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It was a sunny morning, and Alfredo walked to Pietro Hay’s, leading Beatrice as she pulled her empty cart. Buying hay was their favorite errand, but not today. He couldn’t stop thinking about the trouble he’d had the last time he sold his cheese. When he’d sold out, the women were desperate, which made him feel guilty. He couldn’t convince them he wasn’t Magic Alfredo. He’d made enough money for the good hay, but he was unhappy. Beatrice was, too, not even lifting her head at the smell of hay.
They reached Pietro Hay’s and entered his farmyard, passing his somber mule and donkey. Alfredo realized he didn’t have any cheese for Pietro Hay, not that it would grow hair on his wife anyway. They stopped at the shed, and Beatrice rallied to nibble stray hay on the ground.
“Ciao, Alfredo.” Pietro Hay walked over, hay hook in hand. There were no stacked bales waiting.
“Ciao.” Alfredo wiped his brow and replaced his cap. “I’ll take the good hay today. I’m sorry, but I don’t have any cheese for your—”
“I have no hay for you.” Pietro Hay straightened, hook in hand.
“But I have the money.” Alfredo patted his pocket, and the coins jingled cooperatively.
“Nevertheless, it’s promised to someone else.” Pietro Hay’s cap shaded his eyes, which were flinty. “He’s coming to pick it up tomorrow.”
“How much did he buy?”
“All of it.”
“Really?” Alfredo eyed the good hay, estimating fifty bales stacked to the ceiling. “Who could need so much hay?”
“Someone with horses.”
“How many horses?”
Pietro Hay shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”
Alfredo felt disappointed. “Okay then, I’ll take the moldy. Ten bales.”
Pietro Hay shook his head. “The moldy is spoken for, too. The man bought everything.”
Alfredo’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Whoisthis man?”
Pietro Hay frowned. “Don’t make this harder than it is, Alfredo. Just go. I can’t sell to you anymore.”
“Why not?” Alfredo asked, surprised. Then he realized what must have happened. “Someone told you not to? Who?”
“You know who.”
“Donato Nuts? Mario Cow-Cheese? Giuseppe Dry Beans?”
Pietro Hay didn’t reply, tilting his face down.
Alfredo felt a wrench in his chest. “We’ve done business for years. My girls need to eat. This is wrong.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“But you’re the only hay dealer around.” Alfredo felt desperate, like the women when he ran out of cheese. “Just sell me some moldy. I’ll pay extra. Double.”
“Please, go.” Pietro Hay looked crestfallen. A tear rolled down his weathered cheek.
“Okay.” Alfredo gave a gentle tug on Beatrice’s rope, and they left the farmyard, bidding a silent goodbye to the sad mules.
Alfredo headed for the farmstandby the road, having figured out what to do. He was going to buy vegetables and make a stew for his daughters. Luckily, they were also goats, so they would eat anything, even his cooking.
The farmstand was run by Guido Onion, and Alfredo thought his nickname was apt. Guido Onion sold onions, his bald head was shaped like an onion, and he had an onion’s personality. Guido dozed in a wooden chair leaning against an umbrella pine, arms crossed and his cap over his eyes.
Alfredo picked out four tomatoes, a long squash, some carrots, an onion, and plenty of garlic, since Ginevra loved garlic. He cleared his throat to wake up Guido Onion, who lifted his cap drowsily, blinking.
“Alfredo, put those back. You can’t have them. Nothing here is for you.”
