The Wager

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Ribi pulled on the tapestry hard. It came away easily, and he stumbled backward. He spread it over Don Giovanni’s back.

  “Thank you. Is the meal on the table?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go. Have a good holiday with your family.”

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “Go.”

  “Thank you, sire.” Ribi left.

  Don Giovanni pulled the tapestry around himself and sidled over closer to the hearth. Gradually his shivers subsided. This ugly tapestry was good for something, after all. It lay so heavy across his shoulders that for the moment they didn’t itch.

  He got up and paced.

  The boys didn’t come home. Well, of course not. It was still sleeting. They’d stay in some public hall, dry. Singing. Drinking. Enjoying the company of friends—new friends, since their old ones resented their changed station in life. The boys were probably feasting. It didn’t make sense for Don Giovanni to wait for them. He’d only be disappointed when they showed up already sated.

  He sat at the table and ate neatly, with spoon and knife. Bowls of clove-scented water for washing fingers were set beside each plate. Polite people, of any class, kept their fingers clean when eating. Don Giovanni didn’t use his bowl, naturally, but he was glad it was there. Ribi was a lucky find, a thoughtful soul to persist in putting the bowl there even when it wasn’t touched. Someday Don Giovanni would use finger bowls again.

  He would not lose.

  He finished his meal, then walked through the villa. Don Muntifiuri had covered most of the walls in tapestries as ugly as the one wrapped around Don Giovanni now. This was a custom common in the northern lands he hailed from—Don Giovanni knew that. Still, nothing could justify them here in Sicily. They had turned moldy and musty in the humidity. Anyone could have predicted that. The entire villa had taken on a somberness in conflict with the joy of the Sicilian sun.

  It was time for a change. Don Giovanni would give the place the exuberance that was its heritage by virtue of being built on this soil. He would refurbish the whole place. That’s what he’d done when he’d taken over his castle in Messina. That’s exactly what he should have started the very day he moved into this villa.

  Oh yes, he would personally supervise all redecorating jobs, which he should start immediately with the new year. Tomorrow he’d get his servants to seek out artisans. He’d interview each personally.

  But he wouldn’t tell them to find only famous artisans. He’d put out the word that he was looking for new ideas. Any talented artist had a chance.

  If there was one thing Don Giovanni understood it was that even the least likely characters deserved a chance to show their stuff.

  Already his imagination was coloring the walls. Mosaics would be perfect. Little ceramic tiles, yes. But also lapis lazuli, jasper, and any other rare stones he wanted. And agate. Of course agate. Saint Agata must have been named for it. Maybe she loved it. Agate on the floors, on the walls. An eruption of jewels.

  And the ceilings could be of honeycomb, with glimmers of gold. This villa would be more impressive than a cathedral. And more welcoming. Anyone who wanted Don Giovanni’s company could enter.

  Well, who would want his company? He wasn’t a fool; he’d lost so much, but not his reason.

  Still, he could pay for company. Not prostitutes—even the most desperate girl would refuse—but storytellers. Musicians. Theatrical groups.

  The whole atmosphere of this place would change. His whole outlook on life, as well. This was a plan he could live with. The very sight of this villa would firm his resolve in moments of doubt.

  He would not fall again.

  He would not lose.

  What Money Could Buy

  “A LOAN?” DON GIOVANNI SAT ON A PILE OF CUSHIONS. IT WAS high, and gave the impression of grandness. The guest in front of him, the lawyer Don Cardiddu, sat on the floor, and Don Giovanni looked down on him from the soft pedestal. Like a king. The pomposity of the thought made him smile.

  In actuality and, indeed, stark contrast, the cushions allowed him to rest without too much pain from the abscesses on his bottom. Hardly the backside of a king.

  Or maybe exactly the appropriate backside for the king of rot. The little cloud of flies that had come with the summer’s heat and circled his head right now could be his crown. Don Giovanni laughed.

  Cani’s head shot up. He’d been napping in the corner. He came over and sat near Don Giovanni’s feet, looking at him expectantly. After all, Don Giovanni’s laughter often led to a long sequence in which the man would chatter at the dog, who would whine appreciatively. It was a game the dog appeared to enjoy.

