nephew, Bertolli, and the other altar boys to sing. But these were superficial topics that merely masked the gnawing, voracious desire everyone felt to speak about the one thing that, when attempted to be spoken of, disappeared into the ether and, for reasons they could not comprehend, left them disoriented, tongue-tied and staring at one another in awkward silence.
Hence, word of the decree and the Good Padre’s shocking invitation did not spread with the fervor that one might usually associate with big news in a small town. It was uncharacteristically not blabbered about by Mucca or conspiratorially whispered by Augusto Po. No, much like the Good Padre’s presence itself, the idea that foreign Ebrei and their illicit fruit would be appearing in town seemed incomprehensible. And though the temptation to be the bearer of foreboding news was as pressing as ever to Mucca and Po and many others, the uncertainty and embarrassment of speaking about the Good Padre was enough to quell the urge.
Work seemed to be the beleaguered villagers’ only recourse. And so they took to their morning tasks with a special fastidiousness. Vincenzo fussed excessively over how thin he could slice the prosciutto, sharpening his knife again and again and cursing with dissatisfaction. Signore Coglione overscrutinized each onion and head of radicchio he placed in his basket. Augusto Po made certain to remind each and every one of his tenants exactly how overdue on rent they were. Mucca haggled over prices with people she had known too long and too well to expect any kind of discount. And the Cheese Maker set and then reset and then set once again his freshest and ripest Gorgonzola, each time thinking he’d found the perfect angle to display his favorite cheese. Yes, all the villagers pretended as best they could to be consumed by their tasks and dared not utter a word to one another about the new arrivals. The only thing Mucca, the Cheese Maker, Vincenzo, Augusto Po, Signore Coglione and just about every other villager could do was peek, stealing glances at the Ebrei with all the trepidation of a hedgehog peering up from its hole to see if it’s safe to come out.
But not Mari. She stared like an owl at midnight: brown eyes wide open, transfixed by the move and bob of the boy’s chestnut curls and the red fruits piling up there down the market row.
8 Precedent for the modern condom, the Sheath of Moses was a prophylactic made of bound sheep intestine, preserved and lubricated in olive oil. After being pulled over the erect penis, the Sheath of Moses was held in place by fastening the intestines’ open end in a figure-eight-like pattern around the testicles and base of the penis, and then tucking the remaining end into the anus. Its creation is credited to Moses Goldone, a 15th-century Roman Ebreo who owned a kosher butchery and sausage shop.
In which We Learn
How to Properly Care
for chamomile
The eggplant dish the Good Padre had thought up in the morning, with its crunchy herb and pine nut crust, rich and smoky innards and mint-basil-sage pesto looked and smelled delicious. The bread too, garlicky, crisp and sprinkled with coarse salt, appealed to eye and appetite. Yet despite great hunger and pride in their efforts, Bertolli and the other altar boys could not bring themselves to set their plates with food. Their bellies were full with fear, as there, inches before their noses, glistening in olive oil, specked with mint and chunked with cheese, sat a bowl of Love Apples.
Bertolli and the boys loved their new ritual of cooking and eating with the Good Padre after Sunday evening mass, but the idea that their Good Padre was soon to be killed terrified them. The old padre had told them more than once and most fervently that within an instant of a Pomo di Amore touching the tongue, death was imminent. So Bertolli and the boys waited, guts gripped, for the painful writhing and devilish seizures to begin. But as the Good Padre chewed, he moaned not in pain or panic, but in delight. It was a sound that Bertolli and the boys knew well, a sound they often made when eating the Good Padre’s food, and as the Good Padre reached for the tomato salad and ladled another helping on his plate, another horrible thought flooded Bertolli’s mind— what if I’m missing out and there might not be any left to eat? This was an overwhelming notion to Bertolli and