the prophet Balaam to be more patient and respectful.” Nonno turned to Davido. They could hear the sound of music and revelry and see the village entrance. “Pay special attention to this next part, it’s important that children understand.”

Davido nodded, though both he and Nonno knew he was not really listening.

“To the Children of Israel,” Nonno continued anyhow as they passed through the village’s large open gate, “the donkey has always been revered. From the moment the Romans expunged us from our homeland, the donkey has been the only pack animal available for us. Even as the centuries passed and our people settled in the villages and cities of Europe, we’ve maintained our connection to the donkey. During the holiday of Purim—that joyous celebration that recalls the biblical story of Esther—Ebreo communities the world over hold donkey races and donkey pageants so that every Ebreo child is raised to value and adore the donkey. For if ever there was a beast akin to our people, with its sagacity and knack for survival, it’s the don—”

And then the sounds of revelry and the pounding of their hearts grew too loud, so that Nonno could hardly hear himself think, nor Davido hear his grandfather speak. But it was all true, everything Nonno had said about the donkey, especially the part about Purim. So much so that when Nonno and Davido rolled their wagon into the piazza, pulled by their own beloved donkey, and saw the assemblage of festooned donkeys and costumed riders parading about the piazza, there was a wonderfully familiar quality to the scene.

“Like Purim,” Nonno leaned over, close to his grandson’s ear, and then added dryly, “if Haman 16 had won.”

“Ay,” said Davido, as he too saw the connection. Like Purim, he meant to answer, but just then he made the other connection—the one his eyes and heart sought. His vision found her, there amid the crowd, filling a goblet from a wine barrel. And it was like Purim; only, Queen Esther could not have been half as beautiful.

Mari too looked up, and found Davido’s eyes; and from her eyes to her heart to her lips, she could not help but smile. She had not seen him since their kiss of last week. He was so lovely, she had been longing to see him, even scheming to see him. And if, as she’d prayed every night, he did come to the feast, she had a plan at the ready. Beginning with the wine: Mari had not watered it down as Giuseppe had commanded. Instead, she poured it full-strength and had brought two more barrels than Giuseppe had ordered. She’d tapped the barrels earlier than in years past, then filled goblets and bottles by the dozen so that, even now, she could see the elated effects of strong wine upon the spirits of the crowd. She would get them drunk, every man and woman of the village. So drunk that their eyes would go bleary and their memories faulty. Thus, if by chance any reveler may happen to see Mari and the Ebreo boy sneak down an alley to share a kiss, surely they’d dismiss such a sight as the play of too much wine upon the mind.

“Like Purim,” Nonno repeated.

“Oh, yes,” Davido agreed, as he pried his eyes from the girl, “like Purim.” To Davido, the whole scene really was like the Carnevale di Purim back in the ghetto Florence, the way he remembered it from his childhood—the food, wine and minstrels; the men dressed in their ridiculous costumes and mounted upon adorned donkeys. Even the antics of the spindly fool, babbling about something or other and riling the crowd, reminded him of the way the villainous Haman was portrayed and mocked at the Purim festival in Florence. But then the fool’s eye caught sight of the “guests” rolling into the piazza and he moved his tongue in their direction. And suddenly, for Davido, it didn’t seem like Purim at all.

16 Villain of the biblical Book of Esther who attempted to destroy the Ebrei of Ancient Persia.

In Which We Come

to Better Understand the

Symbology of the Drunken Saint Statue

Heads and eyes turned. The strumming and drumming of the minstrels petered out. The crowd went quiet with disbelief. They had come. There, before the villagers, escorted by the Good Padre and Bertolli, as many had feared but prayed would not be so, were the Ebrei and their wagon full of forbidden fruit.

“Welcome! Welcome, at last,” Bobo repeated as he gestured to the