The Savage Garden

Adam was leaving the room when she added, ‘Oh, and if you see a young woman down there, it is probably my granddaughter.’ A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. ‘Don’t worry, she’s quite harmless.’

He passed through the drawing room and out on to the flagstone terrace at the back. From here a flight of stone steps, bowed with centuries of wear, led down to a formal parterre – an expanse of gravel laid out with low, clipped box hedges arranged in geometric patterns. Lemon trees in giant terracotta pots were dotted around. He had read enough to know that the climbing roses and wisteria trellised to the retaining wall were a later addition in the ‘English style’ which had swept the country the previous century, consigning so many ancient gardens to the rubbish heap of history. Parterres had been ripped up to make way for bowling-green lawns, which soon burned to a crisp under the fierce Italian sun. Borders had been dug to house herbaceous plants suited to far gentler climes, and all manner of vines and creepers had been let loose, scaling walls and scrabbling up trees like unruly children. In many cases, the prevailing winds of fashion had wrought wholesale destruction, but it seemed that here at Villa Docci the original Renaissance terraces had survived almost entirely unscathed.

This was confirmed when he descended to the lowest level. A circular fountain held centre stage, set about with tall screens of tight-clipped yew, dividing the terrace into ‘rooms’. The formal gardens stopped here at a high retaining wall which plunged twenty feet to an olive-clad slope occupying the sunny lap of the hill. There were stone benches set at intervals along the balustrade, embracing the view. At the north end of the terrace was a small chapel pressed tight against a low sandstone cliff, its entrance flanked by two towering cypresses, like dark obelisks. At the other end lay the grove of umbrella pines which Signora Docci had drawn his attention to from the loggia.

He settled himself down in the resin-scented shade of the pines and lit a cigarette. He looked up at the villa standing proud and grave on its knoll, like some captain on his poop-deck. All of the upper windows were shuttered, suggesting that the top floor was not only out of bounds but also out of use. He smiled at the thought of a deranged relative, some mad Mrs Rochester, closeted away up there.

Viewed from this angle, there was an air of austerity about the building, a robust, fortress-like quality. And yet somehow this seemed in keeping with both its setting and function. It was not a pleasure palace; it was the centrepiece of a working estate. The farm buildings, just visible from where he was sitting, were arranged around a yard below the villa. There was no shame in the association, and the villa declared as much with the artless candour of the face it chose to present to the valley. Again, he was left with a palpable sense of the mind behind the design.

In almost no time he had fallen under Villa Docci’s spell, and the idea that he might have to devote his time to the study of a small part of its garden, one component stuck way down in the valley, was already a building frustration.

The answer came to him suddenly and clearly. He would change the subject of his thesis. Who could protest? Professor Leonard? On what grounds? Their remit as students was broad to the point of being all-embracing. If Roland Gibbs had settled on a mouldering Romanesque church in Suffolk as a subject for his thesis, how did an Italian Renaissance villa-estate compare? He would have to play the Marxist historical card – that angle was increasingly popular within the faculty – not art and architecture for their own sakes, but as manifestations of the socio-economic undercurrents of the time.

His heart already going out of the matter, he opened the file Signora Docci had given him and began to read. The language was rich, formal, turn-of-the-century.

Flora Bonfadio was only twenty-five years old when she died in 1548 – the year after she and her husband Federico Docci, some two decades her senior, took possession of the new villa they had built near San Casciano. Not much was known of Flora’s history. Some had speculated that she was related to the poet and humanist Jacopo Bonfadio, but there was no hard evidence to this effect. As for the Doccis, they were a family of Florentine bankers who, like the Medicis, originated from the Mugello, a mountainous region just north of the city. Although they had never risen to the Medicis’ level of prominence – who had? – by the sixteenth century they were nonetheless established as successful financiers. They had to have been for Federico Docci to afford the luxury of carving out a country estate for himself and his young wife.

