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.
Slow sips were best. The red liquid slid over his tongue and warmed his throat as it went down. A second glass. A third. More. He lost count. He was still drinking from the glass, not from the jug, so it couldn’t be that many. Not yet.
He went to the dining hall. Everyone else had already eaten, so it was his turn. Big yellow fluted mushrooms fried in olive oil sat on a platter in the center of the table. Zizu must have collected them this morning. They used to be Don Giovanni’s favorite, but they didn’t interest him anymore. None of it interested him, really.
He walked around the table, letting his fingers do the grazing. A little here, a little there. Cani joined him. Don Giovanni fed the dog from his fingers, then ate from them himself. What did it matter?
“What do you think about the problems in Turkey?” he said to the air.
“Turkey? No one talks to me about that.”
“Of course not. But if they understood you could solve whatever money can solve, they’d talk to you.”
“What can money solve?”
Ah, that was the real question.
He was talking to himself again. Cani didn’t look alarmed. Why should he? Talking to yourself was not problematic in its own right. It was when you thought you heard voices that you were verifiably crazy. Or maybe not. You might just be an idiot. Or a saint.
This part of the day seemed irrelevant to Don Giovanni. He tasted nothing by now, because the wine had already done its lovely, reliable job on his senses. But Ribi insisted he eat food at least twice a day. So he did, just to keep the man from nagging. And because, of course, he knew Ribi was right: physical degradation led to mental degradation.
Someday he’d reward Ribi for this insistence. Maybe with an inn of his own, where people could come from all over to taste the food of the grand chef. But not now. “For now,” said Don Giovanni to the air, “for now I need you here.”
“Who, sire? Yourself? Is that who you need here?”
Don Giovanni turned. Standing against the wall was a small figure dressed in loose black trousers, a long black smock, and a black wool cap. He was slighter even than Ribi. And very young; no hair grew on his face yet. His jawline was delicate. Effeminate. And his luminous gray eyes blinked just once, then steadied on Don Giovanni. Beside him on the floor was a wooden box.
Was he vision or reality? “Have we met?”
“Twice.”
Don Giovanni shook his head. He’d encountered the devil three times, not two. Still, it had been a long while since the last visit—the devil was due. Overdue. He had to keep an eye on his wager, after all. “Are you poor at numbers?”
The boy’s face stayed pleasant. “Probably no worse than most artists. You hired me to paint the library.” He lowered his head a little and gave a small, apologetic smile. “It was long ago. And you were hiring many people at once.”
Don Giovanni wished he h
adn’t drunk those last few glasses of wine. A clear head would serve him now, for he was almost sure the boy was real.
So this was the hand that had painted fronds and clouds and stony outcroppings with little bits of animals poking out from behind, just enough that even children could guess at what was hidden there. He knew, because he’d watched them stand and study, then shriek in delight. He’d thought it a strange choice for a library at first, but the children had made him recognize how appropriate it was. It piqued the imagination, just as a good book did. “You said twice?”
The boy cleared his throat. “Last week you hired me to paint the columns of the portico for All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day.”
“That wasn’t long ago.”
“But you were hiring so many more,” said the boy.
“Ribi did much of the hiring.”
“Still, the confusion . . .”
“Why are you making excuses for me?”
“I don’t know. I apologize.”
Don Giovanni felt breathless, the exchange had gone so quickly. He looked at the box on the floor. “What’s that?”
“I thought you might want a drawing.”
“There’s a drawing in the box?”
“The things to make a drawing are in there.”
“You want to make me a drawing? Of what?”
“Yourself. A portrait.”
Don Giovanni’s heart stopped. It took all his energy not to fall back a step, not to stagger under the blow. How could a face that looked as harmless as this boy’s belong to so cruel a soul? “Why would I want a portrait?”
“You talk to yourself.”
“Many people do.”
“You seem lonely. I thought if you had a portrait to talk to . . .”
“Why a portrait of myself? Why not a portrait of the king? Shouldn’t I be addressing the king? Don’t I merit that? Or a beautiful woman. Voluptuous. Seductive. Don’t I merit that?” Don Giovanni realized he was shouting.
The boy stood looking at him. His breath came so hard his shoulders actually rose and fell. But his gaze was clear. Unwavering.
Fear rolled through Don Giovanni. It pressed on him, from the inside toward the outside. What would a portrait reveal? Did he dare face it? A sense of inevitability grew over him like a second skin. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”
The boy shook his head. He quickly kneeled and opened the box. He took out a charcoal and a rolled-up piece of papyrus.
Pathetic. “You needed a whole box just for that?”
The boy licked his bottom lip. “There are other things in the box.”
Don Giovanni walked forward slowly, fighting nervous spasms in his chest.
The boy didn’t get up from his knees, but he didn’t cower, either. That was surprising, given how weak he seemed. Even his voice was nothing but a slender reed.
Don Giovanni stared down into the box. “You have paints in there. And vellum. Don’t I merit those better materials?”
“The papyrus comes from near Siracusa. It’s the highest quality. And it’s better for charcoal. I thought maybe a quick sketch to get started. So we can both get more at ease.”
“Both? You may not be at ease, I can understand that. But this is my home. I’m master here. I’d call this a bad start.”
The boy stood. The top of his head barely came to Don Giovanni’s lips, but he looked into Don Giovanni’s face with . . . what? Defiance? “Where do you want to sit?”
