The Wager

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Why do I do them?”

  “You understand.”

  “What?” asked Don Giovanni desperately. “What do I understand?”

  “Suffering.” The boy licked his bottom lip. He’d done that the first time he came. Don Giovanni recognized it now as a sign of anxiety; it made him feel protective of this callow soul. The boy lifted his chin. “You are humane. Tender. Dear.”

  Don Giovanni pitched his head forward between his legs to keep from swooning.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No. But I’m going to be. Soon.” Don Giovanni looked at the boy and held out his hand. “Can I see today’s drawing?”

  The boy handed over the vellum.

  A hair ball filled the sheet. The hairs were so fine and so many that they formed a kind of cloud. Like the smoke clouds that hung perpetually over some of Mount Etna’s craters. This was the mess that was his head. This was what the world saw.

  But, just as with the last drawing, the more he looked, the more things took shape under the hair. A hint of this and that. Were his lips really that full? Was his jawline that strong, his nose that straight? Nothing was definite except one eye. It peeked out, shining with black paint on white. Stark. Unrelentingly honest. The eye of a man.

  Gratitude nearly stole his voice. He murmured, “Thank you.”

  Two weeks went by. Don Giovanni stood by the window pulling his hair to ease the pain in his skull, when the messenger rode up on his horse. Don Giovanni leaned from the window and shouted even as the man was dismounting, “Tell me. Tell me this very second. Will the princess have me?”

  The messenger ran to stand under the window and puffed his hot breath into the morning chill. “The elder princess said no.”

  Don Giovanni gripped the window ledge. He knew it. The artist’s drawing was too accurate. His cheeks went instantly slack; they hung like jowls. Maybe his flesh would fall from the bone.

  “But you’re lucky not to have her. The younger princess has agreed to marry you, and she’s a much nicer lass.”

  “The younger princess?” Was this a dream?

  “If you don’t care about a fancy ceremony, you can be wed tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? The fourth of January? No. No, we must have a ceremony. A big one. In two months. The fourth of March.”

  “I don’t know if it’s worth the wait.”

  “I do.”

  “May I come in?”

  Don Giovanni closed the shutters and hurried down the stairs. There was a younger princess. A second chance. And she’d said yes. How could it be? How could he be that lucky?

  He met the messenger midway on the stairs.

  The messenger took off his hat and bowed. “I don’t know if the king and the queen mother really want something grand. I’m sorry.”

  “They fear they’ll be embarrassed. But they won’t be.”

  The messenger shook his head. “Small affairs can be intimate. Just the royal family. Especially since the younger princess is marrying before the elder.”

  “All right,” said Don Giovanni. What did it matter, anyway? “A small wedding. But afterwards a huge reception, here at my villa. I’ll invite the guests.” He had so many people he could invite. All his servants and their families. All the children who came to storytelling and their families. The artists and artisans who had worked on the villa. The boy artist, in particular. He could be Don Giovanni’s best man. He was the tender one—he was so very, very dear.

  Oh yes, many people would be happy to celebrate the wedding with him. “The king and the queen mother and the elder princess, they don’t even have to come if they don’t want to,” said Don Giovanni.

  “They might well not.”

  “I understand.”

  “The fourth of March,” said the messenger. “I’ll convey the news.” He turned and went down the stairs. At the bottom he looked back. “Congratulations, sire.”

  Congratulations. Everything was going right. But “Wait!” Don Giovanni stumbled after the messenger, who was already out the door.

  “Wait!”

  The man turned.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Your princess? Miriam. But she goes by Mimi.”

  His princess. His own princess. Mimi.

  Hope

  ZIZU’S NOSE DRIPPED. IT SEEMED LIKE NOTHING. A TYPICAL January cold. But then his septum grew a white membrane. He held one hand over his sore throat. He sat in the corner of the Wave Room and didn’t want to go anywhere, do anything.

