Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

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.

These sculptors constituted a new movement, he claimed. Not for them the bald abstraction of their predecessors. Their creations were rooted in a postwar world of broken buildings and broken people. Their language was one of terror and trepidation. They tore into the human form, flaying it, tearing it limb from limb, discarding what they didn't want. And when they were done, they found themselves presenting to the world an army of creatures—part man, part beast, and sometimes part machine. As one of Harry's teachers at Corsham had said to him: "When you've seen the inside of a Sherman tank after a direct hit, it all becomes the same thing."

It was a Europe-wide movement—a new geometry of fear— and as long as there were wars or even the prospect of them, it would always have meaning.