by Mark Mills
"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked, his voice a gentle drawl.
Adam reached inside his jacket for his cigarettes and lighter.
Maurizio's hand shot out. "I thought so," he said, indicating the label sewn near the pocket. "It's my brother's suit."
"Is it?"
Maurizio took hold of Adam's shirt cuff, exposing the cuff link. "And these are his too." The voice was calm, the eyes coldly attentive, but his fingers trembled with a barely suppressed rage.
"I didn't know."
"No?" Maurizio took a cigarette from Adam's pack and lit one. "And when you stole the key from my mother's room, did you know what you were doing then?" He smiled thinly, relishing Adam's discomfort. "Maria told me. She thought I should know."
"I've apologized to your mother."
"And what were you looking for up there?"
"I was just curious to see."
"And what did you see?"
"A lot of dust and some German desks." Maybe it was Maurizio's hectoring tone, but he found himself adding, "I also saw where Emilio was murdered."
Maurizio's face seemed strangely pale in the lambent light of the flares.
"Near the fireplace," Adam went on, emboldened. "But then you know that—you were there."
Maurizio recovered his composure, a pursed smile stealing over his features. "It's good that your work is finished and you are leaving." He handed back the cigarettes and lighter. "Thank you." Turning on his heel, he made his way down the stone steps.
Adam was filled with a sudden flood of anger. He wanted to run after him, to seize him, shake him, scream at him: You fool! Don't you see? I was happy to let it go, I wanted to let it go, to walk away. But now I can't. All you had to do was say nothing till I was gone.
As he fumbled a cigarette between his lips his gaze dropped to the terrace below—to the dark mass of the chapel lurking beyond the moonlight in the shadow of the sandstone bluff. And in that moment it struck him that he was wrong. Maurizio was not to blame. He was no more in control of matters than Adam was. They were simply actors playing out a drama, their roles already written for them.
HARRY SAT UP FRONT WITH ANTONELLA, SHOUTING AT HER over the music blaring from the car radio. Adam lay sprawled across the backseat, pretending to doze. He had in fact slept surprisingly well; he just wanted a private moment to work through the details of the scheme he'd hatched.
Every now and then he would sneak a peek at Antonella, her hair tied back in a ponytail, revealing her small ears. Harry was remarkably perky given that he'd waited in the olive grove for well over an hour before falling asleep at the base of a tree, waking with the sun on his face. He still clung to the belief that Signora Pedretti had come looking for him, despite Antonella's insistence that the woman was a notorious and mischievous flirt.
Antonella spurned the new road to Siena in favor of the old Via Volterrana, which twisted through the hills. It played to her recklessness behind the wheel—another good reason for Adam to have his eyes closed. They stopped briefly at San Gimignano, its ancient towers a testament to the competing vanities of its medieval merchants. Not so very different to what was going on in London right now, Adam observed. Harry told him to stop showing off.
Siena silenced them both with the rise and fall of her sinuous streets, the curving facades of her palaces, and her main square, the Campo, not a square at all, but a shell-shaped hollow at the heart of the hilled city. Siena was everything Florence wasn't—soft, curvaceous, feminine—and it was easy to see why her citizens had formed a special attachment to the Virgin. While Florence proclaimed its power, Siena exuded a quiet, contained strength. Buried in her coiling thoroughfares and her warm brickwork was a sense that she could absorb whatever was thrown at her. She might bend a bit, but she would never break.
Lunch was had in the walled garden of a large ground-floor apartment. Edoardo and Grazia were already there, as were ten or so other guests. Their host was a genial and unassuming little law professor. Adam never got a chance to speak to him. As soon as the pasta bowls had been cleared, Antonella announced that she was taking Adam off to see the "Crete Senesi." He had no idea what she meant, but he didn't protest. Harry said he'd stay behind, grab a lift back to Florence with Edoardo and Grazia.
"I told you I had a plan," said Antonella as they stepped from the apartment building into the deserted street.
"Where are we really going?"
"Oh, I wasn't lying."
The Crete Senesi turned out to be the vast sweep of undulating hills south of Siena—a ridged ocean of high, rolling pastures melting away into the far distance. Bleak and bald, it was an altogether different landscape from the one they'd traveled through that morning.
Adam saw from the map that their route took them close to Montaperti, the scene of the fierce battle so vividly described by Fausto. A detour was out of the question, though; they were on a tight schedule.
They hurtled south along dusty tracks, through straggling little villages. Fortresslike farms brooded on cypress-crowned hilltops, reminders of a time when you didn't just have to store your grain, you had to guard it against marauders. The vistas were endless and not a cloud broke the monotony of the clear blue sky.
