The Wager

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “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.

  What a birthday.

  Don Giovanni went to the side table and drank directly from the jug. The only way to wait was in a drunken stupor. But the wine didn’t help this time. It only brought images of a young woman, her face shrouded, shocked, screaming, crying, railing. He threw himself on Cani and fell asleep, clutching the patient dog.

  Three days later, the messenger returned, followed by a coach. An elaborately carved and painted coach, drawn by a horse with a red hood and white rings painted around the eyeholes. Don Giovanni watched from the window. His breath stopped. The royal coach. The king was in there. Or the queen mother. Or maybe even the princess herself. This couldn’t be good. If they saw him . . .

  He went as fast as he could down the stairs, down, down to the wine cellar. Waddling, he stumbled halfway and fell. The cold floor bit at him. The damp air entered his bones and set him shivering. He wanted to hide behind a barrel, but there wasn’t room, so he crouched between two.

  Voices called his name from one direction, then another. Now Cani barked. They’d enlisted his dog against him. Unfair cleverness. Cani would never betray him if he understood.

  The dog’s nails clicked on the stone, like the messenger’s heels clicking behind him.

  “Sire, are you there?”

  Cani wiggled happily in front of him. The dog’s tail moved in a circle, he was so excited.

  His position was clearly untenable. He cut a ridiculous figure. Don Giovanni stood up as straight as he could manage. His bride was here and gone. He’d lost her.

  “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

  “I don’t want to meet anyone.”

  “This person is an artist.” The messenger pulled his cloak tighter. “There’s a chill down here. Shall we go upstairs to talk?”

  An artist had come in the royal coach? This must be one talented man, to merit such treatment.

  Don Giovanni followed the messenger up the stairs, all the way to the Wave Room.

  A small man in floppy black trousers stood facing the wall. The long black smock, the wool cap. All so very familiar, so very dear. Could it be? After so much searching to no avail, Don Giovanni had come to think of the boy artist as unreal. If it weren’t for the drawing that greeted him every morning, he’d be convinced the boy was nothing but a figment of his imagination.

  The boy turned and looked up at Don Giovanni with those liquid silver eyes that spoke to him immediately. At last! Don Giovanni opened his mouth but words stuck in his throat.

  The boy artist’s eyes pleaded with him. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. What was he trying to convey? And how was it that in this past year he seemed not to have grown at all? Not a hint of a mustache. And as thin as ever. Except his cheeks; they had plumped out a little. The wooden box lay at his feet.

  “This is the artist.” The messenger folded his hands in front of his chest, like a priest about to deliver bad news to his congregation. “The princess has requested a picture.”

  “And I am honored with the privilege,” said the boy artist, keeping his eyes locked on Don Giovanni’s. “Meeting you is an even greater honor.” He bowed that laughably low bow.

  But Don Giovanni didn’t have time to wonder why the boy was pretending they were strangers. He reeled under the disastrous news. He was doomed. “A portrait of her groom,” he said icily to the messenger.

  “Nothing so elaborate as a portrait. A drawing, shall we say.”

  “Did you describe me to her?”

  “Not at first, no. But she heard rumors. You know how Palermo is. They upset her. So she asked me.”

  “And you complied,” said Don Giovanni with a hint of accusation, though he knew he had no right to feel that way. This man owed him nothing.

  The messenger spread his hands, palms up. “I am a man of few words. But true words. What could I do?” He shrugged. “The princess prevailed on the queen
mother.”

  Don Giovanni took a deep breath. “And if the princess doesn’t like what she sees in the drawing?”

  “I don’t know. Kings don’t break their word. But . . .” The messenger let his hands drop by his sides in defeat. “She’s a girl who gets her way.” He looked to the side table.

  “Help yourself,” said Don Giovanni with resignation.

  The messenger poured a glass of wine and drank it slowly. “Draw something clear,” he said to the boy artist. “Something that will satisfy her.” He turned to Don Giovanni. “I’ll return at the end of the day to take the artist home.” He bowed and left.