  That wasn’t normal. That was as far from normal as possible. Zizu always bounded with energy. When he had a cold, Giancarlu used to have to scold him to slow down, take it easy. And after Giancarlu left to join Kareem in opening a meat market, Ribi scolded Zizu. The boy was constantly in motion.

  Don Giovanni paced. He had a servant go out to the mountains to bring back snow, so Ribi could make Zizu special desserts. But the boy only smiled wanly, gave a listless lick or two, and fell asleep.

  Within days the children who came to the Story Room, the regulars, had the same symptoms. Their parents stopped bringing them.

  On the fifth morning Zizu developed a fever. It wasn’t high. It didn’t make Don Giovanni’s hand jump away when he finally dared to touch the boy’s forehead, but it was definitely there. And the boy stopped eating altogether. When he opened his mouth, drops of blood showed on his tongue.

  Reports came in that the other children were the same. They sank into a malaise. Rapid pulse, stupor. Most of the older ones recovered quickly. But Zizu, who was among the oldest, got worse. He developed a swollen neck—what the surgeons called “bull neck.” Don Giovanni longed to rock him—this sweet, sweet child, in such pain. His arms ached from the need to soothe Zizu, but he couldn’t be sure the child might not revile his touch, even as sick as he was.

  Then the younger children got bull neck, too. The younger they were, the sicker they got. When one of them fell into a deep sleep he couldn’t be woken from, the dreaded word spread: diphtheria.

  Palermo had been struck with an outbreak of one of the most virulent childhood epidemics. Desperate parents came to Don Giovanni’s villa. They stood outside his door and called him down.

  “It started here.”

  “What?” But the next instant he understood. He would have expected this if he had allowed himself to think about it. “I keep out of the way. Far from anyone. Hidden.”

  “I’ve seen you before.”

  “And our children catch glimpses of you slinking around.”

  “You’re a walking cesspool.”

  “And everyone knows cesspools are the source of diphtheria.”

  “It started here. With you!”

  Don Giovanni shook his head vehemently. He had already sent men to Termini Imerese, to the east along the coast. They brought back healing mineral waters to the afflicted families. He paid for surgeons to visit them all. He sent pots of hearty stews thick with meat to their homes. Not because he thought the illness was his fault. No. He never drank from the same vessels the children used. He never went near the only fountain in the villa. He steered clear of the well. Water was too attractive to risk being near it.

  The one child he’d ever really been physically close to was Zizu. And he hadn’t touched even Zizu until after the illness started, when he’d wanted to feel the fever for himself. Just that one time. He couldn’t be responsible for the epidemic. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be harming all those children he cared about. He couldn’t be harming Zizu. His Zizu.

  So he’d done those things simply because he wanted to help. He had to help.

  He shook his head harder and harder. Nausea rose in his throat.

  “Clean yourself up, man.”

  “Cut your hair.”

  “Shave.”

  Don Giovanni held out his hands to quiet them. “I’ll have the villa scrubbed from top to bottom. Then swabbed with vinegar.”

  “But you, you’re putrid.”

  “You h
ave to wash yourself—not just this place.”

  “Three weeks,” said Don Giovanni. “That’s all I ask. Go away for three weeks. When you come back, I’ll wash.”

  “Our children could all be dead by then.”

  “Let me through.” A man stepped forward from the back of the crowd. He carried a bucket. “Start now.” He threw water on Don Giovanni.

  “He’s right. Where are the buckets?”

  “In the kitchen, I’m sure.”

  They pushed past him.

  You cannot wash yourself, change your clothes, shave your beard, comb your hair. You cannot wash yourself.

  Don Giovanni hobbled around the outside of the villa, chanting inside his head.

  “Stop right there!”

  “What’s he muttering?”

  “Madman.”

  “Cani,” he called. “Cani, Cani.”

  The dog came running from the woods, a black stream of barks crossing the fields.

  The crowd had kept its distance from Don Giovanni anyway. But now it backed up farther.

  “Hurry with the buckets.”

  “He’s getting away. Hurry!”

