The absence of home was Hell. Don Giovanni had been thinking about the ancient Greeks, and he’d decided Hades was a better picture of the afterlife than Hell. Hades had a river—fresh water free for the taking anytime—and dark corners offering shelter and shade. Hell, in contrast, was aflame and wide open.
Don Giovanni had never questioned his Catholicism before. The philosopher-thief back at his castle called him godless for not being willing to gamble. It was true that gambling took hope and hope was necessary for faith. But the converse didn’t hold: a nongambler could have both faith and hope. Don Giovanni enjoyed easy pleasures—good food, good women. Gambling wasn’t easy; you might lose, and if you won, someone else lost. So his avoidance of wagers, dice games, and lotteries added up to an avoidance of unpleasantness, not a lacking in his spiritual self.
No, he hadn’t ever questioned his Catholicism. No educated Sicilian took paganism seriously, not in these modern times. Right now he was just sick of being exposed to the elements.
The beach sand turned grainy with the rain. It scratched his cut feet. He hobbled to the water and waded in up to his knees. The salt stung, but the sand on the bottom changed to silk here, caressing, like a fine woman’s gown or, better, like her thighs.
A fishing boat came into sight. Two men rowed, side by side, one oar each. They waved.
Don Giovanni waved back. Fishing was better in the rain, but this was a downpour. Crazy men.
He waded back to the water’s edge and sat. The waves sloshed around his trouser legs. The rain gradually let up. He dug his fingers into the wet sand at his sides and pulled up cannolicchie—razor shell clams—and dropped them in his lap. When he had a big pile, he took the largest and squeezed hard on one end. The white flesh squished out the other end. He bit it and jerked his head back, pulling the animal from the shell.
He’d been feeding on these clams the three days it took to walk here. But they couldn’t keep a man alive indefinitely. Bread was necessary. Meat now and then. Fruits, beans, greens.
So, while he avoided towns, he went into the small, scattered homes along the way to ask for water and exchange his services for food. Everyone gave water. But when it came to food, a stingier bunch of folk he’d never seen before. The way they acted, you’d think a crust of bread was a leg of lamb. And a dried fig, well, that was nothing less than a king’s banquet. Even oranges were hard to come by unless he sneaked into an orchard.
Once he met a man with a cart of goods for sale along a back road. The nervous vendor asked him to stand by the cart to protect it from thieves and to keep his donkey from running off while he defecated in a field. In payment all Don Giovanni had been allowed was to suck dregs from the bottom of the man’s lunch bowl. Chewed, spit-out gristle.
Better to eat clams. So he returned to the beaches.
He sighed. Maybe he’d sleep now. He preferred to walk through the night, letting the heat of exertion warm him, and sleep in the day, when the sunlight warmed him.
“Hello, there.”
Don Giovanni opened his eyes and squinted against the resplendent sun. The fishermen had rowed to shore and one of them stood in the water at his feet, holding the boat by a rope. The other sat in the boat watching. He tipped his head.
“Do you have your wits about you?”
Don Giovanni shrugged.
“Can you row?”
Don Giovanni could use work. But the very thought of being on the water in that tiny boat all day made him seasick. “Truth be told, I despise the idea.”
The man jerked his head. “You talk funny. Fancy.”
“Everyone tells me that.”
“We’re in need, what with the quake making so much trouble in Taormina. Can’t you help a while?”
“Taormina felt the quake then, too? Did you get a gigantic wave?”
“No. The quake was enough.”
Don Giovanni smoothed the new beard forming on his chin. “I guess I’ll circle around Taormina, then, and head straight for Catania.”
The man pushed out his lips. “That’s a mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“It started with Etna. The largest crater erupted and the cone side that faces Taormina fell—disappeared down the crater. Boom!” He made an arc in the air with his free arm. “My cousin was awake. He saw it. The quake that followed destroyed Catania.” He thrust his face toward Don Giovanni and grimaced. “Thousands killed.”
“It couldn’t be that many,” said Don Giovanni. “Catania’s only a third the size of Messina.”
