The Savage Garden (17 page)

    "Because of the drought?"

    "Exactly."

    They carried the cases upstairs together. Adam already knew the bedroom assigned to him, but the dark, musty space he had briefly looked in on was almost unrecognizable now that the tall windows were thrown open, allowing light and air to flood it to its corners. Vases of sweet-smelling flowers were distributed around the room.

    Even Maurizio was impressed. "Maria has been busy. I don't think it has ever looked so good."

    Maurizio headed off on his duties, and Adam joined Signora Docci and Antonella on the terrace for coffee. Antonella had errands to run; she only stayed long enough to invite Adam to Sunday lunch at her farmhouse the following day. It was a chance to meet her brother, Edoardo, and some of their other friends. When she rose to leave, Adam also made his excuses, saying he had to work.

    "But it's the weekend."

    "He's not here for your amusement, Nonna." Antonella turned to Adam. "Don't let her tell you what to do. If you want to work, you work."

    "He has the whole afternoon to work. I won't be here to distract him. I'm going into Florence."

    "Nonna?" "What?"

    "Are you ready for Florence?"

    "The question, my dear, is whether Florence is ready for me."

    She left just before lunch in a navy blue Lancia sedan, dragged from a barn and dusted down. She gave a mock-regal wave from the backseat as the vehicle pulled away. It might have been the wave, or maybe it was the sight of Foscolo at the wheel in a chauffeur's cap, but it was the first time Adam had seen Maria smile. The smile suited her face, although the moment she sensed his eyes on her, it was gone.

    He unpacked his suitcases, then made for a shaded corner of the terrace with
The Divine Comedy.
He tried to progress, but his eyes kept sliding over the text. In the end, he closed the book, conceding defeat to the source of his distraction.

    The top floor was reached by a lone stone staircase, centrally placed, in keeping with the perfect symmetry of the villa. Wooden double doors barred his passage at the head of the stairs. He wasn't surprised to find them locked. He
was
surprised, however, when a voice echoed in the stairwell.

    "The Signora has the key."

    He spun, startled. Maria was standing at the foot of the steps. He felt the weight of her flat, inscrutable gaze as he descended toward her.

    "Can I prepare you something for lunch?"

    "A sandwich, thanks."

    "You should eat more. You're too thin."

    "I eat a lot at dinner."

    "I'll remember that," she said.

    There was a levity in this last remark, which gave him the courage to ask, "Maria, why is it locked?"

    "It was the Signore's wish. The Signora chooses to respect it."

    "Don't you think it's a bit"—he searched for the word— "macabre?"

    "Just a bit? It sits over this house like a curse. Not for much longer, though. Signor Maurizio has plans."

    "Plans?"

    "I don't know the details. The usual?" "Excuse me?"

    "Ham and cheese?"

    "Yes, thank you."

    He took the sandwich with him to the memorial garden. He ate it on the stone bench at the base of the amphitheater, looking up at Flora on her plinth. She seemed to be taunting him. So did the inscription carved into the bench—"The Soul in Repose Grows Wiser"—a quotation from Aristotle, he now knew.

    He was anything but "in repose," his thoughts turning once again to his conversation with Fausto the evening before. It had robbed him of sleep; it had hovered over him like a cloud all day.

    If Fausto was to be believed, then Gaetano the gardener had changed his account of what happened the night of Emilio's murder. Why would he do that? More important, how could he get away with it? The truth was he couldn't, not without the collusion of Maurizio. Their stories had to tally. This suggested some kind of compact between the two men, arrived at subsequent to Emilio's death. From here it was a short step to the unthinkable—too short not to take, even if you didn't want to.

    No, it was an absurd notion. He was drawing wild conclusions based on a couple of exchanges with an unkempt Italian communist he'd met in a bar.

    He reached for his cigarettes and lit one. As he did so, he caught sight of Maurizio strolling down the path toward him.

    Adam got to his feet as nonchalantly as he could. "Hi."

    "Hello."

    Maurizio looked up at the statue of Flora, then down, past the grotto to the Temple of Echo nestling among the trees at the bottom of the pasture.

    "I haven't been here for a long time."

    "You don't like it?"

    Maurizio appeared intrigued by the question. "I haven't thought about it. But no, I don't think I do. I find it a bit. . .
sombro."

    "Somber."

    "Yes."

    "Death is, I suppose."

    "I suppose," parroted Maurizio. "We came here a lot when we were children. This was our world." He glanced down at the trough sunk into the ground at the foot of the amphitheater. "The water was cold, even in the summer. Very cold." He looked up, smiling. "One minute and eighteen seconds—Emilio's record, for holding his breath. I was never close. Not even a minute."

