Lapvona

by Ottessa Moshfegh

‘Employing your cousin to shovel horse shit is nothing to boast about.’

Villiam missed Clod. That he knew. And perhaps this was why Marek began to have even more appeal to him: Marek’s capacity was limited to servile flattery. The boy’s sense of self-worth was far worse than Villiam’s could ever become. So the lord used the boy as a kind of prop, a measuring stick. In Marek’s company, the lord felt more lordly. They began to spend more time together.

But now Father Barnabas was flustered. He couldn’t remember any details of the story, and the more he tried, the more flustered he became. Finally he cleared his throat: ‘The two of them traveled to Bethlehem, of course, and we all know what happened there,’ he said, lifting his cup. ‘To Christ.’ ‘Hear hear,’ Villiam said and smacked his lips.

Grigor looked around. Everything he could see—the great room, the finery, the food, the lord’s spectacular Christmas costume, none of it inspired him. It was not God’s fortune, but the bounty of a thief: Villiam hadn’t worked for his blessings. The villagers had. That was the great tragedy of Christmas as Grigor now saw it. Not one word of gratitude. Instead, there was this stupid game. ‘I pray your death is quick,’ he said quietly. Villiam smiled. He took this as a compliment. ‘That’s very nice of you, but it’s not a question. Don’t be a loser—ask me anything. Winner gets a gold ducat.’

Marek finally lifted his head. ‘You ought to be kissing his feet, not spitting in his soup,’ he said. ‘Nobody is spitting in his soup,’ Jon said, trembling. Lispeth, who had been listening from the doorway with a new jug of ale, let out a titter. She had been spitting in Villiam’s soup for years.