Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,48

Now, who shall step forward and tell me of its flavor?”

The public recognition of a blemish upon his tunic, coupled with his disturbing inability to comprehend the Good Padre, caused Po to slither back into the crowd.

“Good Padre,” Giuseppe said, fracturing the pause, “we have not partaken of this fruit.”

“No? Then why the mirth? Why the merry? Did I not enter in mid-joviality?” The Good Padre paused his eyes on Vincenzo. “You mean, not a single one has tried this fruit?”

Vincenzo looked at his feet.

“Oh, good God,” said the Good Padre with a chuckle as he stepped over to the tomato stand. “I tell you, just last night, after visiting with our lovely neighbors, I ate several of their fruits. And they were delicious.”

The crowd gasped at the revelation.

“O, bless’d Virgin,” said the Good Padre as he lifted a tomato from the stand and held it up for inspection, “’Tis a fruit, nothing more and nothing less. Here,” the Good Padre handed the tomato to Davido, “good lad, cut me a slice of this one here.”

Davido reached across his stand to take the pomodoro from the priest. He cleared a small space before him upon his disheveled stand and began to slice the tomato in half.

“And if I,” said the Good Padre as Davido handed him the sliced half tomato, “a man of the cloth, be cut down, then we know here evil be found. But if I emerge in salubrious splendor then forever fear not the fruit of this vendor.”

“No! No!” shouted the Cheese Maker, “don’t do it, Good Padre.” “It will be the death of you,” another villager called out. “No, no, Boun Padre!” other shouts rang out in protest.

The Good Padre smiled as he unveiled his acorn-sized teeth and, to a chorus of gasps usually reserved for the swallowing of a sword when the Gypsy circus came to town each spring, bit into the fruit and began to chew.

“Oh, my!” the Good Padre uttered upon swallowing. Immediately, the breakfast possibilities the pomodoro offered flooded his mind. He thought of how lovely softly poached eggs laid atop sheep’s-milk-cheese-smeared toast, with sliced pomodoro, sea salt, chives and a drizzle of olive oil would be for a late breakfast. “Put fear and anxiety to waste, dear neighbors, for here is a heavenly taste,” said the Good Padre as he opened his mouth wide and tucked the rest of the tomato inside.

With the sting from the blow finally wearing off his face, yet the flavor still lingering on his tongue, Luigi Campoverde found the Good Padre’s expression too compelling an affirmation to ignore. Luigi knew a good eater when he saw one, and he decided to take advantage of the crowd’s distracted state and gather a few of the fallen fruits lying about the piazza’s cobblestones. He reached between legs, under skirts, around canvas bags and wicker baskets and quickly gathered up nearly a dozen of the Love Apples into his sack. While slinking about at ankle-level, Luigi noticed a wonderful bottle of olive oil resting inside some preoccupied peasant’s basket. The small market seemed to possess a wealth of gastronomic charms and he was curious if it extended to the local olive oil. The oil had a robust color—a perfect hue of green-gold—and Luigi couldn’t help himself. Slyly, he dropped a pair of the lady duke’s pearl earrings into the peasant’s basket and then slid the stolen oil into his satchel.

“Dear cousins,” said the Good Padre as he motioned for Davido to hand him the other half of the tomato, “t’would be a shame to let fear and superstition impede this delight. Indeed, this fruit is delicious.” The Good Padre took the half tomato from Davido and stepped closer to Vincenzo. “Come now, Vincenzo,” said the Good Padre as he put his arm around the pork merchant. “Since you appear the most aggrieved, you above all will be the most relieved. Have a bite.”

Ever since the miraculous Good Friday disappearance of his mother’s cataracts and hemorrhoids, Vincenzo had attended church regularly, but he was, nevertheless, hardly comfortable in the Good Padre’s presence. “Bbb … Bbb … But …”

“Oh, Vincenzo,” assured the Good Padre, “two full mouthfuls now and half a dozen just last night, and I am here and healthy as ever.”

“Go on, Vincenzo,” said the squat, bosomy hag Mucca, “mangialo!”

A single affirmation was all it took for the crowd to let loose. “Eat it!” was the first. “Si, Vincenzo, mangialo!” rang the second, as the third, fourth and fifth