The Wager (14 page)

“At the public fountains. But you have to bring your own amphora.” He walked off the road.

“Wait. What's your name?”

“If we meet again, I'll tell you.” And he was gone.

Cold desolation enveloped Don Giovanni. Talking with that man, that combination of beggar and thief, had been exquisite. Like fine wine after a bite of aged cheese. A prize.

He used to talk with the goatherds that summer he spent on the slopes of Mount Etna. They'd tease and tell stories and laugh. But somehow he'd never even tried to talk with beggars. And they were such an obvious pool of potential contacts. None he had seen was as totally shabby as Don Giovanni. But they weren't clean, either. And this one hadn't said a word about his odor. He hadn't looked askance.

Maybe there was more to look forward to in Palermo than just water.

HIS STOMACH CRAMPED. FOR THE PAST MONTH DIARRHEA HAD
ravaged Don Giovanni. And he knew the cause. He'd seen it in his stools. Worms. Somehow worms had infested his body and settled into his gut. Cani had them, too. Which one had given them to the other, Don Giovanni didn't know. Or maybe they'd both gotten them from the same place.

His foot had healed, though. And, really, trading that pain for worms was a good deal. Worms didn't hurt. They were an annoyance more than a danger. If he hadn't had enough to eat, it would have been different. But these days he had plenty to eat. Anytime he wanted. He'd go have a meal right now, in fact.

He got three metal coins from his purse and tucked it back away. Then he stretched and came out of the stable.

Zizu ran up. “Don Giovanni, you're awake.” The boy danced around him.

Cani joined in the play.

“Ready to eat?” asked the boy.

Don Giovanni gave Zizu the coins. “Something hardy.”

The boy ran off.

Don Giovanni went down the narrow alley and relieved himself in the open sewer. The gutter had been used by lots of people already today. Don Giovanni knew it stank, but his nose had ceased to function. It was a godsend in some ways; it allowed him a little distance from his predicament. But it had its drawbacks, too. For one, he could hardly taste food anymore. He ate in order to stay strong, that's all.

Zizu was waiting by the stable when he got back. The boy carried a little satchel tied to one wrist and a jug in both hands. He put the jug on the ground and opened the satchel, which contained three cheese-filled pastries with pistachio nuts on top.

“Arab food?” asked Don Giovanni.

“Only the Jews and Arabs are selling today. Christians are fasting.”

Of course. It was October 31, the vigil of All Saints' and All Souls' Day. Don Giovanni smiled and the corners of his dry mouth split, but the little burst of pain didn't stop his happiness. Tonight would make one year since he'd entered into the wager. Only two years, three months, and three days to go.

Two years, three months, and three days
.

Don Giovanni stopped smiling. Two more years of this torture.

“Aren't you hungry? If you don't want this, I can go into the woods and gather mushrooms. The yellow kind you love. And wild asparagus.”

Don Giovanni looked down. Zizu stood holding a pastry, his eyes intense. Cani's front legs were slightly splayed, and his eyes bore through Don Giovanni, too. The other two pastries lay in the open satchel on the ground. Zizu and Cani were waiting for Don Giovanni to take his pastry before they ate theirs. He was the master.

The grand don. The master of a dog and a beggar boy. Well, actually, three beggar boys. There were Kareem and Giancarlu, too. They were a little older and they showed up erratically.

The boys never touched him, they never smiled at him. Sometimes they smiled when he gave them more money than expected, but that wasn't at him, that was smiling to themselves.

Cani, now, Cani stood near him and licked his hands and slept beside him. Cani would have smiled at him if dogs smiled. He wagged his tail at him. He was always delighted to be with him.

At this moment Cani was still watching him intently.

“Sure, I'm hungry. We can get mushrooms another day.” Don Giovanni picked up his pastry and took a bite. After all, he was a benevolent master.

Zizu and Cani ate greedily.

Don Giovanni ate slowly.

Two years, three months, three days.

Zizu went into the stable and returned holding the three bowls that were stacked in Don Giovanni's corner, along with his blanket. He filled them each with coffee from the jug.

Zizu and Don Giovanni drank theirs while Cani lapped his. The dog showed no hesitation at coffee. It made him practically spring off the ground for the better part of the day, but if he didn't like it, he didn't show it. He was a funny dog that way; Don Giovanni was convinced Cani would try anything if he sensed Don Giovanni wanted him to.

Implicit and total trust. And loyalty.

Don Giovanni could do it. He would make it through the next two years, three months, three days. He had to. And when it was over, he'd make sure Cani had everything he wanted for the rest of his life.

Don Giovanni walked through the streets slowly. The cold ground worried him. Winter hadn't yet snarled down the alleys this year, but it would. Soon. Getting new shoes counted as changing clothes; the wager precluded that. And without shoes, winter might wind up making a prisoner of him in that stable. No light. His main source of pleasure, watching the world around him, would be gone.

Alternatives seemed lacking. Every inn he'd approached in Palermo had turned him away. Well, who cared? The boys
would bring him and Cani meals, so long as they relied on him for their own meals. And with his blanket and plenty of straw, a stable offered almost as much as an inn, given that if he'd succeeded in getting into one, he'd certainly be confined to his room.

Who was he kidding? An inn room had a window. It was far superior to the stable.

All right, then. Everyone said the coastal road west offered fine views of the rocky shore. He mustn't be stupid and waste whatever time remained before frigid rains came. He'd feast his eyes, then feed on the memories during the winter months of visual deprivation ahead.

Cani raced up and down through the alleys, always coming back to check on Don Giovanni's progress on the main road until they reached the westernmost of the four city gates. Palermo had grown so much in recent years that the city had spilled beyond the walls, so that there were many homes even here. But soon enough the dog was chasing birds and rabbits up and down the hillside, again coming back periodically to the coastal road to make sure the man was still there.

