by Adam Schell
The crowd came to a halt—an exquisite moment of stillness before they burst with elation. Giuseppe had been brought to his knees by tomato and onion, egg and cheese. But not even this odd victory could prepare the villagers’ eyes, for that which came next took all by surprise. There, parting the crowd, without clothing or single shroud, together upon a lone donkey and naked for all to see, came Benito and Bobo the Fool. But wait! In a delicious twist of fate, sure as sagging bosoms sway by donkey’s gait, appeared the naked truth that only the duke knew: Bobo the Fool was a woman. And by Fungi di Santo‘s magical glory, last night must have been some story, for all the rancor their relationship was formerly made of now appeared transformed into a sweet, sweet love.
The entire piazza stared. There was no denying it: Bobo’s naked flesh was too close at hand, passing right before the eye. Perhaps by age, or more likely from decades of flattening, Bobo’s bosoms hung like the teats of an old cow milked half to death; but they were bosoms nonetheless. And by virtue of Benito’s blissful demeanor they seemed more than good enough for him.
Benito halted his donkey as close to Giuseppe as the mash of food surrounding him would allow. With what little awareness Giuseppe had left, he too gazed at Benito. The donkey lowered its head and began to selectively feed upon the weapons of Giuseppe’s destruction. Benito blithely took little notice of anything other than Giuseppe and let the donkey eat freely. Bobo kept her arms wrapped around Benito’s barrel-like belly, her cheek resting lovingly against his back. Even to Davido, who knew him little, but especially to those who knew him well, Benito appeared transformed, like a large, naked, hairy and adorable cherub.
“Poor love-lost Giuseppe,” said Benito without a trace of rancor; the little voice inside his head vanquished as surely as Giuseppe had been. “By willing hands and supple head you’ve played me through a life of dread. And while the plans and profit have been all yours, sadly, it’s been I who’s done the chores. You, the shameless, beguiling bully, deceived me into undoing that pulley. The deed that killed Mari’s father. And now you aim to twist love with wretched lies, and once again, look to profit by love’s demise. But love, Giuseppe”— Benito paused and looked pityingly upon his former boss— “love must win.”
Benito lifted his gaze from Giuseppe and regarded Mari. “Sweet girl,” he said contritely, “I am sorry, so very, very sorry.” And with that Benito gently prodded his donkey and the pair of naked lovers began their slow exit from the piazza.
“Cousin,” said Bobo playfully as she turned her head to look upon Cosimo. “Wouldn’t this all make for a lovely Opera dei Pupi?” And that was all she said, keeping her eyes and smile on Cosimo for one last moment.
Cosimo, who was lying on his side being tended to by Mucca, could not help but smile back. “Yes,” he said softly, “it certainly would.”
The crowd watched as the fool and the slob they thought they knew so well waddled off together upon their donkey, arms wrapped around each other. It was quite a bit to take in. All that had transpired in the past few minutes was a lifetime’s worth of secrets, deceits, treacheries, revelations and reunions. And, as the donkey carrying Bobo and Benito cleared the piazza, all eyes returned to Giuseppe: the villain, the usurper, the murderer of Mari’s father.
Mucca stood up from the side of Cosimo and gathered Giuseppe’s fallen dagger from the ground. She shook the slop from it and walked over to Mari. Using the dagger, she cut the rope that bound Mari’s hands and feet to the donkey. The Cheese Maker approached Davido, removed his own large apron and tied it around the boy’s waist, covering the parts of his nakedness that Cosimo’s coat had not. He then took a small knife and cut the rope that tied Davido’s hands.
The crowd stood in silence as Mari rolled off her donkey and rubbed her sore wrists. She could now do whatever she wanted. The awful truth had been revealed: Giuseppe had killed her father and he’d planned this current ruse to destory both her and Davido. She could kill him if she chose to—even use Giuseppe’s own dagger and stab it through his heart— and no one would act to stop her. Mari stood there, taking in the evil that for the last decade had been her stepfather. She’d spent years imagining Giuseppe’s destruction, how she would love to see him humiliated and vanquished, and how she needed to be the one to do it. But now that he lay beaten and crumpled upon the ground, wheezing for breath, Mari saw Giuseppe for what he really was: a friendless, petty tyrant. A peasant, really, just like all the villagers, though a peasant with two coins to rub together. However, now that the illusion of wealth and power was broken, Giuseppe had nothing, he was nothing. And the one thing that makes life bearable, love, Giuseppe had not even that—not for anyone, nor anyone for him. And this, Mari understood—as she thought of Davido, of her father, her mother, the Good Padre, the village that had come to her defense—made Giuseppe a creature truly worthy of pity. And so Mari did nothing, for Giuseppe was nothing.
