Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,47
Judas and Cristo and the profound injustice dealt to the pig, not about direction. “West, I think. But what has that to do with anything?” Vincenzo said brusquely.
“Mmm, west, indeed,” repeated Mari. “And in what direction does this stand here face?”
Vincenzo took in the angle of the tomato stand. The market row had a slight bend. “North, split with west,” he said, not sure what Mari was getting at.
“Mmm, north split with west,” Mari said, parroting Vincenzo. She had never done anything quite like this before. What prompted her to speak from her heart had become an equation for her head and she now strained mentally to organize her point. “Now,” said Mari, “in which ear were you hit with their fruit?”
“My right ear,” Vincenzo said, again pointing to his ear.
“I know your right ear,” Mari affirmed, though she was still not certain her own logic was on target. “But when you stood outward, doling the sausage from your space, in which direction did your right ear face?” Mari set her feet as if she were tending Vincenzo’s stall, then pointed to the Ebrei at her left and gave a slight tug on her right earlobe, which lay clearly on the opposite side of her head from the Ebrei’s stand.
Vincenzo, keener in geometry than in confidence, finally got Mari’s point and he lowered his eyes like an admonished schoolboy.
Davido watched in amazement as ears were tugged and conversations flared up between those who understood the girl’s point and those who didn’t. But to Davido an altogether different point was being made—this was quite a woman!
“What if,” a rather slow and slippery voice in the crowd spoke out, “Vincenzo had turned around?”
“What?” said Mari as the crowd quieted.
Incensed by an unsightly globule of tomato stuck upon the breast pocket of his Venetian silk tunic, Augusto Po repeated his challenge. “What if Vincenzo had turned around for a moment, let’s say, to fetch a sausage off his rack?”
Oh, God, thought Mari, I hadn’t considered that.
The crowd parted to better reveal Augusto Po, his smooth bald head and corona of white hair glimmering in the sunlight. “Sweet girl,” he said after a moment’s pause, “you have used logic and reason to defend this here Ebreo from treason. But what say your eyes? Surely, your eyes must bear some witness to your defense?”
The crowd hushed. Augusto Po was a nasty old fox and it was rare for him to make a scene in public, especially since the death of his uncle. Po was not native to the village. He was the nephew of the town’s recently deceased old padre, and had, many years ago, moved to the village to help his uncle manage the church and its landholdings. Most considered his a well-paid but dubious position, which Po managed to exploit for great personal gain. He was known to engage in usury, and he owned a good many of the rental dwellings about town.
“I am sure,” Mari responded directly to Augusto, “because my eyes were upon him.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Oh, no. From the corner of his eye, Nonno caught his grandson battling a smirk. Great tragedies have stemmed from lesser lines.
Giuseppe, who had descended from his balcony to witness the action, really wasn’t as patient as he believed himself to be and he didn’t like the nature of this standoff. “Oh, Mari, my daughter,” said Giuseppe as his face parted with a put-on smile, “who, as a child, at a mouse’s pain took pity, as a woman protects even the donkey of our fair Italy.”
Her name is Mari? Davido felt his heart jump.
“Oh, God bless the good Italian heart,” the Good Padre said on top of the crowd’s laughter as he stepped enthusiastically to the center of the crowd. He looked at Mari and smiled. “I see news of the decree has been well spread and well received. Yes, welcome, neighbors, welcome.” The Good Padre rubbed his hands together as if sizing up a holiday table set with a delectable feast. “Now, Mari, who has tried this new fruit and can attest its flavor?”
Mari bit the corner of her lip. The crowd fell stone silent.
“Come now,” the Good Padre said, attempting to prod the villagers, “no need for shyness.” He pointed to the crimson-speckled villagers before him. “You, Signore Po, seem to wear its juice upon your blouse, and you, Vincenzo, though, ’tis off your mouth, upon your ear. Indeed, by appearances, it does look like a sloppy feast hast happened here.