The Savage Garden

as an intellectual scuffle. Unfortunately, red wine was one of them, and it was flowing freely throughout the main course—a potentially explosive combination.

    Adam judged his moment carefully. At the first signs of beady- eyed belligerence, he dragged Harry away on the pretext of showing him the memorial garden.

    No one seemed to mind when Harry asked if he could take his glass with him.

    Adam experienced none of the usual anticipatory thrill as they made their way down the path into the valley. He had felt defeated by the garden even before the matter of Emilio's death had laid siege to his thoughts. He gave Harry only the barest background, mentioning little more than the fact that Federico Docci had cast his wife as Flora, goddess of flowers.

    Harry stopped as they pushed through the gap in the yew hedge, the gloomy tunnel of trees stretching out before them. 'Jolly spot,' he said.

    He didn't speak again until they reached the open ground at the foot of the amphitheater. He looked up at the statue of Flora, the triumphal arch looming on the crest above her, then he turned, taking in the rest of the valley, the trees pressing in on the pasture.

    'What are you thinking?' asked Adam.

    'It's beautiful. But eerie.'

    'What else?'

    'Is this a test?'

    'No.'

    It wasn't a test, but he did want to see the place through Harry's eyes—afresh, for the first time. Maybe it would throw up something.

    'I need help,' said Adam.

    'From me?'

    'I'm that desperate.'

    Harry read off the inscription on the triumphal arch, pronouncing it incorrectly.

    'Fiore,' said Adam. 'It's Italian for 'flower.' '

    'As in Flora.'

    'Exactly.'

    'And that's her—the statue?'

    'That's the goddess.'

    'Is it a likeness?'

    'There's no way of knowing, there are no portraits of Flora. I think it might be, though.' It was a feeling that had crept up on him in the past few days. Her face didn't fit the template of the time. The features didn't quite accord with the bland, polished refinement of the late sixteenth century. The mouth was too strong, the nose too pronounced, the chin too square. She was too real.

    They climbed the slope beside the amphitheater, stepping onto the second level. Harry handed Adam his wineglass and lit a cigarette for both of them. He then proceeded to examine the statue from every angle.

    'Well, it's not my kind of thing,' he said eventually.

    'I guessed as much.'

    'But it does have a certain quality.'

    'You think?'

    'Uh-huh.' 'What?'

    'Well, she's hot.'

    'Hot?'

    'Horny. Look at her.'

    Harry slid his hand up the statue's leg, just as Antonella had done at their first meeting. This time was different, though; Harry's hand kept going, working its way right up into Flora's groin.

    'Yep, she's wet.'

    'Oh for God's sake, Harry.'

    'Well, look at her, see how she's twisted that way then back—all coy but not really.'

    'It's a classic pose.'

    'Oh, a classic pose,' mocked Harry. 'All I'm saying is I wouldn't mind being on the receiving end of that look.'

    Adam glanced up at Flora's face, the slightly pursed lips, her wide-set almond eyes gazing off into the distance. . . .

    But where exactly?

    Adam's head snapped round, then back to Flora. She was looking down the slope and across the vale toward