Villa Docci instantly became a port of call for artists and writers, and was renowned, apparently, for the extravagant parties thrown by its generous host. This was not an unusual development. To create a cultural watering hole in the hills was the goal of many wealthy Florentines, almost a necessary stage in their development; a chance to share some of their ill-gotten gains with the more needy while rubbing shoulders with the greatest talents of the age. High finance and high art coming together as they have always done. A simple trade in an age driven by patronage.

Adam recognized only two names on the list of those reputed to have attended Federico’s gatherings at Villa Docci. The first was Bronzino, the well-known court painter. The second was Tullia d’Aragona, the not-so-much-well-known-as-notorious courtesan and poetess. Her inclusion lent an appealing whiff of scandal to the list, hinting at dark and dangerous goings-on at Villa Docci. Whether or not this was true, Federico’s dream of a rural salon was abruptly shattered after a year with the death of his wife. There were no records as to the cause of Flora’s untimely demise. Federico must have been devastated, though, because he never remarried, the villa and the estate passing to another branch of the Docci clan on his death.

Amongst all this historical fog, one thing was clear: in 1577 Federico had laid out, according to his own design, a small garden to Flora’s memory.

Adam turned the page to be presented with a hand-drawn map of the garden. He instinctively closed the file. Better to approach the place blind and untutored the first time, as Professor Leonard had suggested.

The pathway meandered lazily down into the valley, a thread of packed earth, untended and overgrown. The trees on either side grew denser, darker, as he descended, deciduous giving way to evergreen: pine, yew, juniper and bay He heard birds, but their song was muffled, diffuse, hard to locate. And then the path gave out. Or at least it appeared to. Closer inspection revealed a narrow fissure set at an angle in the tall yew hedge barring his way.

He paused for a moment then edged through the crack.

Beyond the hedge, the path was gravelled, with trees pressing in tightly, their interlocking branches forming a gloomy vault overhead. After a hundred yards or so, the trees fell away abruptly on both sides and he found himself in a clearing near the head of a broad cleft in the hillside. This was evidently the heart of the garden, the central axis along which it unfolded.

To his right, set near the top of a tiered and stone-trimmed amphitheatre, stood a pedestal bearing a marble statue of a naked woman. Her exaggerated contrapposto stance thrust her right hip out, twisting her torso to the left, while her head was turned back to the right, peering over her shoulder. Her right arm was folded across her front, modestly covering her breasts; her hair was wreathed with blossoms; and at her feet flowers spilled from an overturned vase, like water from an urn.

Unless he was mistaken, Federico Docci had cast his wife in the image of Flora, goddess of flowers. This was not so surprising, but the conceit still brought a smile to his lips.

If there was any doubt as to the identity of the statue, on the crest above, a triumphal arch stood out proud against a screen of dark ilex trees. On the heavy lintel borne up by fluted columns, and set between two decorative lozenges, was incised the word:

The Italian for flower: ‘Flora’ in Latin. There was something telling, tender, about Federico’s decision to employ the Italian form of his wife’s Christian name -an indication, perhaps, of a pet name or some other private intimacy lost to history.

Two steep stone runnels bordered the amphitheatre, descending to a long trough sunk into the ground. Leaves and other debris had collected in the base of the trough, and a dead bird lay on this rotting mattress, pale bones showing through decaying plumage. A weather-fretted stone bench was set before the trough, facing the amphitheatre. It bore an inscription in Latin, eroded by the elements, but just possible to make out:

ASTIMA FIT SEDENDO ETQUIESCEKTDO PRUOENTIOR

The Soul in Repose Grows Wiser. Or something like that. An appropriate message for a spot intended for contemplation.

The presence of an overflow outlet just below the rim of the trough steered his gaze down the slope to a high mound bristling with laurel and fringed with cypresses. From here two paths branched off into the dark woods flanking the overgrown pasture that ran to the foot of the valley, and at the far end of which some kind of stone building lurked in the trees.

