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 his 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