by Mark Mills
Her father must have recognized the deep irony of his predicament, but he refused to accept it. Only after they had all returned to Borneo, and after another spate of slaughter, was he forced to concede the inevitable: the findings of his fellow naturalists who had visited the Malay archipelago before him were flawed, and by following in their footsteps he had not only failed in his mission to challenge Darwinian thinking, he had actually lent weight to it.
There were indeed two types of orangutan, but one type inhabited Borneo, the other Sumatra. Geographically divided, the species had adapted itself according to the demands of two different environments. And there was no reason whatsoever to assume that this wasn't an ongoing situation.
His only consolation came from his wife. Signora Docci's long- suffering mother tried to make him see that he had made an important contribution to the sum of zoological knowledge. He might even have identified a new subspecies of primate. There was certainly a strong case to be made for this. Most in his position would have leapt at the chance of laying claim to a part of the Tree of Life, even if it was just one small bifurcation at the end of a branch.
Not her father.
On their return to Italy, he resigned his post at the university, destroyed all his papers relating to the expedition and turned his attention to archaeology, immersing himself in the lost culture of the Etruscans. He kept only two mementoes of his time in the East Indies, but strangely they were the most significant reminders of his failure—the orangutan skulls in the study cabinet, manifestly different: one Bornean, the other Sumatran.
Adam had barely spoken a word during Signora Docci's account of her childhood adventure, more than content to be carried along by her colorful tales and the soft, measured tones of her voice. When she, too, fell silent, his power of speech did not return.
Signora Docci gave an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I have bored you.
"No. You haven't. It's interesting."
"The reminiscences of an old lady? I doubt it."
"Really. It must have been a fascinating time, man struggling to come to terms with who he really was . . . is."
"Oh, I doubt we ever will." She took a sip of wine. "Men like my father went in search of Eden, but they found a far more savage garden."
Adam hesitated, uncertain about raising the subject. "The scar on Antonella's forehead . . ."
Signora Docci smiled. "I should have known you'd see it. The crest on the skull from Borneo . . ."
"Yes."
"Who knows? I'm not superstitious, but maybe it is punishment for what he did to those poor creatures. It was a massacre. And after they were dead, he desecrated their bodies." She glanced off into the night, then up at the pale sickle blade of a moon. "Or maybe it was my punishment—for failing to stop him."
"You were too young."
"Don't underestimate the power of a daughter over her father." She paused, pensive. "I knew some of them—quite well in fact, and I stood by and watched. There was one . . . near Marop ... a female, a mother. I called her Sabinetta. She used to break off branches and throw them at us every time we went near. When they finally shot her, she wedged herself in the fork of a durian tree and men had to go up to bring her down." She gave a small smile. "They didn't go, not at first, they thought she was pretending. They do, you know. And they're strong, very strong. There are lots of stories, stories with pythons, crocodiles . . ."
She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight, and Adam caught a brief glimpse of her as a young girl bent forward over a campfire, hanging on every word of the stories as they'd been told to her.
"Nothing in the forest is as strong, that's what the Dayaks say. Maybe they are right, I don't know. But I have seen an orang snap off a branch as thick as your arm like that—"
She twisted her clenched fist in the air. Bony fingers unfolded from the fist, reaching for the bottle of red wine. Adam beat her to it. He was filling her glass when Maria appeared silently from the gloom beyond the candlelight.
She said something to Signora Docci. The words came too fast for Adam to understand, but it sounded like a reprimand. She shot him a withering look as she retired with their plates.
"She's right," said Signora Docci. "It is late and I have had a long day."
Adam rose to help her from her chair.
"Thank you," she said, leaning on her new cane with its death's- head pommel. "It is strange that you asked about the skulls."
"Why?"
"Because I went to see her today—Sabinetta. She is in the Zoological Museum in Florence."
