Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,26

was lost on the Good Padre. He turned and saw the entirety of the old man’s gesture, dangling and jangling from skinny thigh to thigh, and thought not of the genital distinction between Ebreo and Cattolico and all that it had come to signify, but rather of overripe figs, still clinging to their branch in late October and swaying in the breeze.

The old man closed his robe at twenty paces, just as the Good Padre rose up from kneeling beside the tomato plant. “Greetings, neighbors,” the Good Padre called to the approaching pair.

Nonno, whose mind was sharper than his vision, looked up from the tying of his robe and promptly felt the faculties of his brain grow cloudy. The man before him was physically enormous, a near water buffalo sheathed in a humble mendicant’s frock. Nonno felt an impulse, a vague notion scurrying about his mind that somehow evaded full comprehension. He had difficulty locating a reply and after a dumbfounded moment he heard himself say, “And greetings to you, my friend.”

Davido remained a step behind his grandfather. The late afternoon sun lay at a perfect angle, cutting long shadows and painting the land in golden light—the kind of light that makes old sights appear new and new sights appear magical in their amber clarity. The kind of light that’s easy on the eyes and beckoned Davido to stare longer and harder than he normally would. Davido had seen people of all shapes and colors over the course of his life in Florence and during his many visits to Venice. He had seen Moorish slave traders the color of sand, and Indian spice dealers the color of red earth. He had seen old Greek sailors lashed and baked by a lifetime of wind and sun to the texture and hue of dried apricots. He had seen English society women the porcelain shade of pure cream just wrung from a cow, glistening bluish-white. He had seen slaves from the Dark Continent the color of roasted carob beans brewed to liquid, some with a touch of milk, some without. He had seen turban-wearing silk merchants from the East with skin the color of walnut shells. He had seen Orientals with complexions the color of cheap, second-pressed olive oil, more yellow than green. But never in his life had Davido seen a man as singularly unique as the one before him now. For Davido and only one other in the village could see and comprehend the Good Padre’s true color: purple, deep, dark, entirely eggplant purple.

The Good Padre smiled broadly at the approaching pair, acknowledging the older man first and then the younger one with a gracious nod. Briefly, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. “’Tis a sweet and piquant air,” he said, gesturing to the tomato plants at his left, “and the flavor?”

“Oh, good visitor,” said Nonno through his mind’s fog, “most fair.”

“And is it a fruit or vegetable?”

“’Tis a fruit, I believe, but eaten more like a vegetable,” answered Nonno.

“Aha,” sighed the Good Padre, “and is it a fast-taking seed?”

“Oh, yes, good shepherd,” Nonno answered, his wits returning. He would show this Cattolico rhymer a thing or two. “Like a weed.”

The Good Padre continued his line of questioning. “And is it like the pepper that when green is tart, but ripe’d to red means ready?”

“Indeed again, good pilgrim,” said Nonno, “most heady.”

“Hmm, and is this fruit truly called a Pomo di Amore?” “Not by us,” said Nonno with emphasis. “We share not your fixation with that story.” The Good Padre chuckled.

Davido glanced a bit sideways at Nonno. He had no idea his grandfather was such a good rhymer.

Nonno continued, “And while it indeed be lovely and a color not unlike a ripe apple, we call it an apple of gold.”

“Pomo di oro?” said the Good Padre.

“Nearly,” replied Nonno. “Pomodoro.”

“Pomodoro,” repeated the Good Padre as he let the R’s and O’s roll about his tongue. “Pomodoro. Pomodoro. ’Tis a good name. Yes, yes, a good name, indeed.”

Enthusiastically the Good Padre turned to look over the sprawl of ripening rows. “And where shall these ripe pomodori find a home?”

“Well,” said Nonno, “what the church forsakes, we sell to the Ebrei of Florence, Venice and Rome.”

It was an innocent question, spoken with the sincerest curiosity, but from the old man’s reply the Good Padre knew it had been misperceived. Bertolli had told him full well how the old padre had been quite nasty toward the Ebrei and personally forbade them