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 person
al 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.
On the way back, he met the innkeeper coming out of his room.
“What were you doing in there?”
“Straightening things, Your Excellency.”
“The maidservant straightens things.”
The innkeeper pursed his lips. “This is my inn. It’s my responsibility to check the rooms.”
He was a good enough liar in voice and words, but Don Giovanni saw the shiftiness in his eyes. The innkeeper had done something secret in Don Giovanni’s room. Sneaky.
His purse!
Don Giovanni quickly pushed past the innkeeper into the room. The purse lay on the bed. The smock and cape were where he’d left them. But everything was slightly different. Telltale details. A fold in the cape, but he’d smoothed it flat with both hands. The smock a bit to the right, but he’d spread it precisely over the center of the stool. And the purse open, but he’d drawn the strings.
“Everything’s in order, as you can see,” said the innkeeper behind him.
“Yes.”
“And, oh, would you mind paying for the next two weeks now?”
“Paying ahead? Why?”
“That way I won’t need to disturb you so often, seeing how much you value your privacy.”
“I’ll pay by the day,” said Don Giovanni, “like all your other guests.”
The innkeeper put out his hand. “I think it would be best.” His eyes gave him away again. Despite his courteous voice, this was a challenge.
He’d searched the room. He’d found no money.
And Don Giovanni stood before him in simple trousers with no pockets. No place to have stashed money on his person.
Curiosity must be driving the man to distraction.
“All right,” said Don Giovanni. “But I’ll pay after the midday meal.”
The innkeeper nodded and left.
Don Giovanni paced. Then he dressed and went out into the street.
Lord, it was cold. He pulled his cape tight.
The innkeeper had talked of two other inns in town. Where? In all his months here, he’d never had occasion to search for an inn. He had known of this one only because it was so close to the stable he liked to sneak into.
He turned to retrace his steps and faced a girl, not fifty paces away, whose mouth formed a dismayed O. He knew her; she was the maidservant who brought his meals to his room. She spun on her heel and walked away quickly.
Don Giovanni ran to catch up.
The maidservant looked over her shoulder in fright. She ran, as well.
A short, wide fellow stepped out of nowhere into Don Giovanni’s path. “Are you bothering that young woman?”
“Get out of my way,” said Don Giovanni. He had to catch the girl.
“I’m not moving for no beggar.” The man put his fists on his hips. Then he squinted up into Don Giovanni’s face. “I know you. You mucked out my master’s stables last spring. You look different without that red ring around your eyes—you’d been a snow gatherer before you mucked out manure, right? Eyes tearing all day from Etna’s fumes. The worst jobs in the world, they were yours. So who do you think you are, talking stuck-up like that, telling me what to do? You mess with that young woman and I’ll beat you senseless.”
Don Giovanni drew back in alarm. He was stronger than this man, no doubt about it. But he wouldn’t do anything that would get his clothes dirty.
Besides, he didn’t want to chase the girl anymore. What was the point in catching her and telling her not to follow him? The innkeeper would just send someone else to do it. That man was determined to find out where Don Giovanni got his money from.
It was time to leave Randazzo.
The Donkey
IT WAS MORNING. HIS BELLY WAS FULL. AND THOUGH THE AIR was cold, the sky was clear. If Don Giovanni had to leave the city, these were as good a set of conditions as any.
So long as he had the magic purse, he’d be all right. And a birthday was an auspicious day to make a journey. Twenty years old. He could take on the world.
He stood on the road outside the town walls. To the east, the only cities of enough size to have inns were Catania and Messina. But Catania was under constant threat from Etna, and Don Giovanni had had it with the Mountain.
Messina was an even worse choice. No matter how careful Don Giovanni was, his clothes and body were bound to get dirty and dirtier. He didn’t want anyone who knew him from before to see that. Especially since he planned to return there when the game was up and buy back his castle and refurbish it more extravagantly than ever.
He set out westward in long strides. There was no point in being sluggish about it. Besides, vigorous motion would raise his body temperature.
Within a few kilometers he was surprised to find that the land on both sides of the road was relatively free of snow. The explanation came almost immediately, in a fierce wind that swept dead leaves and twigs and dirt in his face. He put up his hood, wrapped his cape tighter, and forged ahead, bent into the wind. But the chill made him need to urinate. Though there was no one in sight, these roads were curvy, and travelers could appear out of the blue. So he couldn’t relieve himself in the open.
