The Wager (21 page)

The messenger looked surprised, but he bowed more deeply than before and left.

Don Giovanni heard the wagon rumble away on the coastal road. He closed his eyes against tears. He stayed in the Wave Room for the rest of the day and night.

Early the next morning, Don Giovanni took a walk through the fields behind the villa. The chill was brisk enough to make him walk more quickly than was comfortable, given his now rough trousers, but not strong enough to keep him indoors. Cani ran ahead of him and disappeared into the woods beyond the stubble.

His eyes were still heavy with unshed tears. The king had wounded his pride yesterday. It was funny that he had any pride left, actually. Pride was a stupid emotion. It was time to give it up.

“Hello, there.” The call came from behind him. “Please wait.”

Don Giovanni stopped and turned.

A woman hurried after him. She came so quickly, her shawl fell back from her head. Black curls cascaded down her shoulders. Her bulbous cheeks were almost obscenely rosy. Her breasts strained against the worn cloth of her dress. She threw herself at his feet.

Don Giovanni pulled back in alarm. Was she hysterical?

“Oh, my master. I've found you.”

He looked around. There was no one to hear, no one to see. This couldn't be some kind of cruel joke then. So the woman must be mad. “You've mistaken me for someone else, madam.”

She settled back on her heels and looked up at him adoringly. “You're Don Giovanni, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“Then there's no mistake. I've heard about you. I couldn't come to the feast, though I wanted to. I've wanted to meet you for over a year.”

“Here I am,” he said softly. Maybe he was feverish, but if this was delirium, he might as well enjoy it.

“I've come to offer myself.”

Yes, this was delirium, but it couldn't have come at a better time. His groin was healthy again. It responded appropriately.

She smiled shyly. “I don't mean it so coarsely as it sounds. You gave me everything worth having. In return I'll give you what little I have to offer.”

“I don't recall giving you anything.”

She shifted her legs around to the front and pulled up her skirts just enough to reveal the inside of her right calf. The act was decidedly modest, and as a result that much more seductive. Don Giovanni bent forward for a better look. A red scar cut a circle in her flesh. She'd been branded. His stomach turned.

The Romans of centuries past branded their slaves. Often on the face, but with women on the shoulder or upper arm, so as not to mar their beauty if a Roman lord wanted their
company. Somewhere back there some emperor or other had changed the branding to feet and legs. This poor woman's master had kept up the barbaric tradition.

“He's not my master anymore. Thanks to you.”

A freed slave. Full of gratitude. Delirium would have been much better. What a hideous history she must have. Don Giovanni swallowed his sadness. “Get up, please. What's your name?”

“Call me debtor, for I'm in debt to you.”

“You don't owe me anything. Really.”

“I know. Everyone knows. You ask nothing in return. When the king sent back the money he didn't need, you refused it.”

News traveled fast. Don Giovanni looked down at his bloodstained trousers. He should have stayed hidden in the Wave Room.

“You don't have to keep those trousers on. Not with me. You don't have to hide anything from me. Tell me what you want.”

Her voice was so soft, like the subtle sweetness of clover honey. He had to strain to hear it. The voice of a woman who had suffered. It was everything he wanted. Everything good and pure.

She smiled. “You want more. Don't be afraid to tell me. Or, better, just take.” She got to her feet.

Don Giovanni couldn't hold in a gasp at being this close to a beautiful woman.

“There's a stream up this way. It's barely a trickle at this time of year, but it's enough. You can shed those awful clothes and lie in it.”

Lie in cold water.

“My hands will keep you warm.”

“I can't.” Don Giovanni's voice barely came.

“Of course you can.”

“No. I can't wash.”

“Silly man.” She put her head down and looked up at him through her lashes. “I'll rub you everywhere. You don't have to do a thing. I'll make you clean. Then we can be together. You can do whatever you want with me.”

Her hands on his wretched flesh.

“I can see the man behind the hair, behind the rags. You aren't wretched to me. You're handsome.”

In dreams women had said that to Don Giovanni, but he never thought he'd hear it in the waking world. What could it hurt to share a kiss with this woman?

“As many kisses as you want.”

“Just one.” One blessèd kiss. Don Giovanni held out his hand. “Take my hand and come kiss me.”

She laughed, but nicely. “After the stream. Please. After the stream you can have whatever you want.”

Lying in a stream. Being rubbed. Passive. How could that count as washing?

Her eyes flickered past him and returned, anxious.

Don Giovanni looked where her eyes had gone. Cani was coming toward them. The dog approached in a crouch, his lips curled back. He snarled.

“Don't be afraid,” Don Giovanni said to the woman.

“Stop him.” She backed up.

Cani barked now.

“Hush!”

But Cani was out of his mind. He barked so ferociously, his paws left the ground. He circled them.

The noise hammered in Don Giovanni's head. He could hardly hear himself saying “Hush.” Now the woman would be afraid. She'd leave. She'd leave with all her kisses still on her lips. He'd be alone again.

“Yes, I'll go if you don't get rid of him,” she said.

She heard him, above Cani's racket. She heard his thoughts. He went over what they'd been saying to each other. It was hard to remember, hard to be sure, but he could almost swear she'd been talking to his thoughts as much as to his words all along.

How close he'd come. Yet again.

He fell to his knees in gratitude and disappointment.

“Stupid fool! Did you really think anyone could believe you handsome? You're a vile lump of excrement. You always will be.” A laugh lingered in the air. The woman was gone.

Cani whimpered. He sniffed where she'd been. He nosed his way under Don Giovanni's heaving chest and howled as the man sobbed.

