The Savage Garden

    Antonella produced a bottle of cheap brandy, half of which they drank on the mound beside her barn, sprawled on cushions set around a couple of guttering candles.

    When they finally left, Harry made the most of his goodbye hug with Antonella to get to know her body a bit better.

    Picking their way back down through the olive grove, Harry said to Adam, 'You can stay if you want.'

    'It's okay.'

    'Which means you did the dirty this afternoon.'

    Adam said nothing. Harry barged against him playfully.

    'You're not getting anything out of me.'

    'Give up now, you know I will.'

    'Harry, what are you doing?'

    'Chinese burn.'

    'Well, it's not working.'

    'Shit,' said Harry, releasing Adam's wrist.

    SIGNORA DOCCI SENT THEM OFF IN STYLE IN HER NAVY blue Lancia. They were driven by Foscolo, a man of few words. One of them was 'Arrivederci,' which he mumbled sullenly when he dropped them off at Santa Maria Novella station in Florence.

    Adam bought a ticket to Arezzo to keep up appearances. He could exchange it later, once Harry was gone. There was an hour to kill before the train to Venice. They headed for the station bar, where Harry proposed they drink their way through the colors of the rainbow—a trick he'd picked up from the Swedish Finn.

    'She lives just round the corner,' said Harry wistfully.

    'She's got a boyfriend.'

    'I doubt it, not anymore.'

    'You hardly know her. You're getting on that train.'

    'Okay. But the reds are on you.'

    Harry wasn't leaving empty-handed. The old tan leather suitcase, a gift from Signora Docci, was stuffed with many of Adam's clothes (which Maria, on her own initiative, had washed, dried and pressed in the space of one day). The only thing that Harry lacked was money. But when Adam handed him the greater part of his remaining cash, Harry produced a generous bundle from his own pocket, fanning it in the air.

    'A commission.'

    'A commission?'

    'From Signora Docci. She wants another sculpture. I guess she wasn't just being polite after all.'

    Adam leaned forward in his chair. 'Harry, listen, she's a sly old bird, she knows she's getting you cheap.'

    Harry tilted his head in a strange fashion. 'That's got to be about the nicest thing you've ever said to me.' He lit a cigarette. 'I didn't say before, didn't want to, and I can still pull out . . .' His voice trailed off.

    'What?'

    'There's a gallery in London, a good gallery, the Matthiessen Gallery . . . they want me to do a show.'

    'That's fantastic, Harry.'

    'It's set for April. Will you come?'

    Adam winced. 'April's bad, I'll be studying for my finals.'

    'Since when did you ever have to study for exams?'

    'Of course I'll come!'

    'I'm scared, Paddler. No—crapping myself.'

    'Of course you are. If it's a flop, you're ruined as a sculptor.'

    'Arsehole.'

    Judging from her expression, the middle-aged woman at the neighboring table was an English-speaker.

    They only got as far as 'green' before Harry had to head for his train. He secured a seat for himself in a compartment, then joined Adam on the platform for a farewell smoke.

    'Weird times were had,' said Harry.

    'They were.'

    'And much fun.'

    'Yeah.'

    'We needed that, you and me.'

    'You're right, we did.'

    'She's a great girl, Paddler.'