'No one knows exactly where she's buried, do they?' he said.
'When we buried Emilio we found some bones, but that means nothing.'
'Why was he buried here?'
'Emilio?'
'I mean, how many Doccis are?'
'Most of us are in the cemetery at San Casciano. There is a place for me there, next to Benedetto.' She paused. 'It was Benedetto's idea. He insisted. He wouldn't even discuss it. He wanted Emilio here.'
She took a few steps and stood over the remains of her dead son.
'Old men make the wars, but they send young men to fight the battles. It doesn't seem fair. They should go themselves.' She smiled wistfully at the thought. 'I wonder how many wars there would be if it worked that way.' Only now did she look up at him. 'All those boys. Parents should not have to see their children die before them. It's not easy to live with. Benedetto couldn't. The moment it happened he changed. I thought he was losing his mind. He would not even allow Emilio to be buried with the bullets that killed him. They were removed.' She turned toward the wall. 'They are there, behind the plaque, with Emilio's gun.'
'Really?'
'No one else knows that. Only me. And now you.'
He tried to push the thoughts away, but they kept coming at him, buffeting him. There were only two plausible explanations for Benedetto's strange behavior regarding the bullets and the gun. He already knew what one of them was: the poor man really had lost his marbles. The second explanation required testing, and that meant gaining access to the top floor, it meant getting his hands on the key in the bureau in Signora Docci's bedroom.
Annoyingly, she took to her room the moment they returned from the chapel, pleading exhaustion and requesting that Maria serve her lunch in the upstairs loggia. Adam shook off his frustration. If he had to wait awhile longer for an opportunity, so be it. There was another matter he had to deal with anyway—after he had phoned home.
The moment his mother's voice came on the line he seemed to lose all power of reason and speech. This wasn't entirely due to her irritating habit of answering the phone with the words—
'The Strickland residence.'
'Mum, it's me.'
'Adam, darling. How are you?'
How could she muster such heartfelt warmth and enthusiasm in her condition?
'Fine. Good. Yeah.'
He wanted to tell her that he'd been blind, insensitive, self- absorbed. He wanted to say that he knew what she must be going through. He wanted to reassure her that it would all be all right in the end, whatever happened, that even if Dad left her she would always have him and Harry and a life worth living.
As it was, they talked chiefly about the weather and his laundry arrangements in Italy. When she raised the subject of his work on the garden, he brushed the question aside, not wanting to diminish her story with an account of his own small triumph.
After ten minutes or so, it was patently clear to him that he was never going to raise the matter of his father's infidelity. How could he? It wasn't a language they had ever spoken. They both lacked the vocabulary.
'Mum, I have to go.'
'Of course you do. Make sure you give Signora Docci something for this phone call. You won't forget, will you?'
'Mum . . .'
'Yes, darling?'
'I love you, Mum.'
'Gracious me,' she chuckled, 'you must be having a terrible time.'
'I'll see you next week.'
'What day did you say again?'
'I didn't. I'll call and let you know. 'Bye, Mum.'
'I'll send your love to your father.'
'Yes, do that.'
'Goodbye, darling. And try to keep Harry out of trouble.'
He replaced the receiver on its cradle and made straight for the kitchen. He told Maria that he wouldn't be requiring lunch today; he was going for a bike ride.
There were two men zealously tucking into bowls of pasta on the terrace in front of the Pensione Amorini— stonemasons from the look of them, powdered white from top to toe. Signora Fanelli must have insisted they eat outside regardless of the heat.
She was inside, chatting to the only other customer, an overweight man sporting a dark suit and a loud