  The two of them stood facing each other. Silent.

  “I’m back,” said the boy, finally.

  “I tried to find you.”

  “I didn’t want to be found.”

  “Why not?”

  “Friendship has costs.”

  “And we were friends?” Don Giovanni whispered.

  “You knew we were. We are. I couldn’t pay the price.”

  “What price?”

  “My freedom.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want you to understand. Just believe me when I say it was hard for me. Your company that day was a pleasure. To be able to talk openly, without hiding who I truly am—a rare treasure.”

  “Who are you truly?”

  “An artist.” He put up his hand in the hush sign. “Please. Find it in your heart to let this matter lie. Find it in your heart, please, to forgive me, even though when this drawing is done, I’ll be gone again.”

  The boy’s face was so solemn, Don Giovanni’s heart ached. “Just so,” he said softly. “Well, now, we have work ahead. Another drawing.”

  The boy blinked, almost as though he were blinking back tears. “I’ll use vellum this time, if you want. Sheep vellum. It’s better than goat.”

  “And colors?”

  “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.” The artist stretched vellum over a wood frame and tacked it in place. He picked up a charcoal stick. “It’s cold today. Shall we stay inside?”

  “Where?”

  “Why not this room?”

  “The Wave Room.”

  The artist’s head bobbed in recognition at the words. “Oh, of course. You named it after the wave of Messina.” He tilted his head at Don Giovanni. “The wave that changed your life.” He left the vellum and charcoal on the floor and walked along the walls, trailing his fingertips over the blue tiles, just like Don Giovanni did sometimes. His eyes wandered appreciatively. “Who put these tiles up?”

  “Giufà.”

  The artist stood before a twist of deep blue, white blue, and green blue sweeping up from the floor into white spray near the ceiling. He folded his hands behind his back. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “So what?”

  “Are you questioning my credentials again? I thought we were past that. I’ve heard of the best artists.”

  The back of Don Giovanni’s neck itched horribly, but he wouldn’t scratch it. He wouldn’t take the chance of inflicting on the boy the thought of what it was like to be him. “You mean the best in Palermo.”

  “I mean the best in Sicily. And on the mainland, too.”

  Don Giovanni almost smiled. “There you go, giving me your credentials. I thought we were past that.”

  The artist laughed. He walked again, still trailing his fingertips along the wall. “He has strength, while not giving up precision or flow.”

  “Listen to you. Such a grand artist. Would you rate him among the best you’ve seen?”

  “It’s hard to judge from one work. But the difficulty of making something that moves you when you’re working with variations on but a single color—that demands skill. He’s made the sea here, the calm and the wild. The power. I think maybe he is among the best.”

  “Then you haven’t heard of all the best artists, have you?”

  The artist gave a cockeyed smile. “You win.”

  “The walls in the Story Room were done by Paperarello. Bet you haven’t heard of him, either.”

  “No.”

  “Want to see?”

  The artist followed Don Giovanni into the next room. He stood open-mouthed in front of the mosaics. “These are fairies and witches and talking horses.” He spun around to face Don Giovanni. “Are you reliving your childhood tales?”

  “Normally this room is full of children, playing games or listening to a storyteller or singing. But from the week before Christmas till the end of the holidays, everyone is busy with family events. Storytelling won’t resume till mid-January.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” The boy touched a line of gems. And another. He walked all around the room three times, always returning to one talking horse. Then he did the strangest thing; he pressed a cheek against the horse head. “It’s stunning.” His arms stretched out to each side; his belly and chest and legs hugged the wall. Like a starfish with only four arms. Was this ecstasy Don Giovanni was witnessing?

  After a while, Don Giovanni spoke softly. “And the ceiling in the dining hall was done by Quaddaruni. Come.”

  The artist reluctantly detached himself from the wall and followed Don Giovanni. But when they came into the dining hall, he lay on the floor and studied the ceiling. Silent.

