The Savage Garden

    Suddenly, the Jane Austen novel didn't seem such a bad prospect. Better that than Harry's impression of Mr. Mannucci who used to sell them ice creams from the back of his van when they still lived in Kennington.

    Maria produced a rare smile, surprisingly coy.

    'Grazie,' she said, clearing away the empty plates.

    'Harry was just telling me a joke,' said Signora Docci.

    She looked invigorated, and maybe a little drunk. Or maybe it's the painkillers, thought Adam.

    'You were in the English Channel,' she went on, 'in the seventeenth century.'

    'Right, that's right, so anyway . . . the captain of the naval frigate raises the telescope to his eye and he sees five pirate ships on the horizon, bearing down on them. 'Bring me my red shirt,' he says to his lieutenant. 'Your red shirt, sir?' 'Just do it, man.'

    'Anyway, they engage the pirate ships and a fierce battle ensues. The captain's in the thick of it, fighting hand-to-hand, running pirates through all over the place. And against terrible odds they capture all five of the pirate ships. When it's over and everyone's celebrating, the lieutenant asks the captain why he asked for his red shirt. The captain says it was so that if he was wounded the men wouldn't see the blood and wouldn't lose heart. Everyone cheers— 'What a hero our captain is.' '

    Harry took a short draw on his cigarette, then crushed it in the ashtray.

    'So . . .' he went on, a sparkle in his eye, 'a few days later they're still patroling in the Channel when another shout comes down from the crow's-nest. The captain raises the telescope to his eye and this time he sees twenty pirate ships on the horizon, bearing down on them fast. The captain lowers his glass and turns to his lieutenant. 'Lieutenant,' he says. 'Yes, Captain?' 'Bring me my brown trousers.''

    In Harry's defense, he never laughed at his own jokes. But then again, not many other people did, either. This one was different, though, this one wasn't half-bad. Even Adam found himself chuckling, partly from relief that the punch line hadn't been cruder.

    Harry turned to Adam. 'That one got them,' he said.

    Signora Docci and Antonella were still laughing when Maria appeared with the cheese platter.

    The rest of dinner was an ordeal. When Adam looked at Signora Docci, he saw Professor Leonard; when he looked at Antonella, he saw himself kissing her in the garden; and when he looked at Harry, he found himself wondering if one of them had been adopted.

    Harry dominated, he seized the steering wheel and told you to sit back and enjoy the ride, because that's what you were going on, whether you liked it or not. Strangely, neither Signora Docci nor Antonella appeared to mind.

    Harry announced that he'd come to Italy to visit the Venice Biennale, the international art festival. This was news to Adam, and not unwelcome news—it meant Harry had somewhere else to go to. British artists were a world force to be reckoned with right now, Harry insisted, especially in the field of sculpture, his field. Lynn Chadwick had snatched the sculpture prize from under Giacometti's nose at the last Biennale, and there were many British contemporaries right up there with him, worthy heirs to Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth: Meadows, Frink, Thornton, Hoskin—mere names until he brought them to life with his vivid descriptions of their work.

    These sculptors constituted a new movement, he claimed. Not for them the bald abstraction of their predecessors. Their creations were rooted in a postwar world of broken buildings and broken people. Their language was one of terror and trepidation. They tore into the human form, flaying it, tearing it limb from limb, discarding what they didn't want. And when they were done, they found themselves presenting to the world an army of creatures—part man, part beast, and sometimes part machine. As one of Harry's teachers at Corsham had said to him: 'When you've seen the inside of a Sherman tank after a direct hit, it all becomes the same thing.'

    It was a Europe-wide movement—a new geometry of fear— and as long as there were wars or even the prospect of them, it would always have meaning.

    Adam had sat through the speech many times before, but it was somehow more persuasive this time, more heartfelt. Antonella and Signora Docci certainly seemed convinced by it, firing off questions that Harry eagerly answered. And as Adam sat and watched, he felt a rare twinge of pride in his brother. It was tempered slightly by jealousy: that Harry could care so passionately about the path he'd chosen for himself.

    When Signora Docci finally retired upstairs, Antonella took it as her cue to head home. She couldn't be persuaded to stay; she had a week of hard work ahead of her. This wasn't what Adam wanted

    to hear, but he had to make do with a surreptitious squeeze of his arm when she kissed him good night— recognition of what had passed between them in the garden.

    Thrown back on each other's company, Harry nodded over his shoulder at the villa looming above them.

    'Must be a shocker to heat in winter.'

    'Must be.'

    'What happened to her face?'

    'Car accident.'

    'Are you screwing her?'

    'No.'

    'Mmmmm.'

    'I'm not screwing her, Harry.'

    Harry studied him with a sporting eye. 'I believe you.'

    'That's a huge relief to me.'