by Adam Schell
Heads nodded; voices murmured in support. It was a good rhyme and well spoken, and a majority of the tavern-goers were now drunk enough to be stirred by such bluster.
“Bravo, Vincenzo!” shouted Signore Coglione from behind the bar as he set a wooden box upon the bar in front of Bobo. “Bobo, wise fool and poet, make us a toast. A toast of Vincenzo’s pride.”
The tavern erupted in gaiety as Bobo opened the wooden case before him. Cosimo felt his hairs stand on end and his life flash before his eyes. “Good God,” he said softly, any doubt in his mind vacating. It was his cousin Bobo; for people can change and age to become nearly unrecognizable, but puppets always stay the same.
“Coglione,” growled Vincenzo under his breath, “you had to fetch the puppet.”
With a flurry of taps and a fluttering of arms, Bobolito came to life upon the bar. His big wooden eyes with their dark pupils stared intently at Vincenzo; his eyelids fluttered adoringly. “A toast,” Bobolito’s jaw opened and closed in near-perfect mimicry of speech. The marionette spoke with a slight falsetto—not quite man, not quite woman.
Cosimo looked about the tavern. To a person they were enraptured by Bobolito’s peculiar, near-life-like movements, just as the Meducci court had been thirty years ago. Bobolito wore the 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.
“Ah,” said Vincenzo loudly in Benito’s direction, “you break for the whores’ door.”
“No,” answered Benito indignantly over the smattering of laughter. “Benito wishes to speak.”
“Yoooou?” mocked Vincenzo.
“Quiet, neighbors!” Bobolito angrily stomped its puppet leg upon the bar. “Simmer down!” Heads turned to Bobolito. The tavern quieted. “This forum is open to wise man and fool, and as some use tongue for speech, others for drool. So listen up, neighbors, show respect, make not a peep, for far better Benito in here than out pleasuring your sheep.”
“Ay,” said Benito over a chorus of baas as he sat down defeatedly, “’Tis safer to be mocked by a man than defended by a puppet.”
“Basta!” said Giuseppe with sufficient force to bring the flock to order. “Puppet, that is enough out of you.”
Bobolito’s head drooped and his body went lifeless.
“Come now, Benito,” Giuseppe turned to his underling, “take not to heart what’s made in jest; speak your speech like all the rest.”
Benito strained to recall the gist of what Giuseppe wanted him to say, and therefore spoke with a hesitancy and ponderousness that was unlike his usual speech. But mostly, Benito was still thinking about Mari, and this did indeed lend a tenderness to his speech that caught the tavern by surprise. “Of these Ebrei,” Benito began, “I too am riddled with suspicion, but must confess, my doubt does wilt through a common ill-nutrition. Oh, my head does too move against my heart, but I know the bitter taste of a life apart. For Benito, no joyous children, no faithful spouse. It’s work at the mill, drink at the tavern, then home to empty house. And what for me is sour to swallow and goes down rank, does it not too leave an Ebreo’s heart blank? For hard enough it is for Benito to sleep in empty home, but at least this village, this tavern, I can call my own. Is it then right for Benito to do in kind, and make worse for them the loneliness that plagues my heart and mind? Is this what our Cristo would deem
us to do, act unto another as you’d not like unto you?”
Well, that was not the kind of sentiment one had come to expect from Benito, and the tavern fell absolutely silent, Bobolito and all.
In which We Contemplate
the Difference Between Dirt & Earth
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” “Hmm,” the Good Padre chuckled, “really?” “Padre! Please, I have.”
“Oh, Mari,” he sighed amicably from behind the small rectangle of latticed iron that divided the confessional, “I don’t believe it.”
“Good Padre,” Mari did her best to keep from laughing, “I’m supposed to be anonymous.”
“Then what is the point of trust and friendship?”
The question stumped Mari and was an instant reminder why she adored the Good Padre. “Nevertheless,” said Mari, “it’s true, this time I have sinned.”
