The Wager (25 page)

Something moved off to his right.

“Cani? Cani, is that you?” he called softly.

The dog appeared at his knees. A dead hen dangled from his mouth.

They ate it together, every edible bit. Only the feathers, beak, and claws remained.

They walked in a large arc past the farm in a generally southern direction. When he could barely put one foot in front of the other, Don Giovanni dropped in his tracks. “Let's sleep, Cani.”

They curled up together.

“Stealing is wrong,” Don Giovanni said to the dog. “Good dog. Stealing is wrong.”

The next day they spotted another farmhouse soon after waking. It must have been around noon. Don Giovanni went right up to the door and knocked.

No one answered.

If he went in and was caught . . .

He sat in the shade of a tree. It was a pleasant day. Spring had definitely come to this part of Sicily, though by his reckoning it was only 28 January.

28 January. One week to go. One week.

He heard the men before he saw them. They were talking about how Beppe's chicken coop had been raided.

Don Giovanni clamped a hand around Cani's muzzle to keep the dog silent. He peeked around the tree trunk. Three men walked along a path leading a donkey. He hid behind the tree again and waited until they had gone into the farmhouse.

“Come on, Cani.” They hobble-ran across the vineyard.

They walked all day long, staying as far from people as they could.

That night they came to a river. This was a wide one. It ran with the swiftness of first spring. They drank. Then Don Giovanni caught elvers in his hands. Elvers so early. He hadn't eaten them since his spring on Mount Etna. They were tiny, but plentiful. Don Giovanni and Cani slept with full stomachs.

They might as well stay here now. There was food and water and no one to chase them away. Besides, Don Giovanni was loath to keep traveling farther and farther from his Mimi. So they hid out there the next day and night.

By chance, a passing peddler stopped at the river the third day. He told them a group of farmers was hunting chicken thieves. He looked at them knowingly. Then he told them to keep going south, along the coast, and they'd get to the town of Sciacca. It wasn't far. They'd find good people there. People who would take care of them. The peddler repeated his words several times, as though Don Giovanni must be a half-wit.

Anything could be a trap. Anyone could lay it.

But the prospect of people who would take care of them was too alluring to put aside. And if the farmers were really
hunting for them, they had to get on the move again. Five more days. Five more nights.

They walked on inland paths, but always within sight of the sea. They walked all day. They slept off the path, behind a bush.

The next day they continued. They came to the village of Sciacca in the early evening. Not even a village really. A cluster of homes. They knocked on a door at random.

The girl who answered was neither pretty nor plain. Her eyes took them in calmly. “How much money do you have?”

A completely unexpected question. Don Giovanni swayed on his feet. “How much do I need?”

“A full recovery is expensive.”

A full recovery? The words dazzled like precious stones. Whatever she meant, he wanted it. “I've got it.”

“Show me.”

“Bring me a meal, big enough for me and Cani—lots of meat. And I'll fill your hands with gold.”

The girl shut the door.

Don Giovanni looked around. A woman leaned out the window next door and stared at him. Two men stood in a doorway across and down the path, watching him. Eyes probably fixed on him from every home within sight.

He went back the way he'd come until he couldn't see the houses anymore. Someone might still be watching, but he didn't know where from. And it wasn't yet dark enough to be sure they couldn't see.

“Sit, Cani.”

Cani sat.

Don Giovanni sat in front of Cani and wrapped his legs around the dog.

Cani made a low rumble in his throat and turned a quizzical eye on him.

Don Giovanni stealthily pulled his purse out of his waistband and laid it on the small patch of ground between his crotch and Cani's. “Dear one,” he whispered. “Give me money. Enough for the full recovery.”

The purse filled and overflowed. Gold spilled from it.

Don Giovanni tucked the purse back in place. He rolled his trouser cuffs to form little pouches that he filled with gold. Then he and Cani went back to the girl's house.

This time a woman answered. “Have you got the money?”

“Have you got the meal?”

The woman went back inside and came out with a large bowl full of stew.

Don Giovanni reached for it.

“No.” The woman put it on the ground. “Here.”

Cani stared at the bowl and whined.

Don Giovanni picked up the bowl. The pungent smell made his head swirl. He nodded toward his legs. “Reach into my cuffs for the money.”

The woman's lip curled. “I won't touch those pants. They have to be burned.”

Don Giovanni shook each leg until the coins fell onto the ground. “We'll be back in the morning for another meal.”

“All right.”

“And this money pays for the recovery, too,” said Don Giovanni, acting as though he knew what he was talking about.

“Of course.”

Did he dare push his luck? “The full recovery.”

“Of course. We can start it tonight.”

“No. Give me four more nights. Then we'll start it. From now till then, I'll come by morning and night for a meal.”

“The sooner we start, the better.”

“Good night.”

Don Giovanni walked back along the path, then off into the shrubbery. He set down the bowl. Dog and man ate side by side. They slept unmoving, heavy as trees.

The next day, Don Giovanni carried the bowl back to the house. The girl answered this time. She poured warm goat milk into the bowl and put a stale loaf of bread on the ground beside it. Don Giovanni carried the food to the shrubs where they'd slept the night before. He broke the bread into bits and dropped them into the milk. He and Cani ate side by side again. They slept on and off all day. In the early evening they brought the bowl back for more stew.

That night it rained. In the morning, Don Giovanni and Cani lay in mud. The sun hardened it on their backs. It cracked off as they walked to the house.

The girl opened the door. She came outside with a large sack slung over her shoulder. “Follow me.”

“What about food?” Don Giovanni held the empty bowl.