She lifted her gaze, looked to the crowd. She found the eyes of the Good Padre; they were waiting for her, bright, wide, loving and baffling as ever. She smiled at him, and he at her, a smile worth a lifetime of gratitude. Mari then looked to her mother. Her eyes were also waiting for her daughter’s gaze, but her eyes were different now, brighter, wider and more resplendent with love than they had been in a decade. Mari then turned to Davido. Of course his eyes were waiting, waiting with ten thousand arrows of love that Mari instantly felt pierce her heart. She was not sure that the village’s vanquishing of Giuseppe equaled a sanctifying of her love for the Ebreo; nevertheless, she could not stop her feet from following her heart.
The crowd stood there watching as Mari walked to the boy and then kissed him sweetly upon the cheek; stood there mesmerized as the boy blushed and despite his cuts and bruises looked suddenly like the happiest man in all of Tuscany; stood there thinking precisely what Nonno also thought, that there are times in life when it’s possible to believe that a just and fair God rules the world. First Bertolli, then Mari’s mother, then Mucca, the Cheese Maker, Vincenzo, Signore Coglione and the entire crowd turned to look at the Good Padre, and saw that he too was looking and smiling in the direction of Mari and Davido, that their wonderful, baffling, mind-boggling priest seemed to approve of this love and sanctify it in the eyes of Church and God. And then, like a bottle of Lambrusco, that odd, sparkling wine that the people of Parma prefer to drink, the cork of triumph popped. Mari leapt into Davido’s arms. The crowd exploded with merriment, and the couple kissed with the exact and perfect zeal that Cupid reserves for lovers who have just overcome great odds!
And the crowd too followed Cupid’s bow. There was spontaneous hugging and joyous slaps upon the back, laughter and tears of joy. Mucca and Vincenzo hugged, as did the Cheese Maker and Mari’s mother, Bertolli and his uncle Signore Coglione. Even Augusto Po, who had not hugged another human in forty-three years, found himself improbably— delightfully—wrapped inside the huge, warm arms of the Good Padre. But just then, as the entire town frothed and bubbled with jubilation, an incredible clatter of hooves dispirited the celebration and a dozen gleaming stallions came galloping into the piazza.
The cadre of Meducci guards drew their horses to a halt and the crowd recoiled nervously. Most in the village rarely, if ever, had seen a Meducci guardsman and the sight of a dozen battle-hardened, elaborately adorned soldiers atop their fierce horses turned the mood from gaiety to anxiety in a heartbeat. Cosimo, however, feared he knew why his chef would take such a risk.
“My lord!” cried Luigi Campoverde upon finding his boss lying on his side with a bolt stuck in his buttock and a cloth compressed against the wound. He quickly dismounted and hurried to the duke’s side.
“Just a scratch,” Cosimo answered his chef, waving off his concern. But the look of desperation upon Luigi’s face could not be waved off and Cosimo felt his heart sink.
“My lord,” Luigi repeated, hardly able to say the words, “your son.”
The Meducci guards dismounted and scanned the crowd for dangerous el
ements. The lead guard stepped forward and a burst of nerves swam up Davido’s spine. He recognized him. It was the older guard whom he’d led in prayer and who’d given him a pouch of gold coins just eleven days ago.
The lead guard rushed to Cosimo’s side and gestured to the crossbow bolt sticking from the duke’s buttock. Cosimo flicked his chin in the direction of the bloodied and beaten man sitting in a pile of food muck, mumbling deliriously. The lead guard nodded to the duke, then removed a cudgel from his belt, approached Giuseppe and whacked him across the back of the head.
Mari, Davido and the entire crowd groaned, not with empathy for Giuseppe, but more at the ruthless efficiency of the guardsman. The fierce soldier cracked Giuseppe across the head the way a skilled chef cracks an egg one-handed: deft enough to spill the yolk without getting a trace of shell in the bowl. And just like that, Giuseppe fell face-first into the slop —unconscious, but not dead.
