Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (18 page)

“Do what exactly?”

“Extricate yourself like that. Like you don’t matter. Just say what you think. It’s always as if you don’t think you are good enough to have an opinion, to make a statement.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said moodily.

“Well then, perhaps you were staring because you’ve never really seen a girl before.”

“I’ve seen plenty of girls, believe me,” I huffed.

“So I’ve heard around town,” mumbled Volatile, rolling her eyes.

“News travels fast.”

“A little too rapidly for my taste,” conceded Volatile, somewhat sarcastically. “I thought Mariko Marino was the only one for you.”

I was hastily growing irritable. She was always baiting me, always wanting to pick a fight. Why had I agreed to come with her? “She is. Was. She was.”

“So much for true love,” laughed Volatile.

“What would you know about it?”

“You tell me.”

“You know nothing, I’ll wager.”

But my companion would not take the bait. She shrugged off my veiled insult like it was an ugly shawl and she was no longer cold, and continued bounding along like a midnight creature. We continued like this in silence. I did not have to ask where we were going. I knew these woods well.

“It was Alfio Gallo,” stated Volatile darkly. “We all know it was. That spiteful fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard your parents talking one night in the spring, after
Carnevale
. I heard your Mamma crying that night, and your Papa’s hands would not stop shaking.” Volatile narrowed her eyes and instinctively budged closer to me as we moved along the trail. She smelled like something familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Your father went to the farmer’s market months ago for grain, as usual. He hurt his ankle on one of his walks and he was limping a little, but I knew he was in much more pain than he let on. Alfio Gallo had come over during the wintertime, don’t worry, I went straight out the window, I could smell him a mile away. All booze and tobacco.”

Volatile screwed up her nose in distaste, and I suddenly recalled I had forgotten to brush my teeth before bed.

“He began pressuring your father to sell the farm. He seemed really desperate; he kept raising the price, little by little. But your father wouldn’t budge. Gallo started yelling and your mamma came out of her room, she’s had that terrible cough since winter you know, and Gallo started acting strange, sidling up to her and stroking her hair, and making her feel very uncomfortable. Your mamma kept coughing and saying things over and over, and Gallo was laughing at her, and your Papa got so angry, well, he punched him!”

“Bravo!” I shouted.

“Shhh!” said Volatile. “That was a big mistake. Because that day, at the farmer’s market, Gallo was there too. According to your papa, Gallo followed him around the market, imitating the limp he had, just hobbling around after him. But your father didn’t tell your mamma that Gallo had also imitated her too, repeating silly statements at the top of his voice, lurching around after your father, belittling him in front of all those people! Everyone laughed at him and your father couldn’t hold his head up high. I only know that part because I heard your papa talking to himself in the barn.”

Anger began to rise in me, a black hatred that had lain dormant for far too many years now.

“Now be silent,” she commanded. “We’re here.”

Indeed we were. The imposing fir trees that surrounded the Gallo property had grown so tall, they seemed to extend all the way to the moon. The stone gates circled the estate, their guardian gargoyles glaring down at us. The electric lanterns were glowing all around us.

Volatile flitted up and peered over the wall. “There’s no one in the garden,” she called down softly. “The coast is clear.”

“How am I supposed to get inside?” I whispered back. I almost shouted aloud when Volatile materialized beside me once more.

“You are going to squeeze under the gate,” she directed.

With distaste, I looked over to the wrought iron gate, with barely enough room underneath for a grown man to slip through. The ground beneath was lined with powdery gravel. I glared at Volatile.

“Or you can stay out here,” she said with a shrug.

I narrowed my eyes and shrugged off my leather jacket, which I now thoroughly regretted wearing. I placed my palms on the dirt and lowered myself under the iron and wood gate. It was a tight squeeze.

“Leave the jacket,” Volatile hissed, as I reached my arm through the collect it.

Obediently, I abandoned it and got to my feet, the gravel making telltale squeaking noises under my shoes. I followed her into the bushes. The only sound to be heard was the soothing rush of water from the ostentatious fountain. Volatile remained in the shadows, one arm outstretched, holding me back as her eyes focused on every window in the house. Most had the curtains drawn and lay in darkness.

She crept forward, bit by bit. As we reached the back courtyard, Volatile screwed up her nose in distaste. “What is that monstrosity?” she whispered, indicating to where the second Gallo fountain lay, its stone sea-lovers spouting dark water. “These people have no taste.” I could not agree more.

A little square of light suspended in the air caught her attention. “Bingo,” she whispered, pointing to the tiny glass-topped chamber in the center of the huge, church-like dome that topped the mansion. “Stay here,” she commanded.

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Keep watch.” And her wings split open, and silently, they bore her into the sky. I watched in fascination. How like a real bird she appeared, especially from this distance. I sucked in my breath as she landed on the top of the dome, her wings completely outstretched, like a beautiful avenging angel. Had she always been this beautiful? She had not changed, not noticeably. How had I not realized before? And why was it so difficult for me to admit how beautiful she really was?

Gracefully, she jumped down to a ledge six feet beneath her. I held my breath and moved closer, careful to stay out of the light. She moved her head to the side, as close to the window as she could get. Her wings splayed out against the dome. She remained like this, completely frozen, for a long moment. I could not keep my eyes off her.

