(This is a parable. Any similarity to real persons living or dead, although highly probable, is purely coincidental.)
Giuseppe Cagliostro announced his intention to join the world as his mother stirred yeast into what would become a large loaf of peasant bread. Even though her water had broken and spilled onto the floor of the kitchen, Giuseppe’s mother continued to mix together the ingredients until they could be kneaded and set aside to rise. Then she sat down to give birth.
After the midwife had tied off the umbilical cord and wiped the last of the afterbirth from Giuseppe’s squirming pink body, she presented the swaddled boy to his mother. He was as warm as a loaf that had just been pulled from the oven. Wrapped snugly inside the clean, greyish towel, the newborn resembled a rather plump baguette. Giuseppe’s mother proudly hoisted the bundle above her head and exclaimed, “Isn’t he beautiful!”
She then hastily handed the infant off to her husband, and struggled up from her bed. “Here! You hold him! I must attend to my loaf!” She disappeared into the kitchen amid protests from the worried midwife.
Giuseppe’s father picked up the boy and snuggled him close. “He’s beautiful! He’s perfect! Already he smells like yeast!” Tears streamed down the proud father’s face. He walked with the newborn into the kitchen and watched his wife place the large fully risen mass of smooth dough into the oven. Tiny Giuseppe cooed contentedly.
For the next dozen years of his life, Giuseppe, the boy with yeast in his blood, sat in the kitchen watching his mother bake. By his thirteenth birthday, Giuseppe began making breads of his own. He needed no recipe. The process and proportions had been baked into his head from years of casual observation.
One day, during the summer of his sixteenth year, Giuseppe watched as his mother punched down a rising mass of dough. She paused to pick the sticky remnants of yeast and flour from between her fingers, regarding the loaf she was creating with an air of satisfaction. Nodding to herself with approval, she removed her apron, sat down on the cool dirt floor and died. As her heart had beaten its last stroke, she had looked up at young Giuseppe and said, “Please finish my baking, will you? I love you and your father.”
Giuseppe placed the loaf in the oven and allowed himself time to cry until it was time to remove it. Once it was out of the oven, he pulled off a steaming piece of crust, popped it into his mouth and smiled. The bread seemed full of his mother’s warmth. Later, he sat down with his father to share the loaf, some cheese and the day’s sad events. Three months later, Giuseppe’s father died. The doctor said grief had robbed the man’s spirit to the point where it could no longer thrive.
“You mean like when the water is too hot and it kills the yeast?” Giuseppe asked.
“Yes, kind of like that,” the doctor said.
Giuseppe gave the doctor a loaf of bread as the doctor was getting ready to depart the small country home. The doctor’s eyes brightened and he thanked Giuseppe.
“You have a real talent!” the doctor called out as he walked down the lane to his carriage. “Don’t let it go to waste!”
Twice each week Giuseppe would load his cart with loaves and travel to town to sell them at market. Word spread that Giuseppe’s talent had surpassed his mother’s and he would sell out of his stock quicker than any other vendor. Still, Giuseppe never became wealthy. He sold each loaf at just a penny more than what it cost him to make it.
Vera the vegetable vendor noticed Giuseppe’s worn clothing, dusty apron and shrinking frame one day and asked, “Why don’t you raise your prices? People like your loaves and you are starving to death!” She poked the young man in his ribs. He smiled shyly.
“It makes me happy to see people eat what I create,” he said, the smile spreading wider across his tired face. “I am okay. I will survive.”
Hard times swept the land and most of Giuseppe’s friends and neighbors were hit by the bad economy. People who used to buy loaves at the market would look longingly at Giuseppe’s cart, but pass by, unable to afford the bread. He would barter with the others at the market or others in the town, exchanging a loaf for two turnips, a cupcake for a horse shoe, a pastry for some stitching on his trousers. Surrounded by food, Giuseppe nevertheless continued to grow thinner with each passing day.
One day at the market, a personal assistant for the wealthy Marquis de Francamente passed Giuseppe’s stall and stopped abruptly.
“You must be the famous Giuseppe!” the man announced. The young baker was dazzled by the man’s fine clothing and conspicuous accouterments. The man put his hand to his chin and regarded Giuseppe suspiciously, tapping his index finger on his cheek so that Giuseppe would notice the large gold signet ring adorned with a single sparkling ruby.
“I wonder if you would be up to the task…” the rich man wondered aloud.
Giuseppe took the bait. “What task?” he asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Count Contretemps is to wed the fair Lily LeVain next month,” the nobleman’s aide-de-camp announced. “Every important and well-to-do family within 200 miles will be attending the party in their honor. We will need loaves and cakes and cookies and sweets worthy of a royal wedding to feed them!”
“I could do that,” Giuseppe said humbly.
