The Wager (13 page)

Plus, horses were a thrill to watch. Their deep brown hides glowed reddish in the sun. They'd run hard and work up a lather and their hair would slick close over rippling muscles. They were everything a healthy body should be, everything Don Giovanni used to be.

So he and Cani mostly avoided people and stuck with the animals. They lived in the wild through the rest of that spring and the first part of summer. The times when the valleys were lush. Instead of the flutterings of women, they had butterflies in orange and black by day, and moths in blue and white by night. For music they had the evening chorus of cicadas, but also sparrows, robins, nightingales, magpies. The birds were so lyrical, sometimes Don Giovanni was sure they were singing just for him and Cani. For gardens they had wood asphodels and astragalus and so many other wildflowers, and the white, gaudy blossoms of caper bushes. For food they ate berries and greens and chewed on fennel. They trapped rabbit and beaver. They caught eels and crabs. Cani made sure they steered clear of porcupines and boars and snakes and wildcats and weasels and martens.

It was as close to Eden as a man without a woman could find.

But by July most streams had dried up. It wasn't like on Etna, where streams flowed year-round. The heat of central Sicily was unrelenting. Dirt rose as the finest dust—not a hint of water in it. The sun threatened to split the rocks. Don Giovanni and Cani were forced to stop their random wanderings and seek water from reliable sources.

Lakes were the obvious choice. They were few and far between and small, but Don Giovanni was delighted to find that he and Cani learned their locations easily. It was like a homing instinct. Whenever Don Giovanni's tongue would get
fat with heat, whenever he was sure that this time he'd pass out before they managed to slake their thirst, they'd stumble out onto a perfectly cool patch of blue water in the middle of woods, with wagtails and coots and mallards and kingfishers cavorting. What a fine thing to have this gift.

Oh, Don Giovanni was no idiot. It wasn't luck that made him find lakes. It wasn't some beastlike instinct. He was led to them. The devil was protecting his wager. But that knowledge never made the discovery of a lake less welcome. Joy was joy, and Don Giovanni was learning that a little humility didn't ruin it.

He knelt beside Cani and the two of them lapped water companionably. They looked at each other and a message of relief passed. It was strange, but Don Giovanni knew it was unquestionably true: he and Cani were best friends. Friendship so deep and true was new to Don Giovanni. When they sat under the stars, with Cani snapping at fireflies, he felt nearly peaceful.

It must have been August, a full year and a half since the wave, when Don Giovanni found himself staring into clear water at a man who didn't look the least bit peaceful. A wild man. Head hair stuck out in long clumpy locks, so thick and snarled it was impossible to disentangle one from the others. Facial hair covered cheeks, protruded over lips, hid any hint of a jawline. It came down past his neck, past the hollow at the base of his throat. All that showed through that furry mess were half-crazed eyes, a grimy nose, and the inner rim of a cracked lower lip.

He held his arms out slightly away from his body because the boils in his armpits hurt if he lowered them. He'd worn through his shoes a couple of months ago now and he favored his right foot because of a cut that oozed pus. Each night he'd press out the guck, but by morning it would be swollen again. It simply wouldn't heal.

And the itching. He'd dig his fingers through his matted hair and try to get at the source of it. He'd roll on the ground and scrape his back and chest to try to rid himself of it. Day and night. Itching.

And there was all that water. Cool, cleansing water.

He stared. The wild man stared back.

Who had the crazier eyes?

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

Was swimming washing himself?

No, swimming was swimming. It wasn't washing.

Except if he went swimming in order to get rid of some of this filth, then it was washing. And that's exactly how he had cleaned himself during his nine months of poverty before the devil came to him. He'd bathed in the rivers. So swimming was washing.

Or was it?

Don Giovanni turned his back and took a few steps away through the crackling grasses. The ghastly heat made the air waver. It carried his stinking sweat like a cloud. All he could smell was his own decay.

If he didn't think about washing, if he just kept his mind focused on swimming, then that's all he'd be doing. Swimming.