The lead guard restashed his cudgel then returned to the duke’s side. He took a leather bit from a satchel attached to his belt and handed it to the duke. With haste, Cosimo placed the bit between his teeth and braced his hands upon Luigi’s arm.
The lead guard now set his hand on the bolt and eyed Cosimo. “I’ll pull on three,” he explained, suggesting to all present that this was not the first time he’d dealt with an arrow sticking from someone’s flesh. “Uno, due …” The lead guard pulled on two.
“Ay!” Cosimo reeled and his jaw clamped down on the leather bit.
“Mi scusi,” said the lead guard as he held the bloody arrow.
Cosimo nodded approvingly, knowing his man had done the procedure exactly right. The lead guard then took out a small vial of honey, scooped some onto his finger and pressed it into Cosimo’s wound. Next, he undid the burgundy sash from around his own waist and tied a figure-eight knot, weaving it around Cosimo’s hips, waist and thighs, effectively securing and compressing the wound. All told, the operation took hardly a minute and thoroughly impressed the village folk.
Luigi and the lead guard now helped the duke to his feet. “Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third,” the lead guard announced, “Grand Duke of Tuscany!” And then he rapped his sword three times upon the cobblestones and all the members of the Guard dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.
Mari looked to Davido, Mucca looked to the Cheese Maker, Augusto Po looked to Vincenzo. It was true! The odd vagrant in their midst was who he claimed to be. Accordingly, every villager in the piazza followed the guards’ lead, lowering themselves onto one knee and bowing their heads.
“Raise your heads,” commanded Cosimo, acting decidedly more like a king than a farmer. “Guards,” he gestured to where Giuseppe lay, “take this man. Bind him and toss him in the dankest, darkest and most dismal prison in all of Tuscany. There he shall stay, and there he shall have a special sentence. These fruits of red that lie about him, they are called tomatoes, and they are all he shall be fed. And when it is winter,” the duke looked to Davido and paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next, “he will eat dried tomatoes—tomatoes dried by the sun.”
Now, there’s an idea, mused Davido and the Good Padre at the very same instant: sun-dried tomatoes.
“He will have only water and tomatoes for the remainder of his days. And so it is.” The duke flicked his wrist in the direction of Giuseppe, indicating that he was through addressing that subject.
The lead guard pointed to a pair of junior guards, and then pointed to the criminal in question. The junior guards sprung to their feet, dragged Giuseppe from the food mess and began to bind him up.
“Now,” continued Cosimo, loud enough for all to hear, “the olive mill, the vineyards, the orchards that were wrongfully his, I return rightfully to Mari. And as for you two,” Cosimo proclaimed while limping over to Mari and Davido and gesturing for them to rise, “I do not care much for religion, but I care a great deal about love. And your love will be protected as long as I am duke. But we Meduccis are not known for our longevity, so I would suggest that you choose one religion. Which one, I do not care. But be of that, marry in that and live in that. And know that a life lived for love is a life lived in God.” Cosimo leaned in and lowered his voice for only Davido and Mari to hear: “I will keep an eye on you both and may your sister in heaven keep an eye on us all.”
Cosimo then smiled as he stepped away from the couple and, with the aid of his chef, hobbled toward the battalion. The pair of guards who had bound Giuseppe now heaved him up onto a horse’s back and secured him there with rope. Subsequently, the lead guard and two others lifted Cosimo onto the back of his exquisitely muscled horse. All the Meducci guards followed suit and mounted up, some of them, including Luigi, mounting up two per saddle. Davido caught the eye of the lead guard as he settled into his saddle behind the duke. A glimmer of recognition crinkled the old warrior’s brow, followed by the slightest of smirks.
From atop his horse, Cosimo gazed down upon the gathering of villagers who, for the last three weeks, had been his peers—his salvation. “Good-bye, my friends,” he said with a raise of his hand, “you have been so very good and kind to me; indeed, you are the noblest kin in all of Tuscany.” Without even realizing that he had rhymed his language like a peasant, Cosimo gave a nod and the lead guard stirred his horse to action. Please God, thought Cosimo, as the entire battalion galloped from the piazza, let me see my son one last time.
