Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (15 page)

Speaking of the Ifrit, she has been acting strange lately. She told me she usually migrates for the winter and that she misses her flock and not to worry. She seems cold all the time, and I feel sure that she stayed the winter to be with me. She was sullen on Christmas Day and hardly said a word. My goodness, Christmas was a sad affair at your house! I was glad to be out of there!

I don’t have to tell you my sincere feelings for the Ifrit, do I? I don’t know what to do about her. A part of me wants to introduce her to my mother and sisters, but it’s impossible. Don’t be mad – I did tell one sister (Imelda) and she was very angry, even frightened. I’ve bribed her into keeping her silence, but I won’t be making that mistake again. It’s too dangerous. I wonder how you could have kept her a secret for so long. You must have a strange resilience to beautiful, mystical creatures one room away. It’s almost as if you regard her as quite an ordinary thing, when she is in fact, extraordinary. I don’t know how you could live in the same house with her all these years and not be fascinated, so in awe of what she is. She is magical. She is not like us.

Gabriel, we need to talk.  There’s something about her – about us -- I need to tell you, why this isn’t exactly what you might think it is.  But I can only tell you once I’m sure you’ll understand.

Before I forget (and I can’t tell you its contents so do not ask) a letter arrived from Rome a few weeks ago. Initially, I thought it was from you, but your parents’ stoic response put that from my mind. I wondered if it contained bad news, and when I asked the Ifrit, she frowned and was put in such a mood, I haven’t inquired further.

Mother sends regards. Write to your parents, would you, and put them out of their misery, or are you too busy ‘sipping Peroni in hip caffes’? You come across as a complete idiot in your letters, by the way. Much less likeable than in real life. I realise you currently consider yourself a writer, but I really don’t need to picture the abdominal muscles of a statue in that much detail. Say hi to Mariko.

Affectionately,

O. Khan

29 December

Orvieto

P.S While you’re strutting around Rome in your fancy leather jacket, how about sending your Papa’s overcoat back? I walked into him rearranging the wine bottles in the barn the other morning and he was wearing a blanket and your mother’s dressing robe. Have a heart.

Dear Volatile,

I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what I said to you last year. I still think about it whenever I touch my nose. I don’t know why I said such things. I didn’t mean them.

Remember that secret I told you a long time ago? Well, I managed to get some medication here in Rome to help me sleep.

That was three months ago. I don’t dream anymore.

Wish you were here,

Gabriel

17 January

Rome

T
he pills were a godsend. They worked from the very first night. It was almost as if, when I closed my eyes to sleep, I watched the vibrant colors of my dreams, the faces they contained, the voices, all the sharp, poignant images of my alternative life fade to grey, and then to nothing at all. I was sad, upon waking that initial night, to realize my beautiful, healthy mother was gone, my strong, rich father too, and my canopy bed with sheets of silk that every night contained Mariko Marino.

Long ago seemed the childhood days where I had trouble distinguishing my dreams from reality, regarding them as some sort of oscillating universe where I could retreat and live the life I was meant to. The only purpose the dreams served as I reached manhood was a reminder of my own unhappiness, of the imperfection of life and the lack of what I desired most. The dreams had themselves become unbearable since moving to Rome, they became stretched and thin and completely wretched, like scraps of old cloth, as if they couldn’t stand to be wrenched away from Orvieto, as if they didn’t understand Rome and the people within it, and therefore could neither function nor formulate.

And so I confessed a little to Everard, just the bones of it covered with a skin of falsehood, saying I had bad dreams and couldn’t study for trouble sleeping, and away we went on the Lambretta, to a tiny apothecary near Termini station. The pharmacist, a boyish looking Asian man, sold me a bottle of pills – a new American breakthrough medication that they were testing in Europe. The effect was miraculous. For the first time in my life, I felt like a normal person with one life and one set of desires. The confronting duality of everything was dead.

The Roman winter lasted for a much shorter time than usual, the frozen silver plains of the Tiber river melting into an unhygienic grey sludge. The pigeons returned to the squares and perched upon the domes of the churches and castles where they resumed their happy defecation, and the naked skeleton trees shivered and dropped a pound or two of snow on anyone who ventured under them.

