Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,65
costume of a medieval court jester, complete with yellow stockings, purple knickers, striped tunic and a three-pronged jester’s hat with tiny bells affixed to it. As far as Cosimo recalled, it looked like the very costume that clothed the marionette when it first arrived from Sicily.
“Ah,” said the puppet, “here’s a ripe one. Ale to a hero.” Pompously, Bobolito bowed to the crowd and then, in a very formal fashion, stepped one foot slightly forward, brought his posture erect and raised his right arm as if holding a mug. “Speak more than thou knowest, yet have less than thou showest. Do not what thou sayest, yet admit not thou a nayest. Do less and drink more. Think thou a king, when thou a whore!”
The tavern broke out in laughter. Crusts of bread, sprinkles of wine and droplets of ale bombarded Vincenzo.
“Bitter puppet,” said Vincenzo, wiping drops of wine from his chin, “you speak through your liquor.”
Bobolito looked offended. “Which makes my wit all the much quicker. For honest is he who knows he’s a giglet, than to think he’s a lion, when he’s a piglet.”
“You mock me, Puppet!”
Cosimo smirked. It was deeply satisfying to see how some things never change. Just as in Florence when they were youngsters, Bobo had trained the tavern audience to know well that when Bobolito comes to life, only Bobolito may be addressed.
“No, no.” Bobolito’s eyelids fluttered and his tone softened. “I pray thee, I merely confused a lion with a sheep, for the roar you make at tavern, at market, sounded more like a peep.”
More laughter, bread, ale and wine pelted Vincenzo, and the vanquished man took his seat. “Vaffanculo puppet!” he said as he lifted his goblet and gulped down its contents.
The tavern-goers gasped! Suddenly, Bobolito looked very sad. His jaw dropped, his eyelids drooped and his posture went slack. “Aw,” the crowd sighed. They had come to know that Bobolito was very sensitive.
“Apologize!” a voice in the tavern called out.
Bobolito did not move and hung sadly.
“No,” mumbled Vincenzo.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“No.”
“You pig-loving bastard,” goaded Mucca, “if you don’t say you’re sorry the show won’t go on.”
“I’m not apologizing to a puppet!”
The tavern filled with boos and curses.
“It’s a fucking puppet!” Vincenzo yelled desperately.
The crowd did not relent. Another round of boos, crusts of bread and splatters of wine and ale pelted Vincenzo.
“Enough!” Vincenzo sprung from his chair, “enough! Faccia di merda! I’ll say I’m sorry.”
The tavern quieted.
“Bobolito, I am sorry.”
Bobolito did not look up. Weakly, his puppet arm lifted, bent at the elbow and tapped against his cheek.
Vincenzo looked to the crowd for sympathy. “Oh, for God’s sake!”
“Go on!” the tavern-goers shouted back in near-unison.
“Ay.” Vincenzo threw up his arms in defeat and walked over to Bobolito, slouched sadly upon the bar. Vincenzo bent over to face Bobolito. “Little puppet,” Vincenzo said with sincere contriteness, “I am sorry,” and then he leaned forward and kissed Bobolito on the cheek.
The tavern waited anxiously. One could never be certain with Bobolito; he was a temperamental puppet. Then, slowly, Bobolito’s trousers began to tent up. “Ay!” the tavern erupted with jubilation.
Bobolito sprang to his feet and danced his herky-jerky ba-stone dance. “So, now’s the time to rant and rave,” Bobolito’s squeaky voice sang out, “and bless the drink that makes us brave.”
The tavern-goers raised their glasses, mugs and goblets, and joined Bobolito in song. “So raise your mug and hail,” they all sang, “and bless the precious ale. Lift up your cup of wine and bless the sacred vine. Forget that you’re a slave, forget that you’re a knave. A pauper to a prince, a whore to a queen, drink the drink and dream. For tomorrow we may suffer, but tonight by drink we’ll gloat, so raise your goblet high and pour it down your throat!”
And with that the entirety of the tavern emptied their mugs, glasses and goblets. “Bravo!” resounded the tavern as empty drinking vessels thudded upon table and bar.
Giuseppe caught Benito’s attention through the crowd.
“Now,” said Giuseppe, raising his voice over the tavern’s ruckus, “there is still much to discuss. As a matter of purity, Augusto Po says no. As a matter of commerce, the Cheese Maker says yes. As a matter of pride, Vincenzo says no. Now, faced with this drastic choice, who else to raise their voice? I, for one, am undecided.”
Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci felt a hand press down on his shoulder for a little boost as his new friend rose to his feet.