Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,33
and taken the room from her entirely but for two reasons: one, the idea of putting his money toward her dowry sickened him; and two, she knew the workings of the farm and mill better than any paid employee and that saved him a great deal of money.
Though Giuseppe never let Mari know it, she was a near-genius when it came to grapes and olives. She did the work of three men, invented new blends of grapes and techniques for fermenting the wine and new cures and marinades for olives, prepped for the local market, kept the books, managed the orchards, vineyards and mill and didn’t cost Giuseppe a cent, as he didn’t pay her a penny. Not to mention, she wasn’t a bad cook, either. But unlike her mute and maimed mother, she was a truculent little vacca. She had a temper, a quick wit, a sharp tongue, and Giuseppe knew that taking her meager room from her would have been an incredible pain in the ass. But now—now that he owned a telescope—maybe he would take over her room, for its balcony was an excellent vantage point from which to spy.
Reluctantly, Giuseppe could not help but feel that Benito was on to something when he pulled the enormous truffles from the earth and declared them fit for the Duke of Tuscany. Giuseppe was concerned that traveling halfway to Florence to the Meducci summer villa on the slim hopes of selling the truffles to the royal kitchen would prove to be a great waste of time. Obviously, judging by the exquisite telescope he now held in his hands, he was wrong. Who could have imagined that so much of the royal underbelly would be revealed so quickly? The young Prince of Tuscany, an obnoxious little twit and queer as a three-legged donkey; his father, the duke, a masturbating buffoon; the royal chef, as unscrupulous as a gypsy whore—and a weak negotiator, to boot.
So excited was Giuseppe with his new toy that on the return journey from the Meducci estate he immediately put the telescope to its first furtive use. Halfway between the Meducci villa and Giuseppe’s village, there was a fork in the road. To the left, a smoother, more direct route to the village; to the right, a longer, meandering, bumpier road, which, before leading back to the village, passed the Ebrei farm. Giuseppe instructed Benito to take a right at the fork. After a half hour’s travel, the Ebrei land was in sight, however, not very clearly. The wagon’s incessant bouncing and the jostling about of Benito’s three truffle-hunting sows in the wagon-bed made it nearly impossible for Giuseppe to get a good, steady look at anything. This frustrated Giuseppe greatly, but as Benito directed the wagon down the ridge line, situated along the northeast high ground above the former Meducci vineyard, the road smoothed for an instant, the sows settled and Giuseppe, to his surprise, caught a glimpse of the Good Padre several hundred paces down the road, riding upon his odd mule, just as he turned onto the Ebrei property.
Giuseppe shushed Benito and had him stop the wagon behind a tall poplar tree so to better spy on the Good Padre as he made his way up the Ebrei carriageway. Through his enhanced vision, Giuseppe could not help but notice, enviously so, how much the land and barn had been rehabilitated in the year since the Ebrei moved in. What used to be nothing more than a blight-ridden bramble of weeds had been transformed into an exquisite piece of farmland.
After a few moments a pair of Ebrei emerged from the barn to greet the Good Padre, one young, the other old. It was the perfect moment, thought Giuseppe, with the Ebrei occupied by their visitor, to get a closer look at the strange red fruit they grew.
“Benito,” Giuseppe said whilst keeping his eye to the telescope. “Eh?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Benito is always hungry, but not so hungry as to eat one of those wretched Love Apples.”
“Have we known each other so long and well that you claim to know my mind?” said Giuseppe.
“I would sooner claim to know the mind of this here horse than to know of your mind’s course. I only know to follow patterns. When my sows lift their noses and scratch their feet upon the ground, I brace, as a truffle scent’s been found. Too much rain in summer makes the wine watery and weak, and when Giuseppe inquires of Benito, a