In the village of Due Forni there was one scroll, and in the scroll one comma, and upon the comma – a thumb’s smear of garlic butter. And no man could say thereafter on which side of the word it had stood: what will not, fold within – or, what will not fold, within. And upon that smudge the town divided, the east oven from the west; and the one long table was sawn in twain, reverently, with a chalk line first, for they were not barbarians.
Years on, a learned traveller peered at the famous comma by candlelight and told them the truth: it is not ink, nor was it ever. Your quarrel standeth upon a supper-stain, as it is written in the Schism, 2:24. And there was a great silence – and then the east said the thumb was the west’s, and the quarrel continued, having changed only its subject, which quarrels can do without stopping, as a rider changeth horses.
Beloved, how many of thy longest wars stand upon a smudge? The inheritance, the wedding invitation, the thing somebody said in 2019 whose exact words no living witness can produce? Certainty is cheap where evidence is greasy.
But hear the ending. Two brothers, Tommaso and Gennaro, ate three paces and a lifetime apart; and on the last night of each, a plate was carried across the street to the other, and each plate arrived still warm, and each was eaten entire. Do not wait for the last night, beloved. The street is three paces. Carry the plate now. Amen – and pass the pizza.