The Whirling Girl (3 page)

Adonis Flower

CLARE WOKE; THE BUTCHER of Florence had not battered down her doors in the night.

On chill air from outside flowed the scent of grass and herbs. The woods were loud with birdsong; in her sleep she had pictured a tap suddenly opened, a faucet pouring out melody and birds. A cuckoo started calling. She waited until it reached fifty, then swung her feet out of bed, felt the chill of the terracotta tile, slipped barefoot into her boots, pulled the hunting coat around her shoulders and walked onto the stone balcony beneath the wisteria arbour.

Light rushed across the valley, springing the far hills into view. As she leaned on the railing, she imagined being on the prow of a ship, the house racing towards morning.

She turned to close the glass doors. An envelope fell to the ground from the scrollwork above the handle.

THE PAPER WAS CREAMY and stiff, the up-thrusting script so like her uncle's British boarding-school writing. She retrieved the envelope gingerly.

An invitation.

Someone who described himself as the owner of an adjoining property was hosting a party in her honour, that very night. This had been arranged, he wrote, by the “wealthy chap who took you under his wing in London, Sir Harold Plank.” For as Clare was undoubtedly aware, the note went on, “old Harry Plank” had delegated an archaeologist in his employ, a chap who was staying just down the hill, to set up contacts for her.

“Old Harry Plank.” Clare couldn't help a flush.

The spiky script went on to explain that “a goodly number of Etruscan glitterati” would also be attending. They were champing at the bit to hear about her fascinating travels, and of course to meet the niece of “the elusive Geoffrey Kane.” Sir Harold Plank had even couriered a carton of Clare's recent book about the Amazon. Copies had been delivered to each of the expected guests, including the writer's Italian brother-in-law, a young man who had established a refuge for endangered plants and various other species, “and with whom you will have so much in common, for the lad also knows all about the Amazon.”

The writer signed off, “Eagerly awaiting the pleasure of meeting an illustrious fellow writer! Your good neighbour Ralph Farnham.” In a postscript, he warned her to be on her guard before she went out sketching. “I'm sure your uncle was a fine chap. But do be wary of those bloody ferocious dogs. I'm told that Sir Harry's archaeology chap barely escaped with his life when he went exploring in your uncle's woods.”

Your good neighbour.
She could see this man already: the old-school tie, the blue blazer with the crest, the supercilious familiarity with the likes of “old Harry.” The prospect of the party filled her with dread. She had not expected to meet a gaggle of glitterati not only familiar with her book, but including one who knew all about the Amazon. No way to get out of this. The man was coming to pick her up at seven, “Because, dear Signora Livingston, though my wife's property adjoins yours, you will never find your way here on your own.”

She shoved the invitation into the pocket of the hunting coat. Tonight was a long time away. Maybe her suitcase would fail to turn up. She could hardly be expected to meet all those glitterati in the boots and jeans she'd worn from London.

SHE WALKED DOWN ONTO the grass, then skirted the front of the house, reaching out a hand to touch its stone flank. She came to a fence with a gate and a stile. The path beyond was rank and overgrown, leading into dark woods. What had Ralph Farnham meant about ferocious dogs? For that matter, who had been looking after the place? Who had left the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table, the milk and cheese in the bright yellow fridge? Or made sure these pots of geraniums flourished? There was so much she would have to ask the solicitor, once she'd made an appointment to see him.

Behind the house, orderly olive trees graced terrace after terrace up the hillside as far as she could see. She scrambled around the end of the house and up to the first terrace, still worrying about dogs.

Natural gardens had sprung up in the hollows around the olive trees, golden ox-eye daisies, wood forget-me-nots, chamomile with starry flowers; then, farther out, the soil was disked and rough. She settled on a stone and let her eye travel the patterned landscape, the rows of cypress, the patchwork fields far below, all brooded over by the ruined tower on the hilltop across the way. The tower had been built by the Medici, she'd read. Once, long before, that same hill would have held tile-roofed Etruscan buildings, a temple with brilliant painted god-figures flaring against the sky.

She shook her head, the amazement of actually being here sinking in, remembering how as a lonely little kid, inspired by her uncle's stories, she had wandered on the ridge behind the farmhouse with the fake Italian tower — she and her inseparable friend, the little Etruscan girl — the two of them wily and adventurous, even bolder than Etruscan women were reputed to have been. They changed the fate of the entire Etruscan nation: for it had been foretold that the Etruscan civilization would last but ten generations and then a great trumpet would sound, signalling the collapse; but the two of them, two little rebellious daughters of a priest king, refused to allow their great civilization to turn up its toes. They broke into the temple where the trumpet was kept and threw it crashing and splintering onto the rocks. The course of history was changed.

