Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,27

from bringing their “Love Apples” anywhere near the village.

Nonno said nothing and let the air thicken for a moment. He was dubious of gentile inquisitiveness. Such pleasantries were usually veiled threats that cloaked a desire to be the recipient of a bribe. “And now, my pleasant and curious friend,” said Nonno, “let us bring this papal inquiry to an end. Report this to your diocese and village priest, it should suffice, this serpent’s fruit still be solely an Ebrei vice.”

“Papal inquiry?” said the Good Padre. “Oh, sir, please, ’tis not the reason of my visit.”

“What a pleasant surprise t’would be if it isn’t,” said Nonno. “Now, if you will be so kind as to wait here, we shall fetch our papers of proprietorship.” Nonno stepped in the direction of the barn.

“Please, sir!” the Good Padre called after Nonno. “I did not come to question your legitimacy.”

Nonno had been satisfied by the way he’d handled the priest thus far. It was a good lesson for Davido too, but something about the priest seemed so imminently likable. “No?” asked Nonno, turning back around to face the priest.

“No,” repeated the Good Padre. “I do not care to see your papers or question your legitimacy. I come only with well wishes and good tidings.”

Nonno’s brow furrowed doubtfully. “Very well, say your piece.”

“Well, sir, I am the town’s new priest.”

“And what happened to the shepherd of old?”

The Good Padre paused for a moment as his enormous mouth lit up with the beginnings of a smirk. “Perhaps, fair gentleman, this will put you at greater ease, but that honorable old herder was undone by a horrid disease.”

Nonno’s face, mapped with lines of loss and laughter, grew toward the latter. “Is it so?”

“I’m afraid,” said the Good Padre, lowering his eyes, “indeed.”

Nonno stepped toward his grandson and grabbed Davido’s elbow with a squeeze of excitement. “What a shame,” said Nonno, “how unfortunate. We are so sorry.”

“Yes, unfortunate,” said the Good Padre, “unfortunate, indeed.”

“Now, tell me, noble priest, did he suffer in his passing? Surely, there must be details?”

“Well, gentle neighbor,” said the Good Padre with an intentional clearing of his throat, “for one so pious and respected it seems both ironic and absurd, and though my eyes did not see, I will, for new love, repeat what I have heard. ‘Twas that horrid New World disease—the Spanish scourge, wrought upon those who could not control the urge. And as these things travel, from a conquistador’s phallus, to a Naples brothel, to a Tuscan palace; like the wind scatters yeast, all the way down to our village priest came the ghastly menace that eats from cazzone to brain, devouring one to incontinent shame. Now I say this knowing he will be sorely missed, but our former shepherd died, ball-less, brainless, in his own shit and piss.”

“Sifilide.” Nonno drew in a short, quick breath. His stomach muscles tightened. He knew the disease well. Half of Cristoforo Colombo’s crew had contracted it. He heard the words repeat inside his head: ball-less, brainless, in his own shit and piss. Feeling his old bones and body go suddenly young, he began to laugh; he could not help it. A rich laugh, a deep laugh, a laugh that jiggled the belly, shook his organs and opened the Pandora’s box of pain that lay at the very bottom of his soul. And what emerged was a vengeful laugh, a healing laugh. The kind of laugh that takes on a life of its own, sweeping up both Davido and the Good Padre, buckling their knees, bending them at the belly and causing family and stranger alike to hug and cling to one another as they crumpled to the earth. Laughter that affirmed one’s belief in God, that somehow there is an absurd and perfect order to the universe. A laugh so rapturous one forgets what one was originally laughing about. A seizure of joy: contagious, delicious, divinely incorrigible.

“Now,” attempted the Good Padre for the fourth time as he lifted himself from the ground and brushed the hay and dirt from his robe, “as the sun does ebb and your hot tub awaits, let me share my tidings.”

Davido helped Nonno to his feet.

“By all means.” It hurt Nonno’s sides to speak.

“As politics oft be the Church’s tide,” said the Good Padre, “good news in the current does here reside. Ironically, politics, competition and greed have spurred a noble edict to be decreed. Hence, the ruling Meducci with their power to persuade have moved the Church to