Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

Peneus seemed strangely uninvolved with the scene unfolding above him, quite content where he was, sprawled along the rim of the marble basin, cradling his water urn. His expression was hardly that of a man who has just answered his daughter's plea to turn her into a laurel tree. Rather, he wore a look of weary resignation, the sort of look worn by Adam's father when asked to perform some tedious domestic chore.

As for Daphne, her face suggested there were far worse fates to suffer than metamorphosis. She was frozen in the act of turning her head to look behind her at the pursuing figure of Apollo. Maybe her expression was intended as one of welcome release from unwelcome advances, but there was something ecstatic in the curl of her lips that implied she was actually enjoying herself.

He studied Apollo carefully—Apollo, his last remaining link to The Divine Comedy. He was reaching for Daphne, but the gesture was hardly fraught with desperation and hopelessness, as it was in Bernini's famous sculpture of the same subject in the Villa Borghese. In fact, here in the grotto they looked more like an amorous young couple playing tag in the woods.

His gaze dropped to the unicorn, its head bowed toward the empty marble trough. He ran his fingers over the stump of its missing horn, his mind turning to the drawing he'd come across in the papers gathered together by Signora Docci's father. It was a pen-and-ink sketch of the grotto executed in the late sixteenth century, therefore almost contemporaneous with the construction of the garden. The anonymous artist wasn't exactly overburdened with talent, but it was pretty evident that the unicorn had been missing its horn even way back then.

Was it possible it had never had a horn? If so, what did this mean? If a unicorn dipping its horn into the water signified the purity of the source feeding the garden, what did a hornless unicorn signify? Impure water, not fit to drink?

Instinct told him that nothing in the grotto had been left to chance, that each and every one of its peculiarities was a necessary part of another story buried away in the composition, according to Federico Docci's instructions.

The harder he strained to see it, though, the more it receded from him. In his frustration, he found himself talking to the sculptures, exhorting them to share their secret. He was still doing this when a shift in the shadows at his feet announced the appearance of someone in the entrance behind him.

Maria had been out gathering wildflowers. An unruly bunch of them lay in the shallow wicker basket hanging at her elbow. Her eyes ranged over the interior, establishing that—yes—Adam was alone. And—yes—he was obviously losing his marbles.

"Another beautiful day," said Adam.

"Yes."

"Not as humid as yesterday." "No." Maria raised the basket. "I have to put these in water."

Adam winced as she left, a flush of embarrassment warming his cheeks, sweat pearling his forehead. He tried and failed to see the humor of the situation. Maria obviously experienced less difficulty, because a moment later he heard the dim but unmistakable sound of laughter.

He waited awhile before creeping from the grotto, eyes screwed up against the glare. He lit a cigarette. It was his first of the day and he was hit by a wave of light-headedness.

He glared at Flora—twisted on her plinth, perched high above her kingdom—and he found himself thinking that she was to blame. The goddess had issued an edict of silence to her subjects; she had commanded them to shun his advances. Why, though? Why allow him to glimpse a part of the story, then shut him out?

Only one answer presented itself to him.

Okay, he thought, let's do it your way.

He was nearing the villa, still working out how best to broach the sensitive subject with Signora Docci, when he saw her on the lower terrace, standing at the balustrade, looking out over the plunging olive grove. He wondered if Maria had told her about his solitary rant in the grotto.

Her face as he approached suggested she knew nothing of the incident. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning."

"Another beautiful day. Not as humid as yesterday."

His exact words to Maria in the grotto.

Adam gave a weak smile.

"Are you feeling better?" she inquired.

"I was feeling fine then, and I am now."

"I have a cousin—Alessandra—they took her away for the same thing."

She was clearly going to have her moment of amusement at his expense, whether he liked it or not.

"Talking to sculptures?"

"Paintings."

"Waste of time," said Adam. "They've very little to say for themselves."

She laughed. "Where's Harry?"

"He went into Florence."

"He's a strange young man."

"He had a difficult birth."

"Really?"

"No. But he's always been like that, as long as I can remember. He doesn't care what people think of him. He just, well... is Harry."

"Is he a good sculptor?"

"I don't know. I suppose. They asked him to stay on and teach when he graduated last year."

"He must have something, then."

"Yes, a strange desire to spend the rest of his life welding rusty pieces of metal together."

It was a cheap swipe, revenge for Harry's assault on him the night before, but Signora Docci was amused.

"You remind me of Crispin when he was younger. He also made me laugh."

It was the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

"I wanted to ask you about him."

"About Crispin?"

"It's a personal question."

"Oh."

"Very personal."

She took up her new cane, crossed to one of the benches and lowered herself onto it. "On one condition—I'm allowed to ask you a personal question first." "Okay."

"Are you falling in love with Antonella?"

"No," he replied after a moment. "I think I already have."

"Why?"

"That's two questions."

"I'll allow you two."

"I don't know why. I hardly know her."

"No, you don't."

"It's inexplicable."

"Physical attraction—that's inexplicable."

"It's more than that." Trying to pin it down in words was impossible. "I can see myself being happy with her."

"And if I told you she had made a number of young men quite unhappy?"

"I'd ask myself what your reasons were for saying it." "You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that. But maybe I'm young enough to make mistakes and still survive."

"Mistakes at any age can color a life forever. Just one mistake." "Emilio, for example?"

There, it was done now, there was no turning back.

"Emilio?" she said warily.

"Was he your son?"

"Of course he was my son."

"I mean . . . with Professor Leonard."

Signora Docci turned and stared off into the distance. When she looked back at him he saw that her eyes were moist with tears. Her voice, however, remained surprisingly level, devoid of emotion.

"I would like you to leave."

"Leave?"

"Today."

"You mean—?"

"Yes. I want you to leave the villa."

Adam could hear the blood beating in his ears. It was about all he could hear.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you."

She looked away. "Just go."

He shaped the snowdrift of papers on the desk in the study into ordered piles. It took three trips to carry everything upstairs to his bedroom. He did so in a daze.

He pulled his suitcases out from under the bed and began to pack. At a certain moment he had to stop. He went to the open window and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession, working through the consequences of his behavior.

The Pensione Amorini was out of the question; too close to home. He'd take a room in Florence, pick up his photos, maybe stay a day or two. Shit. Harry. He'd completely forgotten about Harry. He'd have to wait at the bottom of the driveway for Harry to return from town. What would he tell him? The truth? He couldn't tell him the truth: that they were without a bed that night because he'd felt compelled by a statue of a classical goddess to ask probing and impertinent questions about their hostess's dead son.