“Tony, we’re ready for you,” the bander shouted over the crowd, and Tony came over.
“Is the D’Amico loft entered?” Tony asked, though he didn’t care. It was a ruse.
The bander skimmed the master lists. A schoolteacher, he wore glasses and was one of the few who could read. “Yes, they are coming.”
Tony nodded. “How about Coluzzi loft?”
“They, too. Now get your birds, boy.”
Tony unloaded his birds, carting his pigeons in cage by cage for banding, barely paying attention. Before a three-hundred-kilometer race he would usually be very nervous, but this time his nerves were for Silvana. It was almost worse knowing she would be here. When would she come? Did she know the tomatoes were for her? And from him? He held the first bird so it didn’t struggle while the man slipped a band on his leg.
They made quick work of banding the others, then Tony loaded them on the big cart to be taken to the release. Outside he kept looking around. All the carts were there, the horses grazing and pawing the earth impatiently, but none were Coluzzi’s. Where were they? If Coluzzi didn’t get here soon he would be disqualified. Almost all the birds were loaded onto the big cart. The drivers were preparing to leave. The sun had almost set. Sundown was the official close of entries, because nobody could see anything in the clubhouse in the dark and the entry fees had a way of getting lost.
Tony stood dismayed as the president of the combine came out of the clubhouse, holding a strongbox with the entry fees. The vice president tucked the master lists under his arm. Now that the hard work was over, the club members laughed and joked, making side bets and having cigarettes and Chianti before the ride back to their homes. Tony felt the weight of disappointment.
“I thought Coluzzi had entered,” he said to the president when he passed by.
The president shrugged. “He didn’t show up, I guess. You be the one to scold him,” he added, and the other men laughed loudly.
After a time the members trailed to their carts, mounted up, and clucked to their horses to trot. Night had fallen, and the air was cool and sweet. Tony waited until the last one had left, busying himself with false adjustments to his cart and the pony’s halter, hoping Coluzzi and Silvana would arrive. He was worried about Silvana. What if she was sick? Or hurt? What if Coluzzi had found out about his gifts? Was she in danger?
Tony had to know. It was late and his father would worry, but he climbed aboard the cart and they trotted off, the pony knowing the way without being told. They arrived in Mascoli, clip-clopped their way through the city at night, then climbed the dirt roads to Silvana’s house. Tony had no gift, having expected to see Silvana at the shipping, but he was too worried to bother about it. He didn’t know what he would do when he got to her house; he would decide then. He was driven to make sure she was okay.
Tony slowed his pony to a halt in front of her house, and from his vantage point atop the cart he could see into its second floor. A light was on, shining through sheer lace curtains, and inside he could see the form of Silvana, appearing through a doorway and entering the room.
His heart leaped up at the sight. She was well. She was fine. Her outline was gauzy with lace but he could see her slipping a scarf from her lovely dark hair, as if she had been out that night, and his heart sank. She had been with Coluzzi, to dinner at a restaurant perhaps. Tony heard they did such things in cities.
He looked away from the window. Another man would have thrown pebbles at her window to speak to her. Another man would have pounded the doorbell, demanding to see her. Another man would have made himself known, but Tony did none of these things. He shook his head, hating himself. He would never have her. He didn’t deserve her. His gifts were stupid. Only a bumpkin would leave tomatoes on a woman’s doorstep.
Tony turned the pony around and they walked home, both downcast. The night was black and starless, so the full moon shone down on them, lighting their way out of pity. The mountain breeze blew cool and sweet, but Tony barely noticed. Moon, man, and cart traveled down the road; the creak of the wheels and the soft thumping of the pony’s wide hooves were the only sound. Tony would apologize profusely to his parents when he got home, and on Sunday he would make yet another confession for his disobedience. In the meantime he wouldn’t give up on Silvana. Perhaps he needed to leave a fancier gift on her doorstep. Fresh olives perhaps, or a hard wedge of locatelli. Women loved locatelli. At least his mother did.
Tony reached his farm, unhitched the pony, and turned him out into the field with a pat on the rump, then walked to the house. His mother had left a lamp on for him, and he could see both his parents inside, sleeping in their chairs, waiting for his return. His heart softened with guilt and he opened the door. He was just about to go inside when he saw it. There, slightly to the left of the door, was a bright spot in the moonlight. It looked like a small white package.
Tony blinked. Was it true? Was it a wish? He knelt down and looked at it. It was his confirmation handkerchief!
Tony reached for it, though his hand was trembling with excitement. Silvana had put it there. Found his house and left it there. She had done this, for him! Here was where she had been tonight. Not the opera, not the cinema. Here! This very spot.
Tony plopped down on the doorstep and unwrapped the handkerchief. Inside was the most perfect tomato he had ever seen. He marveled at it, turning it this way and that, and the shine of its thin skin caught the light from the window. If Silvana had bought it, she was more talented than he knew. If she had grown it, she was a genius. Silvana had given it to him, a gift of love, and so there was only one thing to do with it, which was what he had imagined she had done with hers.
Tony took a big bite of Silvana’s tomato, letting its juice and slippery seeds squirt from the sides of his mouth, unmindful that he looked like a complete fool, so besotted was he with its source. He chewed it slowly, savoring the tomato as if he hadn’t eaten one before, its taste so wonderful it needed neither salt nor pepper. He gobbled the whole fruit in one sitting, the water running through his fingers in rivulets, and when he was finished, Tony understood that Silvana’s tomato was truly one thing and one thing only:
Their first kiss.
Chapter 20
Judy, still warm from Frank’s kiss, couldn’t fight the feeling that they were playing house as Frank gave her a hand through a broken and weather-beaten door in the back of the springhouse to its second floor. “I’ll fix the steps tomorrow,” he said.
“I was expecting to be carried over the threshold.”
“Don’t make me call your bluff,” he warned, and Judy felt an unaccountable thrill. She loved how direct he was, and his kiss had been like eating something delicious. Only prudence had stopped her from a full-blown make-out session, that and the nagging worry that her client could be watching. As it was, Pigeon Tony was beaming at her from the springhouse, holding a Coleman lantern aloft like a stumpy Statue of Liberty. Judy didn’t need to ask how much he had witnessed; from his expression, he was already picking out a china pattern. She looked away, embarrassed. Her tongue had breached several ethical canons and was contemplating more.