The Wager (2 page)

But a gray form seemed to accompany him, at the very periphery of his vision. When he turned quickly to catch a full view, it disappeared. Nevertheless, he knew: it was the outline of the woman entering the water. A suicide?

But surely she wasn't dead yet. He could run down to the beach and call out. He could send a servant in a boat. Or do it himself. A Catholic soul that died by her own hand would be condemned forever. He owed it to her.

These things clattered through his head, like birds caught in a closed room, all the while his guests arriving. Their cheeks brushed both of his as they kissed the air beside him. Ladies in brightly colored satins, damasks, brocades, silks, all with many buttons; gentlemen in breeches and tight linen hose, with jewels embellishing their shirts—they filed in noisily. Gaily colored birds.

The mistress of the servants was a bird. Don Giovanni's thoughts were birds. The nobles of Messina were birds. What was happening that he kept seeing the same images? Common people said birds in a house were bad luck—and though Don Giovanni was far from common, the images still annoyed him. And three again.

Woozy once more, he leaned against the wall.

Throughout the evening Don Giovanni raised his hands to clap when others did. During the comedians' acts he laughed
when others did. But he didn't hear a single thing. The clomps, clacks, clicks of earlier were gone. It was as though his ears had filled with oil, as though the oil overflowed down chest and back, as though he swam in oil.

Was the naked woman swimming?

Several times he passed the open window. The wooly bodies of sheep formed slate-gray ground clouds on the hillside. Beyond them the woman's clothes remained in a charcoal-gray heap on the beach. And there were so many stars. Billions of stars. Over a dead sea.

Until one time, close to morning, the sea wasn't dead. It trembled. Rain fell in sudden, heavy slaps. Lightning cut the clouds. Thunder drummed, waking Don Giovanni's sense of hearing. And then the earth itself trembled. Faintly, but he felt it for sure. He cried out.

Gentlemen and ladies rushed to the seaside windows and threw open the shutters, jabbering. Roofs shook, walls fell, stones on the pathways bounced. The sea pulled away from the shore, as though sucked into a monstrous mouth.

In an instant the sea bottom lay exposed as far as Don Giovanni could see. The rain ceased; the new sun's fingers grasped at the world. Marine creatures glistened in the slime that moved with their struggles. Fish flopped in the open air. Skeletons of wrecked boats stuck up obscenely.

Cries of pain, wails of grief threaded the air. City people picked their way through rubble, calling out to loved ones.
Don Giovanni's guests rushed to their homes. He watched the shore from his window as people pointed to the fish gasping. Groups hurried to gather them, reap the easy harvest. Children and fishermen and old people and women in rags. They cluttered the seabed.

He strained to see through the early light. He looked for a woman's body.

His sea was gone. He felt bereft.

What a stupid thought. It would return. And in a flash he understood. Oh, God in Heaven. He shouted warning. Already he saw the colossal wave coming. Taller than any Don Giovanni had ever seen, taller than any anyone had ever seen. And coming faster, too.

EARTHQUAKES WERE ENDEMIC TO SICILIAN HISTORY. PHOENI
cians, Greeks, Romans, Barbarians, Byzantines, Saracens, Vikings—all came and went, but earthquakes were constant. Everyone had lived through recent small ones and everyone had heard tales about past big ones.

This one was different, though. It had to be. Past earthquakes couldn't have brought waves like that, or the people of Messina would have known better. Some ancient knowledge lodged in their brains would have sent them scrambling up the mounts instead of rushing to the seabed.

Don Giovanni couldn't be sure how many were swept away over the city walls. Hundreds, maybe. And from the look of those crumpled homes, hundreds more died inside.

He stood stunned, rays of sunlight pinning him in place.
The enormity of the disaster came at him in rational, ordered thoughts. No confusion or fear or grief. The raw comprehension left him nearly numb, in fact.

He'd felt like this before, when he was a boy, when he heard the news of his parents' death. The three of them—father, mother, son—had visited the Mountain, the huge volcano Etna, after an eruption. Rich families flocked there to see the path of destruction left by the lava flow. It was safe by then—the volcano was settling back to sleep. They had arrived close to nightfall and stayed in the home of friends.

The three of them had stood at a window, like Don Giovanni was doing now, and watched sparkles of red slice through the dark from the southernmost crater. Spectacular, and even more so because only a week before the eruption a blizzard had coated the Mountain—a blizzard in July. The most distant craters still glistened white all the way down the slopes, in a drama of contrasts. Don Giovanni put one arm around his mother's waist, the other around his father's, and nestled there in the glory of nature's bestiality. He recognized it. He was on the cusp of adolescence—of his own bestiality. The metaphor of the moment hadn't escaped this well-educated boy. The pungent smell, like rotten eggs; the powdery feel of the ash-laden air; the sting to eyes and nose. Excruciatingly enticing.

He woke in the morning to a hand shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and the first sight he saw through the open window were two yellow butterflies. His mother had told him Etna
was a butterfly wonderland. He rolled onto his back and faced the frightened old woman, who helped him dress. A priest came in, flanked by the owners of that home. The mistress cried. The priest's face was stricken. He talked with sympathy; his voice rocked. It came through to the boy as intoning, like in the Holy Mass. His parents had gone out to view the sparks again before dawn washed away the extremes of color. A huge flaming ball of magma shot through the sky and struck them dead, though they were hundreds of meters from the crater. Such things happened. It was the will of God. There was nothing to be done.

Nothing to be done
. He hated those words. He hated that thought. Not then, but later—in retrospect.

No, Don Giovanni hadn't reacted then, and he didn't react now. It was as though time had stopped. The air of his castle pressed hard and hard and harder; his breathing went shallow; he wondered, without any trace of panic, if the pressure would grow so great he'd explode; blood would erupt from the top of his head.

