She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight, and Adam caught a brief glimpse of her as a young girl bent forward over a campfire, hanging on every word of the stories as they'd been told to her.
'Nothing in the forest is as strong, that's what the Dayaks say. Maybe they are right, I don't know. But I have seen an orang snap off a branch as thick as your arm like that—'
She twisted her clenched fist in the air. Bony fingers unfolded from the fist, reaching for the bottle of red wine. Adam beat her to it. He was filling her glass when Maria appeared silently from the gloom beyond the candlelight.
She said something to Signora Docci. The words came too fast for Adam to understand, but it sounded like a reprimand. She shot him a withering look as she retired with their plates.
'She's right,' said Signora Docci. 'It is late and I have had a long day.'
Adam rose to help her from her chair.
'Thank you,' she said, leaning on her new cane with its death's- head pommel. 'It is strange that you asked about the skulls.'
'Why?'
'Because I went to see her today—Sabinetta. She is in the Zoological Museum in Florence.'
Adam offered to accompany her upstairs to her room. 'Stay,' she insisted, 'finish the wine. Maybe Maria will make you a coffee if you ask her nicely . . . although somehow I doubt it,' she added with a smile. 'Good night, Adam.'
'Good night.'
She took his hand and squeezed it. 'It's a pleasure to have you here.'
He watched her make her way uncertainly across the terrace. She stopped and turned before entering the drawing room.
'I said my father destroyed all his papers. He thought he had.
When I realized what he was going to do, I hid an album of photographs. If you're interested, it's in the cabinet under the shelves in the library, the ones near the study. The key is behind a copy of your Mr. Milton's
Which is exactly where Adam found it twelve hours later, after his solitary Sunday morning breakfast on the terrace.
There were several photograph albums in the cabinet, but it stood out for its superior age, its tooled leather binding scuffed and cracked. The photos inside also betrayed their age, moments in time trapped in washed-out sepia tones. Many were blurred, the faces shrouded in ghostly veils where the subjects had moved. This was almost always the case with Signora Docci's father—a sign perhaps of the impatience she had hinted at over dinner the night before. She, on the other hand—in her pinafore dress, bonnet and lace-up boots, already tall for her tender years—had obviously taken the photographer's instructions to heart. In every shot she stood as rigid as a marionette, her arms hanging limp at her sides. He recognized her immediately from the penetrating gaze of the wide-spaced eyes fixed directly on the camera lens.
The photographs were arranged chronologically, beginning with the boat trip over. In one, a rangy, fair- headed young man in a dark suit and a high collar was standing proudly on the deck beside a louvered cabinet raised on legs. This could only have been Walter F. Peploe, the Scottish meteorologist destined for a watery grave, and it occurred to Adam that there must be a whole other family out there somewhere who would cherish the photograph far more than the Doccis ever had.
It was hard to imagine Walter F. Peploe reciprocating the interest shown in him by 'Nanny' as she appeared in the photographs— short, solid, and with the suspicion of a mustache—even if Signora Docci had strongly hinted at some kind of tryst between the pair.
One of the few photos with a handwritten caption showed her father gathered with a group of other European gentlemen, all dressed in evening wear and standing beside a billiard table at somewhere called the Harmonie Club in Batavia. He was one of only two men whose hair wasn't close-shorn. His dense, drooping mustache concealed his mouth and lent his face a grave mien, although his eyes suggested he was smiling, unlike his companions.
From the moment they arrived in Borneo, he was only ever to be seen in a white suit, usually worn with a black necktie. He was a slight and vaguely comical figure, even when brandishing a rifle over some dead animal. Signora Docci's mother stood a good half- head taller, and her ever-present parasol only accentuated the height difference, making her tower over him. Standing together in front of a surprisingly modern-looking bungalow, they looked more like two parties to a property sale than husband and wife.
There was a run of what appeared to be pointless photos taken from the ground looking up into the treetops. Closer inspection revealed spindly figures hanging from branches high above. Brought to earth, the orangutans were impressive creatures, even in death—far more impressive than Signora Docci's father or any of the grinning, sharp- featured natives invariably gathered around. One giant specimen, shaggy haired and barrel-chested, had been lashed by its wrists to the rail of a veranda, crucified for the camera. The vast span of its arms exceeded the height of the tallest man present by a good two feet. Its dislocated jaw animated its face. The unfortunate creature seemed to be giving a lopsided laugh at its own predicament.
Unsettled by the image, Adam skimmed the remaining pages. He closed the album, thought about replacing it, then removed the others and laid them on the floor in front of him. He could permit himself a quick look. There was still no sign of Maria, and Signora Docci was obviously sleeping late after her trying day.
There were four albums in total, each covering a two- or three- year period between the 1890s and the early 1920s. All were a testament to the privileged existence enjoyed by the Doccis. There were race meetings and open-topped roadsters and summer holidays at exclusive beachside hotels. There were walks in the Alps, trips in Venetian gondolas, and camel rides at the pyramids.
Adam flipped through the albums twice. The second time, he arranged them chronologically and studied the photographs more carefully. He watched Signora Docci grow from a gawky teenager into an elegant young woman, a wife, and finally a mother. It was the first time he had seen any photos of Emilio, and they contradicted his private theory that firstborn sons were generally shorter than their younger brothers. Emilio was lean and long- limbed from birth. Facially, he drew more from his mother, inheriting her large eyes and her broad, high