  But Don Cardiddu had reacted differently. Worry crossed his face at that laugh. He took off his black hat and turned it around and around in his pudgy hands.

  Don Giovanni stopped laughing. He didn’t want the man to leave too quickly. It was so good to talk, no matter what the topic. He tried to look attentive. His face should welcome discourse.

  Apparently it worked. Don Cardiddu gave a small smile. “Everyone knows of your wealth and your extreme generosity, how you give to the needy.”

  “The man you represent, though, he’s not needy,” said Don Giovanni, but kindly, “not if he uses your services.”

  “And that’s why it’s just a loan. He wants to build a magnificent villa on one of the hills to the east of Palermo, with fountains, baths, a small chapel with a cupola, a wonderful garden.” Don Cardiddu got to his feet and walked to the window. He looked out on the courtyard. “You’re doing a stunning job transforming this place. In what? Nine months of living here? You’ve made a great difference already.”

  All he’d done was pay for the work. The artists and artisans had done the rest. So many men, young and old, just waiting for a chance to show their talents. Each room of the villa was gradually taking on its own flavor; Don Giovanni had encouraged them to be innovative, and they hadn’t hesitated. Did Don Cardiddu really appreciate the unusual quality of all this?

  Don Cardiddu rested a hand on his fat belly. Don Giovanni could see only about a quarter of his profile, but it was enough. The lawyer had the figure of a squat woman, seven months pregnant. “I can imagine that courtyard with fountains at each corner.”

  So could Don Giovanni, but not until the wager was won. He wouldn’t run the risk of clean water in his courtyard. Right now there was one fountain, at the northwest corner of the villa. He was careful never to walk past it.

  “By the time you’re through, it will be a palace,” said Don Cardiddu. “It will rival the Castello di Mare Dolce of the king himself.” He turned and nodded at Don Giovanni. “You can appreciate someone wanting this kind of thing.”

  “This kind of thing,” echoed Don Giovanni thoughtfully. He climbed off his pile slowly and went to the wall. He ran his fingertips along the glassy, glossy surface. Enameled blue tiles ran from floor to ceiling. There was no design to them, just blue, walls of blue. In his head he called this the Wave Room. The great wave had started everything. He slept in this room.

  The July sun was so bright, his reflection danced in the tiles. How very strange, since dancing was beyond him. He looked older, thinner, more haggard than his age. Anyone would have taken him for well past his prime. He put his hands flat on the reflection, blocking it. Then he turned and walked toward the door, with Cani at his heels.

  Don Cardiddu quickly backed away, but not as much as he should have. No, for on this kind of day, in this kind of heat, Don Giovanni’s odor reached far. Experience had taught him exactly how much distance people needed in which kinds of weather in order to be out of danger of gagging. The lawyer was trying not to show his revulsion. He was possibly a decent man. If only he would stay awhile.

  Don Giovanni changed his mind and went, instead, through the opposite door into the next room, where a storyteller stood on a small stage before an audience of children. This was the Story Room. A never-ending string of storytellers intoned loudly on that stage, to a
never-ending group of children during the day and adults in the evening. Anyone who wanted could come and listen to them. Anyone was welcome.

  The stories were told in ordinary speech. A Sicilian that the common people could understand. Sometimes Arabic, but always the vernacular, not the literary form. Sometimes French.

  Don Giovanni usually listened from behind the door, because the sight of him frightened new children, and adults, too. But now and then he longed to see the antics that went with the words, so he’d have a private storytelling session; just him alone in the far corner, with a storyteller on the stage. He might have a recitation in Greek then; it pleased his ears and was balm to his heart. Especially the poetry.

  He passed quickly through the edge of the room now, noting the look of discomfort on Don Cardiddu’s face at the sight of the ragtag children—which was precisely why he’d chosen this route, a little test for the man, who wasn’t quite as decent as he could have been.

  A boy caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, poked the boy beside him, and looked at Don Giovanni with huge eyes. Both of them pinched their noses.

