Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,36
lemon. Nonno had witnessed how carciofi alla Judea had become a guilty pleasure amongst the citizens of Rome and Florence, and not just the common folk. By late spring, when the wild artichokes were plentiful, priests, bishops and even the occasional cardinal could all be found lining up before the vending stalls of the ghetto, squeezing lemons and licking oily lips as they devoured platefuls of the delectable Ebreo specialty. This was how Nonno wanted things to progress: to expose the new fruit to their kin in the ghettos and let the more sophisticated urban gentiles who frequented the Ebreo markets be introduced to it at their discretion. Eventually, Nonno assured his grandson, just like fried artichokes, ivory dentures, Il Fodero di Moses 8 and a hundred other Ebreo inventions, the pomodoro would one day be highly regarded.
Davido, though, felt differently and made a compelling argument. “This is not Florence, Rome or Venice,” Davido rebutted his grandfather. “In these parts, Ebrei and gentiles do not live in proximity to one another, and the more we are strangers to them, the more we live in harm’s way. We’ll sell only tomatoes at market, so not to compete with any of the village’s existing fruit or vegetable vendors. It only makes sense, Nonno. How are the locals to gain any familiarity with us or with tomatoes unless we take up this kind padre’s offer? Besides,” Davido added for emphasis, “what does it say of us if we do not?”
Well, that was yesterday and as Nonno now reflected on the idiocy of his grandson’s reasoning he couldn’t stand to keep his mouth shut. “So much for your kind padre,” said Nonno to Davido as the old man set an empty basket on the rear of the wagon. The market had begun to bustle, but their stand was empty of customers—as empty as if they were selling the plague.
Davido paused before he set a tomato in its place on the pyramid of tomatoes he was arranging upon the stand. “The day is not yet done.”
“No?” Nonno whispered sharply. “The day is wasted and done as sure as it was foolishly begun. I only pray this day knocks a daft idea from your mind and you see, finally, an Ebreo‘s place is best among his kind.”
My God, thought Davido, what a good rhyme!
For their part, the villagers reacted to the entrance of the Ebrei like a pair of lepers in their midst, stealing glances at the odd beings, but never, never for goodness sake, daring to approach their stand. Those villagers who attended last evening’s mass had heard, or at least thought they heard, the Good Padre announce the new decree and mention he’d invited their Ebreo neighbors to Monday’s market. It was just that most of the villagers were hesitant to believe anything uttered by such an enigma, especially something so outrageous.
Nonetheless, the people of the village were not so closed-minded that they would not accept the arrival of a new person. Heaven knows, countless souls, and not all of them ordinary, had come and gone through town. Even Giuseppe and the odd and irksome Bobo the Fool had wandered into town years ago and grown to become village fixtures. But the Good Padre was different. Being in his company seemed to fracture the relationship between time and constancy, eyes and brain, thought and tongue, and forced upon one and all the stupefying idea that the world was larger and more mysterious than their ability to comprehend it.
For most in the village, including Vincenzo, Mucca, the Cheese Maker, Augusto Po and Signore Coglione (all characters we will soon come to know), this was not a welcome notion and for the first six weeks of the Good Padre’s tenure they kept their distance. In fact, over those initial Sundays, only the blind, nearly blind and those consigned to escort the blind attended mass. The Cheese Maker, like virtually every other villager, did his best to dismiss the disconcerting fact that young children and infants were drawn to the Good Padre as if he were made of butter and honey, and that his mere presence would calm a crying toddler and cause a gaggle of youngsters to follow in his wake, laughing and giggling with delight. However, when Vincenzo’s mother, old Signora Donnaccia, whose pupils had long ago been obscured by milky cataracts and whose anus had long been painfully obstructed by bloody hemorrhoids, awoke the morning after Good Friday mass to behold in crystal clarity