The Savage Garden

    She took up her new cane, crossed to one of the benches and lowered herself onto it. 'On one condition— I'm allowed to ask you a personal question first.' 'Okay.'

    'Are you falling in love with Antonella?'

    'No,' he replied after a moment. 'I think I already have.'

    'Why?'

    'That's two questions.'

    'I'll allow you two.'

    'I don't know why. I hardly know her.'

    'No, you don't.'

    'It's inexplicable.'

    'Physical attraction—that's inexplicable.'

    'It's more than that.' Trying to pin it down in words was impossible. 'I can see myself being happy with her.'

    'And if I told you she had made a number of young men quite unhappy?'

    'I'd ask myself what your reasons were for saying it.' 'You don't believe me?'

    'I didn't say that. But maybe I'm young enough to make mistakes and still survive.'

    'Mistakes at any age can color a life forever. Just one mistake.' 'Emilio, for example?'

    There, it was done now, there was no turning back.

    'Emilio?' she said warily.

    'Was he your son?'

    'Of course he was my son.'

    'I mean . . . with Professor Leonard.'

    Signora Docci turned and stared off into the distance. When she looked back at him he saw that her eyes were moist with tears. Her voice, however, remained surprisingly level, devoid of emotion.

    'I would like you to leave.'

    'Leave?'

    'Today.'

    'You mean—?'

    'Yes. I want you to leave the villa.'

    Adam could hear the blood beating in his ears. It was about all he could hear.

    'I'm sorry if I've offended you.'

    She looked away. 'Just go.'

    He shaped the snowdrift of papers on the desk in the study into ordered piles. It took three trips to carry everything upstairs to his bedroom. He did so in a daze.

    He pulled his suitcases out from under the bed and began to pack. At a certain moment he had to stop. He went to the open window and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession, working through the consequences of his behavior.

    The Pensione Amorini was out of the question; too close to home. He'd take a room in Florence, pick up his photos, maybe stay a day or two. Shit. Harry. He'd completely forgotten about Harry. He'd have to wait at the bottom of the driveway for Harry to return from town. What would he tell him? The truth? He couldn't tell him the truth: that they were without a bed that night because he'd felt compelled by a statue of a classical goddess to ask probing and impertinent questions about their hostess's dead son.

    His only comfort was that, as explanations went, it wasn't so far removed from some he'd heard from Harry over the years. Harry would probably just shrug and ask him where the nearest bar was.

    Maybe he'd go to Venice with Harry. Why not? They'd never been traveling together.

    He was still groping for empty consolations when he heard a light knock at the door.

    'Yes?'

    It was Signora Docci.

    She crossed to the armchair near the fireplace and subsided weakly into it.

    'Emilio wasn't a mistake,' she said. 'I knew exactly what I was doing. Even if Crispin didn't.' She paused. 'We were in love. I can still feel the force of it. It was almost violent. What I did . . . what I allowed to happen . . . it made sense at the time, complete sense, in the way that things do to the young. And I was very young—your age. I don't expect you to understand, but Emilio was a gift to myself because I couldn't be with Crispin.'

    'Why not?'

    'Money of course. He didn't have any, and Benedetto's family did. A lot. The estate was in trouble at the time. My father felt bad, I know—he was very fond of Crispin—but he would not allow us to be together.' She