Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,41
would he give that up and pay a dowry to do it?
Mari caught some motion in the corner of her eye and her instinct system went on alert. She tightened her grip upon the large spoon she held. Despite the dozen or so villagers waiting with empty bottles in hand behind Mucca and the presence of Mari’s mother, Benito left his position alongside the olive oil barrel and picked up the weighty satchel he’d brought with him to market. “Back in a bit,” he snorted at Mari.
“Not on my account,” Mari retorted as she powerfully whipped the wooden spoon behind her buttocks.
“Ow!” yelped Benito as the spoon whacked the knuckles of his right hand. “Faccia di merda!”
“Ha! Serves you right,” said Mucca as she, Signore Coglione, Mari’s mother and the handful of villagers surrounding the stand burst into laughter. “Best keep your fingers where they’re less likely to get hit,” Mucca said whilst handing some coins over to Mari. “Either stuffed in your nostrils or scratching about your dangling bit.”
Benito jutted his chin in Mucca’s direction. “Vaffanculo!” he spat as he shook the sting from his hand and shuffled off into the market.
“Oh, tell it to the sheep,” Mucca yelled after him to more laughter—forever reminding Benito and villagers alike of his most infamous moment of adolescence, some twenty years past.
It had been a solid connection, the sharp rap of wood upon knuckle, and though Mari’s pride flared from the perfection of her timing, she shared little of the crowd’s joy. It was a tired routine to her. She had experienced enough of Benito’s pats upon her backside to know exactly when his hand was most likely to make its wanton move, always in public and always as he parted her company.
Truth be told, Mari was fed up with Benito for many reasons, foremost of which was that she found him contradictory to her fundamental belief in the purity of the olive. He was always scratching the whiskers about his chin, picking his ear and then thoughtlessly sticking his vile fingers in the olive jars and stuffing olives in his mouth—olives that she had worked tirelessly to cure, marinate and stuff. Worse still, she would catch him—in the midst of servicing customers— reaching inside his trousers to adjust his genitals. True, there was no other olive oil vendor in town, but Mari still imagined Benito’s presence caused more than a few people to abstain from having their bottles refilled with oil or olives for the week, and this was a horrible affront to her. She loved her olives too much to stomach such degradation.
Over the years Mari had tried to distance herself from the fortunes and follies of the olive orchard, but she had been unable to do so. Olive oil ran through her veins. Indeed, she felt that by honoring the olive she honored the memory of her father and the orchard and fruit that her family had nurtured for generations. In the years since her father’s death she’d been overworked, unpaid and treated indignantly, but Mari still cared about olives—cared with a vengeance.
“Are you paying attention?” Giuseppe said as he snapped his fingers before Benito’s nose. But Benito wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t stop thinking about the other day, how a boy, a queer little boy wearing a dress, so easily silenced his boss, and how, once again, it was Benito charged with the dirty work.
“Listen up!” Giuseppe leaned in, his pitch controlled but fervent with enthusiasm. “Three dozen Love Apples to do the deed, to sow the soil and plant our seed. ‘Tween now and tomorrow, Benito, play it cool and aloof, then when market starts to bustle, make your way up to the roof. Splatter these forbidden fruits upon random heads, hams, breads and lambs; off cheese panino and dried sheets of papiro 10, upon roasted pigs and pies, figs and dyes; hit the butcher and baker and candlestick maker. Wail and paste arms and limbs, baskets and shiny knife blades; plant one solidly on that fat prick who sells spades. Better yet, don’t waste the time on direct aim, pelt the young, the old, the vigorous, the lame. Quick as you can spread bedlam and fear, disorient the eye and confuse the ear. Let Love Apple drip from noses and off statues in poses, making soggy crisp crusts of bread and speckling clothing in watery red. Tainting white pails of heavy cream, splashing the gypsy who interprets the dream. Let it cling to short eyelashes