Tales of the Golden Legend
Prolog: Bread
Remnants of the previous week’s snow, hard and blackened, lay in crusty mounds on the sidewalk. An endless flow of pedestrians crunched between the piles. As a man crossed the street, he held his hand to his head to keep the wind from blowing off his hat. The morning sun sent a shaft of light through the windows of the Italian food store; the round semolina loaves, lined up and stacked on the chrome rack, glowed. In their shadow lay rows of baguettes, bagels, rye, and whole wheat. Farther left lay a company of prosciutto, rosemary, and provolone breads. Several varieties of foccacia rested below on a shelf of their own.
In front of the shelves, a young, hawk-faced woman with pale skin and blue eyes stood at the cash register. A strand of rusty hair hung over her eyes; she kept batting it back as she waited for a customer. Her father, the fat owner in his white apron, had just unlocked the door and flipped the sign from closed to open. He waddled behind the opposite counter to guard his sausages as the first customers of the day entered the store—a pair of stocky women in their mid-seventies carrying wicker baskets.
“Parmesan,” one of the women said.
“Romano, romano,” the other said, shaking her basket for emphasis. “Anna Felina always buys romano.”
The man holding the hat on his head walked through the door and stopped in front of the counter. He gazed at the loaves, entranced, as though he had sleepwalked into the store and awaited a signal to act. Several minutes passed before he lifted his hand from his gray felt hat and removed his black leather gloves. His hair was dark, like pumpernickel, his skin light like the plain bagels. He stood quietly; the hawk-faced woman asked what he wanted.
Seeming not to have heard her, he stepped back to allow the old women to pay for their cheese.
“And a Tuscan bread,” the first woman said to Hawk Face in a demanding tone.
“Not that one, too small,” the second woman said as Hawk Face chose the nearest loaf.
The man appeared to listen to something; he stared at the loaves as if they could help him. Finally, after a minute or so, during which time Hawk Face ignored him, he pointed to a round loaf of semolina. All of the semolina brightened, glowing like moons; the other varieties grew darker.
“Did people bake the first bread, or did bread bake the first people?” the man asked Hawk Face as she punched the cash register keys. She looked at him, then at the loaves, and held out her hand for his money. The man paid and left the store. Now smiling as though at a private joke, Hawk Face watched through the door as he put his hand back on his hat and crossed the street.
The Bread Dialogs
It was morning, a month since I discovered I could talk to bread. I sliced a piece from a loaf of rye and spread some butter. The tea had steeped enough; I tossed the bag and added milk. Bit into the bread, began wrapping up the loaf.
“You’re not going to finish me?” the loaf asked in a musical tone. Because bread is a collective organism, it speaks like a chorus, a blend of male and female.
I stopped wrapping and looked at what remained of the loaf. “Not now, I’m full. Maybe later.”
“But you have to. I’m getting old.”
“Everybody gets old.”
“Then put on some music.”
“I’m about to leave for work.” Bread can be demanding. Its age gives it a sense of superiority—there has been at least one loaf of bread existing in the world for 10,000 years (since the beginning of agriculture, though maybe longer, the bread isn’t sure).
“If you won’t put music on, I’ll sing.”
