The Wager (17 page)

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.

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.

The poor came from all over the northwest of the island. Most of the weavers of Palermo were busy for the month of October making blankets for these visitors, so that they could sleep comfortably. Most of the potters were busy making amphoras and dishes and cups. Straw mats, a full hand's thickness, covered the floors of all the rooms that would be used as dormitories. Ribi hired dozens of extra helpers. The villa buzzed like a beehive.

The food was meant to please everyone. There was minestrone with only vegetables, and minestrone with sausage
chunks. Breads in the shape of crosses piled high in the center of the courtyard tables.
Arancine
—fried rice balls stuffed with cheese and peas—and
caponata
—eggplant, onion, and pepper stew—and boiled octopus, raw sea urchins, steamed fish, and grilled pork intestines. Platters overflowed with braised boar, lamb, goat. Pies of nightingales, braces of stuffed peacocks, roasted crane and heron. The food of kings. But peasant food wasn't overlooked, either; there were batter-fried greens, fennel dipped in garlic and anchovies, artichokes stuffed with bread and cheese,
frittate
—omelets—with grated goat cheese. Local apples and grapes sat beside pears brought all the way from Mount Etna.

And sweets—it seemed Ribi knew how to make every pastry imaginable, many dripping with honey and rose water, smothered in pistachios and cinnamon. Cream puffs ringed huge bowls of ices. Snow had not yet fallen on Monte Pellegrino to the west, so Don Giovanni had sent people inland for it. They'd finally found the first snow of the season on a plain midway up to the mountain town of Corleone, directly south of Palermo. They'd had to hard-pack huge quantities of it, in order to have enough not melt by the time of the feast. The ices were flavored with mulberries, figs, apricots, lemon, coffee, almond.

Almond was always a favorite in sweets. Almond cookies, pastries, cakes. But the crown of almond desserts—
marzapane
—was Ribi's specialty. It was important not to use shelled, dried almonds; they didn't hold enough oil. So in the
last days before the festival Ribi's helpers broke fresh almonds with hammers, peeled the kernels, then ground them in a mortar, gradually adding rose water and sugar to make a thick, aromatic paste. They kneaded it, pressed it with stone rollers, folded it, and pressed again, over and over, until the paste was fine and smooth.

Most cooks shaped the paste into simple forms, typically flat coins. But Ribi's recipe had egg white, and that gave the paste a stiffness that would hold. He divided the paste into many bowls and added fruit and vegetable juices to color them blue and purple and green, red and yellow and orange. He modeled them into little fruits and hung them from silver strings dangling off the eaves of the courtyard portico. He said he'd learned the trick from nuns at a convent in the hills, famous for their
cassate
—cakes made from
marzapane
, ricotta, and candied fruit. He made those cakes, too.

Don Giovanni looked out at the festivities from behind the curtains that he had hung over the Wave Room windows just for this occasion. That way he could see everyone's merrymaking without the sight of him disrupting it.

Not a soul didn't lie back happy and satiated that night. Not a soul didn't sleep in peace.

Not even Don Giovanni. He'd passed most of the autumn in a drunken haze. But Zizu kept checking up on him throughout the festival to make sure he didn't drink himself into oblivion. The boy would simply pick up the jug Don Giovanni
was reaching for and carry it away. He'd have to wait for a servant to come along before he could ask for another jug. And soon after it would arrive, Zizu would be back to snatch it away. When Don Giovanni asked him what he was doing, the boy said he was protecting Don Giovanni's right to enjoy the day. Just like that.

Somehow the boy had come to care about him.

That startling and blessèd realization alone would have made Don Giovanni sleep exceptionally well. But seeing clear-eyed the pleasure he was giving everyone helped, too.

Sleep allowed escape. Usually.

Sometimes nightmares would come. The worst were exactly like his waking hours. If they came two nights in succession, he had a fail-safe remedy. He'd drink in the evening until he passed out. It broke the nightmare cycle every time.

He woke the morning after the festivities intoning the date inside his head: 2 November 1171. One year, three months, and two days to go. He closed himself in the Wave Room and poured a glass of red wine from the jug that was always waiting there. He could endure that period. So long as he had his wine.

On the western edge of Sicily, in the north, lay the city of Trapani. Uphill from it was the small town of Erice. After sampling wines from every producer of reasonable size in the entire island of Sicily over the past year, Don Giovanni had developed a taste for wines from Erice. They were less sweet than the wines from Marsala, and not as robust as those from the east coast,
near Messina. Appreciating their delicacy made him feel refined again, so long as he drank them in solitude. If another person passed him as he was drinking, their reaction to the sight of him would inevitably destroy the illusion, because no one could hide their disgust. Not even Zizu. Not even Ribi. It might be a slight shift of the eyes, or a flare of the nostrils, but it was there. Always.