the sun gleaming through a slat in the wood. “’Tis time,” he said.

  “Hmm,” hummed Mari as she leaned in and kissed him on the lips. “Sadly so. Quick, let us don the monk robes and escort me to the outskirts of my orchard. Then return and ready yourself for tomorrow’s market.” Mari smiled. “And bring our tomato sauce.”

  Davido returned her smile tenfold. For her, how could he not?

  In which We Learn

  to Discern Between

  the Guilty & the Innocent

  “Avete scopato mia figlia in quella salsa di pomodori?” Everything stopped—all the talk, all the chattering, the bantering, the bartering, everything. Davido felt his heart stop too, and his entire body erupt with heat, as if his blood had just turned to lava. His mouth fell open in disbelief. He thought to speak, but the lava, the hot and molten fear, dried his mouth to a silent crisp. What a horrible twist of fate, was all he could think. Everything had been going so well. Villagers were actually approaching his stand and buying tomatoes, congratulating him on hi
s feast day victory. And the tomato sauce, well, already Nonno had twice replenished the small pieces of bread that surrounded the crock of tomato sauce set upon their stand for sampling.

  Though the sauce was a bit spicy for Nonno’s taste, the villagers’ reaction thrilled Davido and, begrudgingly, also pleased his grandfather. Piece after piece of bread was being dunked into the rich red sauce and scoffed down. Yes, there was some hesitancy at first, but the Good Padre was not afraid to try it and his reaction cleared the way for all to follow. And follow they did, with wonder and delight and moans of deliciousness and question upon question as to how the sauce was made and what best to use it for. No one had ever tasted anything like it, and by the time the Good Padre paid for his basketful of tomatoes and headed off to continue his shopping, a sizable group had gathered around the stand. Throughout all this activity Davido kept stealing glances down the market row, finding Mari’s eyes for an instant, flashing a smile, raising an eyebrow, doing all he could with his face to say I adore you, you’re beautiful, and, yes, you were right, it was good to have brought the sauce.

  But then, Giuseppe slammed the small clip-top jar that yesterday Mari had filled with sauce onto the stand and repeated, “Did you fuck my daughter in that tomato sauce?” and everything went suddenly bad.

  The silence was immediate and horrible. There was still chatter all about the market, but the area around the tomato stand was like a soundless island. Davido could hear his voice creaking and cracking, straining to say something.

  “I … I …”

  Finally Mucca, blessed Mucca, short and fat, bosomy and bawdy, interrupted the boy’s stutter. “Have you lost your mind, Giuseppe?”

  Giuseppe ignored Mucca. He glared at Davido, l’occhio diabolico, the dead-eye stare he’d learned from his uncle years ago. He’d been mentally rehearsing this look since last night and knew exactly how to play it; once the Good Padre cleared off he was ready to make his move. He felt he had no other choice but to take matters into his own hands. Yesterday, Benito had failed him entirely. He disappeared for the day, did not spy on Mari as ordered and even lost Giuseppe’s telescope. Goodness knows, if Giuseppe had not arrived home yesterday evening to find the half-empty clip-top jar and a bowl of pasta tossed in the red tomato sauce waiting for him, all his scheming thus far may have proved for naught. But the jar—the sauce—put all the pieces into place for Giuseppe to make his boldest play. Finally, Giuseppe spoke, repeating for a third time, “Avete scopato mia figlia in quella salsa di pomodori?”

  “Good God,” said Mucca, “what are you talking about?” “This,” said Giuseppe as he reached into his vest’s small breast pocket.

  The crowd leaned in.

  “What,” said Mucca, “your palm?”

  “No,” said Giuseppe, using his left thumb and index finger to lift the short and curly hair from his right palm and hold it up.

  The crowd leaned in closer.

  Giuseppe made certain to look haggard and aggrieved. He was known for dressing smartly and always keeping the lines of his beard well shaped and shaved, but on this morning his tunic was wrinkled and untucked, his vest unbuttoned, his hair was disheveled, his beard unkempt and his eyes especially dark and bloodshot—a drop of grappa in each one, an old Roman trick. Italians, Giuseppe recalled the words of his wickedly cunning uncle from many years ago, are always more apt to believe a grand lie, well told and well sold.

  Dear God, thought Nonno, as his own blood turned to lava.

  “What is it?” said Mucca.

  “Un pelo pubico,” said Giuseppe, “and it’s from his cazzone. And it was in that sauce. And it was in my mouth!”

