The Savage Garden

    'Oh for goodness sake, Adam,' she snapped, 'I was joking.'

    The considered questions she now began firing at him suggested she'd been listening extremely attentively. She searched for an alternative interpretation of events, something that would remove the hurt of Antonella's deceit. When she failed to find anything, she consoled him—in the way that only a mother can.

    Adam's father was late home from work, but he returned bearing 'extremely good news.' His acquaintance at the Baltic Exchange had reiterated his offer of unpaid (but invaluable) work experience. Adam was welcome to start whenever he wanted.

    'I don't think I want to do it, Dad.'

    'You don't think you want to do it?' scowled his father.

    'That's wrong. I know I don't.'

    The inevitable argument ensued. At a certain point his father lost his temper. 'As long as you're living under my roof and at my expense, you'll do as you're told.'

    The sheer volume caught them both off guard.

    'How dare you!?' erupted Adam's mother. 'How dare you talk like that!? You have no rights here. Not anymore.'

    His father was struck utterly dumb, and Adam found himself transported to a small side-chapel in a Florentine church. Something in the shapeless anguish of his mother's mouth recalled Masaccio's Eve at the moment of her expulsion from the Garden of Eden.

    Silence continued to reign. Adam's father glanced at him and realized immediately that his secret was out. He had not anticipated this and he hung his head.

    'Tell him,' said his mother. 'Tell him what really happened in Italy. Tell him what they did to you.'

    For a man who set great store by logic and cold fact, it was natural that his father should show more interest in the mechanics of Maurizio's crime and its discovery than in the human cost to Adam. However, he did find it in himself to say, 'If that girl ever darkens this doorstep . . . well, I don't know what I'll do.'

    A week later, he found out.

    He asked her to wait on the doorstep while he went in search of Adam.

    It was a Saturday afternoon, and Adam was mowing the lawn while his mother weeded the borders. He was still in his tennis gear, having played a couple of sets with some friends that morning.

    His father appeared from the house, looking shaken. 'There's a young woman to see you. I think it's'—his fingers fluttered around his forehead—'from Italy.'

    'Antonella . . . ?'

    'Possibly. Yes. From what you said.'

    'Didn't you ask, Charles?' called his mother from behind a hydrangea.

    'No, I didn't bloody ask, okay? I was too shocked.'

    Antonella wasn't alone. Fausto hovered sheepishly at her shoulder.

    Wild joy fought with anger. His instinct was to slam the door in their faces. Politeness prevailed, assisted by a big dose of curiosity.

    'Come in,' he said coldly. 'You too,' he added to Fausto in Italian, using the formal Lei instead of tu to make a point.

    His parents had appeared behind him in the entrance hall, defiant, protective, and looking completely ridiculous in their tatty gardening clothes.

    'It's okay,' he said to them, 'we'll go into the garden.'

    As they stepped onto the back terrace, Antonella pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Adam. It was thick and heavy.

    'What is it?'

    'Read it. It's okay.'

    She touched him reassuringly on the arm.

    He had spent many hours shaping her into a demon, a valuable life lesson at best, and it shocked him just how easily one feather- light touch could dismantle all his good work, melting the stony desolation of the past week.

    'I don't know . . . I'm not sure I can. . . . What is it?' He could feel tears starting to prick his eyes.

    'It's okay,' she said.

    'Go on,' said Fausto gently.

    Adam took his cigarettes from the terrace table and made for the bench at the end of the garden.

VILLA DOCCI

    My dear Adam,