“How many portraits have you done?”
The boy put one finger to his cheek. “Let me count. Hmmm. Thousands? Or is that just evidence of my poor numbers?” His eyes teased. They actually teased. “Look, you chose me for the library. You chose me for the columns. Does any other credential matter?” He licked his bottom lip again. “Where do you want to sit?”
“No one will ever love me again.” Don Giovanni’s mouth dropped open. He breathed like a dog. The words in his head had come without bidding, almost a reaction to the proximity of this boy. How disturbing. But, worse, he was half sure he’d heard them. And the boy had blanched. “Did I just speak?”
The boy pressed his lips together so hard, they went white. But he kept his eyes steady on Don Giovanni.
“Tell me. Did I just say that out loud?”
“You have a nice voice.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t remember . . . I don’t always think straight these days, you see. But maybe this is the first time in two years that someone has found something about my physical self pleasing. Someone other than Cani. He’s my dog.”
“Not so bad a start then, after all.” The boy gave a small smile. “Where do you want to sit?”
“Did you say my voice was nice just to make a better start?”
“Yes. But it’s true. Where do you want to sit?”
“You’re persistent.”
“It’s one of my more annoying traits, according to my mother.”
“Do you always listen to your mother?”
“Don’t you?”
“My mother died when I was thirteen.”
“I’m sorry. My father died when I was eleven.”
“My father died when I was thirteen.”
“I guess you’ve got me beat. Where do you want to sit?”
Don Giovanni smiled. “Can you tell I’m smiling?”
“Yes.”
“But there’s all this dirty hair hanging over my lips.”
“Your eyes show.”
This artist boy was intriguing. Or maybe not. Maybe he was just ordinary and Don Giovanni was so starved for real conversation that he’d find a half-wit charming. “I’ll have pity on you. Let’s take blankets and wrap up tight and sit in the courtyard. That way you won’t pass out from my odors.” There. Let the boy mutter some stupid contradiction about how the odors weren’t that bad. Or maybe he’d even deny them altogether. Just how insincere could he be?
“Thank you. Lead the way.”
“I like you.” The words came out on their own.
“Good.”
“Why? Why is that good?” Are you going to say you like me, too? When do the lies start?
“I’m slow at drawing, so we’ll have to spend a lot of time together. It’ll be easier if you like me.”
An honesty that would be scathing, he was sure, in other contexts. But, oh, oh no, he saw the trick. He’d been right in his first guess. “Do you like dogs? What I mean is, are you the devil?”
“Yes. And no. Are you Muslim?”
“Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Why would you put together liking dogs with being the devil?”
“Actually, I put not liking dogs with being the devil.”
“That’s even less explicable.”
“You talk like a refined person.”
“So do you.”
“Do you really like dogs?”
“Yes. I like most animals.” The boy scratched the side of his nose. His hands were small. “Especially birds.”
“I haven’t had this long a conversation with anyone in over two years.”
“This is the second time you’ve talked about the past two years. What happened? What made them different?”
“It started with a huge wave. It came over the walls of Messina.”
“Then you’re wrong. It started with an eruption of Mount Etna. And it was almost three years ago. I remember. Catania was leveled by the earthquake that followed and Messina was half washed away. Everyone talked about it. My mother wished my father were still alive to help figure out what to do about it. People here are glad they don’t live under the threat of the fire mountain.”
The image of Randazzo’s streets black with ash made Don Giovanni close his eyes. But then he thought of spring on the mountain. “It’s hard to understand living like that. But a few things help.”
“A few things?”
“Butterflies. Yellow butterflies. Do you understand me?”
“I’m trying to.”
“Why?”
“It’s the natural thing people do, don’t you think?”
“No one’s been natural around me . . .”
“For the past two years.” The boy smiled winningly as he finished Don Giovanni’s sentence. “Or should I correct that to three?”
“No. It was two. You’re right about the date of the wave. But my demise, shall we say, started later that year. On All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day.”
“Then almost exactly two years ago. Not my favorite holiday. Saint stories give me the creeps.”
“You don’t like the image of severed parts on silver platters?”
“You’re talking about Saint Agata. I hate her story most of all. So what happened on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day two years ago?”
“I don’t know if I can tell you.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, what I mean is that I don’t know if it’s within the rules of the game to tell.”
“What game?”
“It’s a wager, actually.”
“I don’t like gambling myself.”
“Do you lack faith?”
The artist blinked. “I don’t understand the connection.”
“Maybe there isn’t one. I debate it with myself now and then. You didn’t answer my question.”
“My faith is in my art. Shall we begin?”
Don Giovanni led the way out to the courtyard, calling to Zizu for blankets.
They sat in the weak sun and cold air and talked of this and that while the boy drew. Don Giovanni changed positions often, always trying to escape putting too much pressure on sore spots. But the artist never complained. He didn’t demand that his subject be still.
Ribi brought them the midday meal in a basket, because the boy preferred to eat with Don Giovanni rather than join the others at the dining table. The boy carefully carried the easel and all his art materials inside to the Wave Room. Then he came back outside and held the basket in one hand and they walked with Cani through the fields, eating and talking. The boy admitted he felt daring to eat as he stood, holding the food in one hand, licking his fingers. Daring. Like Don Giovanni had felt back in his castle, the morning after the wave. A memory of irrecoverable habits, someone else’s life.
The Wager Page 13