The Wager

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Another realization came: the boy artist was sure to know artists were needed here again. He’d come last year, after all. And no matter how far he may have traveled in the interim, he’d have heard that this year’s celebration would be grander. He might come seeking employment again. He could. He very well could.

  A tentative but oh-so-sweet hint of optimism accompanied Don Giovanni to the kitchen. He nestled into his favorite corner to watch. Already calm was returning. He could bear the insult of that little incident with the urine. The kitchen was a good place.

  Ribi took a round wooden board from a shelf and cut small wedges from several different kinds of soft cheeses. He arranged them on the board and held it out to Don Giovanni. These were not ordinary cheeses. Some had dried fruits pressed into them; others had assorted nuts or a variety of salted meats. Many were flavored with alcoholic drinks. Ribi made the choices of which things to blend into which cheeses. It was his invention. Nowhere else in Sicily would you taste such things.

  Don Giovanni ate one. Walnut with ricotta soured by lemon. Odd and zingy and altogether delightful. And so simple, really. Nothing exotic or difficult to work with. “A touch of genius,” he said.

  Ribi grinned.

  The urge came immediately. Don Giovanni turned his back in the nick of time. Urine ran down his left leg.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Ribi.

  “I have to go rest.” Don Giovanni left quickly, without looking back. But he knew there was a puddle on the floor. Ribi would have to clean it—Ribi, who kept cleaner than a virgin on her wedding morning. Mortification drew his lips back tight against his teeth in distaste. He loathed being himself. All he wanted was to throw off those revolting clothes and burn them.

  Burn, like the urine. For oh, it had burned again. Worse this time.

  By evening, the burn was like fire. Every time something passed his lips, even the smallest thing, even the tiniest taste, the urge came and the pain increased. Control of this one simple bodily function had become an illusion. He drank wine until he couldn’t lift the jug anymore. He heard terrified screams as he fell asleep, and he knew they were his own.

  When All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day finally came, Don Giovanni was weak and thinner than ever. He hadn’t dared eat in days. He drank only when his mouth became so parched, he thought he couldn’t breathe anymore. And then only wine, because it dulled the pain.

  Don Giovanni closed himself into the Wave Room. The only person he allowed in was the servant who brought a fresh jug of wine. And then he’d turn his face to the wall, so the man didn’t know. A nose might suspect, but without eyes to confirm, the man couldn’t be sure.

  His trousers grew stiff with caked blood. They cracked with every movement. The hard creases sawed away at his groin and thighs when he walked. He had become the most disgusting creature he could ever imagine.

  Heavy tapestries had been hung over the Wave Room windows to hold in the noise of his screams. Musicians were located nearby on every side to mask those screams.

  It was good the boy artist hadn’t shown his face. Don Giovanni wouldn’t want him to witness this. The artist had treated him like a man. He couldn’t stand it if those clear gray eyes acknowledged him as a monster.

  He peeked past a tapestry now. The courtyard profusion of people and food and flowers and wine and music and animals—yes, animals; Don Giovanni had let it be known that animals were welcome this year, too—that profusion nearly made him smile. He let the tapestry drop and stepped back into the center of the room.

  “The feast is going on,” Don Giovanni hissed through gritted teeth to the air he felt sure was listening. After all, the timing of this latest affliction was too awful to be an accident. He refused to let anything be ruined by his illness, whatever it was. This feast belonged to everyone. “You can’t ruin it.” He raised his fists high in front of his face. “I know you’re behind this. You see how close I’m getting to winning. You rose in fury. But you’re not the only one who harbors fury. I will not take off these clothes. I will not wash!”

  The urge came. And he hadn’t drunk even a drop. He doubled over. His member would split apart at the pressure. “Out!” he shouted. “Out, out, damnable waters!” Blood and urine and tears burst from him. He collapsed on the floor.

  Pain exhausted him. His body was too heavy to lift. He lay motionless. “At this rate, I’ll die before the three months and three days have ended. You’ll lose.” If only he could laugh. A part of himself stared down on that body and shook its head. No one would believe he had once been the most renowned lover of Messina. He didn’t believe it himself. He passed out from the pain.