A flight of shallow steps led down to the mound. Adam skirted the artificial hillock, wondering just what it represented. It didn’t represent anything, he discovered; it existed to house a deep, stygian grotto.

The irregular entrance, designed to look like the mouth of some mountain cave, was encrusted with cut rock and stalactites. The angle of the sun was such that he couldn’t make out what lay inside.

He hesitated for a moment, shook off a mild foreboding, then stepped into the yawning darkness.

5

Did you see him before he left?

Briefly. I told him you were resting.

I wanted to see him. Wake me up next time.

Of course, Signora.

Did he say anything?

About what?

The garden, of course.

No.

Nothing?

He was very silent.

Silent?

Distracted.

He’s handsome, don’t you think? Tall and dark and slightly dangerous.

He’s too pallid.

It’s not his fault, Maria, he’s English.

And he’s too thin.

A bit, I agree.

He needs fattening up.

That will come with time. He hasn’t grown into his body yet.

I think he’s strange.

Really?

When he left, I saw him walking back and forth between the cypresses at the top of the driveway. Big long steps.

Interesting.

Worrying. It must be the heat.

No, it means he’s worked it out.

Signora?

The cypresses taper towards the top of the driveway.

Taper?

The two rows narrow as you approach the villa – to increase the sense of perspective.

I didn’t know.

That’s because I don’t tell anyone.

Why not?

To see if they notice. Only two people have ever noticed. Three now.

And the other two?

Both dead.

Let’s hope for the Englishman’s sake there’s no connection.

You know, Maria, you really can be quite amusing when you want to be.

6

Adam was awakened by a dull but persistent pressure in his right buttock. His fingers searched out the offending object but couldn’t make sense of it. He opened his eyes and peered at an unopened bottle of mineral water. Overhead, the blades of the ceiling fan struggled to generate a downdraught. He was flat on his back on the bed, fully clothed still, and the wall lights were ablaze, unbearably bright.

He swung his legs off the bed and made unsteadily for the switch beside the door. The beat in his temples informed him that he’d drunk too much the night before. And then he remembered why.

He searched the tangle of memories for irredeemable behaviour.

Nothing. No. He was in the clear.

He pushed open the shutters, allowing the soft dawn light to wash into the room.

Unscrewing the cap of the mineral water bottle, he downed half the tepid contents without drawing breath. He hadn’t registered it before, but there was a tinted print on the wall above the bed – a garish depiction of Christ in some rocky landscape, two fingers raised in benediction. Presumably the artist had gone for a beatific expression, but the Son of God was glancing down with what appeared to be the weary look of someone who has seen it all before – as if nothing that unfolded on the mattress below could ever surprise him. He might even have been a judge scoring a lacklustre performance: two out of five for effort.

Harry, thought Adam. Why Harry? Why now? And why hadn’t he, Adam, said no?

The only consolation was that when Signora Fanelli had come to his room just before dinner with the news that ’Arry was on the telephone, he had assumed the worst, that their mother or father had suffered some terrible fate. As it turned out, the news was only marginally less calamitous. Harry was coming to visit.

Reason had quickly stemmed the trickle of loneliness that welcomed the idea.

‘Why, Harry?’ Adam had demanded.

‘Because you’re my baby brother.’

‘You mean you couldn’t make my farewell dinner in Purley, but Italy’s not a problem?’

‘I don’t do farewell dinners in Purley, not when I’m in Sheffield.’

‘What were you doing in Sheffield?’

‘None of your business. Anyway, what’s the fuss – I phoned, didn’t I?’

‘No, as it happens.’

‘Well I meant to.’

Of course, Harry couldn’t say when he’d be arriving or leaving – ‘For God’s sake, Adam, what am I, a fucking train timetable?’ – only that he had things to do in Italy and that he’d fit Adam in along the way.

