The Savage Garden

    Maria ...

    Yes, Signora?

    It's a good idea.

    ADAM WAS AWOKEN BY THE LIGHT, THE ONE THAT LIVED on his bedside table, the one that was now hovering directly over his head.

    He twisted away. 'Jesus . . .' he mumbled into the pillow. 'Yes, it is I, my son.' 'Fuck off, Harry.'

    Harry flopped onto the bed. 'I'm in love,' he announced. 'What's his name?'

    'Don't mock. She's Finnish.' He lit a cigarette.

    'Finnish?'

    'Swedish-Finnish.'

    'Swedish-Finnish?'

    'Apparently there are lots of them in Finland: Swedish Finns.'

    'Oh, for God's sake, Harry.'

    'What?'

    'Was she related to the Swiss girl in Milan by any chance?' 'She wasn't after my money.'

    'My money.'

    'Although I did buy her dinner.'

    'Oh, that's what's on my jacket.'

    'She was very grateful,' said Harry, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the air.

    Adam checked his watch—almost two in the morning—and resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be going back to sleep any time soon.

    'And what does she do, this Swedish Finn?'

    'Pretty much anything you ask her to.'

    For much of the following day the back of the villa was crawling with men. Electricians laid a giant spider's web of cables as discreetly as possible; an impressive canopy was erected on the lower terrace near the stand of umbrella pines; smaller tents sprang up elsewhere. Maurizio and his wife, Chiara, had driven up from Florence. They spent much of their time in the company of Signora Docci, deep in discussion with caterers, florists and other official-looking types.

    The sound of raised voices would carry into the study from time to time, whenever Signora Docci and Maurizio crossed swords over some detail, which was often, with Chiara doing her best to mediate. At a certain point, Chiara had had enough. Adam knew this because she said as much when she appeared in the study and monopolized an hour of his time. Whatever suspicions he might have harbored about her husband, he liked Chiara. She was warm, frank and irreverent.

    'Every year they argue,' she said, lighting her first of many cigarettes. 'Why, I don't know. Everyone will come, everyone will get drunk, and then everyone will go home. Men will meet the lovers of their wives and not know it; women will meet the lovers of their husbands and know it immediately. And lots of people will find new lovers.'

    'Sounds like a romantic affair.'

    'You are young, not a man still.'

    'Not yet a man,' said Adam, correcting her English. 'Or not a man yet.'

    'Exactly. Not a man yet. You believe yet.'

    'You still believe.'

    She gave a dismissive sweep of her arm. 'Ma, questa lingua di barbari mi fa cagare.' Which translated as 'This barbarian tongue makes me shit.'

    'What do I believe?' asked Adam, carrying a smile.

    'In life. Love.'

    'How do you know?'

    'I see you,' she replied, pointing her cigarette at him.

    'What do you see?'

    'I see a boy like my son, but more intelligent. I see the way you look at Antonella.' Adam rolled his eyes in what he hoped was a convincing display of amused forbearance. 'Yes, I do. And I see that you are'—she couldn't find the English word—'un osservatore.'

    'An observer.'

    'Yes. You watch. And you think. You are always watching. But you are .. . passivo.'

    'Passive.'

    'Yes, passive.'