“Look,” said Bertolli, breaking the extended silence. They had all been mesmerized: Davido, Mari, the Good Padre, the Cheese Maker, Mucca, Signore Coglione, Vincenzo, Augusto Po and all the villagers gathered in the piazza—gazing in the direction where Cosimo di Pucci de’ Meducci the Third and his Guardia Nobile di Meducci had just galloped from the piazza. Of all the things unimaginable just one hour ago, none was more fantastic than the realization that for the last three weeks the Duke of Tuscany had been living and working among them.
“Look!” Bertolli repeated more urgently. Heads turned and Davido felt his heart tumble. It was Nonno. Davido ran to the wagon; Mari followed and everyone closed in. Apparently, Nonno had fallen from his seat, fallen backward and landed in the wagon-bed upon the few tomatoes that had not been thrown. Moreover, he’d landed in such a way that his head had squashed a ripe tomato and splattered its red, watery innards into something like a nimbus of pulp and seeds.
Nonno was dead—he had to be. As Menzogna wrote: How taste the sweet with the bitter? He had died with his eyes wide open—as if he saw death coming—wet and misty with tears. He had died with a grin, profoundly pleased that life had given him just enough answers: that people could be good and righteous, that his granddaughter had not whored herself to a scoundrel and that the duke was an honorable man. The grin too expressed Nonno’s equal pleasure that life had left him with just enough mystery: not to have to live to see whether his grandson became a Cattolico or his granddaughter-in-law an Ebreo.
Davido began to sob, because it’s the tragedy of life that hits first and hardest. They were all dead now—his mother, his father, his sister and now Nonno. Old as his grandfather was, Davido never imagined that Nonno, who’d evaded death on so many occasions, would one day succumb to it. All that was good and glorious about the day instantly evaporated and Davido plummeted into a sea of sadness. Davido’s emotional descent was powerful and its tide pulled Mari into it, and she began to sob too. She sobbed at first because Davido sobbed and he was her family now. She sobbed for the seemingly sweet grandfather she would never know. She sobbed because now she knew the truth: that her own father had been stolen from her and that the murderer had then usurped everything her father had built, and that was a tragedy that demanded sobbing.
All the villagers in the piazza began to sob as well. They sobbed for the old man because he seemed sweet and brave and as loving and loyal as a grandfather should be. They sobbed for Davido, because he seemed to love his grandfather so very much. The sobbing grew, because Mari’s plight was something that made every villager weepy and ashamed. Her
father had been murdered and despite suspicions and ill feelings toward Giuseppe, either by reason of cowardice or coin, they’d all turned a blind eye to everything that was bad about him. They sobbed because the Good Padre sobbed, and because the morning had carried with it such an array of emotions that sobbing felt like a natural thing to do.
At first, those present in the piazza sobbed for what was before their eyes, but then the villagers began to sob for themselves, over things unseen. They sobbed for parents and grandparents who’d passed away, and for children and friends and anyone else who still needed to be sobbed over. They sobbed because life is nothing if not a constant reconciliation with death and sadness and loss that leaves one no choice but to sob—to sob or lose one’s mind. They sobbed for the mere and holy and cathartic sake of sobbing. They sobbed because life can be cruel and ironic and because the perfect resolution had been stolen from them: just when evil was vanquished and goodness restored, a sweet old man had died and salted their comedy with tears.
The communal expression of sadness continued for some time, until the moment Davido felt Mari’s hand touch his and her farm-strong and olive-oil-soft fingers interlace with his. The touch was enough—more than enough—to initiate Davido’s transformation from sobbing to laughter. He was not alone, for as surely as something had died, something else had been born. And just as his sobbing had been a descent that pulled all around him downward, his laughter was an ascent of even greater power. Davido began to laugh, because it’s the comedy of life that tends to hit second and softest, and, God willing, stay with us the longest. He laughed because he could now see all that was ironic and sublime about Nonno’s death. The old man had died upon a bed of Love Apples, after all, with a nimbus of crushed tomatoes around his head and a gathering of Cattolici to mourn him. He’d died with his hand upon his heart and a grin upon his face. Died knowing that his granddaughter’s paramour was a just and decent man, and that his grandson had found a love that was good and true. Died in nearly the exact way and in the exact spot that his favorite donkey had died just a few days earlier, and what could be more hilarious than that?