by Mark Mills
"A commission."
"A commission?"
"From Signora Docci. She wants another sculpture. I guess she wasn't just being polite after all."
Adam leaned forward in his chair. "Harry, listen, she's a sly old bird, she knows she's getting you cheap."
Harry tilted his head in a strange fashion. "That's got to be about the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He lit a cigarette. "I didn't say before, didn't want to, and I can still pull out . . ." His voice trailed off.
"What?"
"There's a gallery in London, a good gallery, the Matthiessen Gallery . . . they want me to do a show."
"That's fantastic, Harry."
"It's set for April. Will you come?"
Adam winced. "April's bad, I'll be studying for my finals."
"Since when did you ever have to study for exams?"
"Of course I'll come!"
"I'm scared, Paddler. No—crapping myself."
"Of course you are. If it's a flop, you're ruined as a sculptor."
"Arsehole."
Judging from her expression, the middle-aged woman at the neighboring table was an English-speaker.
They only got as far as "green" before Harry had to head for his train. He secured a seat for himself in a compartment, then joined Adam on the platform for a farewell smoke.
"Weird times were had," said Harry.
"They were."
"And much fun."
"Yeah."
"We needed that, you and me."
"You're right, we did."
"She's a great girl, Paddler."
"She is."
"You look good together—I mean, she looks better than you, but you still look good together." He paused. "Don't mess it up."
"Why would I mess up?"
"I don't know." Harry glanced off, then back at Adam. "Something's going on, I don't know what, but I reckon you would have told me if you wanted to, if you wanted my help."
"Harry, nothing's—"
Harry waved him down. "Don't, it's insulting. I'm offering you my services." He gave a short snort of a laugh. "Not much of an offer, I know. Just say yes or no. I don't have to get on this train."
"No."
Harry scrutinized him closely, then nodded. "Okay."
"But thanks for asking."
The loneliness hit Adam the moment Harry's train edged out of the station. The kaleidoscope of Italian liqueurs mingling in his belly didn't help, nor did the fact that he missed the train to Viareggio by a matter of seconds, and with it being a Sunday he then had to wait two hours for the next one. He distracted himself with a gossipy magazine devoted to Italian cinema. He fought the urge to doze, fearful of what his unfettered thoughts might bring.
He lost the battle soon after the train cleared the depressing outskirts of Florence. Strangely, sleep proved to be a peaceful diversion. There was no warped and worrying analysis of what he was embarking on—this fool's errand—just momentary oblivion, his face pressed to the window, fields and farms sliding by outside.
Viareggio was an impressive town, its proud boardwalk backed by grand hotels, its beach a clean line of sand, the sunshades of its private lidos a colorful banded ribbon stretching off into the distance. It was high season and hot, and the place was alive, a definite whiff of wealth in the air. The women were beautiful, their men paunchy and confident, and Adam's immediate instinct was to head straight back to the station.
He found himself a cheap room well back from the sea front, beyond the large pine wood that cut through the town. He paced his room, smoking, building up courage. Then he headed outside into the blinding sunlight.
He remembered the name of the bar. There'd been no need to write it down. It had etched itself on his brain the moment Fausto mentioned it. Maybe he already knew then, sitting in the yard at Fausto's farmhouse, that he would find himself here in Viareggio, asking for directions to La Capannina.
If Gaetano the gardener really had come into some family money, then it was evidently a large legacy. La Capannina proved to be a two-story building in a prime spot on the front. It wasn't as imposing as the buildings that flanked it, but it was an architectural gem, a little art nouveau masterpiece. Set some distance back from the pavement, it had a terrace out front, fringed with exotic palms. A stone staircase climbed majestically to the main entrance, and the facade was stepped, allowing for a balcony terrace on the second floor running the full length of the building. The sea air had taken its toll on the place, but the scaling paintwork lent it an appealing air of shabby elegance.
Adam didn't venture beyond the front terrace, there was no need to, he would be returning later. He gathered from the waiter who brought him his drink that the upper floor was given over to a restaurant. He made a reservation on the upper terrace for dinner and was about to ask if the owner was around, when he checked himself. He mustn't do anything to jeopardize his role as an innocent tourist, a simple bird of passage who had alighted on this perch by pure chance.
Thanks to Harry's unexpected windfall, he could afford to indulge himself a little. He bought a beach towel and a pair of swimming trunks, then secured himself a patch of sand at a lido across the way. It came with a lounge chair, a beach umbrella and an unctuous waiter who kept trying to foist overpriced refreshments on him.
He lay there, staring at the jagged peaks of the mountains backing the narrow coastal plain—the same mountains that had offered up the gigantic block of white marble from which Michelangelo had hacked his "snake-hipped Narcissus." Harry's wonderfully dismissive phrase brought a smile to his face. It also brought to mind the aching void left by his brother's departure.
He hired a pedal boat and struck out for the horizon, leaving the beach far behind. But even then, the empty seat taunted him. He saw Antonella's lean legs pumping the vacant pedals beside him. They should be here together, a couple, like all the other couples, the ones he'd been seeing all day, the ones his eyes kept settling on. Instead, he was alone, working through the details of some reckless plan in his head. He drew consolation from the possibility that Gaetano was away on holiday, or that he was an absentee boss who rarely showed his face at La Capannina, and certainly never on a Sunday.
