The Savage Garden

    He was surprised to hear that the estate was run on a sharecrop- ping basis— mezzadria—an arrangement whereby a family received a house and some land rent-free from the Doccis in exchange for half of the produce generated.

    'It sounds almost feudal.'

    'That's because it is—from the Middle Ages—but things are changing now. There are politicians in Rome who say mezzadria must go. If it does, everything here will change. My grandmother worries a lot. I tell her not to. Maurizio is rich, he will make things work.'

    'What does he do?'

    'He buys and sells things.'

    'What kind of things?'

    'The kind that make a profit. He also has two factories in Prato, for clothes. He has made a lot of money since the war.'

    Adam hesitated. 'What was Emilio like?'

    'Emilio? Why do you ask?'

    'Just curious. He was mentioned at lunch.'

    She helped herself to another of his cigarettes. 'Well, he was a Fascist, it's true. Many people were, my grandparents too, at the beginning. They stopped believing.' She stared off into the distance. 'I was young, but I remember him. He was always reading books. And he made me laugh. He made us all laugh.' She smiled wistfully. 'The funny Fascist.'

    'How did they get on, Emilio and Maurizio?'

    Her glance said it all: What's it to you?

    He was pushing too hard; he needed to tread carefully.

    'I mean, their politics were different. Maurizio was a partisan, no?'

    Was it motive enough for murder?

    'Who told you that?'

    'A chap called Fausto, from San Casciano.'

    She didn't know him, although the name rang a vague bell.

    'It's true, Maurizio was a partisan, and a socialist. He claims he still is a socialist.' There was a note of good-natured cynicism in her voice. 'My grandmother says he fought the Germans because he was always fighting, even when he was a boy. He hates it when she says that.'

    But he didn't fight them the night they killed Emilio, did he?

    Adam kept this observation to himself, as he did the other questions hammering away in his head. Why had her grandfather sealed off the top floor? As some kind of shrine? Shrines were conceived to be visited; they were places you went to in order to pay your respects. Why close a door and lock it? Why oblige your family to live with the painful memory, rather than allowing it to dissipate over the years? What had Maria said about that deserted floor frozen in time? 'It sits over the house like a curse.'

    Dusk was falling when he finally left. Antonella said she'd accompany him back to the villa; she'd hardly seen her grandmother all weekend.

    They took a path that wound through the olive grove beneath the farmhouse. It was her path, she said. It hadn't existed a year ago; hers were the only feet to have beaten it into existence. The air grew cooler as they worked their way down through the serried ranks of trees. Fireflies bobbed in the gathering gloom, and the smell of wild herbs came in faint waves: thyme, rosemary and mint. They barely spoke. When Antonella lost her footing on a steep bank, she gripped his arm to steady herself and his hand instinctively went to the gentle curve at the base of her back.

    'Thank you,' she said softly as they released each other.

    His feeling of contentment faded a touch when they entered the memorial garden. He told her about the unnatural wind that had dropped to earth earlier in the day, rushing through the garden.

    'Yes, it happens sometimes in summer. I don't know why.' They walked on a little way. 'The breath of the gods,' she said absently. 'That's what the Greeks called the wind.'

    They stopped at the foot of the amphitheater and looked up at Flora, the fireflies fussing around her like solicitous consorts.

    He felt a sudden urge to share her secret, their secret. He fought the impulse, but only momentarily.

    He told Antonella everything he knew. He told her about the dark wood and the triumphal arch and its anagrammatic inscription of inferno. He told her about Dante's nine circles of Hell and the second circle of the adulterers. He told it as it was, without embellishment. And when he was finished he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

    Antonella didn't speak at first. When she did, it was in Italian. 'Incredibile.'

    'Maybe I'm wrong.'

    'No,' she said with quiet conviction.

    'I can't figure out the rest of the cycle. It doesn't make sense.'

    'You will. It will.'