Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,2

He slid himself a bit closer to the large burlap cloth stacked with ripe tomatoes—close enough so that he could catch one more whiff of their beloved fragrance—and then, one by one, he began to gently set them into the hay-lined basket. A layer of hay, a layer of tomatoes, a layer of hay, a layer of tomatoes, two deep and well cushioned for the bumpy three-hour ride ahead. It would be a hot journey too, and though the sun had just begun to rise, Davido found himself sweating uncomfortably beneath the heavy robe he wore. With a curt sniff, he caught an anxious undertone in his sweat that always reminded him of rotting onions. Of course, a heavy wool robe worn in summer made him perspire, but it was the girl who caused his sweat to stink.

The monk’s robe was a necessary burden that Nonno had thought up many years ago while hiding about the cities of Tuscany. Nonno realized then that nothing protected a traveling Ebreo like the brown robe of a mendicant monk, a heavy wood cross dangling about the chest and a few well-said phrases in Latin. Hence, whenever Davido or Nonno or any of the extended family members living on the farm traveled to Florence, Pitigliano, Livorno or any other city, they did so draped in the hefty robes of Franciscan monks and pulled along by humble donkeys.

“By and by!” Davido shouted to his grandfather to let him know the wagon was just about set. Davido spread a large burlap cloth over the back of the wagon. The tomatoes would be fine exposed to the sun, but it would be imprudent for a pair of false monks to openly travel with a cart full of Love Apples. It was unlikely that anyone they happened to cross paths with would know what a tomato was, but nonetheless, as Nonno often repeated, it was always best to keep suspicions at bay. Davido then walked into the barn to load a basket with some provisions: a loaf of bread; a hunk of cheese; a few bottles, some with water, others with wine; a handful of figs and a half dozen peaches. He and Nonno would have tonight’s Sabbath meal with the family of his betrothed, spend the night with friends in the ghetto and then leave early Sunday morning for the return home, but they would need food and drink for the journey there.

Nonno heard a touch of anger in his grandson’s voice and it bent his lips into a wry smile. As of yet, the boy expressed no excitement for his pending nuptial. The day would be trying, Nonno was certain of that, and he took one more solid gaze upon his donkey for inspiration, when something about the absurd sight triggered his memory. “Mio Dio,” Nonno whispered as the bizarre and often heartbreaking life adventure that brought him from Toledo to Tuscany flashed suddenly before his mind’s eye: the three-month-long voyage aboard Cristoforo Colombo’s ship in search of a new route to the Orient, and the stroke of pure dumb luck (Colombo’s greatest virtue, Nonno always felt), whereby they happened upon an entirely new world instead. Nonno’s ten desperate years after being abandoned by Colombo on the island of Guanahani. His life, his wife, among the island’s natives. The return trip with Colombo back to Europe and his escape to Tuscany. The decade spent in semi-hiding while Spanish operatives searched tirelessly to discover the former finance minister who had so brazenly robbed Colombo of nearly half his treasure. The plague that ravaged Florence some fifteen years past—a horrendous scourge that took the life of his second wife, only son and daughter-in-law, and left him to raise a grandson of seven and a granddaughter of thirteen. But most raw upon Nonno’s memory was the life sacrifice his granddaughter had made, dead now nearly two years. Nonno closed his eyes and let his past wash over him with the first breeze of the day.

It was time, time to head to Florence, and Nonno inhaled deeply to inoculate himself against the ghetto’s summer stench with the farm’s good air, when, suddenly, the strangest notion crossed his mind. It was a thought so visceral that his hand almost mimicked the gesture he had witnessed ten thousand times, and he contemplated how, if he’d been born a Cristiano, this would be a perfect time to cross himself. Alas, Ebrei have no gesture like that, and as Nonno stepped to the wagon,