He turned back around and waded into the water up to his calves.

Cani didn't need further encouragement. He splashed past Don Giovanni gleefully and paddled out to the center of the lake, disrupting the peace of the mallard family. They took to the air in noisy quacks and came down again at the far tip of the lake.

Don Giovanni stopped. He felt beyond time, as though floating in some place that didn't exist. He looked around, taking in the details in this windless moment. Secrets hid in the details.

Klu-kluklu-kluee
. An eagle rose from a tree on the other side of the lake. Don Giovanni had seen pairs of these brown birds before, but they'd been silent. Something had disturbed the bird. Something was still disturbing that bird. He soared in a wide circle, crying. Birds of prey were harbingers of bad news. But the eagle was the symbol of Palermo, of the strength of Sicily. A double message. How to make sense out of it?

Cani turned abruptly in the water and let out a growl.

Instantly Don Giovanni jumped out of the water.

Swimming would have cleaned him. He knew that. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it. No matter whether he managed to control his brain so that he thought only of swimming, he knew. That's what counted.

He trembled. How close he'd come to the precipice.

“Trickster!” he screamed.

The devil appeared beside him, as pristine and handsome as ever. “Do you really believe it's necessary to scream? I hear your thoughts . . . beggar.”

The eagle was still crying. And Cani's growls grew louder as the dog swam fast toward his owner.

“Do all animals hate you?”

“One eagle and your groveling dog, and you jump to the conclusion that all animals hate me.” The devil lifted his chin. “You really have become provincial quickly, haven't you?”

“You didn't deny it. So they do. Every animal knows you're filth.”

“Filth? Oh, nothing could be sweeter than hearing you, of all people, call someone else filth.” The devil hissed in his ear, “Stupid beggar, people are animals and people don't all hate me. You have no idea how many are drawn to me. But you will.” And he disappeared just as Cani came out of the water.

Don Giovanni sat on the shore, one leg bent, cradling his sore foot, and cried. Never had he been more grateful. The wager was still to be won. It had to be won. He couldn't go through all this only to lose.

He sat rocking himself for hours while the dog sniffed through the undergrowth then, finally satisfied that no danger lurked, romped happily again.

When night finally brought a bit of respite from the heat,
they set out at the fastest pace they could manage. Lakes were too dangerous. Town wells were the only choice.

They had traveled across the heart of Sicily many times by then, but they had eventually gravitated toward the northwest. They were in the well-wooded Madonie Mountains, the next-highest peaks to Mount Etna's. Don Giovanni's goal was Palermo.

Palermo was the answer. The city had well over twenty thousand people, almost double Messina's population. They ranged from dirt poor to the king, from raving lunatics naked in the alleys to the most refined scholars and statesmen in their carriages. Don Giovanni had seen them himself. He had visited the city twice as a young baron. Everything and anything was possible in such a place. If there was anywhere on earth Don Giovanni could pass in his present condition without drawing too much attention, it was Palermo.

Originally he had planned to hold out in the woods until the cold of winter forced him to the city. But now, with the lack of fresh water, they had to make it to Palermo quickly.

They came out of the wilderness onto a road and followed it downhill. Moonlight reflected soft off white pebbles. There was a sense of suspension about the night, as though a breeze was just about to start.

A wagon came along, pulled slowly by a donkey. A man and woman sat on the front bench. The woman was wrapped in a
head scarf and long sleeves. Only the tips of her shoes showed. Muslims.

Muslims could be counted on for charity.

Don Giovanni ordered Cani to stay in the bushes while he went to stand in the center of the road. He stretched his hands out, a coin in each palm.

The man pulled the donkey to a halt.

“Please, sire,” said Don Giovanni. He came up closer so the man could see the money. “A coin for food. A coin for water.”

The woman didn't look at him, but she reached behind and talked to someone. Don Giovanni made out the figure of a curly-headed child back there. A bundle in a small swatch of cloth passed hands, child to woman, woman to man.

The man held out the package. “Drop the coins in my hand, but don't touch me.”

