Chapter One


In Which We Learn How an Ebreo Travels Best in Tuscany

Nonno looked east across the roll of his farm at that particular moment in a late—summer dawn when the soon—to—be—risen sun threw an expectant hue of orange and purple across the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, indeed, but the day—breaking spectrum held a bit too much uncertainty for Nonno's comfort. The old man scrunched his eyes for better focus and continued his gaze outward, searching the horizon for some small harbinger affirming that their travels today would go safely and that he was doing what was best for his grandson. Then, in the distance, it lumbered into view.
It was the obstinate old stud, the one inherited along with the farm and the one Nonno loved the most. The donkey paused along the eastern border of the land, atop a slight knoll and between a pair of ancient fig trees. This alone was a sublime image, but when the gnarled beast suddenly dropped its prodigious cazzone to dangle before the horizon, careened its head upward and let go with an impassioned bray, Nonno knew the God of Abraham would be with him and his grandson as they traveled to Florence.

The mournful cry erupted from the donkey's mouth and filled Nonno's ears as profoundly as the sounding of a shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Against the still morning it was a sound of such magnitude that it rose from the horizon like a gust of wind billowing a ship's sails and drawing all hands to deck. Songbirds quieted and competing roosters halted in mid—crow as the lonely bellow ballooned to a mass, teetered on its own enormity and began to roll across the land. The sound, robust, anxious, a touch melancholy, tumbled across ...