It was February and the whole city became immersed in
Carnevale
fever. Banners were erected all over the ancient city; the cobbled lanes and the busy highways were scrubbed until they shone. Shopkeepers displayed their goods in festive motifs, and the wealthy Romans stocked their pantries with rich foods, even though they would predominantly dine out. The poor broke open their piggy banks, extracting a year’s supply of lire saved for this very day, and ran to the market to purchase the prosciutto, salami and spiced cured lard to make the sumptuous and heavy
lasagne di Carnevale
for their extended families
.
Streamers, flags, heavy scaffolding, temporary stages and arenas were erected in the popular, tourist-soaked piazzas inside the city center. All the girls wore new clothes.

I chanced upon Mariko Marino on the second day of
Carnevale
. Classes had not been cancelled at the
citta universitaria
, as they were scheduled in the early morning, and I was looking forward to the stroll home to Trastevere through the crisp, clinging air. I took a long, winding route to soak in all of
Carnevale
’s particulars on the way – children in costume, old men still drunk from the night before, leaning together as they perched on soap boxes trying to remember each other’s names. Street cleaners busily sweeping up confetti and broken bottles. An enormous crowd of people had gathered in the People’s Plaza, and even though I was tall, I could barely see over the mass of heads.

“It’s equestrian art,” came a familiar voice from over my shoulder, “fancy horse riding and such.”

I was momentarily stunned to see Mariko’s face peering up at me, a bright smile displayed on her mouth through scarlet lipstick. A Roman addition, I thought with approval. “Uh, hi,” I spluttered, trying to recover from surprise. She was wearing a French-style beret and a luxurious-looking coat trimmed with some sort of animal hair.

“
Ciao
,” she said, and leaned forward, air kissing me on both sides of the face. I tingled. “Are you interested in horses?”

“Not really, no. You?”

“Not really. Are you busy now?”

Was that a trick question? I looked over my shoulder to see if Everard were playing a joke on me and had put Mariko up to this. “I was just on my way home.”

“Oh, where do you live?” she asked brightly, and I think I took two steps back just from the shock of it all. She was swinging a blue tasseled purse from her shoulder and was wearing expensive-looking knee-high leather boots. And she was grinning up at me like I wasn’t Gabriel Laurentis at all, like I was James Dean or something. It had to be a trap. Or the gods finally answering my prayers.

“Trastevere,” I muttered, and my stomach seized up. I knew I was being flat and boring and plain uninteresting, I wanted to be fascinating and sweep her up with my charming personality and conversational skills, and I was failing miserably. But Mariko didn’t seem to notice.

“Me too!” she sang, and her eyes were all sparkly. “You know, I thought I saw you there once, in the butcher’s shop. I couldn’t be sure though. I mean, you dress so differently…” Her eyes swept down my body. I was merely wearing jeans, my leather jacket and a scarf, nothing special. “You just look so good here. In Rome.”

“Really?” I said, and I think I grinned a little. Or a lot.

“Well, all my friends noticed you that day. You must have…well, you must have a lot of girlfriends!” And then Mariko Marino, the sole object of my affection for as long as I could remember, blushed heartily and stared at her toes. I could not believe my good fortune. It was like the world suddenly changed color, and Rome had become a shining kingdom, and all I could hear was beautiful, operatic music in the flower-scented air, music as dense as cream. I had to pinch myself to check that I hadn’t forgotten to take my medication, that this wasn’t a dream. As if on cue, a group of young women congregating nearby caught my attention, giggling and scraping their eyes over my body, one so boldly pursing her lips into a kiss while another glared at Mariko.

“See?” said my companion, and laughed. “I mean, you were always the handsomest boy in Orvieto, everybody knew that, but here, it’s like you’re a movie star or something!” And as if that wasn’t surprise enough, Mariko looped her arm through mine, and glared back at the group of women. “Shall we have coffee?” she chirped, steering me away from them.

I struggled to regain my composure and confidence. “You did promise me coffee a while back.”

“I did?” she responded in surprise, her arched eyebrows ascending into the cascade of long, black hair that fell from her beret, “when?”

