Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,40

struggling to stay focused on her duties. It was still early, but a decent-sized crowd was waiting before the olive stand to have their old wine bottles filled with oil and their clay pots replenished with any one of the dozen varieties of cured olives her stand offered. It was a busy morning, too busy for Mari’s sake. She was feeling flustered and distracted and, much unlike herself, her mind wasn’t entirely focused on olives and oil. Yes, it was always draining to have Benito around, as he did nothing to help and plenty to hinder. However, the cur had been around for as long as she could remember and while his behavior had grown increasingly repulsive in the years since her father’s death, she could handle him without a problem. Although, if she was being perfectly frank, she had even less patience with Benito on days like today, when her mother joined her at the stand. Mari’s mother knew she wasn’t good for much. She was content to sit on half of a wine barrel at the rear of the stand and watch her daughter work, but even the idea that Benito might try any of his antics in front of her mother had Mari especially on edge.

But more than Benito and her mother’s presence, what was most on Mari’s mind and undermining the usual attention with which she managed her stand was the enticing sight of those red fruits down the market row and the loose curls of brown hair moving behind the growing pyramid of produce.

“How’s your mother?” whispered a full-breasted and semi-toothless peasant woman who’d been called Mucca for so long that hardly anyone in the village remembered her real name. Mucca extended Mari her empty olive oil bottle.

“I don’t know,” Mari answered with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. She couldn’t stand it when people pretended her mother was deaf as well as mute. “Let me ask her.” Mari turned over her shoulder. “Mom, Mucca wants to know how you’re feeling?”

Mari’s mother frowned and tilted her head to the side.

Mari turned back to face Mucca. “There, you see,” said Mari, “the same.” Mari took hold of Mucca’s empty bottle and the pair held eyes for a moment. Mucca had known both Mari and her mother since they were babies. Like almost everyone in the village, Mari found Mucca to be a pain in the ass, but she also knew the woman had a heart of gold. “Maybe a bit worse,” Mari added softly.

“Sorry, dear,” Mucca looked at Mari contritely. “Well, the good news is a husband can’t be too far off.”

“Oh, good God, Mucca.” No subject annoyed Mari more.

“Must you?”

“Surely,” Mucca laughed, then continued, indifferent to Mari’s protest and loud enough for Mari’s mother to hear, “that stepfather of yours is gonna find you a husband?”

Mari raised her eyebrows and shrugged as she set the bottle under the olive oil spigot.

“I imagine,” chimed in Signore Coglione, who was waiting in line behind Mucca, “that’s the problem.”

“True,” laughed Mucca as she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “never trust a magnaccio 9 to find you a mate.”

Not that something so true struck her as funny, but Mari chuckled anyhow.

“Nevertheless,” Signore Coglione said with smile, “a husband and children can be a happy fate.”

“Perhaps,” Mari retorted, hoping to end the conversation, “but I’d rather choose the food upon my plate.”

“Ay.” Signore Coglione nodded and raised his eyebrows in a conciliatory fashion. A triple rhyme always trumped.

“What’s the matter,” Mucca said with a wave of her hand, “no boy in town strike your fancy?”

Mari had had enough. She corked the oil bottle and set it down with a clunk. She felt her blood heating up. “Saving myself for Benito,” she said flatly, hoping that would shut Mucca up.

“Goodness, dear,” Mucca said as both she and Signore Coglione laughed, “you can do better than that!” Mucca handed Mari her olive jar. She pointed to the olives she wanted.

Mari took hold of a large wooden spoon and began to fill the jar with olives. She knew full well why she didn’t have a husband yet. True, she didn’t find any young man in town remotely worth marrying, but that was hardly the issue. Her stepfather couldn’t care less about love or her desires. He was indeed a magnaccio, and had made his life—a good life— eating with other people’s money. She ran his olive and grape mill, took care of his crippled wife and made his supper, and why in the devil’s name