The Wager (16 page)

Cani ran under the portico and howled at him from that shelter. The dog shook so hard, his legs flew out from under him.

“Come out of the rain, sire,” pleaded Ribi. “You'll catch your death of cold.”

Was that what he was doing? Greeting death? Dying into damnation?

Don Giovanni got to his feet. He leaned forward and let the rain beat on his back and his buttocks. His rags stuck like a second skin now, particularly to the open sores. The dirt turned to mud under his feet. A puddle covered his toes. He pulled his hair up off his neck so the water ran in circles around and down his front. Let all the fetid rot go. Let it go, go, go. If this was the end of life, so be it. Off, damn dirt, damn filth. Off, off. Black passed before his eyes. He pressed his hands to his knees to steady himself, but the rain was too strong to stand up against. It buffetted him. It whipped him. In the end it beat him senseless.

He knew he was falling. He couldn't stop. He would die. He would lose.

The first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was Ribi, sitting against the wall, staring at him. The man's eyes registered terror. He was wet. Mud smeared across the front of his usually spotless smock and trousers.

“Did you carry me in from the courtyard on your own?” Don Giovanni's voice came out as a croak. “You're small. Did you drag me?”

“You're coherent again,” Ribi said softly. “Good.” His voice
soothed. “Would you like me to help you out of those wet clothes?” His nostrils flared.

“You don't have to make an offer that disgusts you.”

“I should have done it already.” Ribi crawled forward. “You're shivering, despite the fire.”

“No, no. You did right. Don't come closer. I can't take my clothes off. Never.”

“Is that delirium speaking again?” Ribi perched back on his heels. “I should feel your head.”

“Was I delirious before?” Don Giovanni sat up. “What did I say?”

“Things about the devil.”

“What things?”

“Nonsense. Just nonsense. Are you feverish?”

“I don't think so.” Don Giovanni had talked about the devil. But the devil wasn't here. Only Ribi was here. Maybe the devil had missed Don Giovanni's little attempt at cleanliness. Pathetic flirtation, given that he was now caked with mud. The devil's fire was narrowly avoided. Again. But this couldn't keep happening; the next time he would fall into the abyss. So there couldn't be a next time. “No, I'm not hot at all. I'm cold, Ribi. Rip down that tapestry and drape it over my back, would you?”

Ribi stood up and looked doubtfully at the wall. “That wall-hanging?”

“Yes.”

“It's expensive.”

“I hate it,” said Don Giovanni. “Rip it down.”

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.

“
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?”