  Cani ran over and snuggled in with the children, a small group of whom now rolled around with the dog while others gaped at Don Giovanni, the bag of filth, the benevolent madman.

  And Don Cardiddu was seeing all this. Seeing Don Giovanni’s humiliation, which came at least daily, if not multiple times in a single day.

  But it didn’t matter. Children didn’t know better. Don Giovanni didn’t care. He couldn’t let himself care.

  He went down the stairs to the wine cellar with the lawyer following several steps behind. When he got to the bottom, he was disappointed to find that Cani had stayed with the children.

  “Who would build it?” asked Don Giovanni.

  Don Cardiddu jerked to attention, as though he’d forgotten why he’d come. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly. “Who would design the villa, is that what you mean?”

  “No. Who would do the digging and the hauling and the stacking of stones?” Don Giovanni poured two glasses of wine and almost handed one to Don Cardiddu. Then he realized—of course—and left one glass on the side table, using a flick of his chin to invite the lawyer to help himself. He stepped back, allowing a wide berth. “Who would build it?”

  Don Cardiddu looked confused. “The gentleman has a host of Arab slaves.”

  Don Giovanni sipped his wine. It was cool and fruity and perfect for this hot summer day.

  Arab slaves. He thought of the beggar boy Kareem, whose name in Arabic meant “generous, noble.” He hadn’t seen much of him lately. The boy had opened up a stall in the Arab market square with a little help from Don Giovanni. He was doing fine, or so Zizu said.

  “Who would use it?” asked Don Giovanni.

  “His family, of course.” Don Cardiddu picked up the glass, drank his wine, and set the empty glass back on the side table. He moved away again. “Have I not explained well?”

  “You explained fine. More wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Don Giovanni poured himself a second glass. “I won’t loan him a single coin. Nothing.”

  Don Cardiddu’s significant jowls went slack with disappointment, his belly drooped in resignation. He put on his hat.

  “But if he frees his slaves and pays them a good wage, and if he opens the grounds as a public park, including the baths, I’ll give him whatever it takes to build it. Not a loan—a gift. All of it.” Don Giovanni finished his wine and poured himself a third glass. “Can you take him that message?”

  Don Cardiddu blinked rapidly. He looked as if he might faint. “Free the slaves? He paid for them. Then give them a wage? That doesn’t make sense. And it would cost him a great deal in the long run.”

  “Whatever it takes,” said Don Giovanni. “I’ll give whatever it takes. That makes it make sense.”

  Don Cardiddu seemed to catch his breath. “Yes. I see. Whatever it takes. I think, perhaps, that might be workable. That part, yes, I can take that idea to him. But having people he doesn’t know in his private garden . . .”

  “That’s the point.” Don Giovanni finished his wine. He poured himself a fourth glass. “It wouldn’t be private. A public park.”

  “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “They have them in Florence, on the mainland.” Don Giovanni smiled at the lawyer. “You’ve heard of Florence, haven’t you?”

  Don Cardiddu came up to the table, reached for the jug, and poured himself a second glass of wine. He gulped it down. He stood closer to Don Giovanni than anyone had in a long time.

  “Remember how you told Don Muntifiuri not to act like a fool?” said Don Giovanni in hardly more than a whisper. He must do nothing to make the man move away, no loud noise, no sudden movement, barely a breath. “Do the same service to your new client. Make him see the sense of it. This villa he wants to build is already going to be up in the hills. Not that many people will come all the way out there, and not very often. But whoever comes must be allowed to pass unmolested.” He smiled in what he hoped was a winning way. “Whatever it takes.” He bowed.

  “I’ll relay the message.”

  “And the baths must be open to the public. Make sure you tell him that. The baths must be included in the deal.”

  Don Cardiddu left.

  The man had been close. Don Giovanni had nearly touched him.

  “Nice of you to visit,” he said to the empty space.

  “It’s always a pleasure,” he answered.

  He had talked to himself. Had he done that before? Well, talking to himself didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t crazy, he was simply lonely.

  He poured himself another glass of wine and drank it down. Inebriation offered a buffer against reality. He kissed the edge of the glass. He drank directly from the jug and kissed it, too. He got on his knees and kissed the stone floor.