To Adam it was a cheerless and uninviting world. Even more so in late summer, Antonella explained, when the crops were in and the patchwork slopes had been ploughed into a uniform desertscape. She rhapsodized about the area. It didn't want to be loved, she said, but that wasn't a reason not to love it. Adam only began to understand what she meant when they arrived at their first destination.
The abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore was perched precariously on a spur among crumbling sandstone canyons. For the white-robed monks it was a life lived on the edge of the abyss, literally and metaphorically. The colorful frescoes in the main cloister depicted the life of Saint Bernard. The cycle was sprinkled with pouting, firm-buttocked young men, leaving little doubt as to how the Sienese painter Giovanni Antonio Bazzi had come by his nickname, Il Sodoma.
Twenty hair-raising minutes south lay Pienza, her back to the high ground, the Crete lapping at her feet. The small town's perfect Renaissance piazza was all that remained of a Sienese pope's dream to relocate the Holy See to his own part of the world. Way to the west, beyond the corrugated hills, the impressive mass of
Monte Amiata stood out in bold relief against the clear sky—a conical parody of a volcano, now dormant.
They dropped back into the Crete, making for Montalcino on the other side. They never arrived. Ten minutes out, while barreling along a hard white track, Antonella slammed on the brakes. The car slewed wildly before coming to a halt.
"I almost missed it."
Dust swirled around the vehicle. Adam was still gripping the dashboard. "What? You hit it? What was it?"
Antonella laughed. "The turning."
A rutted track cleaved a slope of towering sunflowers, falling sharply toward a bowl in the hills, and an oasis of dense, dark trees.
"Follow me," said Antonella, abandoning the car at the tree line and setting off on foot.
He smelled it first, another odor fighting with the sharp, sweet scent of pine sap. It was the smell of decay, of something dead and done for. Antonella walked on, threading her way through the trees. He was a few paces behind her when they entered the clearing.
"Wow," he said quietly.
The walls of the rectangular pool were made of travertine blocks, some of which had been dislodged by the roots of encroaching trees. A narrow flight of steps led down into the water, which was chalky white, somehow both clear and opaque at the same time. Bubbles rose lazily to the surface at intervals, and the smell of sulphur hung heavy in the air.
"From Monte Amiata," explained Antonella. "There are lots of thermal springs in the area. But this one is special. It's very old, probably Roman."
Her uncle Emilio had shown it to her and Edoardo when they were younger. He had told them they could only share the secret with one other person, one person each.
He had made them swear. She appeared a little embarrassed by this confession.
"Am I really that person?"
Antonella gave a sheepish smile. "Actually, you're the fourth."
He laughed, taking her in his arms and kissing her gently on the lips. "Well, thanks anyway."
"Let's go in."
She kicked off her shoes, then turned her back on him, pulling her long hair aside. "Do you mind?"
His hand was trembling slightly as he undid the zip of her dress. She eased it from her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the ground. She wore matching underwear—plain, simple, startlingly white against her amber skin. She stood all but naked before him, surprisingly unabashed.
"You're staring."
"I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so beautiful."
She removed her bra and stepped out of her panties.
"Okay, so I was wrong."
She smiled. "Your turn."
His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The sulphurous vapors coming off the pool no longer stung his nostrils; they washed over him in heady waves, intoxicating.
When he was done, and his clothes lay bundled at his feet, she stepped toward him and pressed her lean body against his, dark skin against pale. They kissed, hands roaming, growing in courage as the same restless urge consumed them. She gripped his wrist and guided his fingers to the warm cleft of her thighs, the hair already matted with moisture. She let out a long, low moan as he eased a finger inside her. Her hips moved, setting the rhythm for him.
"Don't stop," she purred, "I'm very close."
A few moments later, she came, shuddering against him, their mouths locked together, stifling her cries.
She hung limp and drained in his arms. "Thank you. You're very gentle." "Am I?"
"Yes."
She kissed him tenderly, her long fingers briefly closing around him, caressing him. Then she took his hand and led him silently to the pool. The stone steps stopped just below the waterline, and they lowered themselves down till their feet sunk into the soft, viscous mud coating the bottom. The water was hot, but not uncomfortably so.
They swam in slow circles, heads bobbing on the milky surface, stopping every so often to stand in the shallower parts. The therapeutic waters would cure him of every ailment known to man, apparently, although everything seemed to be in working order, she added, reaching for him beneath the surface. She didn't let go. They kissed hungrily. He raised her up, dipping his head to kiss her breasts. She hooked her legs around his waist and reached behind her, guiding him into her. That's when he lost his footing and they both went under. They came up laughing.
