It appeared that once a Cavaliere was off his mount the prized wine inside his Jeroboame bottle was up for grabs. And before Luigi knew what was happening, a pair of youths were pouring wine directly from the enormous bottle into every nearby mouth, open or not.
“Uh-oh,” sighed nearly the entire crowd. Quickly, the youths lowered the bottle from Luigi’s mouth and all three returned their full attention to the track. The crowd could see what was about to happen. Nine Cavalieri rounded the final bend and trotted speedily (donkeys do not gallop) toward the wine table and straight toward the three Cavalieri whose donkeys had yet to move from the starting line area. The three were sitting ducks! But it was the actions of the stout troll that caught Luigi’s eye. What was his name? Luigi scanned his memory—the one who’d accompanied the truffle merchant that day. Ah, yes, Benito. He was the one who led the charge, with the most cunning and vicious efficiency. Rather than attack uomo a uomo, Benito encouraged one of the other riders, Cavaliere Sette, to attack first and then he attacked Cavaliere Sette just as Cavaliere Sette was about to dislodge sitting-duck Cavaliere Tre. That’s a lot of numbers, yes, but suffice it to say that with a most untender face grip, Benito made certain that both riders Seven and Three were rudely tossed from their donkeys. Maybe he’s not as dumb as I first thought, mused Luigi. And like that, the pack of thirteen was down to seven.
With four Cavalieri now dumped from their donkeys, another wild scramble ensued and Luigi found himself pushed and bumped until he was virtually on top of the old Ebreo. He had never been so close to an Ebreo before. Odd, thought Luigi, he doesn’t have horns or smell like a goat. “Like Purim,” Luigi overheard the old Ebreo say wryly amid the sea of noise as Nonno handed a full wine goblet to his grandson. Luigi didn’t know what the word meant, but it obviously had some meaning between them as it took the edge off the boy’s panic-ridden face. “Like Purim,” the boy answered as he grabbed the goblet and quickly drank down its contents.
“Blah!” went the Ebreo boy.
Luigi reared back, fearing an explosion of vomit when the boy pulled the drained goblet from his lips and threw his mouth wide open as if he’d just drunk a cup of fire. The old Ebreo grabbed the goblet from his grandson and brought it to his nose to smell; he winced and Luigi clearly saw the fine remnants of hot pepper flakes. Figlio di puttana! Luigi thought, someone spiked the boy’s wine bottle. The old Ebreo gritted his teeth and leaned in toward his grandson. “Not a peep,” Luigi heard the old Ebreo say with a look that carried far more meaning than any three words might. A look that even inspired Luigi to stand up a little straighter and stiffen his resolve. To applause and shouts the Cavalieri finished off their goblets and headed back onto the track. Even the old Ebreo smacked the donkey on the ass and gave it a push. “Ride hard, Meducci,” Luigi swore he heard the old man say, though he doubted it immediately.
Again, Luigi felt a jostling on his left side as four Jeroboame wine bottles were lifted from the Nobiluomi‘s table and held up to the crowd. Pairs of men held the bottles shoulder-high and began to sift their way through the sea of bodies, pausing to pour the prized wine directly into the mouths of a hundred villagers. Delicious, thought Luigi, as he set a hand upon the neck of the bottle, steadied his lips to the smooth glass and did for a third time what an hour ago would have struck him as utterly appalling: share his lips upon the same bottle as a hundred foul-breathed rhymers. Such is the way of feasts, when it is so often the tightest wrapped who come the most undone. And as the laps mounted and the Cavalieri fell one by one, Luigi pressed his lips to every bottle lifted from the Nobiluomi table, no matter whose lips preceded his and, gratefully, greedily drank down the succulent juice.
This was different wine, he thought—the best he’d ever tasted. It warmed his joints and made his body feel so wonderfully fluid that the swaying of the crowd gave him the sensation of being an infant, secured with a soft shawl between