Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,50

get hot and his mouth go dry as all eyes turned in his direction. Since when does Nonno defer to me in public, he thought? This was certainly more than he’d bargained for and he was sure he would sound like a fool before her—he’d never had to rhyme in public. “’T … ’t …” Davido’s voice crackled with uncertainty. “’Tis a small seed.” He kept his eyes upon the tomatoes before him as his mind searched desperately to find the rhyme. “Best planted from mid-spring to early summer in rich, well-draining soil. It likes a good, strong sun and a once-weekly rain. From a small, scentless yellow flower comes a fruit, green at first, which ripens to red. About eighty days, from planting to harvest. Its skin is soft and its flesh easily bruised, and after picking, it’s not to be abused.” Oh, thank God, thought Davido, having finally coupled a sentence the way locals do. “And though it may sound a bit contrary, pomodori grow like a pepper, yet are juicy like a berry.”

He loves the earth, thought Mari. She could hear that in his voice, see that in his eyes. He looked at his tomatoes the way she wished he’d look at her.

The crowd was silent, not knowing what to make of it all.

“Well,” said Mucca, “that’s an odd combination.”

“Eh, true,” added Vincenzo. “Berries are oft poisonous, and peppers oft sorcerous.”

Many in the crowd hummed and nodded in agreement.

“Neighbors,” said the Good Padre. He had no tolerance for the ignorant maligning of the earth. “What do you know of poisons and sorcery? For surely,” the Good Padre gestured to the onion and garlic farmer standing nearby, “had Renzo here come upon this fruit and seeds, who’d suggest such evil deeds?”

“Exactly the point!” said Vincenzo. “For Renzo is as common to us as the garlic he grows.” “And as stinky,” blurted Mucca.

“Oh, good God!” The Good Padre threw up his hands. “Hast not anyone the bravery to try this fruit?”

Mari looked apologetically toward Davido. She felt a jolt as her eyes met his and the two fought against their smiles in unison. She would have gladly taken up the Good Padre’s challenge and eaten a hundred of the boy’s fruit. A hundred hundred she would have eaten. But Mari was smarter than that and knew her village well enough to understand what would be perceived as principle and what as promiscuity. So, against her heart, she held her tongue.

It was time, thought Giuseppe, as his eyes scanned the crowd for Benito. He located his underling and gave him a subtle nod.

“Bobo the Fool will eat it,” Benito called out. “Bobo will eat anything!”

A grand idea! The crowd reacted with rousing support and the air filled with an array of calls for Bobo to step forward. Here was a perfect time to put one on the fool who so often put one on them all.

“He’ll do it for a mug of ale,” said Mucca, as if revealing a little-known piece of information.

“Or a goblet of wine,” seconded Vincenzo through the ruckus.

“Well,” said the Good Padre, “where is this brave Bobo?”

The idea of the words brave and Bobo existing in the same sentence sent a roar of laughter through the crowd.

“Here’s the brave fool!” shouted Benito. He pointed underneath the statue of the Drunken Saint where Bobo the Fool was curled into a fetal position, sleeping. Bobo had awoken briefly to sample a few figs from the Fig Farmer’s stand, but once food started flying about, Bobo quickly took shelter, desirous of more sleep.

Benito now poked the toe of his boot against Bobo’s buttock. “Wake up, fool,” he chided.

“Go away,” groaned Bobo, swatting at Benito’s foot. “Bobo sleeps.”

Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third, Grand Duke of Tuscany, had been gratefully distracted by these provincial antics until a voice in the crowd landed upon his heart like an anvil. “My God.” Cosimo’s mouth fell open and his knees went weak under the weight of so many memories. He hadn’t seen Bobo for almost thirty years.

“But ’tis time for your breakfast, fool.” Benito felt a disconcerting tingle in his loins as he reached under the statue, grabbed the belt of Bobo’s trousers, dragged the rather slight fool to his feet and flung him into the crowd. Benito often felt that tingle whenever he manhandled Bobo and it bothered him immensely. He was no finocchio.

The crowd parted with laughter as the spindly-legged fool stumbled forward. Those villagers closest by goosed Bobo’s buttocks,