Fortunately, this time he’d be on his own, unlike his last impromptu visit. Harry had shown up in Cambridge earlier in the year with a fellow sculptor from Corsham in tow, a garrulous Scotsman with child-bearing hips and a face like a bag of spanners. Finn Duggan had taken an instant and very vocal dislike to the university and all associated with it. Leaping to his feet in the Baron of Beef on the first evening, he had challenged all the ‘snotty wee shites’ present to drink him under the table. A mousey astrophysicist from Trinity Hall had duly obliged, plunging Finn Duggan into a deep and dangerous gloom for the remainder of the weekend. Violence had only narrowly been avoided following Harry’s mischievous speculation that the loser’s beers had been spiked with some chemical cooked up in one of the university labs.

No Finn Duggan this time, thankfully, but Harry required maintenance, supervision even. And Adam had enough on his mind already.

For a brief while it had all seemed so clear: switching the subject of his thesis from the memorial garden to Villa Docci itself. But that was before he’d stepped through the breach in the yew hedge.

Even now he couldn’t say just why the place had affected him so much. All he could point to was a vague sensation of having been momentarily transported somewhere else, a parallel world, unquestionably beautiful but also disquieting.

No doubt the unassuming entrance was intended to produce the effect of stumbling upon a lost Arcadia, but there was something illicit in the act of pushing your way through a hedge that smacked of trespass, each subsequent step in some way forbidden. This sense of intruding was reinforced by the personal nature of what lay beyond the hedge: the touching tribute of a grieving husband to his deceased wife. The other Renaissance gardens Adam had studied in preparation for his trip were far grander stages on which the most high-blown ideas of the age were played out – Man and Nature in uneasy coexistence; Man imposing himself on Nature, moulding Her to his own ends, yet constantly fighting Her hold over him, struggling to rise above his baser instincts to the role ordained for him by God.

Not that God or any other Christian imagery figured in the elaborate cycles set out by wealthy Romans and Florentines in the grounds of their country estates. The language of the garden was purely pagan, its world a mythical earthly paradise populated with marble gods and demi-gods and other outlandish creatures from Greek and Roman legend, where water gushed from Mount Parnassus, pouring along channels, tumbling over waterfalls, spraying from fountains and trickling down the rough-hewn walls of woodland grottoes.

The memorial garden at Villa Docci sat firmly within this tradition, and although it couldn’t match its eminent counterparts at Villa di Castello, Villa Gamberaia and Villa Campi for sheer size and grandiosity, it stood out for its human dimension, its purity of purpose, the haunting message of love and loss enshrined in its buildings, inscriptions, and groupings of statues buried away in the woods.

The hour or so Adam had spent strolling the circuit had intrigued him, unsettled him, whereas the villa itself had simply awed him with its serene perfection. The choice was no longer clear to him. Which of the two should he spend his time on?

This was the dilemma he’d been struggling with over dinner at the pensione when a bottle of red wine had landed on his table with a thud.

It was attached by a lean brown arm to a man whom Adam had noticed drinking alone at the bar. He was dark, rangy, handsome in a dishevelled kind of way. He pushed his lank hair out of his eyes.

‘Can I?’ he asked, in Italian, not waiting for a reply but dumping himself in the chair opposite. He glanced at the open file beside Adam’s plate. ‘It’s not good,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Reading and eating at the same time. The stomach needs blood for digestion. When you read, the brain steals the blood.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s what my father used to say, but he was an idiot, so who knows? I’m Fausto.’

Adam shook the strong hand offered him. ‘Adam.’

‘Can I?’ Fausto helped himself from Adam’s pack, tearing off the filter before lighting the cigarette. ‘You’re English?’

‘Yes.’

‘I like the English,’ declared Fausto, sitting back in his chair and plucking a stray shred of tobacco from his tongue. ‘London Liverpool Manchester A-stings.’

‘A-stings?’

‘The Battle of A-stings.’

‘Oh, Hastings.’

