for how much he hated his task. Signore Coglione sobbed for his long-lost testicle and the fact that he loved men more than women and that his whole life felt like a lie. Even Augusto Po sobbed, suddenly mourning his recently deceased uncle, the old padre, who despite being nasty and cold-hearted was the only family he’d had. Only Giuseppe didn’t cry, his heart alone among the villagers too calcified to crack.

The assembled crowd sobbed for mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and brothers and sisters and spouses and friends and lovers and courtesans and horses and mules and goats and sheep and donkeys and cows and cats and dogs and dreams and desires that had died in flesh or spirit. They sobbed for things said and unsaid and for love and efforts unrequited. They sobbed because life is nothing if not a constant reconciliation with death and sadness and loss that leaves one no choice but to sob—sob or lose one’s mind. They sobbed because in sobbing even the vile and villainous, the most closed-hearted and closed-minded may come, even for an instant, to find their humanity. They sobbed for the holy and cathartic sake of sobbing itself. Even the children sobbed, and not just because their parents were doing so, but because even children can sense that life can be cruel and unfair and an ordeal entirely worth sobbing over.

And then, after who knows how long, the sobbing began to miraculously transform into laughter. It began subtly, with a chuckle, perhaps from Davido or Nonno—a chuckle tucked between sighs and moans, but a chuckle nonetheless. And the chuckle spread like a contagion that brought with it the realization that while life was indeed cruel and sad and burdened with anguish, it was also absurd and joyous and a thing worth laughing over—a thing that must be laughed over!

At first people chuckled because the Good Padre chuckled and because they remembered what began all the sobbing. A donkey had died, yes, and that was sad, but it was also absurd. With a hee and haw and a huge cazzone dangling ‘tween its thighs, a donkey had died, which proved to one and all that God was not without humor. A donkey named after the Duke of Tuscany had died, which allowed the lowly to mock the mighty (this was what made Cosimo laugh most), and showed to all that Ebrei too are not without humor.

And the chuckle grew to a laugh. The gathering of festival-goers laughed at first for reasons outside themselves, but rather quickly the laughing opened in each and every one that wellspring of laughter that all humans share; for who has not a pain that craves the balm of laughter? And the laughter spread into something that could not be controlled: a plague of laughter. They laughed for mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and brothers and sisters and husbands and wives and friends and lovers and courtesans and animals and dreams and desires that had died in flesh or in spirit. They laughed for things said and for things unsaid, and for loves and efforts unrequited. They laughed because life is nothing if not a constant reconciliation with death and sadness and loss that leaves one no choice but to laugh or to lose one’s mind. Even the children began to laugh and not solely on account of their parents’ laughter, but because even children know that life is cruel and unfair and an ordeal worth laughing over. Adult and child alike laughed because in laughter even the vile and villainous, the most closed-hearted and closed-minded may come, even for an instant, to find their humanity. They laughed for the holy and cathartic sake of laughter itself. They laughed because life is something that cannot be endured without laughter.

The villagers laughed as Giuseppe finally managed to lay the victor’s wreath upon Davido’s head, because what could be funnier and more ironic than an Ebreo winning the Race of the Drunken Saint and being declared Il Santo del Giorno? They laughed as Davido made his blessing over the crowd and asked the Drunken Saint to bless the year’s harvest. They laughed as Davido made his request of the people that they should all eat a tomato. And then they laughed as they bit and chewed, as tomato juices dripped from their lips. They laughed as they swallowed and laughed at their fears, that a thing construed so evil would prove to be so delicious.

They