The Wager (5 page)

He walked back around the tip of the lake and dressed slowly. He ached everywhere. Someone simply had to help him. Someone had to put a stop to this awfulness.

Who was he kidding? His best friends hadn't offered anything. Not even the truth; they'd let him go to Don Alfinu's unaware, easy prey for the old man's malice.

The words of the thief this morning came back:
The world's gone bad out there
. Had an inconsequential thief who fancied himself a philosopher made Don Giovanni lose confidence in humanity just like that?

He wandered, racking his brains for a plan.

Dusk made the woods dreamlike. Yellow fluttered in his peripheral vision. It gave the odd sensation that he was fluttering, too—floating on the breath of the woods.

Don Giovanni walked softly toward where the yellow cloud had passed. A group of almond trees with their clusters of small pink blossoms had attracted butterflies. It was early for almonds; usually their budding coincided with the start of Lent. The trees hadn't even leafed out yet. Blossoms on bare branches. And so many butterflies all over them. Lemon-colored. Like the butter-flies he'd seen the morning his parents died.

That sense of being before an altar returned. Maybe it was the effect of having gone so long without food.

On the ground in little clumps among the trees were
pendulous snowdrops. Bees crawled inside the white bells. Bees in your garden were auspicious. They meant prosperity was on the way. He walked toward them.

Trotting came from behind. He knew without looking there was no chance of outrunning it. He dived behind a tree.

The black-brown boar raced after him. Around and around the tree. He was small, barely up to Don Giovanni's thigh, but his tusks extended upward a hand's length. They could slash the life out of a man. Danger, danger, danger beat the drum of Don Giovanni's running feet.

Until he fell.

In an instant, the boar stood over him. It straddled his arm. It huffed and puffed, tense and strong.

Was Don Giovanni's arm long enough to grab this boar's scrotum? He slowly stretched it, at the ready.

Man and beast waited. A standoff.

Somehow the boar gave in first. Or maybe the animal just lost interest. He wandered over to the snowdrops and ate flowers and bees together indiscriminately. Then he rutted in the roots of the tree.

Don Giovanni breathed shallowly. If the boar didn't hear or smell him, it might forget him. Already it was far enough away that it probably couldn't see him well; boars were notoriously poor-sighted. Finally, the animal trotted off.

Don Giovanni lay in the dirt unmoving. Slowly the tension
left. He felt heavy, so heavy he might never be able to get up. He might blend into the earth.

Somewhere in the back of his brain he realized he had entertained the idea that he could live in the forest temporarily. That way he wouldn't have to demean himself by begging. That idea had now been exposed as absurd.

He got to his feet. He would sleep on a beach tonight. Tomorrow he would walk south, past Messina. He'd never seek peasants' work where people might recognize him. But there were other cities.

At last, a plan.

THE RAIN PELTED HIM. EVEN WITH BOTH ARMS CURLED
around his head, even bone-tired, Don Giovanni couldn't sleep. It wasn't that the rain was cold; no, the weather had turned decidedly springlike. It was the driving force of it. It beat him numb.

He gave up, got to his feet, and walked.

It would be delightful to be in a home right now. Homes slowed you down, calmed your innards, smoothed you out. Homes rested the skin and the eyes and the heart.

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.