swaying of the crowd parted and Davido found his eyes locked upon those of Mari. The sight stiffened Davido’s resolve and he remembered precisely his motivation for why he’d come to the feast. For such eyes, such a look, were worthy of risking life and limb for.

In the midst of the silence, Bertolli, dressed in his finest altar boy cassock, made the ceremonial walk past the line of Cavalieri and up to the Good Padre. He carried a pillow upon which sat a wreath made of olive and grape vines and leaves and an ornate aspergillum filled with holy water. The Good Padre lifted the wreath from the pillow, held it high for the entire crowd to see and then, with a great ovation from the crowd, turned and set the wreath upon the Drunken Saint’s bald head. Next, the Good Padre lifted the aspergillum from the pillow, spoke a few words in Latin, and then sprinkled the first Cavaliere and his donkey with holy water.

Davido had never been sprinkled with holy water and looked anxiously to Nonno as the Good Padre made his way down the line of Cavalieri. Nonno returned his grandson’s gaze with a slight shrug and lift to his eyebrows that seemed to say: when in Rome … Davido felt the cool water sprinkle upon his face. A drop ran down his cheek, perched on his lip and sent a ripple of conflict through his psyche. The confusion, though, was short-lived, as quickly Davido sucked the holy water into his mouth, figuring he could use all the luck he could get today.

The Good Padre raised his arms again and the crowd fell silent. Standing before the wine table, he commanded: “Nobiluomi del Vino, reveal the sacred juice.” Swiftly, the men who manned the wine table set their corkscrews to bottles and Davido saw that even Nonno fell in line as corks were pulled. With the wine bottles open, the Good Padre again addressed the table and said, “Squires of the Wine, pour forth the first goblet.” In near-unison the Nobiluomi tilted the great bottles and filled the goblets before them. Davido noticed that Nonno did not spill as much as some of the other men.

Now the Good Padre turned his attention to the riders on the track. Slowly he stepped to the side, out of the direct line of the racers’ path. The men holding either side of the starting rope across the track pulled it especially taut. Davido felt the muscles of his donkey twitch with urgency. With his free left hand, he gave a gentle, reassuring pat upon the coarse hair of his donkey’s neck. The beast bristled defiantly, as if he knew that it was not he who needed the reassurance. This was just one of the ways that Davido found the donkey to be a lot like Nonno: still full of piss and vinegar and with no tolerance for placation.

The donkey Davido sat upon was the obstinate old male first introduced in the opening page of this story—the one most favored by Nonno: Signore Meducci. Named thusly because he appeared to have been left by the Meducci winemakers years earlier, the creature roamed about the farm with an air of entitlement that was nothing short of regal. The old donkey listened to and seemed to respect no one but Nonno. He pretended to be deaf when called, but always seemed to hear well the hoof-steps of his favorite female.

Despite his somewhat haughty and cantankerous demeanor, Signore Meducci was old and slow and thought to be blind in one eye. Worse still, the old beast had begun to lose control of the muscles that keep a donkey’s penis drawn up tight to the belly, so that when he walked, his prodigious cazzone would often waddle and knock between his bony thighs. However, on occasion, he could still muster some spirit. Nonetheless, it had not been Davido’s idea to harness him to the wagon this morning, but Nonno deemed Signore Meducci something of a talisman. The conversation about Nonno’s choice of donkey had gone like this:

“Buono,” said Nonno as he and his grandson regarded the swayback, penis-dangling, sorry sight of old Signore Meducci begrudgingly harnessed to a wagon full of tomatoes.

“Good?” repeated Davido incredulously.

“Indeed,” answered Nonno, “’Tis always best to appear humble before gentiles.”

Merda di toro, Davido thought. He knew his grandfather too well to take a half truth for whole—better to have a senile old donkey dangle his fat cazzone before a village