Adam offered to accompany her upstairs to her room. "Stay," she insisted, "finish the wine. Maybe Maria will make you a coffee if you ask her nicely . . . although somehow I doubt it," she added with a smile. "Good night, Adam."
"Good night."
She took his hand and squeezed it. "It's a pleasure to have you here."
He watched her make her way uncertainly across the terrace. She stopped and turned before entering the drawing room.
"I said my father destroyed all his papers. He thought he had.
When I realized what he was going to do, I hid an album of photographs. If you're interested, it's in the cabinet under the shelves in the library, the ones near the study. The key is behind a copy of your Mr. Milton's Paradise Lost."
Which is exactly where Adam found it twelve hours later, after his solitary Sunday morning breakfast on the terrace.
There were several photograph albums in the cabinet, but it stood out for its superior age, its tooled leather binding scuffed and cracked. The photos inside also betrayed their age, moments in time trapped in washed-out sepia tones. Many were blurred, the faces shrouded in ghostly veils where the subjects had moved. This was almost always the case with Signora Docci's father—a sign perhaps of the impatience she had hinted at over dinner the night before. She, on the other hand—in her pinafore dress, bonnet and lace-up boots, already tall for her tender years—had obviously taken the photographer's instructions to heart. In every shot she stood as rigid as a marionette, her arms hanging limp at her sides. He recognized her immediately from the penetrating gaze of the wide-spaced eyes fixed directly on the camera lens.
The photographs were arranged chronologically, beginning with the boat trip over. In one, a rangy, fair-headed young man in a dark suit and a high collar was standing proudly on the deck beside a louvered cabinet raised on legs. This could only have been Walter F. Peploe, the Scottish meteorologist destined for a watery grave, and it occurred to Adam that there must be a whole other family out there somewhere who would cherish the photograph far more than the Doccis ever had.
It was hard to imagine Walter F. Peploe reciprocating the interest shown in him by "Nanny" as she appeared in the photographs— short, solid, and with the suspicion of a mustache—even if Signora Docci had strongly hinted at some kind of tryst between the pair.
One of the few photos with a handwritten caption showed her father gathered with a group of other European gentlemen, all dressed in evening wear and standing beside a billiard table at somewhere called the Harmonie Club in Batavia. He was one of only two men whose hair wasn't close-shorn. His dense, drooping mustache concealed his mouth and lent his face a grave mien, although his eyes suggested he was smiling, unlike his companions.
From the moment they arrived in Borneo, he was only ever to be seen in a white suit, usually worn with a black necktie. He was a slight and vaguely comical figure, even when brandishing a rifle over some dead animal. Signora Docci's mother stood a good half- head taller, and her ever-present parasol only accentuated the height difference, making her tower over him. Standing together in front of a surprisingly modern-looking bungalow, they looked more like two parties to a property sale than husband and wife.
There was a run of what appeared to be pointless photos taken from the ground looking up into the treetops. Closer inspection revealed spindly figures hanging from branches high above. Brought to earth, the orangutans were impressive creatur
es, even in death—far more impressive than Signora Docci's father or any of the grinning, sharp-featured natives invariably gathered around. One giant specimen, shaggy haired and barrel-chested, had been lashed by its wrists to the rail of a veranda, crucified for the camera. The vast span of its arms exceeded the height of the tallest man present by a good two feet. Its dislocated jaw animated its face. The unfortunate creature seemed to be giving a lopsided laugh at its own predicament.
Unsettled by the image, Adam skimmed the remaining pages. He closed the album, thought about replacing it, then removed the others and laid them on the floor in front of him. He could permit himself a quick look. There was still no sign of Maria, and Signora Docci was obviously sleeping late after her trying day.
There were four albums in total, each covering a two- or three- year period between the 1890s and the early 1920s. All were a testament to the privileged existence enjoyed by the Doccis. There were race meetings and open-topped roadsters and summer holidays at exclusive beachside hotels. There were walks in the Alps, trips in Venetian gondolas, and camel rides at the pyramids.
