The Savage Garden

    He hesitated for a moment, shook off a mild foreboding, then stepped into the yawning darkness.

    Did you see him before he left?

    Briefly. I told him you were resting.

    I wanted to see him.

    Wake me up next time.

    Of course, Signora.

    Did he say anything?

    About what?

    The garden, of course.

    No.

    Nothing? He was very silent.

    Silent?

    Distracted.

    He's handsome, don't you think? Tall and dark and slightly dangerous.

    He's too pallid.

    It's not his fault, Maria, he's English.

    And he's too thin.

    A bit, I agree.

    He needs fattening up.

    That will come with time. He hasn't grown into his body yet.

    I think he's strange.

    Really?

    When he left, I saw him walking back and forth between the cypresses at the top of the driveway. Big long steps.

    Interesting.

    Worrying. It must be the heat.

    No, it means he's worked it out. Signora?

    The cypresses taper toward the top of the driveway.

    Taper?

    The two rows narrow as you approach the villa—to increase the sense of perspective.

    I didn't know.

    That's because I don't tell anyone.

    Why not?

    To see if they notice. Only two people have ever noticed. Three now.

    And the other two?

    Both dead.

    Let's hope for the Englishman's sake there's no connection.

    You know, Maria, you really can be quite amusing when you want to be.

    ADAM WAS AWAKENED BY A DULL BUT PERSISTENT PRESSURE in his right buttock. His fingers searched out the offending object but couldn't make sense of it. He opened his eyes and peered at an unopened bottle of mineral water. Overhead, the blades of the ceiling fan struggled to generate a downdraft. He was flat on his back on the bed, fully clothed still, and the wall lights were ablaze, unbearably bright.

    He swung his legs off the bed and made unsteadily for the switch beside the door. The beat in his temples informed him that he'd drunk too much the night before. And then he remembered why.

    He searched the tangle of memories for irredeemable behavior.

    Nothing. No. He was in the clear.

    He pushed open the shutters, allowing the soft dawn light to wash into the room.

    Unscrewing the cap of the mineral water bottle, he downed half the tepid contents without drawing breath. He hadn't registered it before, but there was a tinted print on the wall above the bed—a garish depiction of Christ in some rocky landscape, two fingers raised in benediction. Presumably the artist had gone for a beatific expression, but the Son of God was glancing down with what appeared to be the weary look of someone who has seen it all before—as if nothing that unfolded on the mattress below could ever surprise him. He might even have been a judge scoring a lackluster performance: two-out-of-five for effort.