As he sat there bobbing on the light Mediterranean swell, a more pleasing picture began to fashion itself for him. He saw a fish dinner eaten in peace under the stars, followed by a stroll along the beach and a good night's sleep. He saw himself boarding the train back to Florence in the morning, secure in the knowledge that he'd given the thing his best shot.
"Eh, Gaetano, how's it going?"
They weren't the first words Adam heard on entering the bar of La Capannina several hours later, but he had yet to order his first drink when the fat man in the fawn linen suit uttered them. The fat man raised a pudgy paw. The thin man sitting with friends at a booth table in the far corner returned the gesture, giving a slight nod of his tanned head as he did so.
Gaetano was bald and had trimmed what remained of his hair close to his skull. He wasn't at all what Adam had expected. He was handsome, well dressed, composed. It was hard to imagine that he owed everything he was to his complicity in a murder. In fact, it was near impossible to keep any faith at all with the idea.
Adam had run imaginary conversations in his head, toying with ways of steering their exchange. He hadn't thought about the difficulties involved in actually getting to meet the fellow in the first place. He took a table and pondered the problem.
Gaetano hadn't moved from his booth in the corner by the time he went upstairs to eat.
It was a perfect night, the cooling sea breeze a welcome change from the windless humidity of the hills. Overhead, the stars cast a dirty stain across the sky. The smell of grilling fish mingled with the soft scent of pine trees and the earthy spice of cigar smoke wafting up from the terrace below. The white wine was crisp and dry, his shellfish starter a revelation. Under any other circumstances he would have lingered over his meal. Instead, he wolfed it down, eager to get back
to the bar.
"Good evening."
Adam turned, saw Gaetano standing over him and froze in the act of raising the fork to his mouth. Was Maurizio that far ahead of him? Had he predicted Adam's next move and furnished Gaetano with a detailed description of the meddlesome Englishman?
"Are you enjoying your meal?" Gaetano inquired.
The clothes might have been discreetly elegant, but the hand that Adam shook spoke of a life spent working the soil.
"Yes. Thank you."
Gaetano nodded approvingly. "The best fish stew in Viareggio."
"Yes, it's excellent."
"Good. I'm pleased."
It was only as Gaetano moved on to the next table that Adam realized he'd been doing no more than performing his patronly duty, checking up on his customers, ensuring that all was well. He cursed himself for missing the opportunity to strike up a conversation.
Maybe the tour of the diners was Gaetano's last act before breaking for the night and heading home, because he was nowhere to be seen in the bar when Adam headed back downstairs. The two men Gaetano had been sitting with were still in the corner booth, slouched and nonchalant in their short sleeves, and they had been joined by an elderly man and a young woman, both of whom had evidently taken too much sun that day. A faint ray of hope came with the sight of a fifth wineglass on the table in front of them.
Adam was at the bar, waiting to order, when Gaetano appeared from a door behind the counter with a box of cigars. He exchanged a few words with one of the barmen, who set up a bottle of malt whisky and some glasses on a tray.
The moment a table came free, Adam pounced. He immersed himself in his book, happy to bide his time, ready to be the last to leave, if that's what it took. A while later, a woman placed her hand on the back of the chair opposite and asked in a sultry voice:
"Can I?"
She was tall, fine-featured, very attractive.
"Of course," said Adam, assuming that she wished to take the chair to another table. Instead, she lowered herself into it.
"Are you alone? Apart from that boring-looking book, I mean?"
"Er, yes."
"American?"
"English."
"On holiday?"
"Studying."
The woman slowly pulled a cigarette from her packet. "Is it your first time in Viareggio?"
"Yes."
"Where are you staying?"
"A pensione over there." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the bar.
"Oh, that one." She flashed a smile. "I'm Alessandra."
"Adam."
"You have lovely eyes, Adam."
"Thank you." "Do you also have a light?" She waggled the unlit cigarette between her fingers.
"Of course. Excuse me." He fumbled for his lighter on the table.
"Leave the young man alone, Alessandra."
It was Gaetano.
"Oh, do I have to?" she pouted up at him.
"I'm afraid so."
Alessandra looked back at Adam. "The boss," she said with a mocking tone. "I think he wants you for himself."
"Very funny, Alessandra."
Alessandra leaned across the table, smiled sweetly and raised the cigarette to her lips. Adam lit it for her. "Spoilsport," she muttered to Gaetano as she sashayed off.
The only explanation Adam could come up with was that she worked in the world's oldest profession, and the management didn't want her plying her trade under their roof. He was wrong.
"Alessandra used to be Alessandro," Gaetano explained.
It took Adam a moment to assimilate the news. The timbre of the voice had been the only giveaway.
"Really?"
Gaetano smiled at Adam's incredulity. "There have been . . . difficulties with some of the customers."
It was now or never.
"Can I offer you a drink? As a thank you, I mean."
Gaetano hesitated. "Sure." He shrugged.
Adam opted for a twelve-year-old single-malt Scotch. Gaetano nodded his approval and followed suit.