Don Giovanni dropped both coins in the man's hand.

The man dropped the package in Don Giovanni's hand.

“Water?” asked Don Giovanni.

The man shook his head. “We have nothing to give it in. One jug. You can't put your lips there.”

“I'll buy the jug.”

“With what?”

“Wait.” Don Giovanni went toward the side of the road and turned his back. He put the cloth package on the ground and whispered inside his smock to his dear purse.

Cani came slinking from the bushes, tail wagging, clearly unable to bear waiting any longer.

Ruff! Rrrruff rrruff rrruff.

But it wasn't Cani barking.

The wagon hurried past them up the hill and now Don Giovanni could see a large spotted dog tied to the rear. He barked like an idiot, jumping around, trying to get free, as though he wanted to tear the throat out of the night shadows.

He practically flipped over himself when he saw Cani. His barks became totally enraged.

Cani raced after the dog, meeting the challenge with his own.

“Come back, Cani,” called Don Giovanni. He ran after the dog.

The wagon driver shouted at the donkey to go faster. The woman turned around and clasped her arms around the child and stared with a terrified face at Cani and Don Giovanni, as though they were the devil incarnate.

“Cani, Cani,” called Don Giovanni. If only the cut in his foot didn't hurt so bad, he'd be able to catch up. “Please, Cani.”

Cani stopped and looked at Don Giovanni. He gave a last ferocious bark at the dog and wagon, and returned to his friend.

The wagon creaked away. Don Giovanni watched the night swallow it and absentmindedly scratched behind Cani's ear. Water was in that wagon. Lost now.

For a moment quiet prevailed. Then the cicadas took up their song again, hesitant at first.

Grrrr!
Cani raced toward the bushes.

Don Giovanni's skin formed goosebumps. This was the growl Cani used with wildcats and weasels. “Leave it be, Cani,” he called.

But the dog was already bounding into the bushes.

“Aiii!”
A man came running out of the bushes, straight toward the flabbergasted Don Giovanni. “Here.” He shoved the cloth package into Don Giovanni's hands and hid behind him.

Cani came running at them.

“Call him off, call your dog off. For mercy's sake!”

Don Giovanni stood between the man and Cani, arms outstretched. He felt giddy. No one had asked him for help in so long. This man was a thief; he'd picked up the bundle of food that Don Giovanni had paid for. He'd undoubtedly meant to make off with it. But it didn't matter; Don Giovanni was happy. He bent down and hugged Cani in his confused joy.

The man backed away. He turned and walked fast.

“Come back,” called Don Giovanni.

The man walked faster.

“Come back or I'll set the dog on you.”

The man stopped and turned around.

“Let's see what's in this package.” Don Giovanni held it out.

Cani sat at his feet, eyes on the package.

The man watched.

“Feels like there might be enough for three here.” He sat in the road. “Come sit with us.”

The man walked back slowly.

Don Giovanni started to unfold the cloth, then he thought better of it. “Do you want to open it? Have a seat.”

The man sat. His knees stuck out to the sides like broken wings. His arms were sticks. He opened the cloth carefully.

They shared flat bread and balls of salted cod mixed with finely chopped onion and celery and parsley and pepper and—what were those sweet bits?—raisins and quinces.

“Arab food is good,” said Don Giovanni.

“Mmmm. I get it almost every night.”

“You steal it?”

The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I have to. Usually I just beg.”

“And you get meals like this?”

“Not in this quantity, no. But tasting like this. The only travelers on this road in the middle of the night are Arabs.”

“And why's that?”

“Palermo's been unfriendly to them for a while now. Most have moved outside the city. But they come at night, just to the outer walls, to meet with those Christian merchants who will trade with them. Which is almost all, of course. Business is business.” The man fell silent.

Don Giovanni wanted him to keep talking. It was so fine to
be talked to. “I never saw a Muslim wagon with a dog tied to it before.”

“They all have dogs now. For safety.” The man stood. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Wait.” Don Giovanni got to his feet. “What about water? How do you get water?”