Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

That, he had hated.

A towering monument to man's mawkish fascination with himself, a triumph of form over content, style over substance, was how Harry described it. Where was the terror of a young shepherd boy about to take on the enemy's champion in single combat? The only sign of it Harry had been able to detect lay between David's legs. Fear, like cold, could do that to your penis, Harry explained considerately, for the benefit of the ladies. No, the "snake-hipped Narcissus" looked more like "some dim-witted teenager primping himself in front of a mirror before a big night out."

Harry's views sparked a lively debate, just as he'd intended. There weren't many things he enjoyed as much as an intellectual scuffle. Unfortunately, red wine was one of them, and it was flowing freely throughout the main course—a potentially explosive combination.

Adam judged his moment carefully. At the first signs of beady- eyed belligerence, he dragged Harry away on the pretext of showing him the memorial garden.

No one seemed to mind when Harry asked if he could take his glass with him.

Adam experienced none of the usual anticipatory thrill as they made their way down the path into the valley. He had felt defeated by the garden even before the matter of Emilio's death had laid siege to his thoughts. He gave Harry only the barest background, mentioning little more than the fact that Federico Docci had cast his wife as Flora, goddess of flowers.

Harry stopped as they pushed through the gap in the yew hedge, the gloomy tunnel of trees stretching out before them. "Jolly spot," he said.

He didn't speak again until they reached the open ground at the foot of the amphitheater. He looked up at the statue of Flora, the triumphal arch looming on the crest above her, then he turned, taking in the rest of the valley, the trees pressing in on the pasture.

"What are you thinking?" asked Adam.

"It's beautiful. But eerie."

"What else?"

"Is this a test?"

"No."

It wasn't a test, but he did want to see the place through Harry's eyes—afresh, for the first time. Maybe it would throw up something.

"I need help," said Adam.

"From me?"

"I'm that desperate."

Harry read off the inscription on the triumphal arch, pronouncing it incorrectly.

"Fiore," said Adam. "It's Italian for 'flower.' "

"As in Flora."

"Exactly."

"And that's her—the statue?"

"That's the goddess."

"Is it a likeness?"

"There's no way of knowing, there are no portraits of Flora. I think it might be, though." It was a feeling that had crept up on him in the past few days. Her face didn't fit the template of the time. The features didn't quite accord with the bland, polished refinement of the late sixteenth century. The mouth was too strong, the nose too pronounced, the chin too square. She was too real.

They climbed the slope beside the amphitheater, stepping onto the second level. Harry handed Adam his wineglass and lit a cigarette for both of them. He then proceeded to examine the statue from every angle.

"Well, it's not my kind of thing," he said eventually.

"I guessed as much."

"But it does have a certain quality."

"You think?"

"Uh-huh." "What?"

"Well, she's hot."

"Hot?"

"Horny. Look at her."

Harry slid his hand up the statue's leg, just as Antonella had done at their first meeting. This time was different, though; Harry's hand kept going, working its way right up into Flora's groin.

"Yep, she's wet."

"Oh for God's sake, Harry."

"Well, look at her, see how she's twisted that way then back—all coy but not really."

"It's a classic pose."

"Oh, a classic pose," mocked Harry. "All I'm saying is I wouldn't mind being on the receiving end of that look."

Adam glanced up at Flora's face, the slightly pursed lips, her wide-set almond eyes gazing off into the distance. . . .

But where exactly?

Adam's head snapped round, then back to Flora. She was looking down the slope and across the vale toward the wood, with its towering trees and its dense undergrowth of laurel. They presented an impenetrable screen, but he had a pretty good idea of what lay beyond.

"Stay here," he said.

He lost his footing as he hurried down the slope, stumbling badly, painfully. Gathering himself on the level ground, he called up to Harry. "Tell me where she's looking."

"What?"

"Where she's looking. Tell me exactly where she's looking."

He hurried off, hobbling. He had done something to his ankle. It wasn't hurting yet, but he could tell it would be, and soon.

When he reached the tree line, he turned and shouted, "Here?"

Harry gesticulated and yelled back, "Up a bit. Bit more. That's right. No. Back a touch. I don't know. There. Yes. There."

Adam stripped off his shirt and slung it over the nearest branch. Looking deep into the woods, he set his sights on a distant tree in direct line with the statue and his shirt. He kept his eyes tightly fixed on the tree as he pushed his way through the overgrown laurel. It was a struggle, like walking against the current in a lively river.

When he reached the tree, he turned. He could just make out his shirt hanging from the branch.

He had to be exact, which meant removing his trousers and hanging them from a branch. When he slipped his shoes back on he noticed that his ankle had already started to swell.

Singling out another tree that lay along the same axis, he set off through the laurel. The tight-packed bushes clawed at him, grazing his bare skin. Once or twice he received a sharp jab in the thigh or midriff, enough to stop him momentarily in his tracks, but he didn't take his eyes off the tree until he reached it.

Fortunately, he wasn't required to remove his underpants as another marker; the next tree was close enough to the border of the wood for him to judge the rest of the journey by eye.

He turned and gave one final check that he was still on target with Flora's line of sight, and then he stepped into the open.

He was at the northern fringes of the glade of Hyacinth, and there—directly in his path—stood Apollo atop his high, conical mountain, his arm outstretched toward Hyacinth, prostrate on his plinth on the other side of the clearing.

It came to him suddenly, setting his pulse racing.

Apollo was the key that unlocked the mystery.

He closed his eyes and hurried around the garden in his head,

each element of Federico Docci's design unraveling, taking on new meaning, telling another story, one buried just beneath the surface.

A couple of sharp expletives brought him to his senses. It was Harry emerging from the wood, barging through the laurel, holding his wineglass aloft. Impressively, he seemed to have spilled barely a drop.

Harry's gaze roamed the glade before coming to rest on Adam. "Jesus, Adam, look at you, standing there in your underpants and your shoes, all scratched to fuck. Is this where a Cambridge education gets you?"

"You sound like Dad."

"I'm beginning to understand how he feels."

Adam seized Harry and hugged him close. "You're a genius, Harry."

Harry patted his back and said, "There, there, the nice men in the white coats will be here soon."

Adam laughed and released him. "It's not a memorial garden."

"No?"

"Or rather, it is." "Right."

"Only, it isn't."

"Okay, now I'm really quite worried."

"It's both. It's a memorial garden and a confession."

"A confession?"

"To murder. He killed her. Federico killed her."

"Who?"

"Flora."

"Not her—him. Who the fuck is Federico?"

"Her husband. He killed her because she was having an affair."