‘A-stings. Exactly,’ said Fausto, not altogether happy about being corrected, although it didn’t stop him filling Adam’s glass from the bottle of red wine he’d arrived with.

Adam took a sip.

‘What do you think?’

Adam knew the word for ‘drinkable’ in Italian. So presumably ‘undrinkable’ was ‘ non potabile’.

‘Excellent,’ he replied.

Fausto smiled. ‘That’s why I like you English. You’re so fucking polite.’

Fausto, it turned out, had done his homework. He knew from Signora Fanelli the purpose of Adam’s visit, and even its intended duration. Not that that was saying much – everyone did – tourists being something of a rarity in San Casciano. Apparently, the last foreign visitors of any note had been a bunch of New Zealanders – the ones who’d liberated the town from the Germans back in 1944. Fausto described in elaborate detail, much of it lost on Adam, the fierce siege that had laid waste to his birthplace – a sad inevitability, given San Casciano’s pivotal role in the main German line of defence south of Florence.

Despite this, Fausto seemed to harbour a grudging respect for the German military machine which had so successfully slowed the Allied advance northwards, mining bridges and roads, its troops fighting a relentless rearguard action against overwhelming odds, taking severe casualties but never losing their discipline or their fighting spirit, forever melting away, withholding their fire until you were right on them, and always ceasing fire at the first sign of the Red Cross.

Fausto was speaking from first-hand experience. He’d been a member of a partisan group who’d assisted the Allies in their push on Florence, fighting alongside the British when they entered the city; men from ‘London Liverpool Manchester’.

And Hastings?

No, that was something else, Fausto explained – an interest in historic battles.

He was lying. He knew more about the Battle of Hastings than was healthy for any man to know. They were well into the third bottle of wine before Harold even got the arrow in the eye.

Fausto was enacting this event with a slender bread-stick when Signora Fanelli appeared at the table.

‘Fausto, leave him alone, look at him, he’s half-dead.’

Fausto peered at Adam.

‘Leave the poor boy alone. Go home. It’s late,’ Signora Fanelli insisted, before returning to the bar.

‘A beautiful woman,’ mused Fausto, helping himself to yet another of Adam’s cigarettes.

‘What happened to her husband?’

‘The war. It was a bad thing.’

‘What?’

Fausto’s dark eyes narrowed, as if judging Adam worthy of a response.

‘We were fighting for our country. Our country. Against the Germans, yes, but also against each other – Communists, Socialists, Monarchists, Fascists. For the future. There was…confusion. Things happened. War permits it. It demands it.’ He drew on the cigarette and exhaled. ‘Giovanni Gentile. Do you know the name?’

‘No.’

‘He was a philosopher. A thinker. Of the right. A Fascist. He had a house in Florence. They went to his door carrying books like students, carrying books to fool him. And then they shot him.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘When they start killing the men of ideas you can be sure the Devil is laughing.’

‘Did you know them?’ asked Adam.

‘Who?’

‘The ones who did it?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘It’s the first chance I’ve had.’

Fausto cracked a smile and he laughed. ‘I talk too much, it’s true.’

‘What?’ called Signora Fanelli from across the room. ‘I don’t see you for months and now I can’t get rid of you?’

‘I’m going, I’m going,’ said Fausto, holding up his hands in capitulation. Turning back to Adam, he leaned close. ‘Things can make sense at the time, but as you get older those consolations no longer help you sleep. It’s the only thing I’ve learned. We all think we know the answer, and we’re all wrong. Shit, I’m not sure we even know what the question is.’

Adam drew his own consolation from the words: that Fausto was even more drunk than he was.

Fausto drained his glass and rose to his feet. ‘It’s been a pleasure. You be careful up there at Villa Docci.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It’s a bad place.’

‘A bad place?’

‘It always has been. People have a tendency to die there.’

Adam couldn’t help smiling at the melodramatic statement.

‘You think I’m joking?’

‘No…I’m sorry. You mean Signora Docci’s son?’