The Wager (15 page)

Don Giovanni and Cani wandered through the entire quarter before they selected the biggest and undoubtedly most expensive inn. Don Giovanni whispered to his purse, “Dear one, give me money. Enough to pay for every guest bed in this inn for a week, three times over.” He clutched the gold coin that fell from the purse into his hand. It had the head of an emperor with a crown of laurel leaves. He used to have so many coins just like this; it must have been minted in Messina. He called out to the innkeeper.

The man came outside. “What do you want?” He held himself straight, his hands clutched together in front of his chest.

Don Giovanni stepped back the distance he had learned it took to make people less anxious about him. “How many empty rooms do you have?”

“That's no business of yours.”

“It could be . . . if I took all of them.”

The man turned to go inside.

“For a full week.”

The man stood with one hand on the door handle. “You don't have the money.”

“I assure you I do. How much would you want?”

“Who taught you to speak like a gentleman?”

“My mother,” said Don Giovanni. “My father. Who taught you?”

The man shook his head. “Even if you had the money, I couldn't let you in. My other guests would protest.”

“How many guests do you have?”

The man swallowed and his Adam's apple rose and fell. “Only one. But more are coming next week.”

“I'd stay one week only and leave on the eighth morning. Your guests wouldn't even know I'd been here.”

The man wrinkled his nose. “They might.”

Don Giovanni was stung, even after all this time. “You could scrub the room down with vinegar after I left.” He shrugged companionably. “That's easy enough, right? I'll pay for the entire inn. For one full week.”

“Every bed? You'd pay for every bed?”

“That's what I said.”

“Why?”

“Isn't it easier for everyone that way?”

“It's a danger to my reputation,” said the innkeeper.

“How much would it take to make that danger worth it?”

The innkeeper didn't speak. Maybe he was calculating sums in his head.

“Think of the price you want.” Don Giovanni came a step closer.

The innkeeper stepped back.

Don Giovanni put the gold coin on the ground in front of the innkeeper's feet. “Exactly right, wouldn't you say?”

The inkeeper stared at the coin. He picked it up. “But . . .”

“I'll take my meals in my room.”

The innkeeper nodded.

“In fact, I'll use only two rooms. One next door to the other. So if you want to rent out the remaining rooms, you're free to do so.”

That night Don Giovanni laid his purse right inside the door of the empty room next to his own. He carefully stretched out the drawstrings so they extended past the threshold of the door. “Dear one,” he whispered, “give me money. Fill this room with gold coins.”

For the next seven days, Don Giovanni wouldn't leave the inn. He couldn't take the risk of someone coming upon his purse in action. He knew his three beggar boys would be
looking for him. They'd miss the meals his coins paid for. Especially Zizu. He imagined the small boy's stomach twisted in hunger. Indeed, when he'd first come upon the boy, in September, he was nothing more than skin and bones. He probably wouldn't have made it through the winter if Don Giovanni's coins hadn't put a little flesh on him. But there was nothing to be done about it now. The purse had to be guarded. Everything depended on a white linen purse.

On the eighth morning, Don Giovanni reached two fingers under the door of the room next to his. He could feel coins. And under them, at the end of the drawstrings, was a bit of cloth. Linen. He pulled it out and tucked the purse inside his smock. Then he ordered Cani to sit outside the door and wait for him.

He went downstairs.

The innkeeper rushed to meet him. “It's the eighth morning.”

“Don't fear. I'm leaving.” Don Giovanni went to the door. “But not immediately. I'll be back within the hour with a couple of gentlemen. In the meantime, please bring Cani his breakfast. He's waiting outside the door to the room next to mine.”

Don Giovanni went to the lawyer's home. To his great relief, Don Muntifiuri was there already.

Don Muntifiuri laughed. “You showed up. Empty-handed. I knew you didn't have the money.”

“But I do,” said Don Giovanni. “You'll need several carts. Don't worry, you can call for them later. For now, come with me to count it. And you, lawyer, please accompany us.”

“Nonsense,” said Don Muntifiuri. But he followed anyway.

They went to the inn. The innkeeper preceded them up the stairs. When Don Giovanni opened the door to the room next to his, gold coins spilled out into the hall. The room was full, floor to ceiling.

“Take what you want,” said Don Giovanni. “It's more than we bargained on.”

“It was a joke.” Don Muntifiuri looked at the gold dumbly. “I never meant to sell my home.”

“Buy another,” said Don Giovanni. He willed his voice not to crack. Everyone had to stick by their bargains; he mustn't show any doubt. “We have a contract.”

Don Muntifiuri picked up a handful of coins. He stared at it in disbelief.

“Bite it.” Don Giovanni turned to the lawyer. “See for yourself; it's real. We have a contract.”

“He's right,” said the lawyer. He pocketed a coin without biting it. “Don't act like a fool, Don Muntifiuri. You can buy any home you want with the money here. Why, the entire room is crammed with gold sovereigns.”

Don Giovanni took the house key from Don Muntifiuri.

“Come back anytime,” said the innkeeper as Don Giovanni walked past him with Cani, out into the street, toward the coastal road.

MORE THAN A MONTH LATER, ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, DON
Giovanni stretched out on the ground in the center of the courtyard of his villa, surrounded by the porticoed colonnade, and closed his eyes.

Cani flopped down beside him. The dog had been out running since dawn, so he panted noisily. His breath came in warm bursts over Don Giovanni's nose. It offered respite from the damp chill of the air.

Zizu and Giancarlu and Kareem had gone off to Holy Mass in their new clothes. Kareem wasn't even Catholic, but he enjoyed the spectacle, he said. And they all wanted to show off their new station in life. Exactly what that station amounted to was hard to say. They slept in a room of the villa. On their own beds. They came and went whenever they wanted. They
had food and clothing. These three boys had tended to Don Giovanni's needs for his two months on the streets of Palermo, when no one else would help him. As far as he was concerned, they could live here as long as they liked.