Adam flipped through the albums twice. The second time, he arranged them chronologically and studied the photographs more carefully. He watched Signora Docci grow from a gawky teenager into an elegant young woman, a wife, and finally a mother. It was the first time he had seen any photos of Emilio, and they contradicted his private theory that firstborn sons were generally shorter than their younger brothers. Emilio was lean and long-limbed from birth. Facially, he drew more from his mother, inheriting her large eyes and her broad, high cheekbones. These features, combined with his long neck, gave him a faintly startled air, which reminded Adam of something—he couldn't say what exactly— some kind of animal or bird. Maurizio was closer to his father in build and looks: broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with neat, even features. Adam searched for signs of Antonella in her girl-mother, Caterina. There were few, apart from the straight, lustrous hair and traces of the same devilish grin.
The very last photo was a studio portrait of the whole family taken in 1921 in Madrid. The women were seated on a sagging divan, the first soft creases of age also evident in Signora Docci's face. Caterina was seated to her left, glowering in sullen rebellion, a function of her thirteen or fourteen years, or maybe thrown into a mood by her bobbed hair, which didn't flatter her. The men stood behind: Benedetto—the paterfamilias, his hands gripping the back of the divan in a commanding manner—flanked by his two sons. Maurizio's forehead was stippled with adolescent acne. Emilio's hairline had already receded farther than his father's.
Adam stared at the photograph for quite a time. Something about it bothered him. It was a vague and impalpable sensation. This was enough, though, to make him remove the photograph from its gilt corner mounts. He replaced the albums, locked the cabinet door and made for the study.
He was still poring over the image a short while later when Signora Docci showed up. She entered the study from the back terrace, the approaching tap of her new cane buying him enough time to slip the photo beneath the desk blotter and grab a book lying nearby.
"Good morning," she said.
"Morning."
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," he lied.
"It must have been the strong sedative."
Adam smiled. "I enjoyed your stories. Really."
She was wearing walking shoes, dusty from use, and there was a wine bottle in her free hand.
"You've been out?" he asked.
"A walk. A good walk. It's nice to see."
"What?"
"They can't quite believe it—me, on my feet again. Maybe they're pretending, but they seem to be happy."
"I'm sure they're not."
"Pretending or happy?"
He smiled.
She placed the bottle of wine on the desk. "For your lunch with Antonella. You haven't forgotten, I hope." "No."
"It's from the cellar—good wine, not our own, don't worry."
He shed the tie as he entered the garden through the yew hedge. The jacket followed when he reached the base of the amphitheater. He opened the notebook and pulled out the photograph of the Doccis, gazing up at Flora on her pedestal, calling on her to help him.
He felt foolish appealing to a lump of stone, but he had brought the photograph with him for a reason. Why deny it? There was something about the garden that made him view the world differently, even act differently. He could feel it now, some kind of energy within him—not anger, not defiance, but something close, something else. Whatever it was, it had been responsible for his blurting out the stuff about fratricide to Maurizio, he knew that, just as he knew that what he'd seen in Maurizio's eyes was the cold clutch of fear, of guilt.
Ten minutes later there were two cigarette stubs on the stone bench, and the photograph was still mocking him. He left abruptly, frustrated, making for the bottom of the garden, opting for the pathway that ran through the woods via the glade of Adonis.
A light breeze rustled the leaves high overhead, the first hint of wind in almost a week. The grateful shade fell away as he entered the clearing, the high noonday sun beating down on the circular patch of pasture. He made for the statue at its center.
Venus was frozen in the act of stooping toward her dead love, reaching for him with her left hand. Adonis lay sprawled on his back, limbs splayed, eyes closed, his mouth agape, as if some dreadful cry had died on his lips with his last breath. He was still clutching his bow, the weapon that had failed to protect him against the wild boar while he was out hunting. The file compiled by Signora Docci's father only made mention of a wild animal. Ovid himself had been more specific: Adonis was gored to death by a wild boar.