  He stayed so long, Don Giovanni felt foolish standing. So he lay down, too. Immediately, he gasped. “You’re right. The effect is even more spectacular from this perspective.”

  “How did you find them?” whispered the artist.

  “They came to me. Just like you did. I let it be known that I was interested in good work. And that I’d look at anyone’s work. You didn’t have to be famous.”

  “And you recognized how good they were.”

  “Are you surprised? You’re the one who said my choosing you was credentials enough. Was that just flattery?”

  “More a way to keep the discourse on course.” The boy gave a quiet sigh. “Tell me about what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The wave. Tell me.”

  So Don Giovanni talked. He told about being a spendthrift and losing all his wealth. About the walk down the coast, then inland to Randazzo. About gathering snow for nobles’ desserts and then the spring and summer and autumn of working outdoors. Then a change in his fortunes, money he hadn’t expected. And the long year of being homeless, but able to buy food, and, oh, the wonderful company of Cani, and finally the luck of buying this villa.

  He didn’t mention the devil or the white linen purse.

  They lay side by side, not speaking anymore. The air between their chests and the ceiling shimmered with Don Giovanni’s words. He could feel their weight, but they didn’t crush him. Breath came easy.

  “Will you be eating the midday meal with the rest of us today?”

  Don Giovanni sat up.

  Ribi stood at a respectful distance.

  “Not me. But maybe this artist . . .” Don Giovanni turned to him. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Make one up for me.”

  And it suddenly struck Don Giovanni: this boy knew much about him now, but he knew almost nothing about the boy. His spine prickled. Friendship had balance—true friendship, that is. His skin tightened with wariness. Cani had attested that this was not the devil. But the devil had assistants, and Cani might not react to them. Assistants could be anywhere, anyone.

  And he had to admit it, they had nothing in common, no basis for a friendship. Why on earth would a lithe, graceful boy befriend a stinking beast?

  Wait a minute now. They had appreciation of art in common. That was firm and sharp.

  The devil’s hook, perhaps?

  Don Giovanni pushed himself up on his hands and stood unsteadily. It was 20 December. Only forty-six days to go. Nothing could make him lose now. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “The boy artist can eat with the rest of you. I’ll take my meal in the Wave Room.”

  “No, please.” The artist scram
bled to his feet. “I’ll eat with you. Please.”

  And so they ate together, Don Giovanni sitting on his cushion throne and the boy on the floor.

  When they finished, the boy took up his vellum and charcoal and drew. He drew all afternoon. At one point he went to his box for paint. Then he continued working.

  And the whole time, no one spoke.

  “You’re angry with me,” said the boy at last. He put away the paintbrush and the charcoal. He cleaned his hands on a towel from his box. “What did I do?”

  “You’ve told me nothing about yourself.”

  “You haven’t told me everything about yourself, either.”

  “But you’ve told me nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You know my father died.”

  “And your mother finds your persistence annoying. That’s it.”

  “Ask,” said the boy.

  “What’s the most important thing about you?”

  “To me or to others?”

  A good question. The kind of question that Don Giovanni would have asked now—but never in the old days. The kind of question the devil would know Don Giovanni would find enticing. “To you.”

  “I’m an artist.”

  “To others,” said Don Giovanni.

  “To my family, I’m a fool.”

  “And to those outside your family?”

  “I’m rich.”

  So they did have more in common. That’s why this boy artist came in the royal coach. He was nobility. Don Giovanni swallowed hard. “To me?” he murmured.

  “You can answer that better than I.”

  “Try.”

  “I like you.”

  Don Giovanni’s throat narrowed. Breath hurt. “Why?”

  “You use your wealth wisely. Everyone knows what you do. I knew before I came here the first time. I listened to all the things you’ve done in the year between. But today, now that I’ve looked at the work by the artists you’ve hired, I understand it better.”

  “So it’s because of how I spend money? A political matter.”

  “Hardly. Or I wouldn’t call it political. It’s hard to explain. It’s more . . . it’s more that you know why you do these things.”