by Mark Mills
This was the only consolation in the affair—Maria's betrayal. Antonella hadn't banked on Maurizio outbidding her as the hammer came down. She had underestimated him. Maria, older and wiser, hadn't.
He carried this pleasing thought with him as he strode briskly along the track back to Antonella's farmhouse.
She wasn't there. Nor was her car. Both were gone. It was no bad thing. He would only have screamed at her. Or worse.
He made do with snatching up a rock from the roadside and hurling it through her kitchen window.
The farewells were absurd, Signora Docci the only unrehearsed actor in the farce. Knowing the stakes were high, Adam played his part to innocent perfection. So did Maria. Her eyes even misted with tears as she kissed him goodbye on both cheeks. Maurizio sweetly offered to drive Adam to the station himself.
They sat side by side in silence for most of the journey. Time was on their side, and Adam asked if they could swing by Piazza Repubblica to pick up his photos of the memorial garden. Maurizio accompanied him inside the shop. He also insisted on staying with him until the train departed. His last words were to the point.
"You have a good brain. Use it. Somewhere else. Not here. Don't ever come back here again."
As the train jerked out of the station, he reached for the photos of the garden. He skipped over the ones of Flora, not because they were any worse than the others—he was a hopeless photographer, they were all second-rate—but because he felt ashamed. He felt as if he had let her down.
There was to be no justice for the man who slept alongside her beneath the stone floor of the Docci family chapel.
ENGLAND WAS IN THE GRIP OF A HEAT WAVE, WHICH meant there had been four whole days of uninterrupted sunshine. Adam woke to the sound of the rain hammering against the window on the morning of day five, his first morning back.
His mother's opening words to him when he headed downstairs were, "I told him he should have taken his umbrella to work."
It was a familiar phrase; he'd heard her utter it many times before in that gently reproachful way of hers. This time, though, it grated, it remained lodged in his brain while the coffee percolated and his mother sang the praises of the new pop-up toaster they'd purchased while he'd been away. The cat had also been neutered in his absence, he discovered.
He didn't blame her. He knew he was party to the petty little exchanges that constituted life at home. He had shared nothing of any significance with his parents over dinner the night before, aside from some impressions of Italy and an account of his work at Villa Docci. His father's reaction to the news of Adam's unmasking of the garden could be described, at best, as one of grudging respect. Just as predictably, his mother had waited until she was alone with him before offering some heartfelt words of congratulation. Publicly, she always took her lead from her husband—a state of affairs that had irritated Adam in the past, but which now seemed wholly unacceptable.
"Sit down, Mum."
"Darling?"
He carried the cup of tea he'd just made for her to the kitchen table, leaving her little choice but to join him.
"It's lovely to have you back, darling."
"Mum, I know about Dad."
"About Dad?" she asked, a slight note of anxiety jarring with the cheery innocence.
"Harry told me."
Her gaze faltered. "He shouldn't have done that. I asked him not to."
"Mum—"
"He promised he wouldn't."
"Mum—"
"I'm very angry with him."
"Mum." He reached across the table and took her hand.
She bowed her head and stared at her cup of tea. He couldn't see her face behind the curtain of hair, but he could see her shoulders start to convulse. The first faint sobs built quickly in volume.
He slid from his chair and skirted the table. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her tight while she bawled.
Later, after they had talked, it was she who suggested they treat themselves to lunch at the Grey Friar—an old coaching inn set in a fold of the North Downs beyond the urban sprawl. It was known for the quality of its cooking and its exorbitant prices, and they only ever went there on special occasions. This felt like one. His mother certainly seemed to think so. She sank two sherries before the meal and even smoked one of Adam's cigarettes. They both ordered the trout, which they ate at a table in the garden now that the rain had stopped and the clouds were clearing.
He told her everything that had happened to him in Italy. The only details he spared her were those of a more intimate nature. She rarely interrupted, allowing him to unburden himself.