  The crowd gasped. Augusto Po and several others looked in horror at the crusts of bread slathered in tomato sauce that they held in their hands. Several others stopped in mid-chew and spat the now semi-masticated blobs of sauce and bread from their mouths. Sweat began to bead upon Davido’s brow. He strained his vision to catch a glimpse of Mari, but the crowd around the stand was now packed tightly and he could not see a thing.

  “But you haven’t had any of this sauce here,” said Mucca. “I’ve been here the whole time.” “I had some last night.” Mucca’s eyebrows rose. “How?”

  Giuseppe pointed to the clip-top earthen jar that he’d just slammed upon the stand. He flipped the metal cinch, lifted the jar and poured the remaining half cup of tomato sauce onto the stand itself. “Mari had a jar. Claimed the boy dropped it by the mill.”

  “Is that so?” Mucca asked Davido.

  Davido gave a slight nod of agreement.

  “Why?” Mucca asked Davido.

  “To say … to say thanks.”

  “For what?” asked Mucca.

  “For being kindly at the feast,” answered Davido. Giuseppe glared at Davido. “How did you get to my mill?” “What?” answered Davido. “I don’t under—” “How did you get to my mill!” Giuseppe interrupted. “By horse, by wagon, by mule?”

  “By … by donkey,” stuttered Davido. “That’s what Mari said too.” Davido nodded.

  “But it’s not true!” Giuseppe snarled. “Last evening, I ate the sauce. I pulled this hair from my mouth. I thought for a moment. By donkey, my daughter said. I took a lantern. I went to my mill. I searched the tracks and dust leading to its entrance. I saw the tread of a wagon. The imprint of feet. The wide outline of a horse’s cleat. And though you and she claim it as excuse and proof, I looked everywhere, but found nothing approximating the slender shape of a donkey’s hoof.”

  Davido felt the eyes of the surrounding crowd narrow guiltily upon him. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. Though his mouth was bone dry, he swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

  “So I ask you,” Giuseppe actually lowered his voice, “how did my daughter get this jar of sauce?”

  “What’s going on here?” said a voice pushing through the crowd.

  All heads turned.

  Giuseppe’s head turned too. “Why don’t you tell me?” The crowd widened to make room for the stepdaughter to confront her stepfather.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Avete scopato questo ragazzo in questa salsa di pomodori?”

  Mari’s countenance lit up with fury. “How dare you say such a thing?”

  Oh, no, thought Nonno as he turned his eyes from Mari to Davido, his worst fear now proved true. How could you be so stupid? Nonno understood how to immediately discern the guilty from the innocent. It was a skill he had picked up years ago and one he sorely hoped Giuseppe had not acquired. As time and observation had taught him, the vast percentage of the time the guilty will immediately question the audacity of the accusation (How dare you say such a thing?) while the innocent will answer the accusation (I did no such thing!).

  “Then how did this get in my mouth?” Giuseppe held the telltale curly hair before Mari.

  Mari recoiled. “God only knows what goes in that mouth of yours.”

  Mucca and several in the crowd could not keep from chuckling.

  “It was in the sauce,” said Giuseppe. “The sauce you served me.”

  “And from that you make such an accusation?” “No,” answered Giuseppe, “from this.” Giuseppe reached into his vest’s opposite breast pocket and removed another hair. The crowd leaned in.

  “Oh, mio Dio, you’ve lost your mind,” said Mari.

  “Giuseppe, please,” said Mucca, “two hairs in one sauce should not cause such alarm. Surely they could be from a head or arm.”

  “They’re not the same hairs!” Giuseppe turned to face Davido. He sensed that it would be easier to break Mari if he went after the boy. He held up both hairs before Davido. “They’re not the same hairs. This one’s brown and curly, the other black and wavy. They match neither your head nor arms, yet they wound up in the gravy.”

  Nonno could not help but notice how nearly all the heads in the crowd turned to take note of Davido’s brown and curly hair and Mari’s black and wavy tresses.

  “Tell me,
boy, how did such different hairs end up in my mouth?” Giuseppe inquired menacingly. “From size and shape ’tis obvious from where they came, so if not your cazzone and her farfalla, then what else to blame?”

  Davido felt the glare of a hundred eyes. The lava coursed hotter through his veins. His hairs stood on end, his complexion crimsoned. He tried to speak. “I … I …”

  “Stop it!” shouted Mari. “Stop it!”

  “Ah, see how she protects you?” Giuseppe taunted Davido. “How a girl protects you?”

  “Giuseppe, please,” said Mucca.

  “Well, boy,” Giuseppe ignored Mucca, “you have hardly said a word. Prove your innocence, boy. Pluck me a hair from your cazzone.”