Well, he’d be quick about it. He dashed off the road toward a stand of trees and within a few steps he sank deep. He knew immediately what it was—not a snow pocket but a gully of soft ashes. It was impossibly stupid of him not to have been on the alert for it. The texture of ashes was recognizable to anyone who’d lived here even a month. And the wind had brushed the snow so thin on this slope that ash gray showed through, dull stains in the middle of the shiny white of snow dust and the black glitter of frozen dirt. Ash absorbed the sunlight like cloth soaking up water. Anyone should have seen it. What a dunce he was.
He walked back to solid ground. Soot covered his shoes and clung to his trousers up to mid-calf. Stupid stupid stupid him.
He returned to the road and stamped his feet, lifting his knees high, trying to shake off as much as he could. Then he urinated right there in the middle of the road.
A man leading a donkey came up a side path at that very moment. He didn’t bother to look away. Rather, he stared. Maybe he’d seen Don Giovanni jumping around. Maybe he’d even seen him sink into the ashes. Now an idiotic grin filled his face.
Embarrassment made Don Giovanni mean. “Are you as dumb as you look?”
The man laughed. “Are you?” His laugh was actually good-natured.
He passed. On the donkey’s back was a pile of stools tied together by a thick rope. It seemed a haphazard mess, some upside down, some sideways, though Don Giovanni knew the arrangement was a careful balance. Why, there might have been ten or more stools there. The comical burden was higher than his head. That little donkey was strong.
“Wait,” called Don Giovanni.
The man didn’t slow down.
Don Giovanni hurried back to him. “How much do you want for that donkey?”
The man grinned again. “What are you, a comedian?”
“How much? I’ve got money.”
The man gave a hoot. “Not enough.”
At the sound of the man’s laughter, the donkey turned his head. But the pile of stools stuck out on both sides and blocked his view. So he turned around, looked the two men in the face, and swiveled his oversize ears toward his master. He was a smart animal, Don Giovanni could tell.
The man continued along the road, leading the donkey behind him again.
Don Giovanni let them get far enough away that he was sure they wouldn’t hear. He turned his back and whispered into his smock, “Dear one, give me money. Give me the wildest sum this man could possibly want for his donkey.” The purse filled to an amount that was pathetically small. How poor was this man, anyway?
Don Giovanni closed the coins in one hand. He ran after the man. “Name your sum.”
“I’ve got to de
liver these stools to Randazzo this morning. Don’t slow me down.”
“Think of the wildest sum you could possibly want for your donkey. Hold out your hand.”
The man smirked, but he held out his hand.
Don Giovanni filled it.
The man stopped. He counted the coins. He counted again. Then he frowned and gave the money back to Don Giovanni.
“Isn’t it enough?”
“I can’t deliver the furniture without my donkey.”
“Then deliver it. I’ll wait here and take the donkey when you get back. And you can bring me something to eat for midday, too.”
“I have only enough food for myself.”
“I’ll give you money to buy food. Enough for you and me both.”
“More money, eh? You’ve got more money than that?”
“Not much,” said Don Giovanni. The man didn’t look shrewd enough to try to rob him, but appearances could deceive. “Just enough for the donkey and a meal.”
“I need my donkey,” said the man.
“You can get two for that price,” said Don Giovanni. He watched the man’s face and knew; he added, “You could get three.”
“This is a good donkey,” said the man. “He never gets sick. He never balks. The next one could be different. Then where would I be?”
Was everyone in this part of the world greedy? The innkeeper wanted triple pay. And now this donkey owner wanted to fleece Don Giovanni, too. It didn’t matter that he had an infinite source of money. It was the principle of the thing. It galled him to be cheated.
On the other hand, who knew how long it would take him to get to another town of decent size going west? He didn’t want to dirty himself any more than he already had. And maybe the man was right; this donkey did seem special. Don Giovanni would have this donkey, whatever it took.
“How much do you want?”
“How much have you got?”
“This is absurd,” said Don Giovanni. He put the coins back in the man’s hand. “Return with the donkey and food, and I’ll pay you a fair price.”
“A fair price beyond this?”
“Yes.”
“And I get to name it?”
The Wager Page 7