The mistress of the maidservants who had worked for Don Muntifiuri quit immediately after the sale of the villa. All the maidservants under her left, as well. No other maiden, young or old, could be found to take their places. But a young man had finally agreed to be cook. Ribi. He was a quiet sort, who entered rooms only after Don Giovanni had left them. If Don Giovanni needed something from him, Zizu carried the message. Ribi was competent in a number of ways. Not only was his food delicious, he'd managed to rid Don Giovanni of worms with a week's regimen of garlic and hot peppers. And he never mentioned it. Don Giovanni appreciated that discretion.

Right now Ribi was in the kitchen preparing the holiday feast for Don Giovanni, the three beggar boys, and Cani. Once it was on the table, he was free to go home, to pass the rest of the day with his family, about whom Don Giovanni knew nothing.

The menservants from Don Muntifiuri's days had stayed on, since Don Giovanni doubled their salaries. They kept the stables and falconry in order; Don Muntifiuri had been quite a hunter. They watched over the terraces of olive trees and repaired the supporting rubble walls, for the property had a large and prosperous olive oil mill. They would tend the small field in spring. And they maintained the villa and answered the door.

In the first weeks, answering the door was a task. Guests came to welcome the new baron to the area. Some of them were genuinely friendly. Some nosy. Some were opportunists. It turned out that both Don Muntifiuri and the lawyer, Don Cardiddu, had engaged in gossip: everyone had heard of the inn room overflowing with gold sovereigns.

The rush of activity surprised Don Giovanni. The announcement of each new visitor made his cheeks hot with hope. The potential for friendship, no matter how unlikely, was at its maximum, given all these new people.

And when an invitation came for a feast in Palermo on December 8, Don Giovanni felt dizzy. Someone had somehow discovered his birthday! His twenty-first birthday. Indeed, it was only proper that it be a grand event.

But it was just the Feast of the Conception of Saint Anne, the mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary, for Mary, being the mother of God, had been conceived without original sin. It had nothing to do with Don Giovanni's birthday. He should have known. Four years before, Emperor Manuel I Comnenus of Constantinople had declared this new holiday for the eastern branch of the church. The Greek population of Messina celebrated it, but not the Roman Catholics. In Palermo, though, everyone celebrated it, because the Norman royalty had taken a fancy to it.

Don Giovanni hadn't gone to the feast. Not because of his disappointment in its purpose, but because the man who issued
the invitation quickly withdrew it upon meeting him face to face. Once people actually saw Don Giovanni, their reaction varied only in the degree of their rudeness. Some called him vile. Others gasped and covered their mouths before brutal words could burst out. None stayed to chat.

News spread rapidly, and only curiosity seekers came after that. Fewer all the time. No one at all had come this past week. Just as well: Don Giovanni didn't relish being a spectacle. The villa was quiet.

Today, Christmas, was particularly quiet. Don Giovanni had let his servants go home for the festivities. Right now the only other person in the villa was Ribi.

Having a home meant safety. Warmth. Having a cook meant regular meals of whatever he wanted.

What it didn't mean, though, was companionship. No one wanted to talk with Don Giovanni. No one came close. He wasn't even welcome in church in his present state.

But for Cani, he'd be entirely alone. The beggar boys didn't count; they didn't act like friends. How could they? You couldn't know someone you never talked with.

The courtyard air was frigid. Inside a fire played in the hearth. He could be in there. So why was he out here?

Storm clouds came. Even with his eyes closed, Don Giovanni could sense the darkening. He wasn't surprised. The sky had been dismal when he woke this morning. Yet he'd come out to the courtyard, anyway. Or maybe precisely because?

Rain.

It started as slow, heavy thumps. It drummed on his hands and through his thin rags of clothes. But on his head the beat was dulled by hair. He pushed his hair back until the rain met his bare forehead. He pressed on his facial hair until the rain laced his bare lips.

All summer long he had prayed for rain. Not in a conscious way. He never let himself actually think about warm water washing him from a benevolent sky. He knew that would make the act of being in the rain a violation of the wager terms. So he had cleared his mind and randomly chased the few storm clouds he saw, only to find, twice, that the brief rainfall had ceased by the time he got there.

Rain.

Sicily had plenty of it, but only in the winter. Summer rain was a phenomenon. That's why his mother used to celebrate it with a dance. Never had he understood her better. A bare-breasted dance.

Rain. Cold rain.

Now it turned icy. It came faster, pelting him.

Did he dare strip?

No, no. That would be too obvious.

Could he pull up his trousers and sleeves, at least?

He lay still, immobilized with fear and longing.

Had he known it would rain? Even though he'd kept his
mind from thinking about it, had some inner part of him known? Was he giving up? Losing the wager?

Cani whined.

Don Giovanni opened his eyes and pushed himself to a squat.

From every side sleet slashed like the thinnest knife blades.

Cani ran around and around Don Giovanni. He cried. He barked. Frantic eyes. Violent shivers. Poor dog. And it was Don Giovanni's fault.

“Sire. Sire, are you all right?” Ribi stood under the portico, wringing his hands. What an effort it must have been for the shy young man to address Don Giovanni directly. Everyone was suffering for him.

The sleet came so fast, it was hard to see now. Don Giovanni's rags stuck to his skin. The soaked mat of his hair weighed on his shoulders. The pounding outside his body was met by the pounding inside his head. He stretched his hands out and watched a small spot of clean skin appear on the back of one. An impossibility. A stranger born there. A miracle. The spot grew. Another appeared on the back of the other hand. Don Giovanni was there, under that dirt. He was there. He was the stranger. He still existed as a physical being in this world.