“Outside the Teatro Mancinelli, a while back,” I answered as casually as I could, brushing away the memory carelessly with my hand, as if it no longer concerned me.

“Oh! I don’t remember that at all. Well, it doesn’t matter, we’re having it now.”

I didn’t know where Mariko was taking me, and I didn’t care. I was in a daze of happiness. I recall the overjoyed cries of children bumping into my knees as they raced through throngs of people. They carried balloons and the candy-colored remnants of eaten treats stuck between their little teeth. I remember Mariko’s happy chatter and the way the skin at the back of her neck looked as she bent down to purchase
chiacchere
, a
Carnevale
favorite of sugared fried pastry. When she swept her hair off her shoulder, I was close enough to smell her perfume. I don’t know anything about flowers, so I had no idea what the scent was, other than I liked it.

I was only half-aware of the Tiber river rushing beneath our feet as we crossed over the Ponte Cavour bridge, and didn’t notice the type of establishment or the color of the tablecloth as we sat down at an outdoor café. The imposing, cylindrical walls of the Castel Sant Angelo and its host of mighty angelic sculptures stared down at me with dead eyes from their imposing height, but I did not care a whit. All I was aware of was the sound of Mariko’s voice that had wrapped around me like spider’s silk, and I knew that I wanted her to taste the bitterness of the espresso from my own mouth.

“What
Carnevale
events are you going to?” asked Mariko, placing her cup in its saucer. She left a ring of red, gleaming lipstick on its rim.

Everard and I did not have a
Carnevale
itinerary that I knew of and I was clueless about the events and their schedule. I had assumed we would walk around the city and watch from afar, presumably with a bottle of wine or two concealed inside a paper bag.

“Tell me you are going to
Donne Notte
.” The way those words hung from her lips was spine tingling.

“What’s that?” I wondered, although it sounded strangely familiar.

“You know, that
special
ladies night. Oh, Gabriel, please don’t tell me you’re too old-fashioned for it. All the kids are doing it.”

My memory kicked into high gear and I recalled the first time Orlando and I had discussed it. “You’re doing
that
?” I spluttered.

“What do you take me for, some kind of puritan? Of course I am doing it,” stated Mariko in commanding tones. “When will I ever get an opportunity like this again? I get to pick the man I want, and then I get to do whatever I want with him.”

“Is this really a good idea?” The thought of any man, masked or unmasked, touching Mariko was enough to make my blood boil.

“All my friends are doing it,” replied Mariko, somewhat peevishly. “Come on, Gabriel, live a little. It’s the sixties! Surely this is just another night out for you?”

I must have looked like I was sulking, or like the clueless virgin I was, bordering on twenty years old with nobody that cared enough to give me a first kiss, because abruptly Mariko stood up to leave. “I have to go back to town to pick up some things,” she announced. I scrambled to my feet. Was this it? She was leaving already? When would I see her again?

“But you should know,” she continued, “that I would very much like you to attend
Donne Notte.
Friday night at midnight, at
Il Serpente Nero
on Via Dandelo
.
Wear a mask.” On tiptoes, she brushed my cheek with her lips.

“I love your hair this long,” she said, and touched the tendrils, still blonde, along the nape of my neck. “I’ll be the one wearing silver wings,” she breathed in my ear.

I don’t know how long I stood on the sidewalk after that, watching her walk away.

I started drinking heavily from sundown on Friday night. Wracked with nerves, I knew liquid confidence was the only way I would get through the evening. I was a virgin, and extremely innocent in matters of sex. Everard had given me a nude magazine once and I had flicked through it deliberately nonchalant, because he had been watching carefully for signs of shock or awe, and my pride refused to give it to him. He even tried to explain the sex act to me, as if I were a small town boy who had never had a girlfriend, which I was, but he didn’t know that. I did desperately want to spend some alone time with that magazine, but had not been able to figure out how.

Tonight, it was easy enough. We were in his room at the boarding house, drinking Peroni and listening to The Doors on the radio. I flicked through the magazine on his bed as casually as I could, studying the separate parts of the female anatomy in great detail.