When he was finished, she said, "Well, you young people certainly do lead colorful lives."
It was exactly the sort of thing she would say—exactly the sort of thing he had prayed she wouldn't say.
"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,
I hope this letter finds you well. I suspect it doesn't, and I don't doubt that I am to blame for that.
Maybe Antonella has already told you something of what has gone on, in which case much of what I write will come as no surprise to you. Either way, you must believe me when I tell you that Antonella had no hand in what happened—none whatsoever. She, like you, is entirely innocent. The rest of us are not. Please try not to judge Maria and Fausto too harshly. They only did what I asked of them, and not always willingly.
I have used you, Adam. I used you before I met you, I used you while you were here, and maybe I am still using you now. I don't expect you to forgive me for this, but I hope that one day you will come to understand my reasons. As Virgil says to Dante at the beginning of La Divina Commedia—which, thanks to you, I have read again—"The way out is the way through." That is how it was for me. Finding myself in a dark place, I saw only one way out if it.
My son killed my son. I suppose I have always known it, from the moment Benedetto first locked the door, closing off the top floor. It was not like him to do such a thing. His nature was to look forward, never backward. He gave his reasons, of course, and I chose to believe them. The alternative was unthinkable.
I am now certain that Benedetto worked out what really happened that night, and leaving those rooms just as they were was his punishment for Maurizio. He wanted Maurizio to live with the memory of what he had done. I have visited the rooms only twice. When Benedetto died I went looking for what he had found up there. A part of me was relieved when I failed. I now know what he discovered because I have followed your footprints across the dusty floor, I have seen where you stopped near the fireplace and folded back the carpet. I have seen the bullet hole in the wooden boards stained with Emilio's blood. You found what Benedetto found, as I hoped (and feared) you would.
The only certainty in life is death. This is something I have always accepted, that is until death paid me a visit last Christmas. Even then, it was not death itself I feared, but the prospect of seeing Emilio again, of standing before him, both of us knowing that I had let him down, that I had done nothing. I swore to him then that if I lived I would get to the truth, however painful it might be. The moment that oath was made I knew I would survive, because I now had a reason to. So it was that one sickness replaced another.
My plan was simple but I required help. That is when I contacted Fausto. I have known him many years. His grandfather was a fine man, his father was not. I'm sorry if I speak ill of the dead, but they seem to me as fair a target for criticism as anyone. Even as a small boy, Fausto was exceptional. Benedetto and I took an interest in him for the sake of his grandfather. Fausto was not to know, but he found out that we had helped with his education over the years. And when I needed help he was there for me. These few lines do not do justice to our friendship or to the respect I have for him.
It was Fausto who went south for me earlier this year to the village near Rome where Gaetano comes from. It was Fausto who discovered that Gaetano's story of a family inheritance was untrue. And it was Fausto who helped me work out how to get to the truth. As you now know, I think, he has an interest in tactics and strategies.
Your role in this affair was mapped out many months ago: a young student, intelligent and inquisitive; the seeds of a mystery planted in his head by Fausto and nourished by me. If Maurizio suspected for a moment that I was behind the thing, he would never have shown himself. The threat had to come from someone else, an innocent. And you are, Adam. It is not your fault. Your age is to blame. A more experienced man would have read the signs. He would have seen that he was being led by the hand.
Almost every step you took was determined in advance. Not all. Some things were impossible to anticipate. Three stand out. I steered you towards the photo albums in order to bring Emilio to life, to make him matter more to you, but I never imagined that you would see the truth of his parentage in those old images. I underestimated you (not for the first or the last time). I am glad now that I did. It has forced me to be honest with Crispin, as I should have been many years ago.
How do you tell a man that the son he never knew he had is dead? It is not easy, but it is finally done. If you have not been able to contact Crispin since your return it is because I have asked him to make himself unavailable to you until you have received this letter. Needless to say, he is extremely angry with me for the way I have treated you, almost as angry as Antonella, although that would take some doing. I have never been spoken to by anyone as I have been by her in these past days.
