Mark Mills - The Savage Garden

For a man who set great store by logic and cold fact, it was natural that his father should show more interest in the mechanics of Maurizio's crime and its discovery than in the human cost to Adam. However, he did find it in himself to say, "If that girl ever darkens this doorstep . . . well, I don't know what I'll do."

A week later, he found out.

He asked her to wait on the doorstep while he went in search of Adam.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Adam was mowing the lawn while his mother weeded the borders. He was still in his tennis gear, having played a couple of sets with some friends that morning.

His father appeared from the house, looking shaken. "There's a young woman to see you. I think it's"—his fingers fluttered around his forehead—"from Italy."

"Antonella . . . ?"

"Possibly. Yes. From what you said."

"Didn't you ask, Charles?" called his mother from behind a hydrangea.

"No, I didn't bloody ask, okay? I was too shocked."

Antonella wasn't alone. Fausto hovered sheepishly at her shoulder.

Wild joy fought with anger. His instinct was to slam the door in their faces. Politeness prevailed, assisted by a big dose of curiosity.

"Come in," he said coldly. "You too," he added to Fausto in Italian, using the formal Lei instead of tu to make a point.

His parents had appeared behind him in the entrance hall, defiant, protective, and looking completely ridiculous in their tatty gardening clothes.

"It's okay," he said to them, "we'll go into the garden."

As they stepped onto the back terrace, Antonella pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Adam. It was thick and heavy.

"What is it?"

"Read it. It's okay."

She touched him reassuringly on the arm.

He had spent many hours shaping her into a demon, a valuable life lesson at best, and it shocked him just how easily one feather- light touch could dismantle all his good work, melting the stony desolation of the past week.

"I don't know . . . I'm not sure I can. . . . What is it?" He could feel tears starting to prick his eyes.

"It's okay," she said.

"Go on," said Fausto gently.

Adam took his cigarettes from the terrace table and made for the bench at the end of the garden.

VILLA DOCCI

My dear Adam,

I hope this letter finds you well. I suspect it doesn't, and I don't doubt that I am to blame for that.

Maybe Antonella has already told you something of what has gone on, in which case much of what I write will come as no surprise to you. Either way, you must believe me when I tell you that Antonella had no hand in what happened—none whatsoever. She, like you, is entirely innocent. The rest of us are not. Please try not to judge Maria and Fausto too harshly. They only did what I asked of them, and not always willingly.

I have used you, Adam. I used you before I met you, I used you while you were here, and maybe I am still using you now. I don't expect you to forgive me for this, but I hope that one day you will come to understand my reasons. As Virgil says to Dante at the beginning of La Divina Commedia —which, thanks to you, I have read again—"The way out is the way through." That is how it was for me. Finding myself in a dark place, I saw only one way out if it.

My son killed my son. I suppose I have always known it, from the moment Benedetto first locked the door, closing off the top floor. It was not like him to do such a thing. His nature was to look forward, never backward. He gave his reasons, of course, and I chose to believe them. The alternative was unthinkable.

I am now certain that Benedetto worked out what really happened that night, and leaving those rooms just as they were was his punishment for Maurizio. He wanted Maurizio to live with the memory of what he had done. I have visited the rooms only twice. When Benedetto died I went looking for what he had found up there. A part of me was relieved when I failed. I now know what he discovered because I have followed your footprints across the dusty floor, I have seen where you stopped near the fireplace and folded back the carpet. I have seen the bullet hole in the wooden boards stained with Emilio's blood. You found what Benedetto found, as I hoped (and feared) you would.

The only certainty in life is death. This is something I have always accepted, that is until death paid me a visit last Christmas. Even then, it was not death itself I feared, but the prospect of seeing Emilio again, of standing before him, both of us knowing that I had let him down, that I had done nothing. I swore to him then that if I lived I would get to the truth, however painful it might be. The moment that oath was made I knew I would survive, because I now had a reason to. So it was that one sickness replaced another.

My plan was simple but I required help. That is when I contacted Fausto. I have known him many years. His grandfather was a fine man, his father was not. I'm sorry if I speak ill of the dead, but they seem to me as fair a target for criticism as anyone. Even as a small boy, Fausto was exceptional. Benedetto and I took an interest in him for the sake of his grandfather. Fausto was not to know, but he found out that we had helped with his education over the years. And when I needed help he was there for me. These few lines do not do justice to our friendship or to the respect I have for him.

It was Fausto who went south for me earlier this year to the village near Rome where Gaetano comes from. It was Fausto who discovered that Gaetano's story of a family inheritance was untrue. And it was Fausto who helped me work out how to get to the truth. As you now know, I think, he has an interest in tactics and strategies.

Your role in this affair was mapped out many months ago: a young student, intelligent and inquisitive; the seeds of a mystery planted in his head by Fausto and nourished by me. If Maurizio suspected for a moment that I was behind the thing, he would never have shown himself. The threat had to come from someone else, an innocent. And you are, Adam. It is not your fault. Your age is to blame. A more experienced man would have read the signs. He would have seen that he was being led by the hand.

Almost every step you took was determined in advance. Not all. Some things were impossible to anticipate. Three stand out. I steered you towards the photo albums in order to bring Emilio to life, to make him matter more to you, but I never imagined that you would see the truth of his parentage in those old images. I underestimated you (not for the first or the last time). I am glad now that I did. It has forced me to be honest with Crispin, as I should have been many years ago.

How do you tell a man that the son he never knew he had is dead? It is not easy, but it is finally done. If you have not been able to contact Crispin since your return it is because I have asked him to make himself unavailable to you until you have received this letter. Needless to say, he is extremely angry with me for the way I have treated you, almost as angry as Antonella, although that would take some doing. I have never been spoken to by anyone as I have been by her in these past days.

The other great surprise, impossible to predict, was your work on the garden. There was nothing false about my praise. What you achieved is extraordinary. What it means, I still don't know. As I told you once, I am not superstitious, but I want to be, I want to believe that you have lifted the curse on this place, on our family— the curse of Federico Docci, murderer, the same curse that drove my son to kill his brother. To believe this is to spare Maurizio some of the blame, and myself some of the pain.

Then there is you, Adam. I did not think for a moment that I would come to care about the boy Crispin sent me. But I did, more than you can ever know. Twice I was close to telling you all. On another occasion Maria threatened to do the same. I persuaded her not to. If she showed you no affection while you were here (and I know she did not) it is only because she hated herself for the part she agreed to play. She did not wish to become attached to you.