Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

"What about him?"

"You think what happened is all part of the same thing?"

"Who knows what really happened?" Fausto shrugged.

"I do. Signora Docci told me."

"What did she say?"

Adam spelled out the bare bones of the story as recounted to him. When he was finished, Fausto sat in silence for a moment.

"Well, most of it's correct."

"And the rest?"

Fausto lit a cigarette. "Emilio was a Fascist, a party member, did you know that?"

"No."

"It's because of him the Germans were so respectful when they took over the villa. It's also the reason he was so angry when he saw the damage they were doing that night. It wasn't part of the agreement, the understanding. He lost his temper, I can see that. But I still can't see him pulling out his gun."

"But he did. There were witnesses. Maurizio and the gardener . . ." He couldn't remember the name.

"Ah, Gaetano," sighed Fausto. "Who knows what Gaetano saw, or what he heard? He didn't seem too sure himself at the time. That came later."

"I don't understand."

Fausto leaned close across the table. "He changed his story."

"Why?"

Fausto shrugged. "I never asked him." "Why not?"

"You know the story of Pandora?" "Yes."

"Well, sometimes it's best to ignore the whispers inside the box."

ANTONELLA APPEARED PUNCTUALLY AT THE PENSIONE AT ten o'clock the following morning. The encounter between her and Signora Fanelli passed off quite painlessly, the two women exchanging easy pleasantries. The suitcases were loaded into the Fiat and Antonella sped off to Villa Docci. Adam followed on the bicycle. He was dispatched with a kiss on both cheeks from Signora Fanelli. Iacopo offered a limp and clammy hand by way of farewell, but only when prompted by his mother.

Arriving at the villa, he was surprised to find Maurizio unloading his suitcases from Antonella's car. There had been a family gathering the evening before to finalize the arrangements for the party, and Maurizio had stayed on overnight in order to make the rounds of the estate workers.

"They always have complaints, but this year is worse than normal."

"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.