“Oh, it was thousands, all right. It happened on the vigil of the Feast of Saint Agata. And her being the patron saint who guards against earthquakes.” He tilted his head and moved forward. “But she didn’t guard this time. People came to the cathedral from everywhere for the celebration. Benedictine monks. Bishops, too. The bishop that carried the veil from Saint Agata’s tomb that’s supposed to protect against earthquakes, even he was killed.” He nodded. “Thousands dead. You’d be out of your mind to go there now.”
“Thanks for the information.” Don Giovanni rinsed the sand from the seat of his pants. He walked up to the road.
His lips had gone cold at the mention of the Feast of Saint Agata. His ears buzzed. He felt almost drunk. Maybe some of the clams he’d eaten had been bad. He walked fast, to try to shake off this sensation.
It wasn’t long before a cart came. A dark cloth covered the high load. The driver tugged at his wide hat brim and sat up tall as he passed. He waved over a shoulder without looking back. His hanging feet bounced in the air with the donkey’s trot. The road went uphill and down; the cart slowed on the up and sped on the down.
Don Giovanni liked vendors’ carts. The wheels stood chest high. The dozen spokes were arm length. Perched above the axle was a wooden box no longer than the diameter of the wheels, with a bench seat for the driver. The effect was comical. It lifted his spirits. And the side decorations were in vivid paints: cathedrals and battle scenes. He ran behind it.
The cart reached the crossroads and turned left, toward Taormina. Don Giovanni went right. Inland. Toward the northern slopes of Mount Etna. Randazzo was his new goal.
To the south he looked out over the Alcantara Gorge, with the river running through. Spectacular. The rock formation was the result of Mount Etna. The shape of everything around here was the result of the Mountain.
The road went steadily uphill. The rare houses were one story with wooden roofs. It made sense; people here lived in dread of quakes that could bring a roof crashing down in seconds. Stone roofs were caskets in disguise.
A shrill call drew his attention to a small lake. In the sky over it were two flashes of brilliant blue. Now he saw orange. Kingfishers. One was diving, but the other kept landing on his back. They tumbled in the air, spinning blue and orange. The attacker grabbed the other by his bill and held him underwater. Then he flew off.
Don Giovanni waited. The other bird didn’t resurface.
Coots swam happily near shore, pumping their heads. Mallards glided on fat breasts, undisturbed by the recent drama. In two months there would be nests to raid. But nothing now. No fruits on trees. No berries on bushes. The only way to get food now was to stage another drama.
He took off his smock and filled it with stones from the side of the road. Then he walked down to the lake. He piled the stones on the shore and put on his smock. He folded each hand around a stone.
The mallards took directly to the air. The coots dove and resurfaced far away. He knew they would.
He sat quiet and still. The ducks would return.
A hen mallard came first. Then another. Then several. They dabbled happily. Closer. Closer.
Don Giovanni threw the stones. He picked up more and threw harder. The flock rose in a frenzy of quacks. When they were gone, a drake lay struggling on the water.
Don Giovanni waded in and broke the duck’s neck. He gashed through feathers and skin with the edge of a stone. He ripped the flesh with his teeth.
He had eaten many things raw, but never birds. The taste wasn’t bad, though. The blood was hot and salty. The meat was dark and rich.
He ate the liver, kidneys, gizzard, brain, eyes, tongue. He drank lake water and rinsed himself. It was important to stay clean, to look as good as possible.
His trousers were wet, and the air here was distinctly cooler than down near the shore. At this altitude the broom plants and other shrubs were plentiful, but they offered little protection from the wind. He spied a pine grove uphill. He ran, clutching his chest, rubbing his forearms. His teeth chattered.
The floor of the grove was thick with needles. He took off his wet clothes, spread them on the ground, then sprinkled the aromatic needles over them, to cover any scent that might remain from the duck meal. Wildcats were more abundant here than up near Messina.
He tunneled his way deep under the needles; they formed a layer over him, his clothes being a second layer, and the top needles a third. Only his nose protruded.
His body warmed, but his lips were still cold. They’d been cold since the fisherman had mentioned Saint Agata. Why?
Now Don Giovanni remembered: the name of the maidservant who had been rude the night of the wave, the name that wouldn’t come to his tongue before, was Agata.
