The Wager (9 page)

No, he was here in this kitchen simply for food—thanks to the magic purse. His taste buds had come alive again, and the food was good.

The entire following month went much the same. He stayed in his room, except to go to the privy and down to the kitchen for the midday meal. Sometimes he lay in bed and rested. Sometimes he opened the shutters, despite the cold, and sat on a chest pushed to the far side of the room and looked out over the roofs. Sometimes he paced, but always in bare feet. He didn't want anyone to hear him. He'd learned during his months as a beggar that it was rarely good to draw attention to himself. And he didn't want to wear out his skin shoes. They were the ones the woman had given him his first morning in Randazzo, so long ago. They had been in decent condition then. And he'd gone barefoot all summer and much of the autumn, so he had added little wear. Still, skin was skin; their days were numbered.

The rule repeated in his head:
You cannot wash yourself, change your clothes, shave your beard, comb your hair.

He wasn't entirely sure, but probably new shoes would be counted as changing his clothes. He had to make these ones last three years, three months, three days. Well, less than that now. Days were passing.

No plan had yet come to him of what to do next. But that
was all right. He needed time to gain back flesh and grow strong again. He'd stay in this room, avoid getting dirty, and return to health. Soon enough, he'd think of the next step.

He was slowly getting used to the advantages of money. He made requests for certain foods at the evening meal now. Asked for seconds when he wanted. Addressed a question or two to the other guests, who were growing in number. Yes, he was becoming his old self again.

On a morning in early December, the innkeeper knocked on Don Giovanni's door at the crack of dawn. As usual.

Don Giovanni whispered to his purse before opening the door. As usual.

The innkeeper gave a quick bow of the head to him. “Will you be leaving today, Your Excellency?”

No one had addressed Don Giovanni as “Your Excellency” since the philosopher-thief. The words seemed foreboding, as though there was a joke in the air. A joke at someone's expense. Whose? “Here's payment for another day's food and lodging.” Don Giovanni emptied the purse into the innkeeper's hand.

All the preceding days, when the same scene had taken place, the innkeeper had quickly closed a fist around the coins. But now he looked at them and hesitated. “Will you be staying in again all day?”

“Yes.”

The innkeeper tucked the coins away somewhere inside his shirt. He went to the window and pushed the shutters open.
The bright sun of a cold morning slashed in, dividing the room into the lit and the dark.

The very act felt like an invasion to Don Giovanni. This was his room—he'd paid for it. He controlled every aspect of it. He stiffened. “Close the shutters, please.”

The innkeeper took the cloth looped through his belt and brushed ash off the windowsill. “Christmas is coming soon,” he said as if addressing the world outside.

“I said close them. Please.”

The innkeeper turned and gave Don Giovanni a mirthless smile. “I thought the light might cheer you up.”

“I don't need cheering. I'm taking a chill.”

“Perhaps you need warmer clothing. I could fetch a tailor.”

“No. No, thank you.” Don Giovanni walked to the window and reached past the innkeeper. He pulled the shutters closed.

The room seemed darker than before. Shrouded.

The innkeeper lit the oil lamp. “He's a reliable man, this tailor. Discreet. He'll take care of your needs.”

“I don't want new clothes. And I don't need discretion.”

“Something more appropriate. Clothes that suit your station in life.”

“These are my clothes,” said Don Giovanni, smoothing both hands down the front of his smock. “These are what I wear.”

The innkeeper smirked. “Well, if you insist, why don't you
strip down? I'll have my maidservant mend and wash your clothes.”

“No, thank you.”

“It would do you a world of good. Then you could go outside.”

“It's not my clothes that stop me from going outside,” said Don Giovanni. “I don't want to go outside.”

“We can bring you a basin and fill it with nice warm water for a bath.” He spoke quickly, his lips moving like swarming insects. “Sheep tallow and large salt grains do a world of good in refreshing the body and soul. And a scrub brush made of boar hair.”

“No. I said no. No, thank you.”

