'I'll remember that,' she said.
There was a levity in this last remark, which gave him the courage to ask, 'Maria, why is it locked?'
'It was the Signore's wish. The Signora chooses to respect it.'
'Don't you think it's a bit'—he searched for the word— 'macabre?'
'Just a bit? It sits over this house like a curse. Not for much longer, though. Signor Maurizio has plans.'
'Plans?'
'I don't know the details. The usual?' 'Excuse me?'
'Ham and cheese?'
'Yes, thank you.'
He took the sandwich with him to the memorial garden. He ate it on the stone bench at the base of the amphitheater, looking up at Flora on her plinth. She seemed to be taunting him. So did the inscription carved into the bench—'The Soul in Repose Grows Wiser'—a quotation from Aristotle, he now knew.
He was anything but 'in repose,' his thoughts turning once again to his conversation with Fausto the evening before. It had robbed him of sleep; it had hovered over him like a cloud all day.
If Fausto was to be believed, then Gaetano the gardener had changed his account of what happened the night of Emilio's murder. Why would he do that? More important, how could he get away with it? The truth was he couldn't, not without the collusion of Maurizio. Their stories had to tally. This suggested some kind of compact between the two men, arrived at subsequent to Emilio's death. From here it was a short step to the unthinkable— too short not to take, even if you didn't want to.
No, it was an absurd notion. He was drawing wild conclusions based on a couple of exchanges with an unkempt Italian communist he'd met in a bar.
He reached for his cigarettes and lit one. As he did so, he caught sight of Maurizio strolling down the path toward him.
Adam got to his feet as nonchalantly as he could. 'Hi.'
'Hello.'
Maurizio looked up at the statue of Flora, then down, past the grotto to the Temple of Echo nestling among the trees at the bottom of the pasture.
'I haven't been here for a long time.'
'You don't like it?'
Maurizio appeared intrigued by the question. 'I haven't thought about it. But no, I don't think I do. I find it a bit. . .
'Somber.'
'Yes.'
'Death is, I suppose.'
'I suppose,' parroted Maurizio. 'We came here a lot when we were children. This was our world.' He glanced down at the trough sunk into the ground at the foot of the amphitheater. 'The water was cold, even in the summer. Very cold.' He looked up, smiling. 'One minute and eighteen seconds—Emilio's record, for holding his breath. I was never close. Not even a minute.'
The idea of Emilio prostrate in the narrow trough gave rise to another image, dark and unsettling: of Emilio stretched out in his coffin beneath the flagstone floor of the chapel. Adam shook off the fleeting thought.
'And your sister?' he asked, unable to recall the name of Antonella's mother.
'Caterina? Oh, she held the watch.'
'What is she like?'
Maurizio gave a thin smile. 'Difficult. You will meet her at the party.'
'She's coming?'
'It is the only time she comes—for the party.' He paused. 'You will still be here, I hope.'
'Yes. I mean, if that's okay.'
'Of course it is. You must be there . . . after everything you've done for my mother.'
It was a weighted compliment, and for a moment it seemed Maurizio was about to steer the conversation this way. He didn't, though; he asked if Adam would accompany him on a quick tour of the garden.
They had just passed through the glade of Hyacinth when Maurizio said, 'Can I ask you to do something for me? A favor.'
'Of course.'
'It's about my mother. You have had a very good effect on her.'
'I doubt that.'
'It's true. She says so herself. Anyway, it shows. We can all see it.' He paused. 'But something worries me, something Maria has told me. She takes pills for the pain. Not Maria, my mother, I mean . . . although I'm sure there are times when Maria could use them too.'
Adam smiled politely at the joke.
