The Savage Garden (21 page)

    "What does he do?"

    "He buys and sells things."

    "What kind of things?"

    "The kind that make a profit. He also has two factories in Prato, for clothes. He has made a lot of money since the war."

    Adam hesitated. "What was Emilio like?"

    "Emilio? Why do you ask?"

    "Just curious. He was mentioned at lunch."

    She helped herself to another of his cigarettes. "Well, he
was
a Fascist, it's true. Many people were, my grandparents too, at the beginning. They stopped believing." She stared off into the distance. "I was young, but I remember him. He was always reading books. And he made me laugh. He made us all laugh." She smiled wistfully. "The funny Fascist."

    "How did they get on, Emilio and Maurizio?"

    Her glance said it all: What's it to you?

    He was pushing too hard; he needed to tread carefully.

    "I mean, their politics were different. Maurizio was a partisan, no?"

    Was it motive enough for murder?

    "Who told you that?"

    "A chap called Fausto, from San Casciano."

    She didn't know him, although the name rang a vague bell.

    "It's true, Maurizio was a partisan, and a socialist. He claims he still is a socialist." There was a note of good-natured cynicism in her voice. "My grandmother says he fought the Germans because he was always fighting, even when he was a boy. He hates it when she says that."

    But he didn't fight them the night they killed Emilio, did he?

    Adam kept this observation to himself, as he did the other questions hammering away in his head. Why had her grandfather sealed off the top floor? As some kind of shrine? Shrines were conceived to be visited; they were places you went to in order to pay your respects. Why close a door and lock it? Why oblige your family to live with the painful memory, rather than allowing it to dissipate over the years? What had Maria said about that deserted floor frozen in time? "It sits over the house like a curse."

    Dusk was falling when he finally left. Antonella said she'd accompany him back to the villa; she'd hardly seen her grandmother all weekend.

    They took a path that wound through the olive grove beneath the farmhouse. It was her path, she said. It hadn't existed a year ago; hers were the only feet to have beaten it into existence. The air grew cooler as they worked their way down through the serried ranks of trees. Fireflies bobbed in the gathering gloom, and the smell of wild herbs came in faint waves: thyme, rosemary and mint. They barely spoke. When Antonella lost her footing on a steep bank, she gripped his arm to steady herself and his hand instinctively went to the gentle curve at the base of her back.

    "Thank you," she said softly as they released each other.

    His feeling of contentment faded a touch when they entered the memorial garden. He told her about the unnatural wind that had dropped to earth earlier in the day, rushing through the garden.

    "Yes, it happens sometimes in summer. I don't know why." They walked on a little way. "The breath of the gods," she said absently. "That's what the Greeks called the wind."

    They stopped at the foot of the amphitheater and looked up at Flora, the fireflies fussing around her like solicitous consorts.

    He felt a sudden urge to share her secret,
their
secret. He fought the impulse, but only momentarily.

    He told Antonella everything he knew. He told her about the dark wood and the triumphal arch and its anagrammatic inscription of inferno. He told her about Dante's nine circles of Hell and the second circle of the adulterers. He told it as it was, without embellishment. And when he was finished he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

    Antonella didn't speak at first. When she did, it was in Italian.
"Incredibile."

    "Maybe I'm wrong."

    "No," she said with quiet conviction.

    "I can't figure out the rest of the cycle. It doesn't make sense."

    "You will. It will."

    "Something bad happened. I can feel it. I just can't see it."

    She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed.
"Bravo, Adamo.
Really.
Bravo."

    He wasn't good with compliments, but he knew what to do when he saw her head drawing closer, her neck arching, her lips reaching for his.

    They kissed gently. Then again, less gently, their tongues searching each other out. He felt the heat coming off her, and the twin pressure of her breasts against his chest.

    When they finally drew apart, she said in a whisper, "I told myself I wouldn't."

    "That's interesting, I told myself I would."

    He could just make out her smile in the deepening darkness.

    They were still holding hands when they left the garden, sidestepping through the yew hedge. They only released each other when, nearing the villa, she stopped to remove a stone from her shoe.

    "Why did you tell yourself you wouldn't?"

    She slipped her shoe back on and stood upright. "Because you are going soon."

    "A week."

    "It will only make it worse."

    "But think—what a week."

    He reached for her and she playfully slapped his hand away.

    It came at them clear through the still night air—laughter from up at the villa. A devilish cackle. Disturbing if you'd never heard it before. More disturbing if you had.

    "Oh Christ."

    "What?" asked Antonella.

    "Harry . . ." said Adam, breasting the steps to the back terrace. "What are you doing here?"

    "What does it look like? Having dinner with a beautiful woman."

    Signora Docci smiled indulgently.

