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almost raised the roof from its rafters. It outdid the organ, and as much as the prim organist, Speranza Patti, played up to try and drown him out, Arcadio would not be outdone.
    Taking their cue from Speranza Patti, the members of the choir inflated their lungs and puffed out their chests and cheeks, looking for everything like the lusty cherubs adorning the frescoes above their heads. They sang out with everything they had, their voices mingling together in one great evangelical soup. Teresa Marta, the blind carpet weaver, sang so fervently that had their been a God in heaven she should by rights have been given her sight back. Fedra Brini gave it her all, so much so that she began to hyperventilate and had to be led outside to breathe into a paper bag; it had been an emotional week for her after all. Malco Beato pounded out the responses as though his life depended upon it, which to a certain extent it did. This stupendous effort was thought by many to be responsible for the embolism he was to suffer later that day, which left the Beato front parlor looking like a war zone. Every last member of the choir was left reeling, dizzy, red-faced, and breathless by the grand finale, which rocked the little church and could easily have triggered an earthquake, yet Arcadio Carnabuci did not even break into a sweat, and his one voice still rose above those of the fifty trained choristers.
    Padre Arcangelo was delighted at the strength of Arcadio Carnabuci’s zeal at the sacred mysteries, but the other worshipers exchanged glances to show that the olive grower was once again up to his tricks. Those unfortunate enough to be sharing the same pew sidled away fearing for the effect on their eardrums, and sure enough a record number of cases of tinnitus were subsequently reported to Concetta Crocetta, all of them blamed on Arcadio Carnabuci.

CHAPTER TWO
    D uring the following days the precious seedlings stretched and arched their necks and raised their heads above the soil, straining toward the sun that pored rashly through the windows. All work in the olive grove was suspended as Arcadio Carnabuci devoted himself to watching the progress of his plantlets, and as he watched, he spoke words of encouragement, tender phrases, lines of poetry, the language of love.
    Arcadio Carnabuci’s long-dead father, Remo, took a dim view of his son’s neglect of the grove and appeared to him in a dream urging him to return to work, for the olive trees were more important than the individuals born to serve them. But Priscilla, Arcadio’s mother, soon entered the dream to point out to her husband that if Arcadio remained a bachelor much longer, there would be no Carnabucis left to tend the grove, or to do anything else. The parents’ dispute raged over Arcadio’s head and he felt nostalgic for the days of his youth when they were all together in life, a happy family.
    When they took to throwing pots at one another and name-calling, Arcadio decided to leave them to it, and pulling the covers over his ears, he replaced them with a dream in which he was serenading his beloved. In the twilight she stood on a balcony, and he, in a magical garden below, was enveloped by the velvety darkness. His rendition of “E lucevan le stelle” was the most perfect performance he had ever given and was accompanied by an orchestra of frog song, and the cantata of the small, shy creatures of the night.
    The following morning Arcadio Carnabuci was mildly surprised to find his kitchen in chaos: broken pots were everywhere, egg yolks smeared the walls, jars of preserves were smashed, chairs were upturned. It even appeared that a flour fight had taken place.
    His immediate concern was for the safety of his seeds, and his relief was enormous when he found them undisturbed. If anything, they were more lush and verdant than the night before.
    Throughout Holy Week the sprouts spurted such growth it seemed incredible. They were growing right before his