Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,43

or a mischievous Cupid out to cause a stir was impossible to say; but at the very second Mari lifted her head, the crowded market appeared to part and Mari and Davido found each other’s gaze. Naturally, the jolt of Eros simultaneously stunned the eyes and enthralled the loins of our two lovers-to-be; but at a moment such as this it would be too easy to speak solely of beauty and youthful lust, as the couple’s shared vision was more than that. Indeed, what they found in each other’s eyes shot through them from the inside out and sent a hot, sublime sensation bursting up their spines, causing the world around them to melt away, as if the eye had just beheld the image of what the soul had previously known and craved to know again. A vision that revealed a shared destiny and a burning desire to manifest it. It was a vision that came with a great clamor that only Davido and Mari could hear: Il Tuono dell’ Amore, as Menzogna put it. The thunder of love.

9 From the Etruscan magnare, meaning “to eat,” i.e., “someone who eats with other people’s money.”

10 Papyrus paper used for writing and wrapping.

In which We Learn

How the Mind Stills Itself

in Moments of Trauma

Across the piazza, oblivious to Benito’s orders and Mari and Davido’s rapture, Luigi Campoverde stood with his mouth slightly agape, staring at the beautiful array of purple and green figs on the stand before him. Luigi was deep in thought, envisioning how delicious the ripe figs would be once he sliced them lengthwise, spread them with whipped ricotta and set a balsamic-caramelized walnut atop each for a bit more sweetness and crunch, when the recipe suddenly burst inside his brain.

Twenty-four hours ago Luigi never would have imagined that he, esteemed chef for Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third, Grand Duke of Tuscany, would have ventured a rough two hours by mule to attend the market of an inconsequential little village he’d never even heard of. One of the luxuries about being the chef for the Duke of Tuscany was that food vendors came to him. However, despite the breach of protocol, the duo of rimatori who’d arrived at his kitchen the other day with the exquisite pair of early-season truffles had aroused his curiosity about what other gastronomic treasures the hilltop hamlet might offer. His interest had been further stoked by how willing the one pompous scoundrel had been to accept payment in a manner other than money. Should such sentiments be shared by other vendors at the out-of-the-way market, well, Luigi reckoned, it could make for the perfect place to covertly resupply his kitchen.

Surreptitious thoughts of delectable produce bartered for some of the useless bric-a-brac overflowing from the duke’s villa was what Luigi had been thinking about all morning. Until now, at least, when a rude, spindly, drunken fool cut before him and obstructed Luigi’s view of the mouthwatering collection of figs. As if that weren’t offensive enough, the fool reeked of soured wine, and his continual bobbing and bending, as he sampled amply from the stand, had Luigi at his wits’ end. Finally—suddenly—just as Luigi was thinking of knocking the twit out of his way, the fool once again bent over, and a tomato, hurled by one and meant for another, came spectacularly crashing into Luigi’s face.

It has long been known how the mind stills itself in moments of trauma so that details may be recalled afterward with an absolute clarity, and it was with this heightened sense that the instant of impact played out in Luigi’s mind. The sound hit Luigi first. That unmistakable whistle of the wind breaking across a hurled projectile. Then the sharp slap of fruit skin upon human skin. It was a funny sound and Luigi wondered where it was coming from. Next, a squirting noise, like a wide boot stepping into a fresh pile of mud, as the tomato’s moist innards broke across the upper bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. Of course there would be pain, but that sensation would have to wait. For as the splattering of pulp, seeds and juice blinded his eyes, blew into his open mouth and registered upon his taste buds, there was flavor. My God, there was a flavor the likes of which Luigi had never tasted.

Across the piazza, Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci, Grand Duke of Tuscany, was still in something of a daze and had yet to notice the stand