Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,77

liquid into a glass bottle at the device’s other end. 7) Test a drop on the tongue to make sure all bitterness and mushroom flavor has been removed so that not even the most skilled food-taster—Giuseppe recalled his uncle’s words with a clarity that startled him—could tell the wine was tainted.

Yes, Giuseppe knew exactly what he was doing when it came to distilling the Fungi di Santo mushrooms he had chanced upon last Sunday whilst foraging for truffles with Benito. He just wasn’t certain why he was doing it. Of course, he reasoned, a non-lethal yet debilitating toxin might come in handy at some time or another, possibly even in his current scheme to usurp the Ebrei land. However, he had no specific plan in mind until he crashed through the stairs and the perfect idea came like a light shining through the trauma: taint the racers’ wine with Fungi di Santo at the Feast of the Drunken Saint; guarantee the Ebreo’s victory by drugging all the competitors but the tomato boy and Benito.

And then the pain arrived, a pain that overwhelmed any and all visions of narcotized donkey riders and a victorious Ebreo. At first the pain seemed to emanate from every part of his body and he feared that his back might be broken. He had crashed in such a way that his buttocks broke through the stair, collapsing his knees and chest into one another, and brutally wedging his body and right arm between the second and fourth stairs. Everything hurt. His hamstrings felt pulled and his back bruised and raw. His stomach pressed uncomfortably against his thighs and he realized that had it not been for his potbelly and general inflexibility, he would have folded and fallen straight through the stairs like a limp noodle.

Giuseppe took a short and painful breath and did his best to assess his situation. He was stuck, stuck like an animal, as if a man-sized bear trap had folded him in half, leaving only his ass to dangle. He had seen a man break his back once—tossed out a third-story window by his uncle—and it occurred to Giuseppe he should attempt wiggling his fingers and toes. Thank God, he thought, as he felt his digits press against the soles of his boots, I am not crippled. Slowly, the shock began to wear off and the pain began to localize. It hurt most in one place.

It was an unbearable position and he squirmed and fought to free himself from between the stairs. He could not stand being so vulnerable and he worked desperately to extricate his limbs. In his efforts, Giuseppe keeled abruptly to his right and smashed his right cheek against the sideboard that framed the stairs. “Faccia di merda!” Giuseppe hollered as he lay there stuck and panting. Curiously, his right hand made contact with an object underneath the stairs. It felt like a small olive-storing vessel, the kind people kept in their kitchen. He pushed on the vessel. It was solid and provided some extra leverage to help free his hips and buttocks. Now he leaned to the right, wiggled his hips and back, pressed harder against the olive vessel and, with a great show of effort, managed to roll all the way over his right shoulder. With a grunt and a thud, he fell to the ground on his left hip and shoulder.

Partially underneath the stairs, Giuseppe laid in a semi-fetal position, his face upon the cool earthen floor, catching his breath. Finally, he could see the broken and splintered wood in front of him; the third stair had split right in half. His right buttock pulled one way, his left buttock pulled the other, causing his poor little asshole to stretch and tear. He noticed a droplet of oil dangling from a splinter of wood. He reached out and touched it, rubbing the oil between his fingertips. Fresh oil? Testa di Cazzo. What idiot would spill oil on the stairs and not clean it up? Next to the broken stair Giuseppe spotted the small olive vessel that his hand had discovered. This was not the proper place where jars this small were stored. He reached out and slid it closer to him. It was full of something. Liquid? Olives? With a groan, he sat up and lifted the lid from the jar. Indeed, there were olives inside: plump, purple and floating in brine. They didn’t look like any olives his mill produced. He popped one into his