his and her farm-strong and olive-oil-soft fingers interlace with his. The touch was enough—more than enough—to initiate Davido’s transformation from sobbing to laughter. He was not alone, for as surely as something had died, something else had been born. And just as his sobbing had been a descent that pulled all around him downward, his laughter was an ascent of even greater power. Davido began to laugh, because it’s the comedy of life that tends to hit second and softest, and, God willing, stay with us the longest. He laughed because he could now see all that was ironic and sublime about Nonno’s death. The old man had died upon a bed of Love Apples, after all, with a nimbus of crushed tomatoes around his head and a gathering of Cattolici to mourn him. He’d died with his hand upon his heart and a grin upon his face. Died knowing that his granddaughter’s paramour was a just and decent man, and that his grandson had found a love that was good and true. Died in nearly the exact way and in the exact spot that his favorite donkey had died just a few days earlier, and what could be more hilarious than that?
Mari felt Davido’s fingers tighten around hers and she too began to laugh, because, just as there was a tragedy to sob over, there was also a comedy in which to rejoice. Giuseppe had been vanquished, the olive mill returned to her and her love for Davido sanctified by the Duke of Tuscany himself. All in the piazza began to laugh. At first they laughed for Davido, because he was a comical sight, bloody and beaten, yet wise enough to recognize that his grandfather’s passing was an exquisitely ridiculous death that had to be laughed over. And the laughing grew, because Mari laughed, and this was something every villager could celebrate. Her father’s murder had been avenged and not with daggers and blood, but with cheese and eggs and onions and tomatoes—strange, new, glorious and delicious tomatoes.
They laughed because the Good Padre laughed, and because the morning had carried with it such an array of emotions that their minds and hearts and souls needed the release of laughter. They laughed in joy for Davido and Mari’s triumph. They laughed because Bobo was a woman and now everything about him—her—made sense, and because Benito had been naked upon a donkey, yet chivalrous as a knight upon a stallion and seemingly adored by Bobo. And what could be more worthy of laughter than that? They laughed because it really was the Duke of Tuscany living in their midst and Giuseppe had shot him in the ass with an arrow! 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—to laugh or lose one’s mind. They laughed for the mere and holy and cathartic sake of laughing itself. And they laughed because those things that all decent people adore—love, justice, olives, tomatoes and a happy ending—had won the day, and these were things worth laughing over.
Acknowledgments
If my gratitude is to begin anywhere, it should start with the Tuscan hills of Matraia, outside the city of Lucca, where in 1995 I was working the grape and olive harvest of a charmingly chaotic, little-known family vineyard. My de facto chaperone, a roguish, sex-crazed, failed Italian race-car driver, and I were headed to the farmhouse for lunch, when he plucked a ripe tomato from the vineyard’s garden and introduced me to the heirloom variety of a fruit I thought, up until that point, I knew well. Alas, from a Tuscan tomato to a loving Noodle, many have helped me over the course of writing Tomato Rhapsody; none more so than my wife, whose ragu of unwavering belief and keen perception kept me well fortified over the years of effort. Heartfelt thanks as well to my dear friends and mentors, Leonard Chang, a constant source of support and insight, and David Carlson, whose vast knowledge, general impatience and easy annoyance only made the novel better. I offer a huge nod of appreciation to my literary fairy godmother, Laurie Fox, whose wit, wisdom and passion bless every page of this book, and to Linda Chester of the Linda Chester Literary Agency. I am also greatly indebted to the following people: Nita Taublib and Kate Miciak for their extraordinary belief and encouragement; Randall Klein, my exquisitely talented and irrepressibly enthusiastic editor; my mother-in-law and the ten thousand rosaries she said on the novel’s behalf; my friends Saundra Benassini and Milo Clow for their editorial input; Marina Mann, my resource for Italian curses; Tom Dieterle for a job well done; Char Sol and JK for making the introductions; the Friday ride crew, whose grueling rides and dulcet vulgarity do much to replenish my spirits; Guru Singh and Dr. Michael Beckwith, whose spiritual teachings laid the foundation upon which the character of the Good Padre was largely built; and finally to my mother, father and brother (Lynne, Michael & Angela too), who always loved a good story and passed that love on to me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ADAM SCHELL holds a master’s degree in creative writing from Antioch University. He played inside linebacker at Northwestern University, has made two award-winning short films, worked as a screenwriter, directed commercials, cooked professionally, picked grapes and olives in Tuscany, got fired as a food critic, then moved to the left coast with his wife, where he works as a yoga teacher and writes.
a cognizant original v5 release october 14 2010
TOMATO RHAPSODY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,