'Recently she has taken a lot. The doctor was here yesterday. Twice. He came back with more pills. Maria found them. She thinks they are even stronger than before.'
His gaze lingered meaningfully on Adam.
'I'm not sure I understand.'
'My mother is a proud woman. She has always pushed herself. Maybe she is pushing herself too much. Maybe even to impress you.'
'Me?'
'It's possible. Her new companion . . .'
His tone was tinged with mockery, and it rankled.
'What's the favor?' Adam asked, just shy of unfriendly.
'That you keep an eye on her. That you don't encourage her . . . to push herself too much.'
'Of course.'
'She is still weak.'
'I understand.'
They were able to put this moment of mild antagonism behind them for the remainder of the circuit. Adam even laughed when Maurizio described how his sister had once dressed the statue of Venus in one of their mother's old party gowns.
Returning to the foot of the amphitheater, Adam recovered his copy of
'A masterpiece,' observed Maurizio.
'Absolutely.'
'Where have you got to?'
'The ninth circle of Hell.'
Maurizio searched his memory. 'The ninth circle . . . ?'
'Caina. Those who've committed crimes against their own flesh and blood. Dante named it after Cain, who killed his brother, Abel.'
Later that night, lying in the big old bed, staring into the darkness, he tried to make sense of his reply to Maurizio's innocent inquiry.
The words had issued from his mouth, and in that respect they had been his. But even now he felt no ownership of them, no responsibility for them. He had not intended to speak them. They had tumbled from his lips unbidden. This might have been less troubling if there had been more truth to them.
He had, in fact, progressed well beyond the ninth circle of Hell—with its icy lake and its host of sinners frozen up to their necks—and on into Purgatory.
The most worrying thing, though, was the change his words had wrought in Maurizio. The mention of Cain and Abel had, for the briefest of moments, cast his features in stone and turned his eyes cold and crystal- hard.
HE WOKE LATE AFTER A FITFUL NIGHT'S SLEEP. THE NEW day brought a new clarity with it. He had allowed his mind to run away with him; he had imagined things that weren't there—or, at the very least, misinterpreted those that were. This realization gave him comfort, and he forced himself to think only of things that wouldn't jeopardize that.
His resolve faltered somewhat when he headed downstairs to the study. He couldn't be sure, but he had the distinct impression that someone had been through his papers on the desk. There was something not quite right about the topography of the various piles. Some sat too close together, others were too neatly ordered. The first thing he did was delve through them and pull out all of his scribblings relating to Emilio's death. These he burned in the grate.
He made his way to the cavernous, brick-vaulted kitchen in the south wing, Maria's spotless domain. She was nowhere to be found, although the air was thick with the caustic odor of bleach liberally and recently applied. It was Sunday; maybe she was at church.
The room gave little away about its tenant aside from a whisper of brisk and efficient orderliness. The surfaces were clear, the fresh fruit and vegetables neatly piled in their terra-cotta bowls, the copper pans back on the long shelf, arranged from left to right in ascending order of size. There was certainly no visible record of the small feast Maria had prepared for him and Signora Docci the evening before.
The dinner had been a subdued affair at first. Visibly depleted by her foray into Florence, Signora Docci had nevertheless reported the trip in some detail, describing a visit she had paid to an old friend—'Her husband is a homosexual, but after all these years she still cannot see it.' She went on to list the numerous purchases she had made, everything from a fennel-flavored salami to an antique ebony walking stick, which she had handed to him across the candlelight of their table on the back terrace.
It had a whalebone pommel in the form of a human skull. Adam stared at the pale, carved death's- head.
'It's appropriate,' said Signora Docci. 'I shall be clutching it until the end. I don't mind being reminded of that fact.'
Fearful that he was being drawn out of his conversational depth, Adam headed for shore. He asked her about the skulls in the study, the ones high up in the cabinet behind the desk—orangutan skulls, if he had understood Maria correctly.