He was pleased he'd gone to the source. Maybe there was some kind of symbolic association with the Docci family. A boar figured prominently in their coat-of-arms.
A noise drew his gaze from the statue. The treetops ringing the glade were being swept by a hurrying little breeze. It rose quickly to become a wind, firm and steady. The treetops swayed like drunken lovers on a dance floor. Then they dipped their heads in unison before a sustained gust, and a few moments later the wind fell to earth, patting down the parched grass and tousling Adam's hair with its warm hand.
He felt a sudden sense of unease, strong enough to drive him from the glade. Regaining the pathway at the tree line, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone keeping Venus and Adonis company. But they were alone.
Antonella had given him directions. A track ran close to the bottom of the memorial garden, and if he followed it to the south, it would eventually climb through olive groves and past her farmhouse.
He found the track without difficulty, but something impelled him to double back to the Temple of Echo and take one last look up the garden. The pasture climbed gently toward the grotto with its bodyguard of cypresses. From here the ground rose sharply to the amphitheater—Flora pearl-white in her concave shell, the triumphal arch looming above her on the crest.
The wind had swelled and was now sweeping straight down the valley toward him, pouring in a constant flow, like invisible liquid. He stood stock-still, staring into it, letting it wash past him into the trees. His eyes started to water. He blinked a few times.
That's when it came to him.
Gregor Mendel.
A name from his school days. Biology classes. Mendelian genetics.
He pulled the photograph of the Doccis from the notebook. His eyes darted across it—from father to mother, then to each of the children in turn.
Emilio, Maurizio and Caterina all shared their parents' obsidian eyes; but even if they hadn't, even if one of them had been born with blue eyes, that would have been okay by Mendel. It would simply mean that both parents carried a recessive gene for blue eyes, which, if combined, would make for a blue-eyed child. They were more likely to have dark-eyed offspring, but it was possible. It was impossible, on the other hand, for two blue-eyed parents— each carrying a double dose of the recess
ive gene—to produce a dark-eyed child.
If Adam was right, then the same rule held for another physical trait: the earlobes. Unattached earlobes, where there was an indentation between the bottom of the ear and the side of the face, symbolized the dominant gene. Which meant, therefore, that two "recessive" people with earlobes directly attached to the side of the face could not have a child with unattached earlobes. It seemed ridiculous, but it was true.
He checked the photo one more time.
There was no mistake. Emilio Docci was the only one in the family whose earlobes hung free. Not dramatically so. But it strongly suggested that he was not his parent's son.
No, it was possible to be more precise.
The clear physical resemblance between Emilio and Signora Docci placed her maternity beyond doubt. It followed, therefore, that Emilio was not his father's son, or rather, that he had not sprung from the loins of the man standing to his left, the man gripping the back of the divan in a parody of patriarchal self-importance.
The unavoidable question had barely formed itself in his head when the answer came to him. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe it was written in his conversations with Signora Docci, but he had failed to read it.
The air of mild alarm conferred on Emilio by his large eyes and his long neck had struck a dim note of recognition in Adam, but he was wrong to have ascribed these traits to a passing similarity with some indeterminate creature or bird. He had seen the look before, yes, but it had been in an old framed photograph hanging on the wall of a room in Cambridge: a photograph of the Jesus College rowing crew, eight gangling young men clutching their oars like pikestaffs.
"Don't be too impressed," Professor Leonard had said to him when he remarked on the photograph, "I'm not sure we ever won a single race. In fact, I know we didn't."
ADAM WAS LATE FOR LUNCH, NOT THAT IT MATTERED. The other guests were considerably later, and Antonella herself was running well behind schedule. In fact, she was foraging around in a sorry-looking vegetable patch beside the farmhouse when he appeared up the track. She was wearing a crumpled T-shirt, shorts and no shoes. She looked magnificent. And angry.