“Well, I assure you, God will no doubt forgive a daughter who serves her mother so selflessly, and a farmer who deals grapes and olives so deliciously.”
“But Good Padre …” Mari paused, desperate to tell him, to tell someone. “My … my … thoughts. My mind—”
“Oh, Mari,” the Good Padre gently interrupted Mari’s faltering speech. “The mind is a monkey. It leaps from branch to branch, tree to tree. The more you try to house it, the quicker it slips free. Concern yourself with actions, with kind words and busy hands. Rest assured, God more than enough rejoices in how you treat your mother and how you love your land.”
Mari’s heart swelled. Until the arrival of the Good Padre, Mari had been dead set against the Sacrament of Reconciliation. The idea of the old padre acting in persona Cristi sickened her. She went to confession the two times a year that she had to and no more, and she told only false trifles then. She would have sooner spilt her blood than given a true penance to that wretched old louse. But within a month of the Good Padre’s tenure she began to take a weekly confession. She knew half the village could hardly form a coherent sentence in his presence, but for Mari just the opposite was the case. Yes, something about him was indeed quite baffling, but he emanated a love that loosed both Mari’s heart and tongue. Heaven knows, her near-constant stream of vengeful, hateful thoughts toward her stepfather had begun to poison her mind, and one day, without plan or forethought, she found herself inside the church’s confessional baring her soul to the Good Padre.
Today, however, was different. Truly, she was too enraptured to much condemn herself for what she was feeling, but she feared God and village might. And she sought confession to both share her excitement with someone and gauge the potential unholiness of her desire through the Good Padre’s reaction. After all, if she really thought about it, which she didn’t often do—she kept herself too busy with olives—the Good Padre was her only true confidant.
“Thank you, Good Padre, you are most kind. But my mind has been …” Mari searched for the courage to admit her feelings. “My thoughts have been … they have been replete with lust and desire.”
“Well,” said the Good Padre cheerily, “’Tis certainly a nicer thing to think than thoughts of blood and vengeance, no?”
“But Good Padre,” Mari paused, again delighted and inspired by his reasoning, “are they not Peccati Mortali?”
“Lust, desire, Mortal Sins?” the Good Padre asked rhetorically. “Well, I guess that all depends on what you desire.”
“Please, Good Padre.” Mari leaned in toward the lattice and brought her voice to a whisper. “Am I not being clear when I say desire?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Do you desire a married man?”
Mari’s eyebrows sprang with shock. “Goodness no!” she blurted. But then, her countenance dropped—mio Dio!—might he be married?
“Well then,” the Good Padre continued, “do you desire a donkey?”
“What?” “A donkey?”
“No,” Mari answered quizzically.
“A goat?” “No.”
“A sheep?” “No.”
“A horse?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Mari. “What are you getting at?”
“Just what then do you desire that is so mortally wrong?”
“A boy!” Mari realized she had just about shouted. “A wonderfully handsome and beautiful boy about my age.”
“Well,” said the Good Padre, “do you think he is a good and honorable young man?”
“Oh, yes, Padre.”
“Is he good to his family and the land?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Is there love in his eyes when he looks at you?”
“Yes … I … I hope so.”
“And when you look at him?”
“Oh, by heaven, yes.” Mari beamed.
“And your heart, Mari, does it tell you that this love is true?”
“Oh, Good Padre, never has it spoken more clearly to me.” “Then what,” said the Good Padre, “could be sinful about that?”
“But … but …” Mari struggled to give words to her thoughts. To confess to the Good Padre that the boy, the wonderful, beautiful, handsome boy who she could not stop thinking about, was—
“Listen, my dear,” the Good Padre mercifully interrupted her stammering, “the evil that you think you’ve come to confess is the true direction of your heart’s compass. There is nothing inherently wrong with lust or desire. They are the natural energies of life, God’s divine fire. Yet in yourself you doubt what in nature you’d rightly trust. For does not the bee desire nectar, or the root for water lust? Without desire how would two sheep combine to make a flock, or eggs and chickens fill the coop without the lusty cock? Do you see, Mari? The energies of the body are replete with God’s grace. Hence, our job as humans is not to judge, but to set them in the right place.”