  Don Giovanni woke with a start. Water whooshed up his nose. He was drowning. He pushed himself up on his elbows and blinked against the sunlight. The tapestries had been pulled down from the windows. Sun glittered in the water that puddled beside him.

  “Drink.” Ribi held the jug to his lips.

  Don Giovanni jerked his head away. “I can’t.”

  “You have to.”

  “It will make it worse.”

  “It’s the only way to make it better. You should have told me.” Ribi made a tsk and shook his head. “You should have told me as soon as the blood started.”

  Don Giovanni managed to get to a sitting position. “Go away. I don’t want you to see this. I don’t want anyone to see this.”

  “Did I rid you of the worms?”

  Don Giovanni squeezed his eyes shut. He wished he could squeeze his ears shut. He wished he could squeeze out the world beyond his skin. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Then trust me. Let me help you.”

  The rim of the jug pressed against Don Giovanni’s lips. He drank. The urge came, the pressure, the intolerable pain, the explosion. He screamed and pushed Ribi away. But the man came crawling back, holding the jug, pressing it to his lips. Ribi’s remarkable persistence prevailed even as Don Giovanni’s screams and thrashing grew more violent.

  It took a week of drinking water almost continually, with fruits between glugs of the liquid, for the sickness to pass entirely. But then it was gone. Vanished.

  Don Giovanni was left with blood-thickened trousers, but healthy innards once again.

  And none too soon. The morning after his first good night’s sleep since the illness began, the king’s messenger returned. Don Giovanni heard him on the road. He looked out the north window of the Wave Room and saw a wagon loaded with sacks. On the front bench were two men. And on horseback in front of the wagon was the king’s messenger. His black broad-brimmed hat made him unmistakable.

  The king was sending a gift. A gift in return for Don Giovanni’s gift. An act of friendship. Nothing could be better. They understood each other, of course; he should have expected it. They’d both had to fight for their independence. The messenger must have been astute and told the king of Don Giovanni’s remark about understanding throwing off shackles. What could be a more natural foundation for a friendship?

  Panic fluttered Don Giovanni’s insides. Last time, the messenger had insisted that he speak alone with Don Giovanni, without the palm screen. He’d probably do that again. But he mustn’t see Don Giovanni’s trousers. How could he hide them without making it obvious what he was trying to do? He hurried to the kitchen.

  “Ribi, we have a guest. Pull that side table out from the wall. I’ll stand behind it. You load it with offerings. Things that smell strong.”

  By the time the servant who let the messenger in found Don Giovanni, his lower half was hidden behind a table piled high with pungent cheeses and meats. “You have a guest, sire.”

  “Show him in.”

  But the messenger was already entering. He moved with the same assurance he had last time. And the same graciousness; if he noticed anything worse in Don Giovanni’s appearance, he gave no hint of it. He bowed. “The king thanks you for your generosity.”

  “I thank him in return for allowing it.” Don Giovanni opened his hands toward the food in fr
ont of him. “Please have something to eat.”

  “It does look delicious.” The messenger hesitated only the briefest moment. It would have been customary to sit at this point, but no bench was available. He filled the empty plate Ribi handed him and cut cheese with his knife, eating it off the tip politely. “Marvelous,” he said. He ate quietly for quite a long time. Then he put down his plate and dipped his completely clean fingers into the finger bowl. He looked Don Giovanni in the eye. “Your generosity is infectious, you know.”

  Don Giovanni didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t entirely clear whether this was a good or bad remark. He waited.

  “Others heard of your contribution and added their own. The king has more than enough to build the cathedral.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it.”

  “So I’ve brought back a wagon of your gold.”

  Not a gift. Not an act of friendship. Useless gold. “I won’t take it.” Don Giovanni pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. Then he sighed. “Please tell the king it would be an insult to me to return such an insignificant gift. If he doesn’t want the money, you should keep it. You and the two drivers of the wagon.”

  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.

  Another Portrait

  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 befriende
d 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.