the buildings surrounding the piazza and the vision before Giuseppe’s telescope grew crisp at precisely the instant the singing began. Oh, no, thought Giuseppe, not that stupid ballad. On Monday mornings he made it a point to arise early and flee to the countryside or at least to hide his head beneath several pillows to avoid the turgid tune. For him the song was a facile, pompous, bloated Neapolitan trifle, sung by a chorus of swollen-tongued, tone-deaf mongrels. Worst of all, it was an ugly reminder of a day he’d sooner forget.

But not even the annoying echo of “Oi Mari” could undo all that pleased Giuseppe this morning. Benito was on time, appearing more or less sober, and he had remembered the all-important satchel. Satisfied, Giuseppe continued to move his vision about the readying piazza. He made a mental note about whom of the thirty or so merchants could be easily riled should the day go accordingly. According to what, Giuseppe was not yet entirely certain. However, should the Ebrei actually be so foolish as to arrive at market with their forbidden fruits, Giuseppe had decided to improvise a little introduction. To this end, he had made certain after last evening’s mass to stop by the tavern and enlist the servile brawn of Benito and the feral, provocative wit of Bobo the Fool. It was a motley duo to rely upon—one churlish, vulgar, slovenly, drunkenly and resoundingly stupid, yet entirely controllable and loyal; the other, churlish, vulgar, slovenly, drunkenly and supremely intelligent, yet entirely uncontrollable and beyond any semblance of loyalty to anything but the promise of a few coins and goblets of wine, and even then one could never be certain with Bobo. But such were the pawns with which Giuseppe had to play.

Giuseppe scanned the piazza to see if he could locate the fool, when, by the law of ill attraction, his telescopic gaze happened upon the Cheese Maker. Now, there was a person Giuseppe certainly couldn’t count on. A pathetic being in that uniquely Italian capacity, who both looked and acted like a winged little Cupid perched on a cloud, all roly-poly, dizzy-eyed and soft-hearted. Giuseppe jerked his vision elsewhere to avoid witnessing the Cheese Maker bellowing “Oi Mari” when the real thing suddenly rolled her wagon before his eye. There she was. The little vacca herself, looking as nonchalant as ever and in her casual beauty reminding Giuseppe of his own shortcomings and past failures. Oh, how much Mari looked like her mother when she was around that age, the age at which Giuseppe sought after her and was in turn rejected. Oh, how much Mari looked like her father too when he was around that age, the age at which Giuseppe lost the Race of the Drunken Saint to him, and the hand of the woman he had so desired.

Mari’s image was noxious to Giuseppe, a lowly, self-loathing, addictive narcotic. Truth was, he had more than enough money to pony up a dowry and marry her off, and at nineteen she was well of marrying age. But the thought of marrying her to some local peasant or having her marry and move away was as anathema to him as selling off his own kidney. He needed Mari. She was the kindling that fed the fire and indignation that drove him, and he secretly desired to do to her what her father and mother had done to him: ruin his life. He followed her past several vendors to their slot in the market row, where Benito awaited her. Giuseppe couldn’t help but gloat as he witnessed all the melody in Mari’s countenance fall flat as she laid eyes upon the pig. Now, Giuseppe pondered, with twenty-some years of retribution gurgling in his psyche, what part shall she play in this plot?

In Which We Learn

of Carciofi alla Judea &

Il Fodero di Moses

By Nonno’s standards, the village market was nothing compared to the giant markets of Florence, Venice and Rome, which stretched for hundreds of stalls and were crowded with people, produce and goods from all parts of the world. In Venice alone you had more fishmongers than this market had vendors, but despite its relative paucity, Nonno could not help but think that the market, piazza and surrounding village were not without a modicum of charm. In the Etruscan tradition, streets were narrow and had a slight bend to them before flowing into the piazza. The piazza itself was small, Nonno estimated sixty paces in diameter. The