It was during one of those stretches when Cani was off chasing something or other that Don Giovanni saw the cove. A short, narrow sandy beach curved in a cupid's bow, with vines growing down the rocky walls. Boulders just offshore made it inhospitable to larger boats. And its size made it undesirable to groups. A perfect lovers' cove.

On the other side of the road, set back some distance, was a large villa. It was a surprise to see a noble's home isolated like this. To the side of the front door a stone bench waited in the sun. Don Giovanni answered its call. He went up the path and sat on it.

He was right. The bench was situated perfectly to take in the view; someone had undoubtedly built this villa right there because of that cove. Perhaps the owner was a painter?

Don Giovanni pulled his feet up onto the bench, crossed his ankles, and let his knees fall out to each side. He reached a hand up under his trousers from the bottom and picked bugs from the hairs on his calf. He crushed them against his thumbnail and flicked them away. A mindless task. Sometimes he'd pass hours this way.

A gasp came from behind him.

Don Giovanni turned his head to see a woman lean from a window. A servant, by her clothes. She gave him a look of dismay and disappeared inside.

A moment later a man peered down at him from the window. The master, clearly. He disappeared inside, too.

Don Giovanni watched the door. One of them would come out soon. They'd offer him money to leave.

It was useful, this reaction. Don Giovanni had heard the beggar boy Giancarlu explain to Zizu and Kareem one time that this was the source of Don Giovanni's never-ending supply of coins. That assumption kept his purse safe.

Don Giovanni held out his hand to accept the inevitable coin.

But he was wrong. The master stood at the window again. From the look on his face, he was afraid to get too close. Well, that was no surprise. Most people seemed to be afraid of Don Giovanni these days.

“Go away!” The man pointed down the road back toward the city. He spoke a haughty French. “Nasty beggar. Leave!”

“You're the one being nasty.” An impishness tickled its way across Don Giovanni's chest. He wrested a clot of something or other from his beard, smiled at the disgust-filled face of the man, and tossed the bit of crud toward the window.

The man jumped backward into the room, then reappeared, his face pinched with anger. “Filthy beggar!”

“You're not only nasty, you're wrong. I'm not a beggar, though the mistake is understandable, given that I had my palm out.” Don Giovanni was using his natural diction, that of a Messina baron. True Sicilian. It let this Norman know he was the real intruder here, on the noble island of Sicily. Watching the shock on his face made Don Giovanni grin. He smoothed his mustache away from his teeth, so the man could see his enjoyment. “If I wanted, I could persuade you and your wife to leave this lovely villa.” Who knew if the man even had a wife, but Don Giovanni liked the sound of saying that.

“Absurd.” The man laughed. His courage had obviously
come back from wherever it had been hiding. “Exactly how could you do that?”

“Money. Sell me your house. I'll buy it this instant.”

The man shook his head.

“Name the price.”

The man opened his mouth as if to speak, then he seemed to think better of it. He stepped back from the window. When he returned, he said, “All right. Let's go see Don Cardiddu.”

Don Giovanni breathed shallowly. Had the villa owner truly taken his offer seriously? What changed his mind? But it didn't matter. All that mattered was buying this place. How absurd that he'd never thought of buying some place before. He wiped his beard away from his lips. “And who is Don Cardiddu?”

“Only the most respected lawyer in all Palermo. I entrust him with all my dealings. We can have a contract drawn up. Follow me. But not too closely.”

Could this be real? The man's tone was at once condescending and self-congratulatory. Still, Don Giovanni didn't see how it could be a trick. A lawyer was a lawyer. A contract bound those who signed it, no matter what their station in life.

The man went on horseback, slowly.

Don Giovanni followed on foot. Cani had rejoined him, and the dog stayed close now. Frequently he looked up at his master with curious, alert eyes. Each time, Don Giovanni gave him a pat on the head.

The lawyer Don Cardiddu was a burly, jovial type, who hesitated only a moment at the sight of Don Giovanni, then dutifully produced a contract. When the gentleman, Don Muntifiuri, named his sum, the lawyer blinked in astonishment. His face said it all: The villa wasn't worth that much. Perhaps no villa was.

To the ordinary buyer.

Don Giovanni quickly signed. According to the agreement, the money must be paid eight days from the signing. Then the villa would be his. A home again. Complete with furnishings, stable, horses, servants.

Don Muntifiuri reached for the plume. His hand was white, a stark contrast to Don Giovanni's, whose nails were so dirty it seemed like he'd dipped his fingers in pitch. The gentleman's shirt was white; face, white. His hair glowed white now. The sun seemed to come from behind him, bleaching him to a cloud, a wisp, a memory of a man. While Don Giovanni was a shadow of a man. Neither of them real.

Don Giovanni rested both his hands on the lawyer's desk and leaned there for support. He felt energy flow out of him like water through a sieve. He was going to faint. When he came to again, all of this would be gone. The dream, vanished. White and black, annulled. He hated himself for having a dream that would haunt him so badly in the months to come.

But Don Muntifiuri signed.

And Don Giovanni didn't faint.

“Eight days.” Don Muntifiuri folded each hand under the
other armpit. “You come up with all those sacks of gold and the villa is yours.”

“Mind that it happens just so,” Don Giovanni managed to say, appealing to the lawyer, who looked back at him with what seemed an honest face. And he went outside to lean against a wall and catch his bearings.

This was his chance.

What he needed now was a room. A large one. Only an inn could serve. But he couldn't go to any that had already shunned him.

He headed for the Jewish section of town. His stomach had announced lunchtime already anyway, and it was sure to be business as usual in the Jewish quarter. Jews observed fasting and feasting days, but different ones from the Catholics. They couldn't care less about the vigil of All Saints' and All Souls' Day.