The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

harm’s way.
    He climbed back up the hill to the pine tree. He crumpled pine needles into scratchy wads and rubbed himself all over. He wanted to rub till he was raw and red. Instead, his skin turned slowly blue.
    The stink of vomit and feces hung over him like a curse, but he had to give up. Whatever still clung to him would have to be endured. He was too cold.
    He went to the rock and dressed. His teeth chattered so hard, he thought they’d break. Then he’d go around whistling, like the bully. His laugh ended in tears.
    The sun was growing weak already. The winds never ceased. He let them push him, as he made his way slowly back toward Randazzo.

Cani
    HE WOKE WITH A START AND SHOOK HIS HEAD .
    â€œYip.” The dog jumped backward.
    Don Giovanni sat up. It hurt to move. He was battered and bruised. The cold had stiffened his joints. The smell of his own face made him gag. He looked around.
    The dog stood with his front legs splayed and his chest lowered, his eyes fastened on the slow movements of the man. He was ready to dash away at the first threat.
    Don Giovanni put a hand to his cheek, where something had disturbed him. It was wet. He understood instantly. He leaned forward. “Come on, Cani—Dog—come on. You can trust me. We’ve slept here together more than once. You remember the old days.” If only Don Giovanni hadn’t pushed the dogaway in those days. He sweetened his voice. “Come on. Do it again.” He practically sang, “Please.”
    The dog came forward slowly. He gave a tentative lick. Then another. Need stilled every muscle in Don Giovanni’s body. Enormous need. This is what prayer was.
    Don Giovanni closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. The wet rasp went over his eyelids, up his nostrils, in his ears. A tongue can be a miracle of strength and yet flexible, one of the Lord’s great inventions.
    The old proverb went through his head:
Tutti li gusti sun gusti, rissi lu iattu liccannusi lu culu
—“All tastes are tastes, said the cat, licking his anus.” He’d laughed at that disdainfully when he was a boy. Never again. With each movement of that dog’s tongue, gratitude swelled the man’s heart a little more.
Keep it up, Cani. Please
.
    Now there was tugging at his beard. The dog was trying to get a piece of vomit free from a snarl of hair. It hurt. But he wanted the dog to be successful. And, anyway, this pain was nothing compared to the ache in his stomach and back from the punches the day before. He braced himself so he wouldn’t tumble over at the quick, wrenching moves.
    But then, “
Aiii!
” Don Giovanni opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. He touched his chin. His hand came away bloody.
    The dog had run to the other side of the alley. It looked at him with worried eyes. A clump of Don Giovanni’s beard hair stuck in his teeth. It made him look rabid, but also slightly comical.
    â€œIt’s all right. Come on back. Come on, Cani.” Don Giovanni held out a hand and bent forward.
    Cani slowly crossed the alley.
    Don Giovanni patted him on the head. “You didn’t mean to do it. I know that.” He went down on one knee with a small groan and gingerly touched the hair hanging from the dog’s mouth. When the dog didn’t growl, he yanked it free and threw it away. “I owe you, Cani. I smell like stinky dog breath now. That’s better than vomit.”
    Cani licked Don Giovanni’s hand. Slowly. Meticulously. Now his wrist. He worked his way up the forearm, the elbow. Cani’s head was under his cape now, licking higher.
    Don Giovanni pulled away, shocked by his own initial passivity. If he didn’t set limits, the dog would lick him in his private places. Then he’d be no better than an animal.
    Every single thing was a potential trap, for what good would winning the wager be if he lost his humanity?
    It was almost morning. He spoke to his purse. He shook