another awkward handover to yet another occupying force. At nightfall, though, San Casciano was still firmly under German control. That's why the family was surprised when, just as they were finishing dinner, they heard the sound of gunfire coming from up at the villa.
It was Emilio who insisted on going to investigate, more out of curiosity than anything, because the gunfire was accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of music and laughter. Maurizio agreed to go with him, along with a third man, Gaetano the gardener, who had also heard the ruckus.
Approaching the villa from the rear, they saw furniture being tossed from the top floor windows, splintering on the terrace below. Incensed, Emilio stormed inside and upstairs, Maurizio and Gaetano hot on his heels. Most of the Germans were gone. Only two remained, left behind to burn documents and destroy equipment so that it wouldn't fall into Allied hands. Fueled by drink, they had overstepped their orders, using the frescoes for target practice and hurling furniture out of the windows—pathetic acts of destruction that enraged Emilio.
A fierce argument ensued. If Emilio hadn't pulled out his pistol and fired a warning shot, it might have ended there, with heated words. But it didn't. The Germans opened fire, killing Emilio before fleeing.
"That's terrible."
"Yes, it was. Just a few more hours and we would have come through the war untouched."
There were questions Adam wanted to ask, but Signora Docci steered the conversation back to Professor Leonard, saying that he had shown himself to be a very good friend in the aftermath of the tragedy.
"How did you meet him?"
"Through my father. They worked together on an archaeological excavation. Well, not together exactly. It was an Etruscan site near Siena. My father was in charge; Crispin was one of the young people who did all the work—a student, like you, in Italy for the summer. It was the year your Queen Victoria died. In 1901. We were very aware of it here. She often came to Florence. Papa even had the honor of meeting her once." She paused. "Anyway, he brought Crispin home one day, out of pity, I think, as you would a stray dog. He was so poor and so thin and so very intelligent. He stayed with us for a month that first summer."
She smiled, remembering.
"My sisters were very excited about him being here. Not me, though. I was very distant with him, very . . . haughty. And he completely ignored me. As you can imagine, this was very annoying. I thought he was just like my father, lost in his books and his artifacts, blind to the living world. Later I discovered he knew exactly what he was doing."
"What
was
he doing?"
"Playing. The dance, he called it."
"The dance?"
"Courting, of course."
"Really? I always thought—" He broke off.
"What?"
He hesitated. "I don't know, that he was, you know . .."
"Yes . . . ?"
"Well, a homosexual."
An incredulous expulsion of air gave way to helpless laughter. The application of the flannel to her mouth muffled the sound.
When she eventually collected herself, Adam said, "I'll take that as a 'no.'"
"No," she said emphatically. "No."
"He was never married, though, was he?"
"There were lots of opportunities. He was very handsome."
Adam couldn't picture it, but that didn't mean anything.
"He has high praise for you," said Signora Docci.
"Me?"
"You sound surprised."
"I am."
"You're here, aren't you? Doesn't that tell you something?"
"Should it?"
"It's many years since I first suggested the garden to Crispin—as a subject for one of his students, I mean. He said he would wait for the right person."
This didn't fit with what the professor had told him: that the offer of the garden had only recently come from
It was Emilio who insisted on going to investigate, more out of curiosity than anything, because the gunfire was accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of music and laughter. Maurizio agreed to go with him, along with a third man, Gaetano the gardener, who had also heard the ruckus.
Approaching the villa from the rear, they saw furniture being tossed from the top floor windows, splintering on the terrace below. Incensed, Emilio stormed inside and upstairs, Maurizio and Gaetano hot on his heels. Most of the Germans were gone. Only two remained, left behind to burn documents and destroy equipment so that it wouldn't fall into Allied hands. Fueled by drink, they had overstepped their orders, using the frescoes for target practice and hurling furniture out of the windows—pathetic acts of destruction that enraged Emilio.
A fierce argument ensued. If Emilio hadn't pulled out his pistol and fired a warning shot, it might have ended there, with heated words. But it didn't. The Germans opened fire, killing Emilio before fleeing.
"That's terrible."
"Yes, it was. Just a few more hours and we would have come through the war untouched."
There were questions Adam wanted to ask, but Signora Docci steered the conversation back to Professor Leonard, saying that he had shown himself to be a very good friend in the aftermath of the tragedy.
"How did you meet him?"
"Through my father. They worked together on an archaeological excavation. Well, not together exactly. It was an Etruscan site near Siena. My father was in charge; Crispin was one of the young people who did all the work—a student, like you, in Italy for the summer. It was the year your Queen Victoria died. In 1901. We were very aware of it here. She often came to Florence. Papa even had the honor of meeting her once." She paused. "Anyway, he brought Crispin home one day, out of pity, I think, as you would a stray dog. He was so poor and so thin and so very intelligent. He stayed with us for a month that first summer."
She smiled, remembering.
"My sisters were very excited about him being here. Not me, though. I was very distant with him, very . . . haughty. And he completely ignored me. As you can imagine, this was very annoying. I thought he was just like my father, lost in his books and his artifacts, blind to the living world. Later I discovered he knew exactly what he was doing."
"What
was
he doing?"
"Playing. The dance, he called it."
"The dance?"
"Courting, of course."
"Really? I always thought—" He broke off.
"What?"
He hesitated. "I don't know, that he was, you know . .."
"Yes . . . ?"
"Well, a homosexual."
An incredulous expulsion of air gave way to helpless laughter. The application of the flannel to her mouth muffled the sound.
When she eventually collected herself, Adam said, "I'll take that as a 'no.'"
"No," she said emphatically. "No."
"He was never married, though, was he?"
"There were lots of opportunities. He was very handsome."
Adam couldn't picture it, but that didn't mean anything.
"He has high praise for you," said Signora Docci.
"Me?"
"You sound surprised."
"I am."
"You're here, aren't you? Doesn't that tell you something?"
"Should it?"
"It's many years since I first suggested the garden to Crispin—as a subject for one of his students, I mean. He said he would wait for the right person."
This didn't fit with what the professor had told him: that the offer of the garden had only recently come from
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