“Right place?” Mari murmured, overwhelmed.
“Hmm,” the Good Padre continued after a moment’s pause, “let me put it this way: the soil, the earth, in which you set cuttings and the farmer seed, bear the fruit by which man and village feed. In its place, it’s perfect, it’s life-giving earth, but when dragged by foot or hem of skirt, once in the house, we call it dirt. You see, the energy for which we wrongly pitch our mind to hell’s fire is not the problem of the thing, but where we apply the desire. And I am certain, Mari, with your good and noble soul, that desire rightly moves your eyes to where your heart be whole. And, as odd as it may sound, as hard it is to trust, when rightly placed, there’s God in your desire, Holy Spirit in your lust.”
But … Mari heard herself say though her mouth could not bear to actually express the word. It was too delicious, too wonderful a notion to contemplate. To think, even for a second, that her olives and his tomatoes could rightly com-mingle—divined by God, blessed by Holy Spirit.
In which We Learn
Man’s Father’s Technique
for Curing Green olives
When it came to the curing of olives, just about every village in Tuscany claimed it possessed the most flavorful and delicious olives in the land, and that its technique for curing was totally original and superior to all others. But the truth was, virtually all olives were cured using a saltwater brine bath, with the addition of some herbs and spices being the only local variable.
Mari’s father, though, had created a technique for curing green olives that was truly unique to all of Tuscany. Instead of curing the green olives in an open container and changing the brine bath daily for ten days, as was commonly done, he sealed the container and let the olives ferment for ten days in a manner similar to fermenting crushed grapes to make wine. The fermentation process softened the olive’s skin more than the typical brine. It made the flesh juicier and its bite more pungent, even a bit cheese-like, which was both off-putting and enthralling in a way that only cheese can be, and certainly no other olive was.
In recent years, Mari had perfected the process further. She discovered that fresh-picked green olives were best left unwashed so that their naturally occurring yeasts could promote and enhance the fermentatio
n. Here was how the process worked: the fresh-picked green olives were set into an enormous, chest-high earthen vessel and then mixed with sea salt, water and a few handfuls of leaves from a bay laurel tree. The vessel was then sealed with a heavy clay top with a small hole so the gases could escape and prevent the curing vessels from exploding (a phenomenon that had occurred on more than one occasion when Mari’s father was first experimenting with the process). The vessel was then left to ferment for upward of ten days.
And so it was that on this Sunday afternoon of early September (six days since we left Mari at the piazza and Benito at the tavern, and one week to the day of the Feast of the Drunken Saint), Mari was busy at work inside the olive mill, bent over the large salt bin filling buckets in preparation for the fermentation of the season’s first green olives. Outside the mill, Benito too was supposed to be busy working. Certainly, his body was where it was expected to be, standing before one of the enormous green olive-curing vessels with an equally enormous wood spoon in his hands as he mixed its briny contents of olives, water, salt and bay leaves. But as Benito looked up through the small window into the mill and saw Mari, other things began to stir in him.
With all the awareness of a six-year-old child, Benito pressed his pelvis into the olive vessel’s curve to more fully experience the swelling inside his trousers. These were the delicious first moments of spying, the innocent, boy-like moments when Benito would disappear inside the world of his desire and before the swelling got so great that it would bring on the arrival of La Piccola Voce and its abusive mocking. Mari was, after all, so beautiful.
“Mark her well.”
“Huh!” Benito’s heart jumped.
Standing behind Benito, Giuseppe leaned his chest against Benito’s back and brought his mouth close to Benito’s ear. The added weight further pressed Benito’s mezzo bastone against the vessel and made him very uncomfortable.