It was seductive to sink back into that heroic reverie. How much easier imagination was than life. No need to face up to the glitterati, for example. Hadn't the same applied to her adventures in the Amazon? She'd been prepared to go; she'd been desperate to go. But, having been prevented, she had gone there anyway. Mightn't she have achieved something just as strong, or stronger, if not for one egregious bit of imaginative self-indulgence which could invalidate all she'd tried to do? She had to smile, no matter what, thinking what a sneaky self-subverter her imagination really was. In her book about those travels, hadn't she been trying to do exactly what she'd attempted with the little Etruscan girl long ago — to stop the inevitable? Change the face of history?

She pulled herself back into the present. No soaring of imagination was going to get her through the problems that faced her in fighting off her aunt's legal threats. Looking down on the old house, a presence that seemed almost alive, she knew that she would do everything she could to keep it. It was so beautiful. No, more than that. Almost a natural part of the landscape, the ancient stones and the roof that was like a complex puzzle, the many levels of tiles blooming with patches of lichen, the chimneys with their own tile roofs like small pagodas. A gleaming copper gutter ran along the roof edge, connected to bright copper downpipes. This was clearly new. Geoffrey had left everything in good shape. For her. With forgiveness.

She would agonize no more.

Nevermore.

She said it aloud, for good measure, and in that instant she caught the movement of a tiny shape, in a stony hollow, a throb of silver splitting into red before her eyes.

HAD SHE TRULY SEEN the bud splitting open? The petals were still trembling, the blossom catching light in its blood-red cup. The shock of seeing this blossom here, as if the web between reality and imagination had dissolved, made her dizzy.

Nevermore.

And it appeared.

How often, as a child, Clare had made her way up to her uncle's room in the tower, secretly, to read the story of Myrrha, the child mother of Adonis. Myrrha exiled to wander the earth as punishment for her unspeakable sin. And this flower, here, was Anemone coronaria, the blossom that had sprung from the blood of Adonis when, later, Aphrodite held her young lover dying in her arms. Already in the sun it had split wide to show the stamens springing from the black mound of its female centre in the upturned skirt of petals. Clare knelt bare-kneed on the stony soil. Carefully, without touching it, she cupped the small bloom in the hollow of her hands.

THE QUIET MORNING BLEW apart. A roar, a puff of black smoke. A stooped figure emerged from a shed on a higher terrace, pushing what looked like a giant rototiller. He caught sight of Clare, shut off the sputtering motor, and started down a track at the edge of the trees.

“
Ah signora, benvenuta!
” A smile that showed a scattering of teeth. “
Signora, scusi, scusi,
” wiping his grimed hand on the seat of his pants, “
Sono Niccolo!
” his grasp like the clutch of a gnarled oak.

He began explaining, in a volley of almost unrecognizable Italian, that he worked here, had always worked here, for her uncle, and before that for someone else. She scrabbled for words she'd been practicing in Vancouver, but was no match for this volley of local dialect.

So — she finally managed to ask — these were her uncle's olive trees?

He nodded. Yes, her uncle's trees, and (a rope of words that she half-managed to disentangle) it was his great pleasant happiness to look after them for her. She must not worry. Of everything he was continuing to take care.

Was it safe to walk here then? she asked. Would it be dangerous to come back in a few minutes, to sketch this little bloom?

She was impatient to return and paint the anemone, to capture it, capturing her unruly feelings that way. She would need to hurry. This anemone was known also as the windflower, because in the slightest breeze the petals would release.

Niccolo's face had grown stern. Why would she ask if it was safe here? This was her property.

But the dogs?

Dogs? Had she seen some dogs? No! But someone had told her …

He made an explosive noise that blew fingers of both hands wide.

This was mischief, she thought he said. This was someone making
superstizione
, spreading that old story.

Old story?

“
Assolutamente malo!
” he said. Evil, worse! For someone to spread this old story of the devil's dogs. He had cultivated these olives for her uncle for twelve years, and before that for the old ones down the hill, and these were the most fertile hectares in the zone. To say anything else was the talk of snakes and worms. No. This was her place and he would keep it safe. No need to worry about dogs. He narrowed his eyes with an expression that made her think of a wall of ancient stones. He and his wife had no other life now but this duty they had accepted, to care for the property that had been passed to the niece of Geoffrey Kane.