He sensed he had just the one drink in which to hook his fish or Gaetano would be off, back to his booth. He'd already settled on flattery as his opening gambit, and the tactic worked. Gaetano thanked him for his compliments about La Capannina, and was disarmingly humble in his reply. The building provided the great atmosphere, the chef the great food—he was just the owner. Some of this humility deserted him when he went on to explain that he had reversed the sliding fortunes of the place in under a year, and to such an extent that the previous owner was now kicking himself over the sale price. He had even approached Gaetano on the subject of buying back a stake in the business.
It was the book that clinched it, though, just as Adam thought it would. It was a big work on Italian Renaissance sculpture, loaded with pictures, and it didn't go unnoticed by Gaetano. When Adam explained that he was an art history student, Gaetano confessed to knowing a little about sculptures from that period. He mentioned a garden he knew—a garden attached to a grand villa near Florence. He talked about it as if stumbling across such a thing was one of the hazards you faced when mixing in the sort of circles he did. He certainly didn't say that he had spent a sizable chunk of his life cutting the garden's grass and pruning its laurel.
When Gaetano offered up a detailed and impressively vivid description of the garden, Adam found himself experiencing a strange sympathy for the man. The slightly desolate look that stole into his round, simian eyes suggested that years of exposure to the garden's unsettling atmosphere had also taken their toll on him.
Remembering his role, Adam reacted with enthusiasm, especially to the news that Flora, the goddess of flowers, was the linchpin of the cycle. He told Gaetano about Edgar Wind's new theory, published earlier that year, that not only did Flora figure in Botticelli's Primavera and his Birth of Venus but that her pairing with Venus was essential to the allegory of love buried in both paintings.
He had to hold himself in check when Gaetano quizzed him about the other sculptures in the garden. It was too easy to shine, too easy to give himself away. He shared a few further insights, just enough to impress. It seemed to do the trick. It was Gaetano who ordered the next round.
The bar had started to empty by the time the third round hit the table, and they were deep in a discussion about the war. It was Adam who had steered the conversation this way, looking for a tear in the tissue of lies that shrouded Gaetano's account of his life. He claimed to have been a partisan, which might or might not have been true, although it seemed unlikely. When he said he had witnessed bad things, Adam pressed him further. Gaetano wouldn't be drawn on the subject, except to say that war made monsters of men—good men, men of standing, men you thought you knew— he'd seen it with his own eyes.
Adam said he'd hardly witnessed anything of the war other than the odd plane overhead—the privilege of growing up on a remote farm, he lied. Casting himself as a country boy had the desired effect. Gaetano confessed to being one too, and he had a storehouse of tedious anecdotes to prove it. This new turn in their conversation also allowed him to hold forth on his favorite subject: land.
He was obsessed with it. Land equaled power. History proved it. And if land was the past, then it was also the future. Italy was changing. The ownership of land was being opened up to a wider constituency. Only a fool could fail to appreciate the opportunities this presented.
"I'm going to give you some advice," said Gaetano, leaning across the table, his eyes dimmed with drink. "You know the real reason you should buy land?" He paused for effect. "Because they can't make any more of it."
The man's boorish self-satisfaction was almost unbearable, but Adam managed to look impressed by the statement. "I hadn't thought of it like that."
"That's why I'm telling you."
Adam saw his opening and pounced. Land brought heavy responsibilities, he countered. It also incited passions, not all of them good. He'd seen it with his own family. Ownership of the farm had split his father's generation, di
viding siblings, turning them against each other. On one occasion it had even come to blows between his father and his uncle.
"Blows?" snorted Gaetano. "I've known brothers to kill over it."
Adam feigned a doubtful look.
"It's true. You don't believe me?"
"Really?"
"Murder. All because of a big house and some land."
A heavy silence followed. Gaetano clearly felt he had said too much, and Adam didn't need to hear anymore. He had his confirmation.
The arrival of two more whiskies helped them draw a line under this chapter of their conversation, with Gaetano more than happy to return to the subject of his plans for world domination. He prattled on drunkenly about a big hotel just down the road that he had his eye on. It was ripe for improvement, the only problem being that his reputation now preceded him, and the owner was therefore likely to ask the fullest possible price for the place. He had toyed with the idea of purchasing it through an intermediary in order to throw the fellow off the scent. He had also set his sights on a villa estate in the hills above Pisa. It belonged to an old family who had fallen on hard times, but he would probably hold off for a bit. Better to build up the business first. Estates were thirsty, they required a steady flow of cash, he knew that from experience. Then there was marriage. Marriage was good for business and he had held out long enough. Maybe it was time to throw in the towel and make an honest woman of some young creature.
This unpalatable mix of astonishing self-importance and craven insecurity was almost too much for Adam to stomach, but he still managed to joke that when he next returned to Italy he expected to find Gaetano married and master of his very own Villa Docci above Pisa.
Gaetano didn't react immediately. When he did, it was only to excuse himself for a moment. He needed to relieve himself.
Adam only realized his mistake as Gaetano stepped away from the table. Earlier in their conversation Gaetano had talked at some length about Villa Docci, but he had never mentioned it by name.