Mountain life
DON GIOVANNI WAS UNABLE TO SEE HIS OWN BODY IN THE thick mountain fog. A hint of horror crept across his skin; Messina hardly ever had fog. He dressed quickly, chewed several small crustaceans that crackled in his teeth, and hiked out to the road. It was barely dawn.
As he walked, he went over everything he knew about Saint Agata. The way to dispel foolishness was to beat it down with reason. Curses were pagan foolishness. Once when he was little, a nursemaid had strung garlic around his neck to protect against the evil eye. His mother had ripped it off with a laugh and roasted the garlic as a spread for flat bread.
Saint Agata was born in Catania, right? Or was it Palermo? Either way, she was buried in Catania. Almost a thousand years ago. She was rich. Gorgeous. A Christian at a time when pagan Romans ruled Sicily. She was to be executed for her faith, but a magistrate tried to force her to his bed in exchange for not arresting her. She refused, was thrown in prison, beaten. Her beautiful breasts were amputated. She was rolled on burning coals. But before she died, an earthquake struck and killed her tormentors.
The magistrate managed to get away, though.
A martyred virgin. Saint Agnes of Rome had a similar fate, but she was beheaded, instead. Saint Apollonia of Alexandria had her teeth bashed in before she was burned alive. The list went on and on.
But none of this had anything to do with Don Giovanni. That maidservant couldn’t have been Saint Agata in disguise. She carried an ordinary platter of ordinary food, not a silver one holding severed breasts. She wore brown cotton, not white linen. And, most of all, Saint Agata would never bother Don Giovanni, for he had never mistreated a maiden. He took only what was freely offered, and then with appreciation and gratitude.
No virgin saint had any business cursing him, even if he did believe in curses, which he didn’t. All the wretched things that had befallen him had simply happened. Randomly. Rotten luck.
The fog burned off, allowing a view of the hills. The road wound through wide swaths of burned ground, where only the occasional stunted broom grew. Etna’s wrath.
Just when Don Giovanni thought the world had turned barren, a stretch of rich dirt covered with yellow aconite blooms regaled his senses. Yellow again. Mere coincidence.
A cart passed. Two men on the driver’s bench, and three boys in the cart, all pulled by one little donkey. Amazing. Five more children ran beside the cart. Who got to ride? Who had to run? Who meted out the justice?
Don Giovanni watched them roll out of sight. They waved once they were past, without looking back, like the man in the last cart. An hour’s walk later Don Giovanni saw the children sitting in a circle in front of a small stone house with a steep wooden roof. In the middle of the circle was a tall, crude basket. They were working on something, but he couldn’t see what.
They didn’t wave this time, though he was sure they knew he watched. Mountain people were funny that way. They distrusted strangers. Not just Jews and Muslims—anyone not Greek. Charms hung around their necks.
A woman came out of the house. She swept ashes off the step, then went back inside. Mount Etna was easy to see from here. It spewed smoke, its constant state. A stretch of black forest—sticks, really—went off into the distance. The Mountain breathed dark clouds above it. The fetid smell touched everything.
Don Giovanni walked until the sun waned, and beyond. He made out red threads around one of the craters—small lava flows. With dusk he saw sparks.
It was much colder now, and still there were pockets of wildflowers: daisies, marigolds, sweet alyssum, pink-tipped asters, dandelions, crimson sorrel, violets. Mint and thyme and wild onion scented the air. How could they all grow when the earth was so cold?
Now and then he saw an isolated scattering of black pumice, as though the sky had rained rocks.
Don Giovanni’s feet had hurt before, but now they were going numb. Still he tramped on.
It was the middle of the night when he reached the city walls. The gate creaked open with a heave of his shoulder. The town spread like a black-on-black painting. Nothing but looming shapes.
He turned up the first alley off the main road. An outside staircase on the corner building offered shelter underneath. He tucked his hands in his armpits, curled on his side into a tight ball, and willed himself not to flinch at the bark of the frantic dog that ran up and down beside him. The dog was tall and so thin, his ribs showed. But he was clearly frightened. So long as his barks didn’t turn to growls, Don Giovanni would be all right. He slept.