  Don Giovanni hobbled faster. He checked over his shoulder in terror. Ribi burst out of the villa and ran to catch up with him. Cani now patrolled between his master and the shouters. His bark kept them at bay.

  Ribi wrung his hands. “Where are you going, sire?”

  “Away. It’s best you don’t know. But keep everything going for me, Ribi. I’ll be back in time for my wedding. Make all the arrangements.”

  “I will, sire.”

  “There’s money in the two wine barrels at the rear of the cellar. Keep sending food to the families of those children. Do whatever you can to help heal them.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t let Zizu die. Please.”

  “I’ll do my best, sire.” Ribi wrung his hands harder. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “I know you will. I’m sorry I said that.”

  Water flew at him. Another bucket. A third. Drenched, he hobbled across the dry, half-frozen field, toward the woods.

  Zizu mustn’t die. No children must die. It couldn’t be his fault. His filth couldn’t be that destructive. No, no, no.

  He trudged along. The floor of the pine groves was spongy with dry needles. They pierced his skin, but he felt nothing. Blood filled in his footsteps.

  No children must die.

  He remembered when he’d closed himself into the inn, the week before he bought this villa. He’d worried then that Zizu and Kareem and Giancarlu, the boys who depended on him for food, might starve. But he closed himself away anyway.

  It was different now, though. He loved Zizu. In a more generalized way he loved the other children, too. And he loved Ribi. And he loved the boy artist. Maybe that’s who had started all this flood of love: the boy artist.

  How ironic that love had given the devil his fatal weapon.

  Zizu. Zizu had been by his side since he first came to Palermo.

  Don Giovanni ran, stumbled, fell. Cani stopped and whined in his ear.

  “This won’t be a real win!” Don Giovanni shouted at the air. “Killing the children voids it. Do you hear me?”

  A wind came up. Branches rubbed against each other in sad groans.

  He remembered the shape the devil assumed when he came as a man. His fine clothing. His noble diction.

  “Shabby behavior! Shabby, do you hear? And you try to present yourself as refined. You talk about not being crude. Killing children is as crude as it gets. If a single child dies, you forfeit. Do you hear me? I win automatically. Do you hear me?”

  He quivered inside his wet clothes. “It’s you versus me. I yield the villa. I yield whatever comfort it offers. I’m totally exposed. Come on, come at me with whatever you’ve got. But if you go after the children, you lose.” He held his fists in front of his chest. “You and me. That’s all. This is our battle.”

  The wind died. Nothing stirred in the woods. No birds. Nothing happened.

  He got up and walked.

  The devil said Don Giovanni’s pathetic little rules didn’t bind him. But some rules had to be universal. He grabbed faith and held tight. The alternative was too grim.

  He walked slowly, his head high.

  January was the coldest month. Even at its coldest, though, this part of Sicily was mild compared to the frigid winters of Mount Etna. A man wouldn’t die of exposure here, no matter how wet his clothes were.

  He wouldn’t consider trying to find Kareem and Giancarlu. Both were too old to pick up a childhood disease, but harboring him would bring the crowd’s wrath down on them.

  He had his purse on him. He always did. So he could buy a room at an inn, if someone would only open the door to him.

  He headed west, staying in the woods. Trapani was the next-largest town in this area. Maybe he’d even go to Erice, where his favorite winemaker was. He’d be okay. There were only three weeks to go.

  He slept that night in the woods, curled in a ball with Cani. Like the old days. Except that in the old days Cani was a bit younger. The dog had gotten used to sleeping inside, warm and dry; he cried. But he rested his loyal head on Don Giovanni’s chest and slept fitfully.

  In the morning Don Giovanni told Cani to go home. He’d been selfish to take him along. Besides, he could do this on his own now, for the mere thought of marrying his princess, Mimi, could keep him alive. But the dog wouldn’t leave, even when Don Giovanni shouted at him. Even when he threw rocks. Of course not. He got on his knees and apologized and cried as he hugged the beast his very love had marked for the devil’s torture.