The innkeeper pressed his hands together in front of his chest, fingertips pointing up, the backs of the fingers of one hand touching the backs of the fingers of the other hand. He shook them.

Don Giovanni recognized the gesture as one of exasperation. “What's it to you what I wear, whether I'm clean, how I pass my day? I pay for my lodging. I pay for my food.”

“People come through town at this time of year. The inn fills up. It's full already. People are sharing beds.”

Don Giovanni crossed his arms at his chest. He knew what was coming now, it was all too clear. But if he stood like a statue, maybe he could bully this innkeeper. “And?” He lifted his chin so he could look down his nose at the man.

“They like the place to feel festive. To match the spirit of the season. They dress well. They're businessmen of a certain class.”

“So am I.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. And what is your business?”

“I don't have to explain myself to you. It's rude of you even to ask.”

“Rude? This is my inn. Your behavior here is my concern.” The man shook his hands in that gesture of exasperation. “Your Excellency, you are a fine gentleman. I know that. But you don't dress like my other visitors expect. I get complaints.”

Don Giovanni bristled. “Clothing doesn't make the man.”

“That's true.” The innkeeper's chest swelled with slow, deep breaths. He looked at Don Giovanni appraisingly. “Perhaps it wouldn't be that hard to appease them if we did a little grooming. A shave. A comb run through your hair.”

“Appease?” Don Giovanni stepped backward, as if slapped. All he'd done was direct a couple of questions at a visitor or two. And the pretentious blockheads had complained? “I don't make trouble for anyone.”

“You sit at the kitchen table. They don't want to sit near you.”

“The table is long,” said Don Giovanni, but he knew he'd already lost this argument.

“With more people coming over the next couple of weeks, they won't be able to avoid you. And no one will share a bed with you, of that I'm certain.”

Don Giovanni turned his back to the innkeeper. He whispered inside his smock to the linen purse. Then he reached in and took its contents and turned around. “Here.” He threw coins onto the bed. “Double the usual. I'll pay double every day from now on.”

The innkeeper's eyes flickered to the money and back, but he didn't jump at it. “This is not such a fancy inn, to merit that kind of pay. Maybe you'd prefer to continue your travels and stay at a better inn, in some larger city. Most of the best places are far in the west, in Palermo, of course. But if you wanted someplace closer, you could always return to Messina. That's where you said you came from, right? Am I right?”

“Yes,” said Don Giovanni grumpily.

“I hear it's been rebuilt after a wave and it's more hospitable than ever.”

“This inn suits me. This is where I want to be.”

“Your Excellency, I'm not worthy of this honor.”

The words raised hackles on the nape of Don Giovanni's neck. A spark of panic shot up in the backs of his eyeballs. “I have to stay.”

“People talk,” said the innkeeper. “If word gets around . . .”

“What word? That there's a man in ordinary clothes with a beard?” Don Giovanni forced a laugh. “That's some big scandal, all right.”

“A recluse in questionable clothing.” The innkeeper shook his head and looked at the floor. “I'll lose business. There are two other inns in town.”

“What? You want more money? Is that it?”

The innkeeper's head jerked up. “Where do you keep all this money?”

“That's not your affair.”

The innkeeper looked away, then back at Don Giovanni. “Triple pay for as long as you stay.”

“Fine.”

“And you take all your meals in this room.”

“Fine.”

The innkeeper gathered the coins from the bed and held out his hand for more.

“I'll give the rest to you later,” said Don Giovanni.

“How much later?”

“After the morning meal.”

The innkeeper left.

Don Giovanni blew out the lamp and took off all his clothes. He stood in the dim light and felt his arms and legs and chest and belly. He was almost back to his summer self in size. Yet right now he had the sensation of being reduced to something insignificant, vulnerable. Like a small animal who had wandered by mistake into a large cave.

This was just the beginning of the game. It shouldn't be hard yet. Don Giovanni had no excuse for feeling so depressed. He chanted the rules under his breath:
You cannot wash yourself, change your clothes, shave your beard, comb your hair
. These
rules had to be his religion for the duration of the game. He must win.

