Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

Those same lugubrious eyes now twinkled with mischief as she leaned forward, searching out the Italian faces around the table.

"I happen to know a lot of Americans," she said with her cut- glass accent, "and please don't think for a moment that they are all like Seymour."

"Vera . . ." There was a note of friendly forbearance in Seymour's voice that suggested they were well acquainted.

"Can't you see they're only tolerating you? They find your views offensive. As do I."

"I'm not trying to be offensive."

"I know," replied Vera with a wicked smile, "it comes naturally."

Seymour gave a hearty laugh. "Touche."

"If the United States is so worried about communism and Russia's interest in Italy, which is a questionable notion now that that funny little man Khrushchev is premier, then you really should spend less time treating this country like a marketplace for your goods and more time making friends."

The ensuing debate ran right through the starter of blue mullet and on into the spit-roasted pork stuffed with garlic and rosemary (which tasted as good as it had been smelling all afternoon). It was a lively and generally good-natured discussion about Fascists, Monarchists and democracy, poverty, overpopulation and America's desire to create the world in its own image. Even Harry and Signora Pedretti broke off from their quiet flirtation to chip in a comment from time to time.

Seymour fought his corner valiantly and with dignity, never losing his studied jauntiness, whereas his wife grew tetchy and spiteful. Her unquestioning belief in the redemptive power of economic prosperity bore all the hallmarks of religious zealotry. Her god was the one true god, and all unbelievers were doomed to damnation, or worse still: communism.

The discussion petered out over pudding, by which time the first stars were overhead, the torches had been lit around the parterre, and Adam was wondering just how much longer he could go without seeing Antonella. The moment the band struck up on the lower terrace, he downed the rest of his coffee and went in search of her.

People were rising now, making for the music. Through the building throng he saw her talking to Maria, who had abandoned the refuge of the villa. Maria was smiling—which in itself was a rarity—but it was her hands that seemed different. They made quick and expressive gestures as she talked. Her dark eyes lost some of their luster when she saw Adam approaching, and she only stayed long enough to acknowledge his greeting.

"Poor Maria," said Antonella.

"Is there a problem?"

"Only that she is a bit drunk." She hooked her arm through his. "Come, I want you to meet someone."

The elderly man in question was on the point of nodding off, his bald crown tracing a lazy circle in the air. The table where he was seated was deserted, except for a young couple on the far side, engrossed, pressed close in conversation, a picture of barely suppressed desire. When Antonella and Adam took a seat on either side of the man, he started like a soldier called to attention.

"Rodolfo, this is Adam," Antonella said in Italian.

Rodolfo's head snapped round. "Adam?"

"And the garden . . ."

"Oh, the garden Adam. Does he speak Italian? Of course he does. Crispin wouldn't have sent him if he didn't speak Italian."

"You know Professor Leonard?" asked Adam.

"Yes, yes, of course." Rodolfo gripped his forearm surprisingly hard. "Congratulations. I've known that garden almost all my life. What you have done is, well, exceptional. Have you told Crispin yet? Of course you have."

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you must, you must. He knew there was something in that garden. He knew it. He often said so. And it annoyed him that he couldn't identify it. We were young—your age— though of course we were both much better-looking." He found this extremely amusing. "Anyway, we went there a lot with Francesca"—he jabbed a crooked finger at Antonella—"her grandmother. I should say that I hated Crispin then. You see, I knew I was only there for one reason—because they couldn't be alone together."

"Why not?"

"It was a long time ago. It wasn't allowed. I, the boy who had always loved her, had to stand by and watch her lose her heart to him."

This was clearly news to Antonella. "Really?"

Her eyes flicked to Adam. He feigned an equal degree of surprise.

"Yes, but that's beside the point. The point is that Crispin sensed something right back then. Sometimes we would go there by ourselves, the two of us, him and me—that's when I grew to like him. He sensed it, you see?" Rodolfo patted Adam on the hand. "You'll send me your thesis and I'll have it translated. I'll even see it published for you. Oh, nothing very exciting—a departmental journal at the university—but that's how it begins for all of us." He gave a short and slightly demented snigger. "And in sixty years if you play your cards right, you can be just like me—penniless, half-drunk at a party, and wondering what you've done with another man's cigar." He searched around him.

Antonella pointed. "It's in your hand."

"So it is. Now, you two youngsters go and join the other apes prancing in the cage." He made to relight the cigar. Antonella blew out the match.

"One dance," she said.

"No."

"I insist."

"Persuade me."

"It might be our last."

"Good point. Help me up."

It was a big band, with lots of brass, and it played big band numbers. Which was fine for those who knew how to dance to big band numbers, and not so good for those who didn't know how to dance to anything. To make matters worse, Rodolfo could dance—he could really dance. He also had remarkable stamina for a man his age, which gave Adam lots of time to dread the handover. When it finally came, he felt duty-bound to confess to Antonella that he had two left feet (one of which was still stiff and sore from his stumble in the memorial garden).

The alcohol helped, so did the excuse to lay his hands on her.

The band was set up on a tiered dais just in front of the stone balustrade. The dance floor consisted of a giant boarded circle at the heart of the terrace, with the marble fountain as a centerpiece. It was ringed by tall screens of tight-clipped yew strung with Chinese lanterns and flanked by flaming torches, which cast wild and restless shadows. Penned in by the hedges, the music was all- engulfing.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" asked Antonella as they fought for their patch on the crowded floor.

"Yes."

"Nonna said you would. Vera is very . . . provocativa."

"She certainly is."

"She is a lesbian, you know?"

"Odd, she didn't say."

Pressed close by the crush, Adam allowed his hand to stray.

"You're not wearing any underwear." "I can't with this dress."

"How does it feel?"

"It feels good. You should try it some time."

He hoped the ambiguity was deliberate.

"God, you're beautiful," he said, his head thick with desire.

"Thank you."

"I want to kiss you."

"We can't." She gave a theatrical flick of the wrist. "The scandal..."

"I don't care. Tomorrow's my last day."

"I know. That's why you're invited to lunch. In Siena. You said you wanted to see Siena. They're friends of Edoardo's. Harry can come too. It's all organized."

"I want to be alone with you."

She pressed her lips to his ear. "Then it's lucky I have a plan."

She refused to elaborate.

A little while later, he lost her to a string of competitors, beginning with her brother, Edoardo. Adam received Grazia in exchange. He hobbled his way through a couple of numbers with her, then she too was taken from him, at which point he renounced the dance floor for the bar nearby. He was waiting to be served when Harry stalked up to him.