Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

Harry's sculpture had ousted the bronze of a striding tiger from its pride of place on the table in the entrance hall—an undoubted honor, but also a cause of some consternation for Harry.

It was a small gathering, immediate family and their partners. Adam recognized Antonella's mother immediately: the same lustrous black hair, the same almond eyes, the proud lift of the chin. She was a beautiful woman with an attractive whiff of danger about her. She was also older than he'd imagined, or maybe it was just the aura of a life lived to the full and fast catching up with her. Riccardo, her boyfriend, was her signal to the world that she was still a step or two ahead. A dark, lantern-jawed man in his thirties, he was improbably handsome. Against all apparent odds, he was also very cultivated and amusing. He was a cellist with an orchestra in Rome, although he was reluctant to talk about it. This was the first Friday night he'd had away from his work in months, and the last thing he wanted to do was discuss music—he wanted to remember how sensible people spent their Friday nights.

When Antonella and Edoardo arrived, they both greeted their mother warmly. Neither had met Riccardo before, and while Caterina made the introductions, Adam was able to admire the view.

Antonella's dress was made of shimmering midnight blue silk, which hung from her slender, tawny frame like liquid. The halter neck left her shoulders, back and arms bare, while the deep V neckline flirted tantalizingly with disaster. Her hair flowed freely about her shoulders but was pinned back off her forehead, brazenly revealing her scars.

He must have been staring at her like an idiot, because Harry leaned close and whispered in his ear, "It's great when you catch God at his work, isn't it?"

It was an enjoyable event, helped along by attentive waiters forever topping up champagne flutes. Signora Docci looked magnificent in an emerald green gown, its bright, bold color matching her mood. Only Maurizio seemed a little out of sorts, and only when in Adam's company. He could feel the heat of hostility coming off Maurizio, melting the memories of the easygoing rapport that had marked their exchanges earlier in the day. There wasn't much time to dwell on this before Maria came through to the terrace with news that the first guests were arriving. Signora Docci went off to do her duty in the entrance hall. Her two children and four grandchildren went with her.

"It is time for the Doccis to smile and pretend to be a family," said Riccardo, somewhat unfairly, it seemed to Adam.

The party's reputation proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was clear from the start that people were bent on enjoying themselves. Most arrived well within the first half-hour, a steady stream of humanity soon filling the back terrace to overflowing. Some made for the parterre and the lower terrace. It was an idyllic sight: well- dressed couples strolling in the waning sunlight against the backdrop of the rolling hills to the accompaniment of the string quartet.

Taking Adam aside, Harry announced breathlessly that he'd just met the most amazing woman. The fact that she was married appeared to have no bearing on the matter, and Harry hurried off to make some alterations to the place settings.

Adam sought out Signora Docci, who was in discussion with a middle-aged couple. She used his arrival as an excuse to peel away, slipping her arm through his and leading him off.

"Where are we going?"

"Anywhere but there."

Picking their way down the steps to the parterre, she explained that the man was a friend of Maurizio, a fellow partisan from the war. And like many partisans she had known, he'd been less set on fighting the Germans than on looting the factories the enemy destroyed while in retreat. Being first on the scene, the members of the Italian underground were often best placed to control the black market in any goods that survived. First it was shoes from Poggibonsi, then hats from Impruneta.

"He," she said, with a slight jerk of the head behind her, "came to our door with both. His prices were ridiculous." She gave a little laugh. "Our heroes of the struggle. Look at them now—no different."

Adam had to ask. "And Maurizio?"

"Let's just say, he never sold to us."

She smiled and nodded at the leader of the chamber quartet as they negotiated their way across the parterre. They stopped at the balustrade, looking down over the lower terrace, the hills beyond already falling into silhouette.

"It's changing so fast."

"What?"

She couldn't mean the view. Medieval peasants wouldn't have looked out of place in it.

"The world. Or maybe every age thinks just the same thing."

"Maybe."

"Big changes are coming. I can see it everywhere ... music, theater, films, art. Look at Harry's sculpture. Have you ever seen anything like it? Don't listen to the politicians, always look at the artists, they're the first to tell us where we're going."

"Have you been talking to him?"

"Harry?"

"It's not the first time I've heard that line of argument."

She laughed. "Well, that one was mine."

They were approached by a passing couple. A few pleasantries were exchanged, Adam was introduced by Signora Docci, but the couple soon took the veiled hint from their hostess and moved on.

Signora Docci ground the tip of the cane into the gravel at their feet, observing her handiwork for a moment before looking up.

"You have a gift, Adam, don't waste it."

"You have been talking to him."

"He's right. You sense things other people don't."

"Or maybe I'm so ordinary that anything that isn't disturbs me."

She laughed. "I'm sorry you're leaving. I'm also sorry we only met at the end of my life. I think we could have been very good friends."

Embarrassment left him mute. No one had ever spoken to him in such terms before.

"Remember those words," she said.

"I will."

She turned stiffly and surveyed the villa with an approving eye—the stir and hum on the terrace, the lowering sun skimming the roof.

"Now take this old lady back to her guests. It's time to announce dinner."

Harry had engineered matters so that Signora Pedretti—the new love of his life—was seated between them.

"Make me look good," said Harry, seeing her approach their table.

"How?" asked Adam.

"Just be yourself."

Signora Pedretti was young, petite, impishly beautiful. Her delicate wrists glistened with gold, and her mouth was a startling splash of color. She didn't appear nearly as surprised as Harry by the fact that providence had thrown them together again. Nor was she unhappy about it.

She proved considerably better company than the woman to Adam's left, who only came to life when he finally remarked on the jewels blazing at her neck. She was French, Parisian, married to the American gentleman holding forth on the far side of the table about the benefits of the fertilizers and hybrid grains he sold to the Italians. God knows how much money he had made importing "superior American product," as he termed it—quite a bundle, if his wife's necklace was anything to go by—but he talked like a man on a humanitarian mission. Italy was poor, ravaged by war and desperately in need of being dragged into the twentieth century. He, of course, was proud to be playing his part in this mercy mission.

His words clearly rankled the Italians around the table, but out of politeness, or maybe stupefaction, they held themselves in check. It took an Englishwoman to light the touch paper. Adam had been introduced to her earlier in the evening—a tall, pale creature, gaunt and ascetic, with a bony high-ridged nose and heavy-lidded eyes that lent her a misleading air of boredom. It was a distinctive and familiar look, a particular brand of ugliness reserved for the English upper classes.