Don Giovanni felt his hair. It formed knots here and there, but it wasn't the matted mess that many beggars' hair was. If the visitors at this inn had really complained about his grooming, they were way too persnickety. His clothes, yes, they were regrettable. But his person, no. He was relatively clean.

Still, Don Giovanni himself didn't like those knots. He worked his fingers through them. Did fingers count as a comb? He let his hand drop. He'd get used to knots. They were nothing in the larger scheme of things.

As for his clothes, well, generally, though they were peasant clothes, they were reasonably clean and in good shape. He had managed to brush off most of the dirt from when he fell in the alley the night he got his magic purse. Maybe he should let the maidservant mend the tear in his cape at least. After all, “change your clothes” meant “put on a new outfit.” It didn't mean “alter your clothes.” He couldn't be breaking the rules if he simply had the cape sewn. Could he?

But the devil enjoyed double meanings. He'd stood in the stable and called the purse “dear,” and remarked on his own cleverness. Words were part of his game.

There was no point in risking it. A rip in his cape was tolerable.

So the upshot was that there was nothing to be done. No
changes. Triple pay would satisfy the innkeeper. And Don Giovanni was happy enough to take all meals in his room. The food was good; that was the issue to focus on. He couldn't let anything else matter.

In fact, now that he wouldn't be going down to the kitchen for the evening meal, he wouldn't have to wear his clothes when he ate. He didn't have to risk getting food on them. So he was better off. Ha!

Indeed, he could stay in his room naked all day and all night. He'd slip on his trousers only to answer the door when the maidservant brought his meals and to make a dash for the privy.

He could live like that for the whole game period if he wanted.

Witless though he was, that cowardly innkeeper had provided Don Giovanni with a plan. Don Giovanni could pay him to bring books. He'd pass the day reading. And watching the world from his window. If he got restless, he could run in place.

Don Giovanni shook out his cape and draped it neatly over the writing table. From nowhere came the calculation of days; it was December 8. His birthday! The new plan was a birthday gift.

He stretched out his smock and hung it from the stool, pulling tight to get rid of all the wrinkles. He laid his trousers across the chest at the foot of the bed and pressed them in perfect lines. He put his shoes under the window, where they could air out.

Then he whispered to his purse. He poured the coins onto
the bed and marveled at them. Maybe he'd never get used to this. Magic disoriented him.

There was a knock at the door.

Don Giovanni pulled on his trousers and opened the door to find the innkeeper himself holding the tray of food, rather than the maidservant who usually brought his morning meal. Well, of course. The man was eager for the money.

The innkeeper looked at the table, covered by Don Giovanni's cape. “Where should I put this?”

Don Giovanni took the tray. “Your money's on the bed.”

“I see it.” The innkeeper took the money. He looked around the room quickly and with a touch of—what, suspicion?—he left.

Don Giovanni set the tray on the floor. He took off his trousers and folded them onto the bed. Then he sat by the tray, naked. He broke the stale bread into pieces and dropped them into the bowl of hot goat milk. He cut up the raw onion and dropped it in, as well. This was the same breakfast he'd had his first morning in Randazzo, with the exception of the added onion. And it's what he'd eaten any chance he got during his months of begging.

He could have had soft, fresh cheese with sugar stirred into it, and just-baked bread. Or a chunk of hard bread with a slice of roast meat from the day before. That's what the other inn visitors had in the morning. It's what Don Giovanni used to eat, back in Messina. But after his first two mornings of that here,
he'd asked for this peasant breakfast instead. It's what he'd eaten with the goatherds all summer and autumn. He'd come to prefer it.

Surely that marked him as different, as well. A recluse in questionable clothing. That's what the innkeeper had called him. A shady character. With lower-class culinary habits to boot. Well, he'd show that innkeeper. Don Giovanni would order a fine cake for this evening. His personal birthday celebration.

The goat milk had the same effect on him it always had. He finished the last drop, pulled on his trousers, and ran for the privy.