Minutes later the aide was going over the list of necessities with Giuseppe. The young baker nodded and scratched his head, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the job. When it was all said and done, Giuseppe said, “Yes, I can do it. I shall require 200 lire for the job. That should cover my expenses and provide me with a little bit of pocket change as well.”
The aide frowned.
“A little bit of pocket change?” he mocked. “Two hundred lire? Dear boy, haven’t you looked around and seen the times we are living in? Two hundred lire is a small fortune! Why that is how much I paid for this very kerchief! Two hundred lire for some loaves and cakes! How insulting. I had heard you baked for the sheer pleasure of watching people eat! The best of families in the area will be present to enjoy your wares. I should think the value of their satisfaction alone would be more than enough to compensate your efforts! Not to mention the fact that your name and your talent will be richly exhibited to all those in attendance! Think of the orders you will have afterward!”
Giuseppe’s face flushed. He knew nothing of nobility or soirees. He was a simple country baker. Although 200 lire seemed very much a fair price to Giuseppe—it would hardly pay for the materials alone!—perhaps he had been too eager, he thought. Perhaps he could come down a little on the price. The thought of someday being hired by the Marquis himself or being commissioned to create baked goods for the finest members of society, well, that in itself was worth something, wasn’t it?
“I can do it for 50 lire!” Giuseppe offered eagerly.
“Dear boy, you still don’t seem to understand,” the aide sniffed. “I am providing you an opportunity here. In all fairness, you should be paying us for this privilege, but we are not asking for that. So what do you say? Will you provide the pastries?”
Giuseppe nodded.
“Excellent! Please be at the estate at 2 p.m. sharp on the 15th!” the aide said, mounting his fine horse. As he rode away, he looked over his shoulder with a stern expression. “Remember, we will be expecting your finest work. Nothing less will do.”
Giuseppe loaded his wagon to capacity with the wondrous plenitude of treats he had assembled. The centerpiece was a towering cake of 12 layers symbolizing the dozen years that had passed during the reign of the Marquis de Francamente. Each layer was a different color, painstakingly decorated with highly detailed panels of sculpted marzipan illustrating the triumphs of each individual year. The cake itself would taste even more delicious than its exterior looked, Giuseppe knew. And every bread and pastry in the cart was equally delicious.
The cart sagged under the weight of the feast as Giuseppe made the long journey to the estate. With the gates in view down the road, the young baker’s tired horse staggered and fell to its knees, tossing Giuseppe to the ground. The wagon heaved forward onto its tongue. The cake teetered dangerously. Giuseppe struggled to unhitch the cart from the flagging animal. The horse was in dire need of attention, but Giuseppe knew he could not be late for his debut. So Giuseppe hoisted up the wagon tongue and staggered backward with the wagon in tow the final mile to the estate, leaving his animal behind.
A group of servants met him at the gate and began unloading the wagon. Two men in white chef coats picked up the cake and began moving it indoors.
“Careful! Careful with the cake!” Giuseppe directed, following the duo inside.
The aide-de-camp noticed Giuseppe’s entrance and abruptly excused himself from the conversation he was having with two sharply dressed men.
“Ah! Good!” the aid said. “The famous Giuseppe has arrived, and with a delightful cargo, I might add!” The aide directed the men to place the cake on the main buffet table with an arrangement of the smaller pastries and cakes around it. He instructed that the best loaves of bread be placed at the dining table with the others transported to the kitchen.
“Yes, dear boy, follow me!” the aide said, ushering Giuseppe toward the servant quarters. “You are to remain here during the party. If your presence or assistance is required, we shall summon you!”
“But, but,” Giuseppe protested. “I was told that I would be able to…”
“Attend the party?” the aide asked. He laughed ironically. “Wearing those rags? With those shoes? Dear boy, have you any idea the caliber of people who will be in attendance this afternoon? I can assure you that you will be quite comfortable remaining here! You will find more suitable conversation and more suitable wardrobes. Now please, if you will excuse me, I have lots of finishing details that must be taken care of before the party starts!”
The aide turned and walked out of the doorway.
“But how will I see them? When they eat, I mean?” asked the perplexed baker.
“That really is not my concern,” the aide said without looking at Giuseppe as he walked away.
Lamplight overshadowed daylight and the muffled sounds of merriment filtered through the doors and halls into the servant quarters. Giuseppe followed the gay noise to a set of closed double doors with fine golden handles. Without thinking, he pulled one of the handles and opened the door a crack. He peered clandestinely into the room and was pleased to see dozens of people wandering about, plates heaped high with his creations.
“This one has the most delicious almond filling!” exclaimed one woman. “Have you ever tasted something so sinfully delicious?” asked another. The conversation in the room seemed focused not on the married couple, but on the breads that Giuseppe had provided for the party!