“
Allora,
” he said, as if this settled the matter, gesturing towards the main road, “
Marta viene. Subito!
”

“
E Marta parla Inglese!
” he added, in a tone that suggested this clinched everything else he'd said.

Clare heard the wasp-like buzz of a new contraption. A woman in a lilac-printed cotton dress, sitting very upright on an ancient scooter, turned into the lane.

“
AH SIGNORA CHIARA, BENVENUTI in Toscana! Sono Marta, Marta Dottorelli. Scusi scusi, sono tardi. Come va?
” All this was wheezed in a high-pitched voice that carried with the power of a buzzsaw. The woman switched off the motor, jammed the kickstand into place, and pulled two bulging net bags from the carrier. Clare scrambled down steps leading from the lowest terrace, past the washing lines to the kitchen door. She found herself crushed in the arms of the small powerful figure, the net bags swaying somewhere behind.

This contact was so unexpected, so overwhelming, that Clare felt the start of tears. The woman had dropped what she was carrying. Holding Clare out at arm's length by the shoulders, gazing into her face, reaching up to touch her hair, her cheek, as one might outline the face of a beloved daughter, “
Ah bella bella, bellisima!
” she exclaimed. “Yes, you are just as Signor Geoffrey described. An angel,
veramente una Botticelli, si si si.
This hair, eyes like the sea!” In her whirlwind of exclamations, she sucked Clare into the kitchen. She said Clare had not eaten yet, she was sure. She had brought a stillwarm cake of chestnut flour. She would make some coffee!

She pulled out a wraparound print apron, and a pair of slip-on plastic shoes to replace the leather pumps she left at the door. The other bag was full of greens and weeds she had cut this morning along the roadside: dandelions for a salad to give “Signora Chiara” strength, and
ramponcioli
and nettles, which would make a fortifying soup. Yes of course she knew where everything was; she had been coming here in the mornings twice a week for twelve years. Oh, no. Signora Chiara was not to worry about the paying. This had all been arranged by Signor Geoffrey!

Signor Geoffrey had promised she and Niccolo would stay on, Marta explained; he had promised they would remain, to give the house and the vineyards care.

After all that, Clare could not possibly dash back to the terrace to paint the anemone. She drank the fierce coffee that had erupted from the tiny stovetop espresso pot. She ate the chestnut cake. When she returned to the sunny hollow beneath the olive tree, the windflower had flown so completely that she could not locate the stony hollow where it had been.

CLARE WANDERED THE TERRACES. These olives must require so much care. The trees looked ancient, almost sculpturally pruned and carved. Niccolo had tended them most of his life? He would be jobless if she sold? But he was old too, almost ancient, wasn't he? If she did manage to hold on to the place, how would she afford to run it? Not for the first time, she cursed the divorce settlement she'd agreed to, which had been based on her going back to work in the botany lab and her hope that the Amazonia book would bring in real money. Her husband had been happy to foster that; he helped set up contacts for her, leading to publication with a prestigious American university press. He'd also been propelled by a sense of guilt, because she would have been along on his Amazon expedition if he hadn't left her to satisfy his lust with the sharp-toothed student with the ring through her nose.

The leaves ruffled silver. It felt like a memory of a different, parallel life, wandering among these trees. The sun streamed down with the sweet weight of honey. She found a grassy hollow and lay back, studying the quality of the light. Painting here would require a different palette, not the supersaturated tones she'd called up for her jungle scenes. A blue wood forget-me-not nodded, almost out of focus, near her cheek. You are
Myosotis sylvatica
, she told the little blurry flower; you are part of the family of the mints. It made her feel safe, not a fake at all, to know this.
I know the name of everything,
she told herself,
and what I name I conjure into being
. She pictured herself like the goddess Flora wandering the fields, bestowing names, making things real, bringing them to view; and wasn't that what her paintings of Amazonian flora had done, whether she had actually set foot there or not? Had she not brought the endangered and voiceless into view?

As she drifted, she heard a distant whistle that reminded her of the dog whistle her husband used to use. But Niccolo had said there were no dogs. This reminded her of her husband, too. When she'd asked her husband if he was sleeping with the girl whose thesis he'd been supervising, he'd said, Jesus, I can't handle all this suspicion, I can't even look at a student without you getting suspicious. She'd said, The trouble is, I remember how you looked at me. He'd said,
You
.