“Put it down,” she said in annoyance. “Follow me.” The girl led them along a path and soon they came into a real town. How foolish Don Giovanni had been, to think those first few houses were the whole of it. Sciacca had not only a mosque, but a Christian church. And lots of homes.

The market square teemed with vendors calling out their wares and produce, and shoppers haggling over prices. A man fried large pieces of dough in sizzling oil over an open fire. Don Giovanni stopped at a wall and secretively pulled out his purse. When he had a coin in his hand, he slipped the purse away again and bought two pieces of the dough. He and Cani ate in large sloppy bites.

Now he realized the girl was gone. She'd disappeared into the crowd. “Find her, Cani,” he said in the dog's ear. “We want the full recovery. We need it.”

Cani wove through the tables of cheeses and meats and cloths and yarns, with Don Giovanni close behind. There she was, waiting.

“Hurry,” she said.

They walked through town fast. Don Giovanni struggled to keep up. He couldn't risk losing sight of her again. Her and that heavy bag. A full recovery. They went up into the foothills of a mountain.

“Where are we going?”

“Monte Cronio, of course.”

“What's there?”

“The cure.” The girl frowned. “That's what you came for, after all.”

“But not yet. Two more nights. Just two more nights.”

“Two days from now I have to travel to Agrigento. My cousin's getting married the day after—the seventh of February. I can't wait. If you want my help, you have to start today.”

“No.” Don Giovanni stopped. “If three days from now is the seventh of February, today is the fourth of February. But that's wrong.”

“No, it's not.”

“Today is the second of February.”

“You've lost track of time,” said the girl. “It's easy to do, in your condition. I've seen illnesses like yours play tricks on people's minds all the time.”

Don Giovanni had been careful. He'd counted off the days. He couldn't be wrong. “I'm not ill.”

“Yes, you are. You came for the cure.”

“I'm just dirty.”

“Call it whatever you want. Just hurry.”

Up ahead the mouths of caves opened wide, as though calling. And were they calling? Don Giovanni could have sworn he heard voices.

He did. Happy voices.

He followed the girl into the first cave. Naked men leaned over fissures in the rock, where steam came through. They talked to one another about how strong they were getting, how well the vapors from the hot springs underground were healing their insides, how soon they'd be back home and running things again.

Somewhere in Don Giovanni's distant memories was a whisper about this place. Monte Cronio. Yes, it was well known for its therapeutic power. Had those old memories been in charge all along? Had they brought him here?

“Take off your trousers.”

“No.”

The girl made a tsk. “I've got the towels in here.” She dropped the sack onto the ground in front of her feet. “If you want me to soak them in the healing waters and rub you down, I have to start now. You're a bigger job than most.”

“No. Two days from now.”

“I already told you. I can't wait two days.”

“Then go away.”

“You won't get your money back.”

“I don't want my money back.”

“I have bread in here, too. With fried onions and mushrooms on top.”

“It's not mushroom season.”

“My mother dries them in the fall. We have them whenever we want. They're the big yellow kind.”

His favorites. Zizu often gathered them for him.

The girl opened the sack. She took out a cloth bundle and untied the knot. Onion and mushroom scents joined the hot vapors.

No. Don Giovanni smiled. His favorite mushrooms. Ha! “What a pathetic thing is evil.” He walked out of the cave and climbed up into the mountain. Behind him came the smallest, highest note. A keening voice. As he and Cani climbed, the voice grew into a wail, a shriek. The wind joined it. Hail fell through the sunny sky, smacking him hard, knocking him senseless.

It was early dawn when he woke. A freak snowstorm had come to Monte Cronio. Who said the devil was hot?

Don Giovanni clutched Cani and waited. “Mimi,” he said. “Mimi, Mimi, Mimi. Mimi awaits if I can make it just one more day, one more night.” He closed his eyes and spoke to the yellow haze of hope inside his heart. “I will be everything good I can be for this Mimi. I'll never make her sorry she married me. I will cherish her. For the rest of my life. I promise. If I only get the chance.”

ON THE MORNING OF 4 FEBRUARY 1173, DON GIOVANNI WOKE
more frozen than not. He and Cani slip-slid down the mountain to the cave. He leaned over fissures in the rock and let the hot steam warm him.

It was over.

He could barely understand yet what it might mean. Over. Done. Won.

He took off his trousers and rolled the purse up small in his fist. He whispered to it, then held up a gold coin. “Who will shave my hair off?” he called out.

Sciacca turned out to be a good town for a full recovery. By the end of February, Don Giovanni had healed everywhere. His scalp was free of pus. His skin was thick and olive again.
His hair had grown back to a short curl. He looked young—not boyish, there was a definite solemnity to his eye—but young again. Healthy.

He wore the best clothes Sciacca could offer, which weren't bad at all.

He rode the best horse Sciacca could offer, almost directly north, through the hills and mountains, all the way to Palermo. Cani ran along beside. For that reason he had to go more slowly than if he'd been alone. By the evening of 2 March, he and Cani arrived at the villa.

Ribi answered the door. He looked from Cani to Don Giovanni, back and forth, back and forth.

“It's you!” shouted Zizu from an upstairs window. He waved wildly. “It's Don Giovanni!”

“Sire?” said Ribi.

Don Giovanni grinned.

The men hugged.

Zizu came running out and jumped into Don Giovanni's arms, closing his legs and arms around the man's chest.

Every servant in the villa lined up to shake the master's hand. But Don Giovanni hugged them all.

Ribi had been true to his word.
Marzapane
in the shape of tiny brides and grooms hung all around the courtyard.