  Then he walked outside under the portico that surrounded the courtyard, keeping well in the shade. From the dining hall upstairs the voices of children eating lunch wafted down. Anyone who came to Don Giovanni’s home could have a hearty meal, whatever time of day. Ribi ran a kitchen staff of several. Don Giovanni didn’t even know how many. It didn’t matter; the purse never let him down.

  And anyone who wanted could have a bed for the night. Don Giovanni had added two very large halls to ensure that no one would ever be turned away.

  It was a life. He was managing.

  A bark came. A joyful yip, really. And laughter. Cani was obviously having lunch with the children and enjoying himself as much as they were. He was probably under the table, eating from little hands that offered treats. Licking little toes. Nosing little bellies. Don Giovanni had seen Cani do these things before.

  He’d be hungry right now, too, if it weren’t for that wine. Hungry, but not able to join the crowd in the dining hall. He was perhaps the only soul in Palermo not welcome at his own table.

  His heart beat jaggedly. Bum, ba ba bum. It beat inside his head. Bum, ba ba bum. Louder. Deafeningly loud. Sweat broke out on his forehead, back, chest. It drenched him in a flood, everywhere. Not from the heat of the day. Not something innocuous. This was his personal source of sweat. This sweat came with the irregular beat of his heart drum.

  That man, that client of Don Cardiddu’s, would accept the offer. He’d have to be an idiot not to. There would be a public park in the eastern hills, with a public bath. Everyone could be clean. Everyone but Don Giovanni.

  Bum, ba ba bum.

  What was cleanliness, anyway? The whole of nature was dirty, after all. What could be wrong with dirt?

  Yet Cani kept himself clean. Even bees washed their faces. Don Giovanni had watched them. Enviously.

  Anything that could manage it wanted to stay clean. That was the rule. Don Giovanni went against the rule.

  Cleanliness was organization. And organization of the body freed the mind and spirit.

  Freedom. Money could buy a slave freedom, but no amount of money
could free Don Giovanni.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes and stung. Cleansing sweat. If only he could be truly bathed in it.

  Water, water. Oh, the holiness of water.

  A flash of realization made Don Giovanni spasm. The lack of cleanliness was an invitation to decay. That’s what made it horrific. That’s why people hated it. It wasn’t just that they didn’t understand why he wouldn’t clean himself, or that they took it as a sign of disrespect for all they valued. It was that his filth reminded them of their own mortality. That’s why they hated him. Don Giovanni was a testament to each of them, each person he passed: You, too, will die.

  Bum, ba ba bum.

  Crazy heartbeat. And dripping sweat. And the wave of nausea, the sick rise in his throat, that was part of it, too. This had happened before. Ugly syndrome. Bile filled his mouth. He knew it would. Breath came fast and shallow and faster and more shallow. He couldn’t catch it. He couldn’t breathe. He’d die. He’d die right here in the courtyard and no one would want to handle his disgusting corpse.

  Evan Cani would hold back. He’d seen the dog’s habits. The woods south of the villa were Cani’s favorite playground, and he’d walked with the dog there many times. Cani would kill a rabbit and chew its flesh, hot blood running down his jaw, marrow smeared in his muzzle hairs. But he’d sniff at a rotting carcass that had been baking in the sun and walk away.

  Nothing good could come now. Nothing good could ever happen.

  Panic brought him to his knees. Like in the wine cellar. But he didn’t kiss the floor this time. No one would ever want his kisses. Maybe even the stone of the wine cellar had cringed, and he was just too blind and stupid to understand. No one, nothing wanted his kisses. No one, nothing would ever kiss him again. He’d die unkissed, unloved.

  How unutterably stupid he had been to enter into this wager. How devoid of understanding.

  Nothing good. Ever again.

  Only dread.

  A Gift

  ON ALL SAINTS’ AND ALL SOULS’ DAY OF 1171, DON GIOVANNI GAVE the biggest feast Sicily had ever heard of. He sent out criers saying everyone was welcome—no matter what their station in life.