The Savage Garden

    'I don't mind that you've insulted me, but you have insulted Benedetto. You knew it was his wish.'

    'Yes.'

    After a long moment she brought her hands together. 'Good. Well, let's not allow this to spoil your last week here.'

    'I'm leaving on Sunday with Harry.'

    'Oh.' She seemed surprised, even disappointed.

    'I've finished my work on the garden.'

    'I thought there were still questions.'

    There were, not least of all: Did the garden hold a clue to the identity of Flora's lover? The library had yielded no more information on Tullia d'Aragona following her sudden disappearance from view the year of Flora's death. She was definitely emerging as a viable contender. The hunchback poet, Girolamo Amelonghi, seemed a less likely candidate, and many of the other names on the list were excluded by dint of the fact that they'd outlived Flora by many years. There were still a few individuals he needed to check up on, but that was something that required a far more extensive library than Villa Docci had to offer.

    'Nothing we'll ever know the answers to for sure.'

    'No, probably not,' Signora Docci conceded.

    The first thing Adam did was go in search of Harry. He found him in the courtyard, where two truckloads of water were replenishing the villa's depleted well. Antonella was also there—she had just arrived—which meant he only had to have the conversation once.

    'A bloody bird's nest?' said Harry.

    'Merda,' said Antonella.

    'She didn't seem too annoyed.'

    Antonella wasn't convinced. 'We'll see.'

    'I'm sorry, it was completely my fault.'

    'I won't dispute that,' said Harry.

    They all played their part in the transformation of the parterre into an alfresco dining area. Circular tables spread with white linen mushroomed around the fringes, and were soon adorned with bone china, silver cutlery and crystal. The party unfolded in the same fashion every year: drinks on the villa terrace, dinner on the parterre, then dancing on the lower terrace. A gradual descent into debauchery, Harry remarked. Apparently, he wasn't too far wrong. The event had acquired something of a reputation over the years.

    The big test for Adam came when he found himself thrown together with Maurizio, deciding on the placement of the flares around the terraces. They spent a good half hour in one another's company, and he was relieved to find that his resolve didn't falter once during that time. It wasn't even that he had to work at it. The matter of Maurizio's guilt or innocence had ceased to be a pressing concern, for the simple reason that all further speculation was ultimately futile. Besides, there was an innocent explanation for everything, even if you had to strain the laws of probabilities a little.

    They chatted easily as they went about their business with the flares. There was even an intimacy in the way they ribbed each other. He suspected that his own shift in thinking wasn't solely responsible for this new familiarity. Some of the tension had also gone out of Maurizio since his mother's announcement that she would soon be vacating the villa, making way for her son.

    The library and the study were designated as holding areas for the cohorts of waiters, waitresses and bar staff descending on the villa. Adam was asked to clear out all his books and papers. When he carried them upstairs to his room, he found Maria setting out a tuxedo on his bed, along with a dress shirt, bow tie, studs and cuff links. There was even a brand-new pair of patent-leather shoes. These he could keep, Maria explained; they were a gift from Signora Docci. A quick glance into Harry's room revealed the same kit laid out on his bed.

    Signora Docci brushed aside their thanks, then retired to her room for a rest before the festivities kicked off. Antonella announced that she was heading home. Her brother, Edoardo, and Grazia were staying with her that night, and she still had beds to make, things to arrange. Adam walked her to her car, which she had parked in the farmyard, well out of the way. They took the track that led down the slope from the lower terrace. He had strolled through the farmyard on a couple of occasions, but he had never registered the high wooden doors set in the sandstone knoll on which Villa Docci perched.

    'That is where the wine and the olive oil are made,' said Antonella. When she proposed a quick tour, he didn't refuse. It was the first opportunity he'd had in a couple of days to be alone with her.

    First came the dramatic drop in temperature. Then came the smell. Over the centuries the soft stone walls had soaked up the odors like a sponge. The huge vats where the grapes were trod and left to ferment were stained from past harvests and scrubbed spotless in anticipation of the next one, already ripening out there on the slopes.

    They passed from the light heady scent of the tinaia to the thick musk of the frantoio. By the light of the bare overhead bulbs, Antonella explained how the olives were first crushed beneath a giant millstone turned by oxen, whose shod hooves had worn a circular furrow in the stone-paved floor over the centuries. The press resembled some medieval instrument of torture, with its giant turning screw and its beams clamped with iron. The whole operation was in need of modernization, Antonella explained, but Signora Docci was reluctant to throw out the ancient equipment as long as it still functioned.

    'You must come and see it when it's working.'

    'Is that an invitation?'

    'You don't need an invitation.'

    They made their way back through the underground labyrinth.