The other great surprise, impossible to predict, was your work on the garden. There was nothing false about my praise. What you achieved is extraordinary. What it means, I still don't know. As I told you once, I am not superstitious, but I want to be, I want to believe that you have lifted the curse on this place, on our family— the curse of Federico Docci, murderer, the same curse that drove my son to kill his brother. To believe this is to spare Maurizio some of the blame, and myself some of the pain.
Then there is you, Adam. I did not think for a moment that I would come to care about the boy Crispin sent me. But I did, more than you can ever know. Twice I was close to telling you all. On another occasion Maria threatened to do the same. I persuaded her not to. If she showed you no affection while you were here (and I know she did not) it is only because she hated herself for the part she agreed to play. She did not wish to become attached to you.
Maria came late to our team, after your arrival. She was my eyes and ears, my spy. She went through your papers to see how your suspicions were developing, and whenever she could, she stirred Maurizio against you. If Antonella had not told you where the key to the top floor was hidden, then Maria would have done so. She was brilliant. On your last night here she even showed genius, when she was discovered by Maurizio's dog at the door of the chapel.
As you are now aware, there is no gun behind the plaque in the chapel. There are no bullets. Benedetto destroyed them all. The lie I fed you was the bait to draw Maurizio out. It was planned this way. It was also planned that on hearing Maurizio's admission of guilt Maria would come straight to me. The dog was not planned.
Exposed, what could Maria do? She had just heard Maurizio threaten my life. She could not allow him to think there was any connection between her and me. So she lied. She made him believe (and you too, I think) that she was there for Antonella. Just how convincing she was, you know better than I do. It was certainly enough to fool Maurizio and buy me time to arrange matters at my end. We are a large family, the Doccis, and any action taken by me was always going to require the support and sanction of certain relatives. This has now been received.
It is not possible in Italy to disinherit a child, but a child can choose not to receive his inheritance. This is what Maurizio has done, in exchange for my silence. I shall never see him again. How he explains this change of circumstances to his wife, his children and his friends is his business. It will be difficult for him, but I don't doubt that he will find a way. Maybe his excuse will be that I have decided to remain in the villa, which is true, and he can no longer tolerate his mother's indecision.
Is this justice? No. Is there en
ough evidence to convict Maurizio of Emilio's murder? There never was. But at least the truth is finally out. It is enough. It has to be enough because that's all there is, that's all there was ever going to be. I knew this from the start, before I even met you.
There it is, Adam. I wish you weren't a part of it, but you are, and you only have me to blame. Fausto and Maria acted out of loyalty to me, and I expect you to find it within yourself to forgive them. I expect no such thing for myself.
I cannot imagine what you are thinking right now, but let me say this. I lied to you, I used you, I even placed you in physical danger (although you were more closely protected than you are probably aware). All of these things are true, I don't deny them, but most of what passed between us was good and honest. I meant what I said to you just before we sat down to dinner at the party. I asked you then to remember my words. Do you? I hope so, because they are as true as any I have ever spoken.
You fell foul of an old woman looking to do the right thing by her dead son. It may seem enormous to you now, but time and the weight of experience will compress the painful memory of your stay at Villa Docci until it is just one slender stratum in the bedrock of your life. Try not to forget that.
With great affection, Francesca
Adam read the letter twice, steeping himself in the words.
When he returned to the terrace, he found his mother serving tea. She saw from his face that all was good and gave a small smile as she withdrew.
"I thought you were the one behind it all."
"I know," said Antonella. "Maria had to make Maurizio believe it."
"It wasn't just that. I saw Fausto leaving your house that last morning."
Antonella exchanged a look with Fausto. "He came to see me, to explain. We argued, but he persuaded me to play along. He said it wasn't for long. And it hasn't been, although it feels like it."