THE MESSENGER RETURNED ON 8 DECEMBER, DON GIOVANNI'S
twenty-third birthday. But this time Don Giovanni had no false expectations of a gift. The king had not befriended him. Besides, no one knew the significance of the date.

He came alone on horseback, making a neat trail in the first dusting of snow.

“The king is a young man, as you know.” The messenger was uncomfortable today. He turned his hat in his hand. “He hasn't married yet.”

Everyone knew that. Why should the messenger be anxious at saying something everyone knew?

Don Giovanni looked away again, distracted, on his cushion throne. Though it was his choice not to tell anyone it was his birthday, he still felt cheated that no one knew, no one celebrated.
He didn't want to be here listening to this messenger's insipid words.

“So he has no daughters,” the messenger went on at last. “But he and the queen mother are very much impressed with your service to them.”

It had been a long morning. This was Don Giovanni's third visitor already. He was tired of hearing how impressed everyone was with him. He yawned. Then he rolled slowly off the cushions, each movement sending jabs of pain in places he'd rather forget about, and got to his feet. He stood by the window, his legs splayed because the sores had returned now that winter offered no flower petals to heal them, and opened the shutters wide. For once he didn't care that a breeze might carry his stench back to the messenger's nose behind him. This man seemed to have the nose of a stone. And eyes, too. He never showed revulsion at being with Don Giovanni.

Maybe he didn't exist. Maybe he was something concocted by Don Giovanni's ever-weakening brain. Don Giovanni should ask Ribi.

The sea was turgid today. The little cove that had drawn Don Giovanni to this villa in the first place jumped alive with white caps.

When he'd woken this morning, he'd made the final calculations. Three years, three months, three days from 1 November 1169: the fateful day was 4 February 1173. The fourth anniversary of the wave, and the Feast of Saint Agata. The realization
didn't surprise him. Indeed, it came like expected news, like something he had been born to know.

Only fifty-eight days remained. After that, people wouldn't have to lie when they said they were impressed with him.

“Are you listening, sire?”

“Vaguely.” Everyone said the same thing, so what was the point of listening closely?

“Then let me repeat. The king has no daughters. But he and the queen mother are grateful for your service to them. They wish to give you the hand of the king's eldest sister.”

Don Giovanni turned to face the messenger. His ears filled with pressure, like the feeling of being underwater. Water over and under and all around him. Oh, on 4 February he would dive underwater. He would dive as deep as he could, no matter how cold the sea was. Right now, though, the pressure in his ears increased uncomfortably. Maybe he'd implode, become a blob of stinking slime at this messenger's feet. “The hand of the princess?” His voice sounded metallic, saying those utterly stupid words. But what else could he say? Never would he have predicted this offer. Could it really be true?

“The elder princess. Yes.”

A bride. A wife. He thought of saying he wasn't worthy of this honor, the insincere standby phrase of the haughty, but the messenger was bound to secretly agree. And it wasn't true. Why shouldn't Don Giovanni have a wife? People treated him as a beast, they thought of him that way. But a creature's measure
was internal, after all. And even a beast needed someone; everyone needed a companion.

A wife. A beggar, a princess, he didn't care. Someone to talk with. To kiss with. A wife. One woman for the rest of his life. That's all he needed, all he longed for. A best friend, the love of his life.

And there was no one else to arrange a marriage for him. Why not let the king do it? A laugh rose in his throat. He stifled it with difficulty; he didn't want to spook the messenger and ruin the whole offer. He put his hand over his mouth to hold in stray jabbering. Yes, control was possible.

“His Majesty is too good.” Don Giovanni attempted a small bow. “With humility, I accept the honor.”

“Then I will take the news back to the palace. I'll return as soon as a date has been set.” The messenger left quickly.

Don Giovanni heard his heels click on the steps. He heard the door open and close below. He watched the messenger collect his horse and mount. His senses took it all in while his thoughts stayed numb. By the time his brain woke again, by the time he realized he had to be part of choosing the date, to make sure it was after the Feast of Saint Agata, the messenger was already galloping away.

He sank to the floor.

He could send his own messenger to say the wedding had to be after 4 February. In fact, it had to be a week after that. Two weeks. He would need time to recover. He picked at the red
patch of skin on his forearm. The itching in his head and back and bottom and thighs didn't even elicit scratching from him anymore, it was so unremitting. Now and then he'd slap hard at it, but scratching was futile. A month, then. He would ask for a wedding date in March.

But no. Waiting might be a mistake. It would give the princess time to think about things. She might hear about him—about his smell, his filth. She might refuse.

No. No, he had no choice. He would stay in his villa until the messenger came back with the wedding date.

If the date was too soon, the princess would be horrified at the wedding ceremony.

Well, he'd simply stay hidden. He could participate in the ceremony from behind palm fronds. Or maybe he'd have a screen built, of lacquered wood, painted beautifully. She'd wonder, but she wouldn't be afraid. After the wedding, he'd stay at a distance until he had a chance to transform. She'd be amazed when she saw him. He would sweep her off her feet. That was something to look forward to.

If she didn't hear the truth about him from someone, or somehow catch a glimpse of him, or a whiff of him. If she didn't run away immediately.

This sort of thinking could drive a person mad.

If he wasn't mad already.

A wife. Out of nowhere, a wife.

He couldn't lose her. Not before he had a chance to prove
himself to her. Here and gone. That would be too cruel. Like the boy artist—coming and going. A friend lost. But losing a wife, that would be the cruelest thing yet.