The steps offered the perfect support. She carried her weight on her elbows, facing him, her eyes never leaving his. At first he just stood there, relishing her tight, oily grip, the primordial sludge oozing between his toes. Then he began to move slowly, his hands clasping her narrow hips. Whorls and eddies spiraled off around them. She spurred him on with breathless words until he was driving into her. She came again, just before he did. His own release hit him so hard that he had to seize the steps behind her to steady himself.
Later, bumping along back up the track to the gravel road, their clothes clinging to their damp bodies, Antonella turned to him. "You're very quiet. Say something."
"Whenever I smell sulphur I'll always think of you."
She punched him in the arm.
There was no time to see Montalcino, or anywhere else for that matter. Antonella had promised her grandmother that she'd have him back at Villa Docci by eight o'clock for his farewell dinner.
"It might not be my farewell dinner," offered Adam tentatively.
He told her he wanted to see the Piero della Francesca frescoes in Arezzo before leaving Italy, and that he planned to catch a train there when Harry boarded his to Venice. He could leave his suitcases at Villa Docci. It would mean at least another night together when he came back to pick them up.
He felt bad lying to her. He felt worse when she offered to drive him to Arezzo herself. He turned down her offer, mumbling some lame excuse that she didn't contest, although it threw her into a silent little sulk. She seemed to have shrugged it off by the time they pulled up at her farmhouse. In fact, he assumed he had not only been forgiven but was about to be invited upstairs to her bedroom. Why else hadn't she driven directly to Villa Docci? Because she wanted to walk there, she explained.
They took the path that snaked down through the olive grove, the same one they had walked less than a week before at almost exactly the same hour. Adam was struck by how much had happened in that brief time. When they last trod the route together they hadn't yet kissed, Harry had yet to show up, the mystery of the memorial garden was still unsolved, and his suspicions about Maurizio's role in Emilio's death were no more than that: vague instincts unsupported by evidence.
He now had the foundations of a case against Maurizio, and with any luck he'd soon have the proof. What he would do with it, he didn't yet know.
They made their way up through the memorial garden, through the thickening shadows, his arm around her shoulder, hers around his waist. Antonella stopped at the foot of the amphitheater and looked up at Flora.
"What?" he asked.
"It's a beautiful sight."
"It is."
He made to leave, but Antonella held him tight, refusing to budge. "Wait," she said.
At first he took it for the wind. It sounded like a light breeze rustling fallen leaves. Only when she pointed did he realize it was the sound of running water. Reflecting the steel-blue gleam of the twilight sky, they looked like two streams of mercury, girding the amphitheater in a shimmering belt and flowing into the long trough at their feet, which, he now noticed, had been cleared of debris since his last visit.
He turned to Antonella.
"It's for you," she said. "A gift."
"From you?"
"And Nonna. She paid for the two truckloads of water."
"They're up there?"
"It wasn't easy."
"You set me up?"
"With a little help."
She nodded up the slope. Signora Docci, Harry, Edoardo and Grazia appeared on the crest above.
"Don't just bloody stand there," called Harry.
Signora Docci wagged her cane impatiently. "Quick, go and look, it won't last long."
The trough was filling fast, and they hurried down the steps to the grotto.
The water poured from Peneus' urn, filling the marble basin, overflowing into the gaping mouth of Flora set in the floor. It was beautiful, and it was an act of murder on open display.
They ran hand in hand through the pasture toward the Temple of Echo. The water was already flowing down the channel that scored the ground between the temple and the octagonal pool. Soon Narcissus would have a reason for staring so longingly into vacant space.
They set themselves down on a bench in the temple, shoulders pressed close, trying to suppress the sound of their labored breathing. Beneath the iron grille in the middle of the floor, the water fell into some kind of shallow receptacle. That's what it sounded like—a sound warped by the chamber beneath the floor, then hurled up through the grille toward the domed roof, scattering, echoing, filling the space, making the temple whole again.
Antonella had described the sound as being like whispers. She was right. But they were urgent whispers.
"It's different," said Antonella.
"What?"
"The sound."
"How?"
"I don't know."
It didn't matter. Flora had spoken, and Adam could hear what she was saying.
Maurizio wasn't at dinner. He sent his apologies with Chiara—he wasn't feeling well after the previous night's festivities. Adam tried to imagine the look on his face when Chiara returned with the news that Adam had delayed his departure. Signora Docci seemed more than happy that the purpose of the dinner had been undermined. Harry pointed out that he really was leaving for good in the morning, so the dinner had l
ost none of its true purpose.
The only farewell of Harry's that couldn't be postponed till the morning was the one with Antonella. He insisted on escorting her back to her farmhouse. Adam went along with them.
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.
