The Wager (20 page)

“To make another point. King William is justly tolerant of everyone—Jews, Muslims, and Greek Orthodox Catholics. But he wants to let the world know that Sicily accepts the Roman Catholic Church as its official church. He's a papist.”

Some papist. “What about his harem?”

The messenger gave that knowing smile again. “Recognizing the fundamental laws of the kingdom doesn't require slavish obedience. And asceticism doesn't befit a king. Wouldn't you agree?”

Asceticism. Not having a harem would amount to asceticism to this young king. What Don Giovanni wouldn't give for just one woman's kiss.

He couldn't think about this. And it didn't matter anyway whether or not he agreed with the young king's ideas on asceticism. He would contribute to this symbol of independence. He had decided that when he'd offered the messenger wine. “Where is the king now?”

“At the Castello di Mare Dolce, near the port of Palermo.”

“Fine,” said Don Giovanni. “Please tell him to expect a delivery tomorrow.”

“Magnificent. That's what everyone says you are. They're right.”

A sensation of lightness enveloped Don Giovanni. He felt himself to be a mass of minuscule pieces, just barely clinging together.

THAT AFTERNOON DON GIOVANNI HAD HIS SERVANTS BUY
enormous wagons. In the morning the Wave Room was full of gold. The servants shoveled it into sacks, which they piled high in the wagons. They went along the coastal road in file, to deliver the precious load to the castle.

Don Giovanni stood at the Wave Room window and watched long after they were out of sight. He had not asked for a single concession. He gave the money without conditions.

Still, something significant had happened. The king of all Sicily had turned to Don Giovanni for help. Yes, it was just money, and by this point Don Giovanni knew very well the limitations of wealth. But it was a start. If the king could only come to rely on his aid, Don Giovanni had a chance to influence him in other ways. He could reshape how the court did things. And
since the rich of Sicily looked to the king as their model, he could reshape the habits of the nobility all across the island. He could make this land a kinder place, a serene place, where everyone had a bed, and everyone went to it with a full belly.

A new realization came: People with full bellies had fewer reasons to do others harm. Oh yes, Don Giovanni could make this wager the most expensive one the devil had ever entered. He could make it worth having endured all of this.

The first of November was less than two weeks away. All Saints' and All Souls' Day. The third anniversary of the wager.

The taste of winning made Don Giovanni's tongue tip curl slightly upward. In that very moment the urge to urinate came swiftly, without warning. He wet himself. How horrifying. In all the time that he'd been dirty, he'd never wet or soiled himself after that one time on the road outside Randazzo when the thieves had beaten him brutally. He was filthy, yes, but none of it was his fault. Until now. He had to fight the need to rip off his clothes.

To add insult to injury, it stung. Not just the urine against his skin. This was a sharp bite in the end of his member. He'd put up with lice and grime in his most private places, but now an abscess. No!

He took the ever-present jug of wine and splashed it down the front of his pants. It was better to smell like a besotted drunk than a sack of urine. No one should know what had happened. No one.

He'd wet himself. The thought was maddening. He needed diversion. Ribi could be counted on to help get his mind somewhere else.

There would be another grand feast on the holiday, of course. Bigger this year, because the word had spread farther. Preparations for housing all the guests had begun in early September. Everyone had been bustling around him ever since. Now and then a servant would ask his opinion on some decision. But generally it all happened independently of him. He was the source of money, that's all. Ribi and the servants did the rest.

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 front 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.”