    The idea of Emilio prostrate in the narrow trough gave rise to another image, dark and unsettling: of Emilio stretched out in his coffin beneath the flagstone floor of the chapel. Adam shook off the fleeting thought.

    "And your sister?" he asked, unable to recall the name of Antonella's mother.

    "Caterina? Oh, she held the watch."

    "What is she like?"

    Maurizio gave a thin smile. "Difficult. You will meet her at the party."

    "She's coming?"

    "It is the only time she comes—for the party." He paused. "You will still be here, I hope."

    "Yes. I mean, if that's okay."

    "Of course it is. You must be there . . . after everything you've done for my mother."

    It was a weighted compliment, and for a moment it seemed Maurizio was about to steer the conversation this way. He didn't, though; he asked if Adam would accompany him on a quick tour of the garden.

    They had just passed through the glade of Hyacinth when Maurizio said, "Can I ask you to do something for me? A favor."

    "Of course."

    "It's about my mother. You have had a very good effect on her."

    "I doubt that."

    "It's true. She says so herself. Anyway, it shows. We can all see it." He paused. "But something worries me, something Maria has told me. She takes pills for the pain. Not Maria, my mother, I mean . . . although I'm sure there are times when Maria could use them too."

    Adam smiled politely at the joke.

    "Recently she has taken a lot. The doctor was here yesterday. Twice. He came back with more pills. Maria found them. She thinks they are even stronger than before."

    His gaze lingered meaningfully on Adam.

    "I'm not sure I understand."

    "My mother is a proud woman. She has always pushed herself. Maybe she is pushing herself too much. Maybe even to impress you."

    "Me?"

    "It's possible. Her new companion . . ."

    His tone was tinged with mockery, and it rankled.

    "What's the favor?" Adam asked, just shy of unfriendly.

    "That you keep an eye on her. That you don't encourage her . . . to push herself too much."

    "Of course."

    "She is still weak."

    "I understand."

    They were able to put this moment of mild antagonism behind them for the remainder of the circuit. Adam even laughed when Maurizio described how his sister had once dressed the statue of Venus in one of their mother's old party gowns.

    Returning to the foot of the amphitheater, Adam recovered his copy of
The Divine Comedy
from the bench.

    "A masterpiece," observed Maurizio.

    "Absolutely."

    "Where have you got to?"

    "The ninth circle of Hell."

    Maurizio searched his memory. "The ninth circle . . . ?"

    "Caina. Those who've committed crimes against their own flesh and blood. Dante named it after Cain, who killed his brother, Abel."

    Later that night, lying in the big old bed, staring into the darkness, he tried to make sense of his reply to Maurizio's innocent inquiry.

    The words had issued from his mouth, and in that respect they had been his. But even now he felt no ownership of them, no responsibility for them. He had not intended to speak them. They had tumbled from his lips unbidden. This might have been less troubling if there had been more truth to them.

    He had, in fact, progressed well beyond the ninth circle of Hell—with its icy lake and its host of sinners frozen up to their necks—and on into Purgatory.

    The most worrying thing, though, was the change his words had wrought in Maurizio. The mention of Cain and Abel had, for the briefest of moments, cast his features in stone and turned his eyes cold and crystal-hard.

    HE WOKE LATE AFTER A FITFUL NIGHT'S SLEEP. THE NEW day brought a new clarity with it. He had allowed his mind to run away with him; he had imagined things that weren't there—or, at the very least, misinterpreted those that were. This realization gave him comfort, and he forced himself to think only of things that wouldn't jeopardize that.

    His resolve faltered somewhat when he headed downstairs to the study. He couldn't be sure, but he had the distinct impression that someone had been through his papers on the desk. There was something not quite right about the topography of the various piles. Some sat too close together, others were too neatly ordered. The first thing he did was delve through them and pull out all of his scribblings relating to Emilio's death. These he burned in the grate.

    He made his way to the cavernous, brick-vaulted kitchen in the south wing, Maria's spotless domain. She was nowhere to be found, although the air was thick with the caustic odor of bleach liberally and recently applied. It was Sunday; maybe she was at church.

    The room gave little away about its tenant aside from a whisper of brisk and efficient orderliness. The surfaces were clear, the fresh fruit and vegetables neatly piled in their terra-cotta bowls, the copper pans back on the long shelf, arranged from left to right in ascending order of size. There was certainly no visible record of the small feast Maria had prepared for him and Signora Docci the evening before.

    The dinner had been a subdued affair at first. Visibly depleted by her foray into Florence, Signora Docci had nevertheless reported the trip in some detail, describing a visit she had paid to an old friend—"Her husband is a homosexual, but after all these years she still cannot see it." She went on to list the numerous purchases she had made, everything from a fennel-flavored salami to an antique ebony walking stick, which she had handed to him across the candlelight of their table on the back terrace.