"That doesn't mean you can't spend it on something else. Crispin doesn't need to know. And if he did, he'd hardly ask for it back. Am I wrong?" "No."
"So?"
It wasn't the money. Something else altogether accounted for his hesitation.
"My brother's coming to stay."
"You never mentioned you had a brother."
"I try not to think about it too much."
Signora Docci smiled. "When is he arriving?"
"That's not the kind of question you ask Harry."
"And what does Harry do?"
"He's a sculptor."
"A sculptor?" She sounded intrigued.
"Of sorts. He's very modern—lots of welded steel dragged off scrap heaps."
"Is he presentable?"
"That's not a word I've ever associated with him."
Signora Docci laughed. "Well, there's another room for Harry if he wants it. You decide. It doesn't matter to me either way."
But it did, he could see that; he could see an elderly woman about to be displaced from her home and extending an invitation of hospitality, possibly her last. What settled it for him, though, was the chance it offered to see more of Antonella. If their paths hadn't crossed in the past few days, it was only because he was always long gone, back at the pensione in San Casciano by the time she showed up to visit her grandmother in the evening.
SIGNORA FANELLI WAS A LITTLE PUT OUT TO HEAR THAT Adam would be leaving, less so when he offered to cover the cost of the room for a full week.
"When will you go?"
"Not tomorrow, but the day after that day." He made a mental note to look up the Italian for "the day after tomorrow."
Signora Fanelli was busying herself in the trattoria, polishing glasses in readiness for the evening trade. The front of her dress was cut lower than usual, and a gold cross dangled alluringly at her cleavage. He hadn't registered it before, but there was something of Flora in her high collarbones.
"The Signora really invited you to stay?"
"Yes."
"Strange."
"Why?"
"She's very private."
"She doesn't seem very private." "She wasn't. Before. She was very . . . vivacious."
"What happened?"
She looked up with her large dark eyes. "The murder, of course."
"You mean Emilio?"
"A bad thing." She crossed herself with the barest of movements, drawing his eyes once more to her low neckline.
The family had never really recovered from the death of Emilio, she went on, although Signora Docci's husband, Benedetto, had taken it worse than she had. He faded from view. He was rarely seen out and about, not even at harvest time when the grapes and the olives were picked and pressed. Then suddenly he was dead, of a heart attack. In her opinion, those Germans might just as well have shot him too, because he was dying from the moment they killed his eldest boy.
"What happened to them—the Germans?"
"Killed, both of them, in the battle of Florence."
"Justice."
"You think so? Two lives for one? Ten, maybe . . . fifty ... a hundred of their lives. To kill him like that, a man who had welcomed them into his own home."
The memory still angered her. It was a physical thing, shocking to an English eye.
She swept a stray strand of hair out of her face. "They changed this place. It's not the same. Everyone knows what happened here, and we still feel it. What they did in a moment, we live with forever."
Later, when he had showered, he read through the letter he'd written to Gloria, relieved that he hadn't got around to posting it. He thought he'd struck just the right note of magnanimity, forgiving her for the brutal termination of their relationship, but there was something pompous and self-pitying tucked away in his words. What did she care what he thought? She had wanted company to see her through to the summer break. He shouldn't be forgiving her; he should be admonishing himself for failing to read the signs earlier.
His mind turned to Signora Fanelli, to the flash of fire in her eyes and the dark passion in her voice when she had spoken about Emilio's murder. He also dwelt on her parting words to him downstairs.
"I'm sorry you're leaving, but I understand."
It was a simple enough statement, but her gaze had faltered, as if with embarrassment, as if she had revealed too much of herself. Had there been something provocative in that bashful glance? It wasn't impossible. Their relationship had hovered somewhere between easy familiarity and flirtation since their very first exchange, when she had corrected his Italian with a wry little smile. Over the past days they had joked, he had flattered her, and she had found any number of pretexts on which to playfully chide him. It wasn't exactly a remarkable relationship, but there was no denying a certain alchemy.
When he headed downstairs for dinner, there was nothing in Signora Fanelli's manner to suggest that any of these thoughts had ever occurred to her. She was too busy to show him to his table as she usually did. Instead, she pointed to the terrace and barked, "Outside." And when she finally got around to taking his order, there was none of the usual banter while he prevaricated (far more than was ever necessary). She insisted that he start with the cacciucco, whatever that was, then hurried off.
Cacciucco proved to be steamed mussels in a spicy red sauce. It was excellent, certainly too good to do anything other than eat, not that the messy operation allowed for a book on the table, let alone three. The moment the debris was cleared away, he opened The Divine Comedy. Many of the words didn't even appear in his dictionary, and it soon became depressingly clear that he could spend the rest of his time in Italy toiling through the text and still not reach the end. He persevered, though, the thrill of the breakthrough fresh in his mind.
He had punished the evidence, but everything still pointed to a clear link between the garden and Dante's Inferno. Just like Dante, Federico Docci had constructed his own multilayered Hell, and by placing Flora on the second tier from the top he was sending out a message about his young wife, he was saying that she was an adulterous whore.
It was no longer a question of whether or not Federico Docci had made this damning declaration, but why? Why bother laying out a garden to her memory at all if that's the way he felt about her? It didn't make sense, not unless there was more to the story, more that Federico had buried away in the rest of the cycle.
This called for a close examination of Dante's poem; it demanded a thorough search for any further associations with the garden; it meant ploughing on regardless. Which is precisely what he did—right through the main course of spit-roasted Val d'Arno chicken, a warm and windless night descending on the terrace.
Dante and Virgil had barely breached the Gates of Hell when Signora Fanelli arrived at his table with a complimentary brandy.
"You work too hard."
"Feeling better?" he asked.
She gave a coy and contrite smile. "I'm sorry. It's been a bad night. I'll tell you later."
She never got a chance to. Some late diners and the usual diehards at the bar meant she was still working flat out when he finally headed upstairs to bed.
He was awoken by a swath of light cutting through the darkness. There was a figure silhouetted in the doorway of his room.
It was Signora Fanelli.
He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, his mind struggling to digest this new development. So he hadn't been wrong, after all.