Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,16
that Davido craved. Her skin was fair and her demeanor meek. Her wrists and ankles were so thin that Davido imagined they would snap beneath the toil of working a shovel into the soil. And as the moments of their visit dripped by, her continual glances at Davido’s hands—which, despite much scrubbing, still held remnants of the farm under his fingernails—made clear her fear of country life. She would never make it on the farm, and though she and Davido shared few words with each other, they both seemed to know it. Likewise, Davido would never make it in Florence. Florence was death to him, the death of his mother, father and sister. If he had to leave the farm to marry and live in Florence for a year, he would die as well.
Abruptly, Davido sat up from his troubling siesta, causing the tomatoes that had been covering his eyes to roll down his torso and bounce off the heads and limbs of several slumbering children. He needed to forget about Florence and skinny ankles. He needed to practice his rhyme. He needed to come up with a proper tomato sauce!
“Wake up, wake up,” urged Davido as he began to shake, jostle and tickle bellies. “Wake up and listen to me, children.” Davido reached across the row and plucked a ripe tomato from its vine. “’Tis time you learn the history of our fruits, ‘cause in it lies our roots.”
The half-dozen children awoke with a giggle. They had heard this story several times over the last year, but no one seemed to tell it like their zio Davido. “Now heed well, children, this story here, of why we hold this fruit most dear.” Davido held the tomato in his hand before the children and lowered his voice as if revealing a secret. “A thousand years past by Imperial Rome’s hand, we were scattered from the Holy Land. Thrown to the desert to find our own way, and a new land where the Ebreo could stay. And after centuries of hardship and pain, our ancestors arrived in Spain. Toledo is where our family history did first grow, with the Golden Age of the Spanish Ebreo. A time in which our people reached their finest hour, and our Nonno sat among the halls of power. Don Judah el Hebreo was then our Nonno’s name, and he was chief accountant for King Ferdinand, Queen Isabella and all of Spain. But after years of service at the king and queen’s side, there arose a hateful tide. This awful spell was called the Inquisition, and it put all Spain’s Ebrei in a horrible position.”
Davido squeezed hard and burst the tomato in his hand, sending juice and seeds squirting. The children shrieked and giggled. Davido leaned in. “But the king and queen did not want Nonno to go, for no one counted the bean better than their Ebreo. However, in that year ending in nine and two, something else was a-brew. A man named Colombo was about to set sail upon a voyage thought destined to fail. You see, Colombo believed the world was round, and to the west new lands to be found.” The children’s heads turned quickly as Davido pointed his finger in the direction they all mistook for west. “So, to save our Nonno from the Inquisition, Ferdinand and Isabella appointed him chief accountant of Colombo’s expedition.
“The ship set sail and after thirty-three days reached the new shore, where Colombo and his men went forth to explore. They went in search of gold and treasure, leaving Nonno behind, as their greed would bear no measure. But alas, Colombo was sorely mistook, for our Nonno did more than keep the book. Resilient, adventurous and contemplative, Nonno used the years to study the land and befriend the native. He learned of their speech and custom and dance, and then one fateful night, as if by chance, the natives shared their sacred fruit, the very one that here takes root. When Nonno departed this mysterious place, the natives, in an act of friendship and grace, gave him a sack of tomato seeds most fine, so one day he may start his own vine.
“Now, Colombo, an Italian, spoke fondly of his home, and the fertile lands ‘tween Milan and Rome. So with survival and the tomato on his mind, Nonno decided this region he would find. And off the coast of Genoa Nonno bid a secret adieu, to Colombo and his loathsome crew. And as Colombo described,