He had punished the evidence, but everything still pointed to a clear link between the garden and Dante's Inferno. Just like Dante, Federico Docci had constructed his own multilayered Hell, and by placing Flora on the second tier from the top he was sending out a message about his young wife, he was saying that she was an adulterous whore.
It was no longer a question of whether or not Federico Docci had made this damning declaration, but why? Why bother laying out a garden to her memory at all if that's the way he felt about her? It didn't make sense, not unless there was more to the story, more that Federico had buried away in the rest of the cycle.
This called for a close examination of Dante's poem; it demanded a thorough search for any further associations with the garden; it meant ploughing on regardless. Which is precisely what he did—right through the main course of spit-roasted Val d'Arno chicken, a warm and windless night descending on the terrace.
Dante and Virgil had barely breached the Gates of Hell when Signora Fanelli arrived at his table with a complimentary brandy.
'You work too hard.'
'Feeling better?' he asked.
She gave a coy and contrite smile. 'I'm sorry. It's been a bad night. I'll tell you later.'
She never got a chance to. Some late diners and the usual diehards at the bar meant she was still working flat out when he finally headed upstairs to bed.
He was awoken by a swath of light cutting through the darkness. There was a figure silhouetted in the doorway of his room.
It was Signora Fanelli.
He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, his mind struggling to digest this new development. So he hadn't been wrong, after all.
'Adam,' she whispered, creeping toward him. Her hand settled gently on his shoulder. 'Adam.'
He did a poor job of pretending to stir. 'Yes ... ?' he croaked weakly.
'It's 'Arry,' she said. 'On the phone.'
Harry went straight in without so much as a 'hello,' and from that moment on Adam was behind in the story, struggling to make up ground.
It had something to do with being in Milan and meeting a girl at the station and the girl was Swiss and she was lost and it was late and she had an address of a hotel nearby and they went there and it was a cheap place with no porters and Harry had carried her bag upstairs for her while she checked in and when he came down he found that she had checked out. Permanently. With his bag. The one he'd innocently left in her company. The one with all his money in it.
It was not unlike a number of stories Adam had heard from Harry over the years.
'Harry, what time is it?'
'What, late for the fucking opera, are we? Christ, it's late, okay, and I'm stuck in this shitty hotel in Milan with a suitcase full of newspapers belonging to a Swiss girl.'
'I doubt she was Swiss.'
'You doubt she was Swiss!?'
'I doubt it.'
'Well, she didn't have pigtails and a bloody great milch cow on a leash, if that's what you mean!'
'Calm down, Harry.'
'Do you have your passport?'
'Of course,' sighed Harry indignantly.
'Any money?'
'Not enough to buy a ticket out of here or I wouldn't be calling.'
'Where are you phoning from? The hotel?'
'Yes.'
'Do they speak English?'
'They think they do.'
'Okay, listen. This is what I suggest. . . .'
As Adam talked, he watched Signora Fanelli going about her business, closing up for the night. She bolted the shutters to the terrace but left the doors open so that the cool night air could circulate. She was wiping down the counter when he finally replaced the receiver on the cradle.
He was suddenly aware of himself standing there barefoot in his pajama bottoms and the grubby T-shirt he'd pulled on hurriedly.
'Problems?' she asked.
