Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,124

not good, that his life was in grave danger. Davido trained his eyes back on Giuseppe. He opened his mouth to speak, but the pressure of the arrow tip against his throat stole his voice. Davido knew not what to make of the pair of brown eyes behind the crossbow. They seemed to express emotions other than hate. Davido prayed that his eyes could do all the things his voice couldn’t—declare his love for Mari, claim that she was blameless. Please God, he thought, do not let me die naked and helpless, slaughtered through the neck like a sheep.

And the prayer was answered, or so Davido believed. Slowly, the fierce pressure of the arrow against Davido’s throat relented. Odd, thought Davido, noticing the tense pursing of Giuseppe’s lips give way to something like a smirk. He looked pleased, genuinely pleased. And then, in a blur, the arrow end of the crossbow spun away from Davido’s throat and the blunt, solid-wood handle came crashing into the side of his head. Davido thought he heard Mari cry, thought he felt something like pain, and then everything went black.

“Oy,” groaned Nonno, pushing open the door to Davido’s room to find the bed empty and unslept in. Please God, thought Nonno, may I find him sleeping among the tomato plants. Nonno made a quick pass through their small home. Clearly, Davido was not in the house. Nonno slipped on his boots and jacket. It was early morning, the air was chilly and the ground was still wet with dew. He stepped outside toward the bushy green rows and their red fruits. As he feared, there was no sign of Davido sleeping, walking or working among his beloved tomato plants. Could he be so foolish? Nonno sighed his morning’s second “Oy” and then quickly walked the twenty paces to the barn, only to find that it too was empty.

Since the death of the donkey Signore Meducci, they had but three donkeys left, only one of which was still tethered to the far side of the barn. Could he be so foolish? Yesterday’s donkey was still attached to the wagon and the wagon-bed was still full of tomatoes. He and Davido hadn’t even thought of detaching the donkey or unloading the wagon when they limped home from yesterday’s debacle.

Nonno placed his foot upon the side step and readied himself to mount the wagon when he suddenly thought better of it. He hurried back into the barn, pushed aside a pile of hay in the corner and used an iron crowbar to remove a pair of floorboards. Reaching down into the hollow, he lifted out a burlap sack. From the sack he removed a white and seemingly weighty quilted vest specially designed for holding sums of money in an inconspicuous fashion. Nonno jiggled the vest and quickly judged by its weight that it held enough coin. He removed his jacket and tunic, brushed a little dirt from the vest, laced his bare arms through the money vest and secured its buckles against his chest and upper belly. Who knows, he thought, what kind of trouble I may need to bribe Davido out of today?

Sobbing & laughing, Part II

It was Thursday, not one of the main market days of Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but still a dozen merchants and food vendors filled the piazza. There was some produce to be found, but the emphasis was clearly on breakfast, and nearly all of the hundred or so villagers milling about the piazza were there to fill their mugs with hot tea or scoff down hard-boiled eggs with olive oil and salt for dipping, or, perhaps, the most popular and traditional breakfast in the village, yesterday’s bread sliced thick, spread with honey and laid with cheese.

The mood about the piazza was unnaturally pensive. On just about any other day, there was an unspoken agreement to engage in as much conversation and folly as possible before heading off for the drudgery of work in the fields, mills, trade shops and stores; but with nearly half the piazza momentarily heading off to work at Giuseppe’s vineyard and mill, the idea of conversation carried an ironic burden that could not be lifted. Hence, most in the piazza looked to their feet or overly fretted about the hotness of the tea or staleness of the bread, anything to avoid talking about the very thing that weighed most upon their hearts and minds. How could Mari have done such a thing? Why in the world