  The next night passed in the woods, too.

  On the third morning, their need for fresh water couldn’t be denied any longer. They followed a footpath out of the woods. By afternoon they looked out over a wide gulf, where a small port town nestled at the foot of a mountain. Monte Inici. Don Giovanni could hardly believe it. He walked so poorly these days, they had covered hardly more than half the distance to Trapani, though they’d traveled nonstop for nearly three full days.

  They went directly to the public well. Women with their heads covered stepped away quickly. A Muslim town. Good. Muslims never denied the needy. Don Giovanni made a bowl of his hands and stretched them out, pleading.

  The women shrieked in fear at man and dog. They huddled together talking rapidly, then ran off.

  Don Giovanni looked into the well. The rope hung flaccid. They’d taken the bucket.

  His dry tongue rasped against the inside of his cheeks. Water. What could he use as a container?

  He broke a branch off a shrub, tied it to the end of the rope, and lowered it into the well. When he brought it up, he and Cani licked the wet leaves. It wasn’t enough.

  He took off his smock. This wasn’t washing. This was wetting. There was a difference. He freed the linen purse from the threads that held it tight to the inside of the smock and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he tied the smock to the end of the rope and lowered it into the well.

  When he pulled the sopping cloth up, he twisted it over his mouth, over Cani’s mouth, wringing out the water. And memories of blood. And all the rest. The water tasted ancient, like death. He dunked the smock over and over. Until it caught.

  Don Giovanni stopped pulling immediately. He leaned over the well, but it was impossible to tell what held the smock. He gave the rope a small jerk. Then another. He tugged a little harder. Then harder still. And the rope came up. With nothing attached.

  He used a stick to try to snag the lost smock. Nothing. It was as though it had disintegrated.

  He turned and slid with his back against the well wall to the ground. The rough rock ripped at his already raw back. He cried, while Cani licked his tears.

  It wasn’t the cuts. He had so many cuts and sores.

  And it wasn’t the cold. He could dig a burrow under pine needles, as he and Cani had done for the past two nights. And the days,
they were fine. If he moved quickly, or as quickly as he could, he would fight off the shivers.

  It was that everyone could see his scabrous self. His smock had shielded him from that, though piteously.

  And oh, Lord in heaven, what if he was, indeed, the cause of the diphtheria outbreak in Palermo? What if he’d now infected this town’s well? He had to tell someone.

  He ordered Cani to stay there, and he walked down the path to the first house he found. He knocked.

  A man opened the door.

  Don Giovanni suddenly didn’t trust himself to say the right things. Tears threatened to come again. He wiped at his eyes.

  The man closed the door. A few minutes later he reopened it and held out a shirt.

  “Thank you, but I can’t accept it. Thank you,” Don Giovanni managed.

  A woman’s voice called from within. The man reached behind him and now held out a large flat bread with a blob of fresh goat cheese on top.

  Don Giovanni took it with both hands. “Thank you.”

  The man started to close the door.

  “Please,” said Don Giovanni. “Do you know about Palermo? Are the children still sick there?”

  “They thought they had bladder of the throat. The bad swelling that causes suffocation. But it was something else. It passed.”

  “And no one died?”

  “No one died.”

  “Not a single child?”

  “No one.”

  “Thank you.”

  Don Giovanni went back to Cani. They shared the bread and cheese in equal portions. The man couldn’t stop crying. He cried between bites. He cried as they walked west, into new woods. He cried as they curled up for the night. He cried with his eyes shut. The children of Palermo were safe. Zizu was safe. The sweet sorrow of gratitude finally carried him off to sleep.

  It took an additional two nights in these new woods and most of the day beyond that before they arrived in Trapani and knocked at the door of an inn that backed on to the hill.

  The shutter upstairs opened. “Who’s that?”

  “Don Giovanni.”

  “Don Giovanni of Palermo?”

  Don Giovanni fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest to try to hide his shameful exposure. It would have been a futile act. “Yes.”