The older guard held Davido’s hands tight to the purse, letting him know that a rejection of his generosity was not an option. He turned then to his junior guard and with a glance communicated what a thousand words could not.
A grimace crossed the younger guard’s face as he reconciled himself to the inevitable. He reached into his frock and removed his coin bag. “Here,” he said, handing the purse over to Davido, “for the worthy deeds you and your kind do.”
Doing his best to appear more humble than amazed, Davido took the purses, bowed his head, then rose to his feet.
“Godspeed to you, young friar,” said the older guard, and then he touched his heart. “You have given me my patron saint: Saint Rachel.”
“And Godspeed to you both.” Davido made the sign of the cross as the pair of Meducci guards spurred their horses and rode off.
Davido took a deep breath and as he exhaled he found himself chuckling: a chuckle of disbelief. He thought to himself proudly, I’m finally getting some interesting stories of my own! And like that, the stress of the last week lifted from his shoulders. It had, indeed, been a difficult week. The usual banter and laughter that characterized his relationship with Nonno was absent; in fact, the pair had spoken very little beyond discussing the practicalities of the farm. There was much on both their minds, and for most of the week Davido had been anxiously rehearsing the great battle of ideas he was expecting to have with his grandfather—Nonno advocating the importance of keeping the wedding date; Davido, the necessity of going to the Festa and honoring their neighbors. But to Davido’s surprise, the battle never transpired. On Friday evening, after a few days of less than happy contemplation, Nonno simply informed Davido that on Sunday he would be leaving for Florence to postpone the wedding. “What’s done is done,” Nonno said to his grandson. “You’ve made certain of that. It would be foolish to give the natives an excuse to hate us. There is more to lose in offending them, than our own.”
Davido knew instantly what Nonno meant. He had heard the stories on a number of occasions: how Colombo’s ignorance and arrogance so often left behind a pile of bodies. Nonno then told Davido to prepare two wagons, four donkeys and four sets of monks’ outfits for a Sunday sunrise departure. Upon one wagon, Davido and Uncle Culone were to travel south to Pitigliano to deliver to the community a wagonful of pomodori and other fruits and vegetables, and to inform Rabbi Lumaca, a longtime friend to Nonno and to whom Nonno was greatly indebted, that the wedding was postponed until “a later date.” Nonno also handed Davido a sealed letter that he was to deliver to Rabbi Lumaca. Upon the other wagon, Nonno and Uncle Uccello would be setting off for a few days in Florence to do what needed be done there.
“A later date?” Davido had questioned with a combination of relief and apprehension.
“Yes,” said Nonno with a touch of exasperation.
“When?”
“The autumn and winter are far too wet and miserable for an old man to be traveling back and forth to Florence,” said Nonno. “We will see what comes with the spring when we go to Florence for Purim.”
“The spring?” repeated Davido. “But what of the pomodori? Seeds need to be germinated, soil tilled and amended, seedlings planted.”
“Believe it or not,” said Nonno, “there is more to life than your tomatoes.”
Maybe so, Davido conceded as he now conducted his donkey-drawn wagon along the road, but what am I to tell my heart? What am I to tell my head, which, since the sight of those glorious feet, those beautiful ankles, that wonderful scar upon her left knee, has thought of little else but Mari? Would Nonno ever understand such a thing? Safety, preservation and love of family and people—this was what mattered most to Nonno. How could I ever explain to him, thought Davido, that I cannot fathom marrying without love and I cannot fathom marrying anyone but—
In the distance, the homeward sight of the Apuan Alps came into focus and interrupted what was left of Davido’s thought. Truthfully, it was such a dangerous thought that he was scared to even think it and grateful to use the mountains as a distraction. Davido loved the sight of those mountains— how the whitish marble of their peaks always made them appear snowcapped—and he estimated that he was little more