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He is in good health, though filled with a sadness that smells like the resin of a sick tree. Sadness the color of crushed irises.
Aria pushes her head into Leon’s hand to comfort him. She knows she is very good at comforting those who need her. And she always knows who needs comforting.
And a tidy trail of dried blood droplets—human in origin, spilled by a male filled with pungent rage. Things the cleaning agent did not catch.
She will find the tiny god. She will do it before anyone else has a chance. And it will change everything.
A cat—best described as a cross between a crumpled tuxedo and a well-used toilet wand—sits vigilant.
The kind of cat who is sitting next to a wine barrel holding a WELCOME! sign outside the last bar of a doomed medieval village. Ready to unleash hell upon any tourist who dares to smuggle an exposed ankle in through its door. For what is a tourist, truly, but an invader with blinding white crew socks and a selfie stick?
She is wearing a floral singlet and a plethora of emotions where a sleeve would be if she was not wearing a singlet.
A sense of duty, assuredly. Perhaps she felt she could make a difference, a delusion as wild as the constellation of poppies crocheted across the Tuscan countryside.
It bears a clean, calming resin of the cypress trees, and something else out there she is not able to smell quite yet. Something sneaky and sulfureous. A garlic cough, cheese ripe with attitude, a naughty note of fruit. A devilish song for the senses. A secret about to be spilled…
A big city allows you to be anonymous, to slink among the streetlights, endlessly reinventing yourself under storefronts and neon signs. But in a tiny tight-knit village—try as you might—you can never hide from who you are.
Given her church-mouse stature, one might not suspect a lot of spice from this woman, but this would be as much of a mistake as gazing up at the night sky and thinking a star is small.
Stefano is known for wearing the brightest and tightest trousers in all of Tuscany. Garments that inspire joy, to Giuseppina especially, who thinks that when strung up along a clothing line, they greatly resemble strands of drying pasta.
“We think she was murdered!” yells Valentina, her twin throwing arms into the air for pathos. It seems early in a comune meeting for a murder accusation, but what would Delizia know? This is only her first.
She is eighty-six, but it seems she has always been as she is now. Wise. Wonderful.
Four hundred and sixty-three. An amount so small it will do nothing for Nonna Amara’s predicament, but it is a large lump sum for the twins.
Delizia feels a warmth watching the villagers brainstorm. Or maybe that is just what it feels like when your heart is breaking, when you feel hopeless.
He has been kidnapped by the past, entangled in memories from a few hours before this present moment.
He has little life experience but enough to know that every moment is his best one yet.
Giovanni, face as red as pomarola sauce, roars out colorful descriptions of the Vespa driver’s corporeal parts. Fagiolo mistakes this for singing, joining in with a happy little howl of his own.
When a dog chooses to love a human, it is a timeless affair of the soul and spirit, a meeting far beyond the mortal body. An eternal entanglement is this mingling of the souls. A loyalty beyond language and all of life’s earthly matter.
How humbling to face a forest as a mere human, a shrunken statue worshipping at the shrine of nature.
A beautiful old man he had become, black hair now a flashy silver, an earned wisdom in his eyes, smile lines deep and lovely because he and Giovanni had made them together over all that time.
Love is a truffle. Delicate. A rarity that takes time to cultivate. A recipe of the right relationships. Sometimes with a too-short shelf life, he thinks. It is an erotic entanglement, an alchemy of chemistry and a seduction of the senses.
“I’ll be in the breeze. I’ll be in the songs of birds and bright shivers through the leaves. I’ll be right here…” He prodded Giovanni in the chest.
“That’s because I have very nice shoes, but when I’m gone, I’ll definitely be more outdoorsy.”
“It’s what any sane human would do in this circumstance!” “No, any human with half a heart would save his home village!
She must host the entire world at the village she’s spent her life running from.
What they look like—unfortunate little lumps that make a potato look glamorous—and what they represent—wealth, refinement, power—are at odds.
You see, the truffle—especially the white truffle—is mysterious. And when something is mysterious, man tries to unlock its secrets for himself. But maybe not everything is a problem to solve or a creature to be cultivated. When we embrace the mysterious, we relinquish our chokehold on control and accept that there is more to life than we can see and know.
Maybe if we don’t explain a thing away, it can simply be a miracle.”
The truffle is the good example with which the fungi show us how to live. Grounded, rooted, they exemplify the power of community and vibrant connection. Truffles are all about trust. Trust that starts at the beginning between fungi and the oak, beechnut, or chestnut tree. Trust between the dog and his human. Trust between a middleman and a hunter over money. Trust all along a complex web of relationships as it journeys from the dirt to a plate. Trust that is popped into the mouth and swallowed. Maybe that is why so many souls go wild for these tubers. Truffles are the taste of trust.”
Vittoria has read enough folktales to panic over her grandmother walking in the woods.
Nonna’s home has been pummeled and there is not an ounce of self-pity in her voice. Vittoria listens to her nonna oohing and aahing over the garden a mountain stole from her and has never loved her more.
Vittoria will be the bravest little butterfly for Nonna Amara, even if it means walking in the woods where there are wolves.
It doesn’t matter that Giovanni never believed in any of it. Because Paolo believed in it. And he believed in Paolo.
He is the home she thought she’d never have.
Moments fly fast, gone before you know it. Moments that gather more meaning with reflection and time. One day, buildings and time-old traditions and loved ones will be gone. But moments tucked into a mind and held by the heart live on in a human.
She is holding the village together with her heart, loving everyone out loud.
“I have to ask her?” asks Giovanni. “We’ve all been whispering in the cucina and have secretly elected you!”
With grief there are no perfect words waiting to be plucked from the sky, just a sea of sad feelings, everyone bobbing in the same boat.
“Let’s toast to Sofia. Our friend who lost her way. And to all of us and our beautiful village. May we eat well. Drink well. And enjoy every minute of life. It is, after all, the Italian way.”
They may find the culprit in time for the auction, but if not, I have decided on an alternative answer.” A sniff. “We will sell it as an NFT.”
What 😭😭
“Rome! You told us you came from a church in Venice!” Carlotta protests. “I think the exorcism part is what we should focus on,” says Giovanni.
“You are so young to give yourself to someone. Let Italy hold your heart for a while. First you will fall in love with life, and in time, with yourself. Live your life for you first.”
magnificent beings are sometimes born of humble beginnings.”
It is easy to make martyrs from memories. But Paolo was perfect as he was. A loud chewer, afraid of all bugs, and a terrifying driver. So gloriously, messily, gorgeously human.
Fears don’t prevent death, they prevent life. My love for you is so strong that I will always be with you. And that’s a thing that will never, ever change.”
Giuseppina, Benedetto, Giovanni, and Ludovica hover over Maurizio, willing him to heal. Whispering words he can’t understand, but he can feel.