A groan in his ear woke him. Don Giovanni opened one eye. A body pressed against him from behind. Warm. Part of it rested on his head. Bones weighed on his upper cheek. Another groan. And a bad smell.
He didn’t dare move, but he opened his other eye now.
On the main road a goatherd drove his flock past. He wore trousers and a sheepskin coat. The animals moved in a cloud of hot breath. They’d be going out the town gate, to graze on dried tufts and those tricky wildflowers. Minutes later another flock passed. Then a third.
A boy in a dark blue cape that came down below his knees walked up the alley past Don Giovanni’s staircase. He led four nannies on loose ropes. Their heavy udders swung blue-white in the cold. Neither boy nor goats looked at Don Giovanni.
The groan in Don Giovanni’s ear turned to a whimper. The body behind him moved against his shoulders, pressing harder. Whiskers scratched his cheeks. Whiskers?
The goat boy stopped by the house door. He clanged on the iron wedge in his left hand.
A woman came out with a jug. The boy tucked the ends of his cape into his trousers. He squatted and milked a nanny right into the jug spout. The edgy smell brought tears of hunger to Don Giovanni’s eyes. As the woman turned to go in, the boy pointed at Don Giovanni and left.
The woman put down the jug and picked up a rock by the side of the doorway. The way she did it, so fast, maybe she kept it there just for that. She held it in both hands and walked toward him. “Are you fairy or beggar?”
“Woof.”
The weight lifted off Don Giovanni’s cheek. The barker from the night before stepped over him and crouched at the woman’s feet. He whined.
Don Giovanni sat up. He picked crust from his cheek. Half-frozen dog drool. He clawed dog fur out of his thin beard. He smoothed his hair with both hands. He rubbed his teeth. Looking civilized had become elusive. Would a mirror shock him?
He wanted to stretch and straighten his smock and trousers, but he was afraid his height might spook the woman. Anyone who talked about fairies had to be skittish.
“Answer.”
The dog sniffed at the milk jug. The woman kicked him away. With a yelp, the beast retreated across the alley.
“An
swer,” she hissed, coming toward him again.
When Don Giovanni was a child, his mother scolded him whenever he’d mimic a servant’s talk. She said language was the clothing of the soul. How he dressed his ideas and aspirations played a role in how well they’d be received by others. And how well they were received by others played a role in how rich he could become. But oh, if only he could say just a few words exactly like this woman, coarse words to make her see him as a friend.
He shook his head.
“Don’t you talk?”
He shrugged.
“Stand up.”
Don Giovanni crawled from under the stairs and stood.
“Don’t move.” The woman held the rock at the ready. Skittish she wasn’t. She turned her head and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “If you tried to ride a grasshopper, you’d crush him.” She raised one eyebrow slyly. “But then, not all fairies are small. You could belong to one of them new sects that mix with humans.” She lowered her chin and looked up at him oddly. “You enchanted that mangy dog, after all. You could be a fairy.” She thrust her chin forward fast. “Are you?”
Don Giovanni shook his head vehemently.
“I didn’t think so, actually. You don’t give off a glow, no matter how I look at you. A beggar, then?”
Don Giovanni shook his head.
She pursed her lips. “I could be kind to a beggar.”
He hated that label. He shut his eyes. They burned under his trembling eyelids. The woman had goat milk.
He opened his eyes. His hands hung heavy at his sides, not turned palms up in the beggar’s stance. His lips silent, not asking. But his eyes, oh, he couldn’t keep his eyes from pleading. To silence them, he had only to close them again. He hated himself for not closing them.
“You’re not bad-looking. And you’re wiry. Strong.” The woman blinked. “Wait.” She went inside with the jug. She came out moments later and handed him a bowl of stale bread floating in steaming goat milk.
No spoon. How awful to use his fingers in front of a stranger. But she kept watching. At last he couldn’t bear it anymore. He pushed the bread chunks under until they were soaked through and through, and he ate. Then he licked his fingers. He couldn’t stop himself. He licked the bowl.
The Wager Page 4