The Savage Garden (10 page)

    "I'm sorry you cannot see it when the water is here."

    "Will it ever come back?"

    "Who knows? But it is not the same without the water. The water gives it life. It makes it breathe."

    She had removed her leather sandals a while before—they now hung lazily from the fingers of her right hand—and looking at her there in her simple cotton dress, he saw her as the child she once must have been, wandering the garden, gazing wide-eyed on the coterie of petrified gods, goddesses and nymphs playing out their troubled stories on this leafy stage.

    When she made for the temple, he followed unquestioningly. It was a small structure—octagonal, like the pool—and crowned by a low cupola just visible behind the pedimented portico. The floor was of polished stone, the walls of white stucco, as was the dome. The building was dedicated to Echo, the unfortunate nymph who fell hard for Narcissus. He, too preoccupied with his own beauty, spurned her attentions, whereupon Echo, heartbroken, faded away until only her voice remained.

    "I love this place."

    Her words resounded off the clean, hard surfaces, the acoustic effect no doubt intentional. Simple painted wooden benches ran around the walls, and there was a lengthy Latin inscription carved into the architrave beneath the dome. According to the file it was a line from Socrates:
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die, and you to live. Which of these two is better only God knows.

    He approached the cast-iron grille in the center of the floor. This had puzzled him on his previous visits. There was no reference to it in the file, and all his efforts to dislodge it and discover what lay beneath had failed.

    "The water falls into a small well then carries on to the pool outside. The sound in here ... it is not easy to describe." She thought on it for a moment.
"Sussurri."

    "Whispers."

    "Yes. Like whispers."

    They covered the rest of the circuit in near silence, stopping briefly in the last of the glades, with its statue of Venus stooped over a dead Adonis—the final element in the itinerary, its message of grief and loss almost overwhelming after the other stories they had witnessed.

    Any more would have been too much. The garden transported you just far enough. As soon as you felt the grip of its undertow, it released you.

    Even without the sculptural program, the place would have exerted an unsettling pull. There was something mysterious and otherworldly about a wooded vale. Maybe it was the sense of enclosure, of containment, coupled with the presence of water, but it somehow reeked of ancient gatherings and happenings. You sensed that you weren't the first to have been drawn here, that naked savages had also stumbled upon it and thought the place bewitched.

    Federico Docci would have been hard-pressed to find a better spot for his memorial garden than one already haunted by flickering figures from some spectral past. And he had cleverly turned the location to his own ends, planting large numbers of evergreen trees to screen off views, to guide the eye, to tease and disorient, whatever the season. He had punched holes in this somber vegetation, shaping glades that smacked of sacred groves, connecting them with curling pathways that widened and narrowed as they went, the loose geometry almost musical—a pleasing rhythm of space and enclosure, of light and shade.

    Having laid out this new kingdom, Federico had then dedicated it to Flora, goddess of flowers, and populated it with the characters from ancient mythology over whom she held sway: Hyacinth, Narcissus and Adonis. All had died tragically, and all lived on in the flowers that burst from the earth where their blood had spilled—the same flowers that still enameled the ground in their respective areas of the garden every springtime.

    Their stories cast a melancholy pall over the garden. They were tales of desire, unrequited love, jealousy, vanity and untimely death. But they also spoke of hope. For just as the gods had interceded to immortalize the fallen youths, so Federico had ensured that the memory of his wife, snatched from him at a tender age, would live on.

    These were the thoughts swirling through Adam's head as he and Antonella wended their way back up the hill to the villa. It was the first time he had fully grasped the beauty of the scheme— its logic, subtlety, and cohesion—and he wondered whether Antonella's company had somehow contributed to this epiphany.

    He glanced over at her, walking beside him with her loose springless stride, shoulders back like a dancer. She seemed quite at ease with the silence hanging between them.

    She caught his look and a smile stole over her features. "It's like waking up, isn't it?"

    "Hmmm?"

    "Leaving the garden. It takes time to come back to the real world."

    He felt a sudden and foolish urge to tell her how beautiful she was. And why. Because she wore her beauty carelessly, without vanity—the same way she wore the wounds on her face.

    He checked himself just in time.

    She cocked her head at him. "What were you going to say?"

    "Something I would have regretted."

    "Yes," she said quietly, "it can do that too."

    It was Antonella's idea that they stop on the lower terrace and settle themselves down on one of the benches overlooking the olive grove. She asked for a cigarette, which she smoked furtively, glancing up at the villa every so often to check she wasn't being observed.

    "My grandmother doesn't approve," she explained.

    "I think you're safe. I mean, she's bedridden, right?"

    Antonella shrugged. "Maybe. She likes to create dramas." She paused. "That's not fair. She was very ill this winter . . .
una bronchite,
how do you say?

    "Bronchitis."

    "The doctor was worried. We all were. She has stayed in her bed since then."

    "Have you tried to get her up?"

    "Have we tried?" She sounded exasperated.