    "I thought you wouldn't get the money till tomorrow."

    "Arrived the day you sent it."

    Adam tried his best to sound pleased. "Good."

    "Bad," said Harry.

    "Bad?"

    "It's a long story."

    "It is," said Signora Docci.

    Harry turned to her. "But not uninteresting."

    "No, not uninteresting."

    Oh Christ, thought Adam. "When did you get here?" he asked, trying to mask the strain in his voice. "A few hours ago."

    Long enough to have done untold damage.

    "Nice lunch?" asked Harry.

    "Yes, great—sorry—this is Antonella."

    Harry got to his feet. He was wearing a grubby Aertex shirt, khaki army shorts that reached well below the knee, and his feet were squeezed into black gym shoes, one of them worn away at the end so that his big toe poked through. He stooped to kiss Antonella's hand, considerately removing his cigarette before he did so. "Antonella," said Harry. "Harry," said Antonella. "Nice dress." "Nice shorts."

    "Thank you. Practical in this heat." "Absolutely," said Antonella, for Adam's benefit. "Please . . ." said Harry, pulling a chair back for her. "Thank you."

    "Have you eaten?" Signora Docci asked.

    Adam held up his hands in surrender. "Enough for a couple of days."

    "Antonella is an excellent cook."

    "She certainly is," Adam replied, wondering for a moment if he was trapped in a Jane Austen novel.

    Fortunately, at that moment Harry chirped up, bringing them back to some kind of reality. "So's Maria."

    Maria had just stepped from the villa, carrying a tray. Harry adopted an exaggerated Italian accent.
"Vitello con sugo di
. .
."

    
"Pomodoro,"
said Maria.

    "Pomodoro!"
trumpeted Harry.
"Magnifico!"

    Suddenly, the Jane Austen novel didn't seem such a bad prospect. Better that than Harry's impression of Mr. Mannucci who used to sell them ice creams from the back of his van when they still lived in Kennington.

    Maria produced a rare smile, surprisingly coy.

    
"Grazie,"
she said, clearing away the empty plates.

    "Harry was just telling me a joke," said Signora Docci.

    She looked invigorated, and maybe a little drunk. Or maybe it's the painkillers, thought Adam.

    "You were in the English Channel," she went on, "in the seventeenth century."

    "Right, that's right, so anyway . . . the captain of the naval frigate raises the telescope to his eye and he sees five pirate ships on the horizon, bearing down on them. 'Bring me my red shirt,' he says to his lieutenant. 'Your red shirt, sir?' 'Just do it, man.'

    "Anyway, they engage the pirate ships and a fierce battle ensues. The captain's in the thick of it, fighting hand-to-hand, running pirates through all over the place. And against terrible odds they capture all five of the pirate ships. When it's over and everyone's celebrating, the lieutenant asks the captain why he asked for his red shirt. The captain says it was so that if he was wounded the men wouldn't see the blood and wouldn't lose heart. Everyone cheers— 'What a hero our captain is.' "

    Harry took a short draw on his cigarette, then crushed it in the ashtray.

    "So . . ." he went on, a sparkle in his eye, "a few days later they're still patroling in the Channel when another shout comes down from the crow's-nest. The captain raises the telescope to his eye and this time he sees
twenty
pirate ships on the horizon, bearing down on them fast. The captain lowers his glass and turns to his lieutenant. 'Lieutenant,' he says. 'Yes, Captain?' 'Bring me my brown trousers.'"

    In Harry's defense, he never laughed at his own jokes. But then again, not many other people did, either. This one was different, though, this one wasn't half-bad. Even Adam found himself chuckling, partly from relief that the punch line hadn't been cruder.

    Harry turned to Adam. "That one got them," he said.

    Signora Docci and Antonella were still laughing when Maria appeared with the cheese platter.

    The rest of dinner was an ordeal. When Adam looked at Signora Docci, he saw Professor Leonard; when he looked at Antonella, he saw himself kissing her in the garden; and when he looked at Harry, he found himself wondering if one of them had been adopted.

    Harry dominated, he seized the steering wheel and told you to sit back and enjoy the ride, because that's what you were going on, whether you liked it or not. Strangely, neither Signora Docci nor Antonella appeared to mind.

    Harry announced that he'd come to Italy to visit the Venice Biennale, the international art festival. This was news to Adam, and not unwelcome news—it meant Harry had somewhere else to go to. British artists were a world force to be reckoned with right now, Harry insisted, especially in the field of sculpture,
his
field. Lynn Chadwick had snatched the sculpture prize from under Giacometti's nose at the last Biennale, and there were many British contemporaries right up there with him, worthy heirs to Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth: Meadows, Frink, Thornton, Hoskin—mere names until he brought them to life with his vivid descriptions of their work.