Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

She punched him in the arm.

There was no time to see Montalcino, or anywhere else for that matter. Antonella had promised her grandmother that she'd have him back at Villa Docci by eight o'clock for his farewell dinner.

"It might not be my farewell dinner," offered Adam tentatively.

He told her he wanted to see the Piero della Francesca frescoes in Arezzo before leaving Italy, and that he planned to catch a train there when Harry boarded his to Venice. He could leave his suitcases at Villa Docci. It would mean at least another night together when he came back to pick them up.

He felt bad lying to her. He felt worse when she offered to drive him to Arezzo herself. He turned down her offer, mumbling some lame excuse that she didn't contest, although it threw her into a silent little sulk. She seemed to have shrugged it off by the time they pulled up at her farmhouse. In fact, he assumed he had not only been forgiven but was about to be invited upstairs to her bedroom. Why else hadn't she driven directly to Villa Docci? Because she wanted to walk there, she explained.

They took the path that snaked down through the olive grove, the same one they had walked less than a week before at almost exactly the same hour. Adam was struck by how much had happened in that brief time. When they last trod the route together they hadn't yet kissed, Harry had yet to show up, the mystery of the memorial garden was still unsolved, and his suspicions about Maurizio's role in Emilio's death were no more than that: vague instincts unsupported by evidence.

He now had the foundations of a case against Maurizio, and with any luck he'd soon have the proof. What he would do with it, he didn't yet know.

They made their way up through the memorial garden, through the thickening shadows, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. Antonella stopped at the foot of the amphitheater and looked up at Flora.

"What?" he asked.

"It's a beautiful sight."

"It is."

He made to leave, but Antonella held him tight, refusing to budge. "Wait," she said.

At first he took it for the wind. It sounded like a light breeze rustling fallen leaves. Only when she pointed did he realize it was the sound of running water. Reflecting the steel-blue gleam of the twilight sky, they looked like two streams of mercury, girding the amphitheater in a shimmering belt and flowing into the long trough at their feet, which, he now noticed, had been cleared of debris since his last visit.

He turned to Antonella.

"It's for you," she said. "A gift."

"From you?"

"And Nonna. She paid for the two truckloads of water."

"They're up there?"

"It wasn't easy."

"You set me up?"

"With a little help."

She nodded up the slope. Signora Docci, Harry, Edoardo and Grazia appeared on the crest above.

"Don't just bloody stand there," called Harry.

Signora Docci wagged her cane impatiently. "Quick, go and look, it won't last long."

The trough was filling fast, and they hurried down the steps to the grotto.

The water poured from Peneus' urn, filling the marble basin, overflowing into the gaping mouth of Flora set in the floor. It was beautiful, and it was an act of murder on open display.

They ran hand in hand through the pasture toward the Temple of Echo. The water was already flowing down the channel that scored the ground between the temple and the octagonal pool. Soon Narcissus would have a reason for staring so longingly into vacant space.

They set themselves down on a bench in the temple, shoulders pressed close, trying to suppress the sound of their labored breathing. Beneath the iron grille in the middle of the floor, the water fell into some kind of shallow receptacle. That's what it sounded like—a sound warped by the chamber beneath the floor, then hurled up through the grille toward the domed roof, scattering, echoing, filling the space, making the temple whole again.

Antonella had described the sound as being like whispers. She was right. But they were urgent whispers.

"It's different," said Antonella.

"What?"

"The sound."

"How?"

"I don't know."

It didn't matter. Flora had spoken, and Adam could hear what she was saying.

Maurizio wasn't at dinner. He sent his apologies with Chiara—he wasn't feeling well after the previous night's festivities. Adam tried to imagine the look on his face when Chiara returned with the news that Adam had delayed his departure. Signora Docci seemed more than happy that the purpose of the dinner had been undermined. Harry pointed out that he really was leaving for good in the morning, so the dinner had lost none of its true purpose.

The only farewell of Harry's that couldn't be postponed till the morning was the one with Antonella. He insisted on escorting her back to her farmhouse. Adam went along with them.

Antonella produced a bottle of cheap brandy, half of which they drank on the mound beside her barn, sprawled on cushions set around a couple of guttering candles.

When they finally left, Harry made the most of his goodbye hug with Antonella to get to know her body a bit better.

Picking their way back down through the olive grove, Harry said to Adam, "You can stay if you want."

"It's okay."

"Which means you did the dirty this afternoon."

Adam said nothing. Harry barged against him playfully.

"You're not getting anything out of me."

"Give up now, you know I will."

"Harry, what are you doing?"

"Chinese burn."

"Well, it's not working."

"Shit," said Harry, releasing Adam's wrist.

SIGNORA DOCCI SENT THEM OFF IN STYLE IN HER NAVY blue Lancia. They were driven by Foscolo, a man of few words. One of them was "Arrivederci," which he mumbled sullenly when he dropped them off at Santa Maria Novella station in Florence.

Adam bought a ticket to Arezzo to keep up appearances. He could exchange it later, once Harry was gone. There was an hour to kill before the train to Venice. They headed for the station bar, where Harry proposed they drink their way through the colors of the rainbow—a trick he'd picked up from the Swedish Finn.

"She lives just round the corner," said Harry wistfully.

"She's got a boyfriend."

"I doubt it, not anymore."

"You hardly know her. You're getting on that train."

"Okay. But the reds are on you."

Harry wasn't leaving empty-handed. The old tan leather suitcase, a gift from Signora Docci, was stuffed with many of Adam's clothes (which Maria, on her own initiative, had washed, dried and pressed in the space of one day). The only thing that Harry lacked was money. But when Adam handed him the greater part of his remaining cash, Harry produced a generous bundle from his own pocket, fanning it in the air.

"A commission."

"A commission?"

"From Signora Docci. She wants another sculpture. I guess she wasn't just being polite after all."

Adam leaned forward in his chair. "Harry, listen, she's a sly old bird, she knows she's getting you cheap."

Harry tilted his head in a strange fashion. "That's got to be about the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He lit a cigarette. "I didn't say before, didn't want to, and I can still pull out . . ." His voice trailed off.

"What?"

"There's a gallery in London, a good gallery, the Matthiessen Gallery . . . they want me to do a show."

"That's fantastic, Harry."

"It's set for April. Will you come?"