Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,30
as she entered the piazza. Recognizing her sense of loss, the Cheese Maker spontaneously began to serenade the young girl. Well, it has never taken much prodding to bring a Tuscan to song, and no sooner had the first verse of “Oi Mari” left the Cheese Maker’s lips then, one by one, all the vendors at market took up the ballad.
Like a good bit of village folklore, what had begun as a lark had grown into a tradition, and as Mari’s donkey-drawn wagon rolled into the piazza this morning, just as they had for the last ten years, the vendors lifted their voices to sing. It began in the same fashion, with the Cheese Maker, who was still the first vendor in the line of stalls and who had matured and fattened into a full-throated tenor. The heroic implications of singing to a heartbroken little girl were no longer pertinent, but the vendors and villagers had come to relish the tradition. It was a constant, something they did every Monday morning, and since the arrival of the Good Padre, consistency was something the villagers desperately clung to. For change was at hand, more change than most of the villagers could handle. Word from last evening’s mass had spread quickly amongst the assembled villagers that their most unusual padre had invited the Ebrei to market. So the villagers sang with more than normal vigor, sang to bind them with their past and distract the mind from the disturbing notion that Il Serpente and his Pomo di Amore might soon enter their lives.
“Oiiiii, Mari!”
Mari looked up and smiled at the Cheese Maker as she always did. She hadn’t been to church last night and therefore chalked up the day’s voluminous singing to the fine weather. Mari was no longer so set against the Church as she had been for many of her teenage years, though she dared not share that sentiment with anyone. The awful manner in which the old padre had died restored some of her faith in God, and the Good Padre, well, he was just so baffling and sweet a man that Mari could not help but adore him. So much so that she’d even begun to take weekly confession, fabricating sins and exaggerating peccadilloes just for the pleasure of being in his company. He was also an ardent consumer of Mari’s olives and olive oil and was usually among her first customers at the Monday morning market. Thus, she’d had every intention of being at church last night; indeed, she made a point of escorting her mother to Sunday evening services. It was just that last night, as she was prone to do, Mari let her olives get the best of her. There was prepping for the market to be done and the all-important mixing and marinating and spice-blending for the nine varieties of olives her stand sold—a task she entrusted to no one but herself. When she finally stepped out from the mill, it was well past dark, the service was over and she was certain her stepfather would be griping for his supper.
Hence, with no knowledge of the Good Padre’s shocking announcement, Mari simply did this morning what she always did: conduct her donkey-drawn wagon along the row of stalls and gently take up the song herself. She knew full well that she was merely part of a ritual, not the point of it, but on the inside, the song still struck Mari as profoundly as when she was a little girl. As a child, Mari’s father would often personally sing “Oi Mari” to her. After the spring solstice, when the evenings grew longer and lighter and the olive trees began to bud their new fruit, Mari and her mother would arrive at the orchard to fetch her father for supper. Then Mari would take her father’s hand and follow him about the orchard and mill while he finished his tasks. Her father’s hands were as large and powerful as his work was toilsome, but his constant proximity to olive oil lent them a suppleness that little Mari found delicious. He would hug her tightly as he sang the song of her namesake and, as the lyrics emerged from his sturdy chest, the vibrations would pass directly into her body, stirring her heart and tingling her belly.
It had been nearly ten years since her father’s death and though with each passing day the remembrance of his hands’ buttery touch and tickle of his beard grew fainter,