“If only Mamma could see me now!” Giuseppe exclaimed to himself. He watched for another hour, but then he abruptly closed the door when he was noticed from across the room by the aide-de-camp. The aide grabbed the arm of a rather ample woman and led her across the room. Giuseppe winced as the door flung open, presenting the aide and the big fancy woman.
“Oh good! There you are,” said the aide. “We had just been talking about you. Permit me to introduce to you Lady Francamente, beloved wife of the Marquis de Francamente.”
The large woman extended a soft hand, which Giuseppe grasped and kissed.
“Please to meet you ma’am,” he said politely.
“This is the young baker then?” Lady Francamente said. “How interesting! I am a bit of a baker myself.”
She thrust a hard, pale roll into Giuseppe’s hand.
“Try this!”
Giuseppe took a nibble from the dry, tasteless, malformed creation. He tried his best to make it look as if he wasn’t struggling to swallow the concoction, which had now turned bitter in his mouth.
“Delicious! Thank you,” Giuseppe offered.
Lady Francamente blushed and fanned herself briskly.
“Oh thank you!” she gushed. “How kind. I do believe I shall ask the aide-de-camp to bestow on you my private recipe. That way you can perfect your skills and perhaps someday you will be able to offer up your own wares for payment. You do seem to possess a modicum of talent for baking things.”
“Now if you will excuse me,” she said, extending her hand once again, “I must get back to my party. Please see to it that he gets my recipe,” she instructed the aide as she strolled back into the mass of partygoers.
Giuseppe walked home alone and in the dark, past his dead horse, past the darkened home of Vera the vegetable vendor, past the cemetery that contained the simple grave markers of his mother and father. He looked around his empty kitchen, which was illuminated by the rising moon. Market day is on Tuesday, he thought, and I have no supplies. He had used everything for the Marquis’s soiree. Tomorrow, Giuseppe thought, I shall sell my last fat hen and trade my crock for flour and yeast so I will have something to sell in my stall.
With no horse, Giuseppe had to pull his cart of loaves to market himself. He had fashioned a crude harness from two lengths of hemp rope that he procured by trading his favorite pair of wooden spoons. He was late for the opening of the market, but when he arrived at his stall, he was surprised to see a throng of customers gathered in front.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Giuseppe asked, quickening his pace with the cart. Word must have gotten out! People were waiting for his loaves! His prayers had been answered, and just in time, too. Giuseppe had awoken that morning with a knot of pain in his lower stomach. He had not eaten in days, and now even small sips of water were aggravating.
“Hello, friends!” he exclaimed as he began to unload the loaves onto the table in his stall. As quickly as he could place them on the table, they were snatched up by eager hands.
“Okay! business is good today! Three pennies for that loaf,” he said, pointing to the item in one man’s hands. “Five pennies for that one!”
“What do you mean five pennies?” the woman asked. “Are you mad? I cannot afford five pennies! They told me your loaves were free.”
“No, no,” corrected Giuseppe. “They are not for free. That one is five pennies, that one is three pennies.”
“Hey look!” scowled a large man. “Giuseppe gives his bread away for free to the royalty, but he tries to gouge his friends and the poor!”
“What a bastard!” exclaimed Vera the vegetable vendor.
“No, no, wait! You don’t understand,” Giuseppe protested. “I can’t give my bread away for free. I am starving to death myself!”
“You gave it away for free to the Marquis de Francamente,” said a pig-nosed woman who was wearing a dirty dress and holding a baguette in each hand. “Everyone has been talking about it!”
“I gave it away because I like to see people eat.”
“Then let us eat,” said a square-jawed man. “We are starving, too.”
“Yes, give it away!” exclaimed the crowd! “Let us eat!”
The mob swarmed. Frantic hands grabbed for every loaf they could touch. Men tucked bread into their lapels, and women carried it away folded up in their aprons. Giuseppe was overcome with dizziness and he fell to the ground.
When he awoke, the market was deserted. The shadows had grown long. On the ground next to him was a single untouched roll. He picked it up and took a bite. Unable to control himself, he took another, then another, then another. Moments later he threw up. As the terrible taste of blood and bread poured over his tongue, Giuseppe’s world blurred out of focus. With a sigh he lay his head down next to the disgorged crimson bits and closed his eyes.
They found his body stiff and cold and curled up in the stall the next day. Vera the vegetable vendor summoned her father, and later a group of men from the village laid Giuseppe to rest next to his mother and his father. They toasted his name at a simple ceremony at the tavern, passing around one of the last loaves of peasant bread he had baked.
The following Tuesday a group of townspeople wandered to the market of the town next door to buy bread. They paid seven cents a loaf and were satisfied with its adequate taste and consistency.
Gassy Guy 