Rain came. Not a storm, like before, just sweet rain.

Don Giovanni leaned from the window to let the water kiss his cheeks. But this water didn't kiss; it jabbed.

He jumped back and shook his head. His castle had been spared. He rushed to the windows that looked north. Then west, then south. He ran from window to window, searching for the homes of his guests the evening before, perched on high points, like his own. He could see several—he could reassure himself of their safety.

But the city below was ravaged. And all but the highest farmlands were ruined. Doors, roofs, furniture, boats, livestock, and bodies dangled from treetops, where the raging water had deposited them as it retreated.

How long had he been doing nothing? Long enough to be sure that the sea wouldn't come back—like some hellish ball of flames. It was already nothing more than a sloshing tide, trickling away. The surface of the water in the harbor bounced gently. No boats in sight. The entire fishing fleet had disappeared. Gone with the sea.

He raced outside and down the footpath to the nearest gate of the city. He stopped at the first wrecked house and helped the family lug stones and wood. They worked at a furious pace; fingers and knuckles bled as they dug into the ragged rubble. Eyes and ears strained for signs of life. They cradled the dying. They wept over the dead.

The rain stopped and the sun came out like a mis-timed blessing. Light reflected off puddles, intensifying the ironic sense of glory.

Don Giovanni lined up bodies for burial. He wasn't sure he knew any of the dead, stuck there in the hardening mud. Was this the man who brought firewood last week? Perhaps if the fellow hadn't been so crushed, Don Giovanni might have had a better chance at recognizing him.

When all were accounted for, he went on to the next home, and the home after that.

All the while church bells rang. Priests led processions in and out of the streets, holding sacred saints' relics and praying for the living and the dead.

It was late afternoon, and Don Giovanni was staring in dismay at the shattered leg of the man he had just rescued, when a young woman passed. She moved so quickly, all he saw was a high cheekbone, but ah, what a cheekbone. Her apron strings flew behind. Her winter shawl wrapped around her at least twice, but, still, he felt sure her body was lithe. And he caught a momentary glimpse of the back of an ankle—a slim, furtive animal his hands itched to hold.

Blood caked on Don Giovanni's clothes. A sleeve was ripped. Sweat stuck the silk of his shirt to his chest and back. His hands were raw from lifting rock. He reeked of blood, sweat, vomit. But he was still the handsomest youth of Messina. He dared anyone to challenge that. One look at his face was enough for any woman. And, despite all that had happened, his temples throbbed with desire.

So he followed her.

She raced along the footpath into the heart of town, skirting around rubble. Her hair hung loose, black, and wavy, and thick with clumps of something. Seaweed?

Don Giovanni ran now.

But each time the girl turned a corner, by the time he got there she was already turning another. No matter how much he sped up, she stayed the same distance ahead. Maddening. He
was exhausted as it was—no sleep all night and then all that work, all the suffering he'd witnessed. Plus he'd missed his midday meal—and that was the most hearty meal of the day. He was in no mood for her shenanigans. He shouted to her to wait.

“Don't shout, you ass.”

Don Giovanni stopped. An old crone stood in the doorway arch to a home that had crumbled behind her.

“Has the devil got you? That girl's busy. Every decent person's busy. But even if she wasn't, she wouldn't stop for the likes of you.” She held her kerchief tight under her chin with one hand, and with the other she pointed a mud-caked finger at him. “Where'd you steal those clothes? Are there more, thief?”

“I'm Don Giovanni, old fool.”

“Oh, Don Giovanni,” she said in mock humility. “A visit from Don Giovanni. I'm not worthy of this honor.”

“Your sarcasm is outrageous.” Despite his indignant words, he realized the woman's impression made sense. If the girl had seen him, which he wasn't even sure of, she must have taken him for a ruffian in gentleman's clothes. He should go home and wash himself, rest his weary body. Every drop of energy drained away just like that. His spirit wept from exhaustion.

Don Giovanni walked back to his castle, eyes on the ground so he wouldn't see the faces of those who called for help. He was too tired to be of use.

It was evening when he got home. The servants were
nowhere around. Well, that was all right. They should have asked permission, it was true. But he would have given it. They were caring for their kinsfolk, no doubt.

He walked through the large hall where the party had taken place. No one had cleaned up.

When he was a child, his maidservant taught him strict rules about touching food. He always used the very tips of his fingers. And he dipped them afterward in a bowl of water that she would hold. Scented water: lemon in summer, clove in winter. He never licked his fingers. But in this moment he didn't even know where a clean bowl could be found. He stood by the table and ate, then licked his fingers clean. It felt oddly daring.

He stripped off his dirty clothes and kicked them into a pile. They were beyond help. He'd tell Betta to burn them. There was no one to bring him water for a scrubbing. But there were pitchers of wine on the table. He bathed in marsala, and slept in the haze of intoxication.

In the morning, he rang the bell for his personal manservant, Lino. No one came. He'd been abandoned. Who was going to take care of him?

That's exactly what he had wondered when he'd been told his parents were dead. But now the question was laughable. He had turned nineteen in December. He took care of himself when it came to everything important. As for the details of daily living, well, he could do without Lino for a day.

He dressed, ran a brush through his thick, curly hair, and went out to the table in the grand hall. He ate standing. Some foods had already turned rancid.

He started down the path toward the city, and came across a boy. “You're Lino's nephew, aren't you?”

The boy stared up at him blankly.

“Tell him to come back to work. And tell him to tell Betta to get all the servants to come back, too.” His words sounded ridiculous, even to himself. He hadn't really thought them through. What if the servants' quarters had been ruined? “All that aren't needed elsewhere, that is.” But even that addition rang shrill with absurdity. Every able hand was needed everywhere.