"Rodolfo, this is Adam," Antonella said in Italian.
Rodolfo's head snapped round. "Adam?"
"And the garden . . ."
"Oh, the garden Adam. Does he speak Italian? Of course he does. Crispin wouldn't have sent him if he didn't speak Italian."
"You know Professor Leonard?" asked Adam.
"Yes, yes, of course." Rodolfo gripped his forearm surprisingly hard. "Congratulations. I've known that garden almost all my life. What you have done is, well, exceptional. Have you told Crispin yet? Of course you have."
"No."
"No? Why not?"
"I don't know."
"Well, you must, you must. He knew there was something in that garden. He knew it. He often said so. And it annoyed him that he couldn't identify it. We were young—your age— though of course we were both much better-looking." He found this extremely amusing. "Anyway, we went there a lot with Francesca"—he jabbed a crooked finger at Antonella—"her grandmother. I should say that I hated Crispin then. You see, I knew I was only there for one reason—because they couldn't be alone together."
"Why not?"
"It was a long time ago. It wasn't allowed. I, the boy who had always loved her, had to stand by and watch her lose her heart to him."
This was clearly news to Antonella. "Really?"
Her eyes flicked to Adam. He feigned an equal degree of surprise.
"Yes, but that's beside the point. The point is that Crispin sensed something right back then. Sometimes we would go there by ourselves, the two of us, him and me—that's when I grew to like him. He sensed it, you see?" Rodolfo patted Adam on the hand. "You'll send me your thesis and I'll have it translated. I'll even see it published for you. Oh, nothing very exciting—a departmental journal at the university—but that's how it begins for all of us." He gave a short and slightly demented snigger. "And in sixty years if you play your cards right, you can be just like me—penniless, half-drunk at a party, and wondering what you've done with another man's cigar." He searched around him.
Antonella pointed. "It's in your hand."
"So it is. Now, you two youngsters go and join the other apes prancing in the cage." He made to relight the cigar. Antonella blew out the match.
"One dance," she said.
"No."
"I insist."
"Persuade me."
"It might be our last."
"Good point. Help me up."
It was a big band, with lots of brass, and it played big band numbers. Which was fine for those who knew how to dance to big band numbers, and not so good for those who didn't know how to dance to anything. To make matters worse, Rodolfo could dance—he could really dance. He also had remarkable stamina for a man his age, which gave Adam lots of time to dread the handover. When it finally came, he felt duty-bound to confess to Antonella that he had two left feet (one of which was still stiff and sore from his stumble in the memorial garden).
The alcohol helped, so did the excuse to lay his hands on her.
The band was set up on a tiered dais just in front of the stone balustrade. The dance floor consisted of a giant boarded circle at the heart of the terrace, with the marble fountain as a centerpiece. It was ringed by tall screens of tight-clipped yew strung with Chinese lanterns and flanked by flaming torches, which cast wild and restless shadows. Penned in by the hedges, the music was all- engulfing.
"Did you enjoy dinner?" asked Antonella as they fought for their patch on the crowded floor.
"Yes."
"Nonna said you would. Vera is very . . .provocativa."
"She certainly is."
"She is a lesbian, you know?"
"Odd, she didn't say."
Pressed close by the crush, Adam allowed his hand to stray.
"You're not wearing any underwear." "I can't with this dress."
"How does it feel?"
"It feels good. You should try it some time."
He hoped the ambiguity was deliberate.
"God, you're beautiful," he said, his head thick with desire.
"Thank you."
"I want to kiss you."
"We can't." She gave a theatrical flick of the wrist. "The scandal..."
"I don't care. Tomorrow's my last day."
"I know. That's why you're invited to lunch. In Siena. You said you wanted to see Siena. They're friends of Edoardo's. Harry can come too. It's all organized."
"I want to be alone with you."
She pressed her lips to his ear. "Then it's lucky I have a plan."
She refused to elaborate.
A little while later, he lost her to a string of competitors, beginning with her brother, Edoardo. Adam received Grazia in exchange. He hobbled his way through a couple of numbers with her, then she too was taken from him, at which point he renounced the dance floor for the bar nearby. He was waiting to be served when Harry stalked up to him.
"Her husband's not here."
It took a moment for Adam to realize he was talking about Signora Pedretti. "I know, she said over dinner."
"But a bunch of his friends are." Harry lit a cigarette and glared about him.
"Harry, are you seriously trying to seduce a married woman?"
"I think so. Yes. Why? You think it's a bad idea?" He hesitated. "Shit, it's a bad idea, isn't it?" "Is it enough to know she would—under different circumstances, I mean?"
"Maybe."
"So ask her."
"Ask her?"
"Yes. Then you'll know. And then her husband's friends won't have to kill you."
There was a simple logic to the suggestion that Adam suspected would appeal to Harry. It did. Harry tripped off in search of Signora Pedretti, greeting Antonella's mother as he went. Caterina approached Adam with the controlled steps of someone who knows they've strayed beyond their limit.
"Where's Riccardo?" he asked.
"Talking to my mother." She gave a sardonic smile. "I think she approves."
"He's great."
"So is Antonella." She nodded toward the dance floor. "I saw you dancing with her. You like her, don't you?"
Something in her voice brought out a defensive streak in him.
"Is that so hard to understand?"
"Of course not, I am her mother."
"Yes, I like her."
"Men do. That is never a problem for her."
Intentionally or otherwise, her words placed him somewhere in a long line of foolhardy suitors, and he was happy that the barman asked him for his order at that moment.
"One of those, please," he said, pointing to Caterina's cocktail glass.
It was unpronounceable. And almost undrinkable.
"Did she tell you what happened to her face?"
The directness of the question threw him momentarily.
"Your mother did."
"I was driving."
"I know."
"And Antonella was the one asking me to go faster. Did my mother tell you that?"
"No."
"No, of course she didn't. No one remembers that."
He looked at her and saw a drunk and guilt-ridden mother still groping for excuses many years on.
"You don't believe me? It's true. She was . . .selvaggia. Not like Edoardo. Una piccola selvaggia."
A little savage.
He could feel his hackles rising now. Looking to dilute her responsibility was one thing; harboring a hateful grudge against the daughter she'd disfigured seemed downright unreasonable.