colossal green olive from Sicily, and his head, the girth and glabrous sheen of a Mantuan pumpkin in late November. His teeth were like the large acorns that dropped from white oak trees in November, and when he smiled, which he often did, his mouth curved and broadened to the size of an August carob bean hanging from a tree in Lucca. His wide eyes emanated both the wholesome allure and the glint of playfulness that can only be understood if one has sliced a ripe Umbrian fig through the belly of its width and gazed upon its starry innards. Indeed, the Good Padre was a man of startling and perplexing complexion, but as part of his curse (more of a magical enchantment, really), certain physical and temporal details evaded his perception and he had not the slightest idea that his size and color were the least bit unusual.
“Gli Ebrei,” uttered Bertolli as he lowered the letter from his eyes. A thousand invectives the old padre had spewed burst inside Bertolli’s head. His heart began to pound so loudly it clogged his ears from the inside out. “Oh, God!” Bertolli cursed himself as he darted from the confessional. “Why did I let the Good Padre teach me how to read?” But Bertolli’s mind was so astir from the shocking news that his eyes saw not what they had seen a thousand times before, and he promptly crashed into the wood bench of the church’s rearmost row.
A vivid terror overtook Bertolli as he looked up to see the church pews toppling upon one another, one by one. In the stillness of trauma, Bertolli knew exactly what to do and he clearly envisioned he had the strength and agility to stop the toppling rows. However, fate was far more ironic, and as Bertolli sprang to action, he failed to release his grip upon the papal letter, which had gotten pinched between the fallen rows, thus causing him to tear the fine parchment entirely in two.
“Bertolli,” the Good Padre sighed as he heard the spectacular racket echoing from inside the church. He began to count the seconds until the spirited boy would appear before him, panting, all too ready with a fanciful excuse. At roughly the count of four, the Good Padre heard the distant shout of “Padre!” crackling from the boy’s prepubescent larynx. By the count of nine, the voice was right behind him.
“Padre,” Bertolli said, gasping for breath, “urgent news.”
Ignoring the boy’s frenzy, the Good Padre remained on one knee alongside the row of eggplants. With great care, as if detaching a newborn from its mother’s umbilical cord, he separated the eggplant he’d been holding from its vine, lifted it to his nose and gave it a sniff.
“Take heed of this eggplant’s vital glow.” The Good Padre spoke out loud, though not at his altar boy. “But what was key to its bountiful growth? By water and sun both fruit and man can survive, but what are the means by which we thrive? For in richness of man and richness of earth, there is one special nutrient that gives bounty birth. And this nutrient so natural to her soul,” the Good Padre gestured to the statue of the Virgin, “does too make man and land whole.” “But Padre—” Bertolli attempted to speak. “You see, young Bertolli,” said the Good Padre, “this eggplant grows more splendid than another ‘cause it grows by love of the Sacred Mother. And when by love, man or fruit does render, we blossom to beings of utter splendor.” Taking no particular notice of the torn letter, the Good Padre stood up, handed Bertolli the eggplant and took a deep inhale.
“Boun Pa …” said Bertolli, until the word suddenly deflated upon his tongue. He was halted by the length and depth of the Good Padre’s inhale and how his already massive frame seemed to expand like a sail catching wind. The sound too was overwhelming, a great drawing in of air that played before the ear like a giant bellows stoking a blacksmith’s kiln. “Urgent tidings,” the boy said meekly, his fervor undone by awe.
“Ah, do you smell this morn’s fine air?” said the Good Padre. “Oh, the joy to be young and without care! Now, young Bertolli, listen to your padre and the wasted youth that I’ll attest, less time in church and more at play would do you best.” The Good Padre paused as it occurred to him he couldn’t exactly remember his own youth.
“But Padre,