    "You think she's pretending?"

    "I think she does not care anymore. She is leaving soon, before the end of the year."

    "Where's she going?"

    Antonella turned and pointed, smoke curling from the cigarette between her fingers. "There."

    On a rise just beyond the farm buildings, a large house rose foursquare, its stuccoed walls washed orange by the sun and streaked with the shadows of the surrounding cypresses. Too grand for a laborer, but maybe not grand enough for the Lady of the Manor.

    "Why's she moving?"

    "It was her decision. She wants Maurizio—my uncle—to have the villa."

    "Maybe she's changed her mind."

    "She would say."

    "Maybe she's saying it the only way she knows how."

    "You don't know my grandmother. She
would
say."

    Strolling back to the villa, they passed close to the small chapel pressed up against the sandstone cliff. She asked him if he'd seen inside. He had tried, he said, but the door was always locked.

    The key was conveniently located for all would-be thieves beneath a large stone right beside the front step—a fact on which he remarked. "You never know when someone might need it," said Antonella simply.

    The lock gnashed at the key, then conceded defeat. The interior was aglow, a ruddy sunlight slanting through the windows. Aside from a handful of old wooden pews, the interior was almost completely devoid of furnishings. The thieves wouldn't have been disappointed, though. The simple stone altar bore a painted triptych of the Adoration of the Magi. As they approached—silently, reverently—Adam tried to place it.

    The colliding perspectives, the elongated figures and the warmth of the tones suggested a painter from the Sienese school. The date was another matter. To his semitrained eye, it could have been anything from the mid—fourteenth century to the mid—fifteenth, later even. It wasn't a masterpiece, but it was distinctive, an unsettling blend of innocence and intensity—like the gaze of a child staring at you from the rear window of the car in front.

    "I must go there," said Adam.

    "Where?"

    "Siena."

    "I'm impressed."

    "Don't be. I couldn't tell you anything else about it."

    "No one can."

    "I'm sure someone could."

    "I hope they don't. Then there would be no more mystery."

    They made a quick tour of the chapel, stopping at a small plaque set in the wall beneath one of the windows. There were a name and a date etched into the stone:

EMILIO DOCI

27. 7. 1944

    "My uncle," said Antonella.

    "Your grandmother told me what happened. It's a terrible story."

    "He's buried there." She pointed at the unmarked flagstones at her feet. "I never really knew him. We were living in Milan, and I was only ten or eleven when it happened."

    Which would make her what ... ?

    "Twenty-four," she said, reading his mind. "And you?"

    "Twenty-two next month."

    The words had a ring of desperation about them, as if he was trying to narrow the gap on her, and he quickly moved the conversation on.

    "Why did he keep his mother's surname?"

    "To keep the Docci name alive. So did Maurizio. Not my mother—she's a Ballerini."

    "And you?"

    "I'm a Voli. Antonella Voli."

    He returned her little bow. "Adam Strickland."

    "Strickland," she repeated. It wasn't designed to roll off an Italian tongue.

    Adam glanced back at the plaque. "Is Emilio the reason the top floor of the villa isn't used?"

    "Yes."

    It had been her grandfather's idea, apparently. The day after Emilio's murder, the Allies had liberated San Casciano. Soldiers arrived. They searched the villa for intelligence left by the Germans before moving on. Her grandfather then had all the broken furniture from the terrace carried back upstairs. When this was done, he closed and locked the doors at the head of the staircase, sealing off the top floor. The rooms had remained that way ever since— undisturbed—on her grandfather's insistence. When he died some years later, people assumed that Signora Docci would have them opened up, aired, repaired, reused. But she had left them just as they were, just as they had always been.

    Adam lingered a moment when they left the chapel, casting a last look around the interior. Unless the information in the file was incorrect, then somewhere beneath the stone floor also lay the bones of Flora Bonfadio, dead some four hundred years.

    They found Maria spreading the table on the terrace with a coarse white linen cloth. When Antonella stooped to kiss her on both cheeks, there was no mistaking the unguarded look of warmth in the older woman's eyes. It dimmed visibly when she took in Adam hovering at a distance.

    "You must stay and meet my uncle and aunt. They'll be here soon. Also my cousins."

    "I should be going."

    Maria's expression suggested that this wasn't such a bad idea. It also suggested that her grasp of the English language was far better than she liked to let on.

    "I insist," said Antonella.

    He stayed for only half an hour, but it was time enough to be won over by Maurizio's easygoing charm and his wife's mischievous wit. They made an attractive couple. He was dark and trim and distinguished-looking, with a dusting of gray at the temples; Chiara Docci was a blond and sharp-featured beauty whose husky laugh betrayed her passion for cigarettes, which she smoked relentlessly, to the evident disapproval of her two children, Rodolfo and Laura.

    "Mama, please," said Laura at one point.

    "I'm nervous,
cara.
How often does one meet a handsome young man who also has a brain?"

    Adam fielded her look and felt his cheeks flush.