And suddenly, she inexplicably mewled a deliberate cry at the top of her lungs, a cry that sounded like a hunting falcon, directed right to the window. With that, she soared from the dome, coming straight at me at an astronomical speed. “Run, you idiot!” she hissed when she was within earshot. I ducked and covered my face instinctively, but Volatile flew right over me and disappeared over the estate walls.

Lights were beginning to turn on inside the house. Filled with panic, I bolted past the courtyard and the south wing of the house, my heart hammering in my ears. I could hear shouts. Sprinting up the driveway, I prayed that the main lights would delay being turned on, and I skidded on the gravel, threw myself under the gate bruising my chin along the way, snatched up the leather jacket and headed for the woods as fast as my feet could carry me.

“This way,” cried Volatile, dropping to the ground beside me. “We’ve got a five-minute head start before he comes stomping through here with those boots and that gun!”

“Why did you do that?” I yelled.

“Oh, I love doing that to him,” she screamed back. “Making him think the falcon he’s always hunted is right within his reach is the second-best feeling in the world! I’ve been doing it for years!”

“Do you know how dangerous that is?” I thundered. “Don’t wait for me, just fly!”

“And give him a perfect view and shot of me? No, thank you, I’ll take my chances on the ground!” And she laughed manically.

“So this is what you do in your spare time,” I roared, pumping my legs and arms at a frenetic rate to keep pace with her. “If this is the second-best, what’s the best feeling in the world?”

“Sex!” she screeched gleefully.

Back at the farm, Volatile collapsed in the vineyards, in a flying roll. She was laughing and winded. She lay on her back, her wings spread out underneath her. “That was fun,” she said when I caught up to her, and stood doubled over, barely catching my breath.

“You have a strange definition of fun. You gave me a heart attack!”

“Do you want to hear what I’ve learned or not?”

“Go right ahead.”

The wildness in her eyes thrilled me more than I cared to admit. “Gallo and his wife were discussing it up there, in that room. I’ve been going to the estate every night just to hear what happened. Tonight was the jackpot! I knew you’d be my lucky charm.”

“Come on, spit it out!” I demanded impatiently.

“Gallo paid some men to pour banned insecticides all over the vineyard, and then called the DOC with a false report. The officials came from Rome and inspected the land, and promptly shut it down.”

“That bastard,” I growled.

“Indeed,” confirmed Volatile. “But we will not be beaten.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a plan. We are going to get the farm back.”

And I believed the little renegade lying in the grass with all my heart. “And if you think we’re going to stop there, you’re a fool,” declared Volatile.

“What do you mean?”

“We are going to
destroy
the Gallos.”

V
olatile did not return that week, or the next. The farm was quiet and desolate, at least during the day. At night, I would reach over and take the brown jar from the nightstand, swallowing down a dreamless pill with a swig of tap water. And then it would begin: birds that would not nest disturbing the leaves of trees, swooping through the air and crying their calls which were meaningless to me. I could hear mice and frogs in a rhythmic cacophony, as if they were speaking to one another. There were sounds of creatures scuttling in and out of leaf piles, slithering from under stones, emerging noisily and abruptly from the secret places of the earth. It was almost as if nature had forgotten its own nature.

In fact, as I was reading one evening, a large spider casually strolled through the window, down the wall, onto my bed and up my leg. It stopped at my thigh, and regarded me with its numerous eyes, rather deliberately, I thought. Then, as if he had sized me up, turned his back and disappeared the way he came.

Mamma and Papa had not noticed the frenetic energy surrounding our vineyard. Papa would go to the barn and count the remaining bottles of
Dolce Fantasia
each morning; as if they were free to walk out on their own once he closed his eyes. Mamma would rustle through our pantry, searching for ingredients to magically appear. After a few hours, they would both end up sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen table – Papa reading a book and Mamma mending an item of clothing I had outgrown years ago. I took long walks around our vineyard, red grapes bursting with flavor begging to be harvested, to be skinned and frozen. It would have been a productive harvest.

“Why don’t you go into town to visit Orlando?” Mamma would ask over luncheon, a bread roll with a slab of cheese and raw onion. She would look me in the eye with fierce concentration, daring her body to behave, but would soon break down in a barrage of coughs.

“Not today,” I’d typically reply. I had little desire to see my old friend, who had stopped writing in Rome after a few letters gone without reply. In every epistle, he asked after Mariko, and I could no longer bear to open his letters and read about his great love for Volatile while I drank myself into a stupor. The wound Mariko had left still ached terribly, and I hated reminders of it.   

One morning, the sound of car doors slamming jarred the melodious melancholy the Laurentis family had cloaked themselves in since my return. It was as if we were all balancing on a tightrope, too scared to breathe loudly or speak out of turn, in case it should encourage our fall into oblivion. I knew what was on my parents’ minds – when and how they should accept Gallo’s offer.

Mamma appeared at her bedroom door, wiry grey hair standing on end, a dressing gown thrown haphazardly over her shoulders. Papa had already placed his reading glasses inside his pocket, and was making his way toward the door. I hung back a little, waiting to be accosted by the looming, mountainous presence of Alfio Gallo.

Instead of a shiny black Chrysler, a green van had parked on the dirt outside our front porch. Three men, all in business suits, had emerged, and I immediately knew they were city people on account of their sunglasses. It was strange, you know. That was the very last clear memory of their visit; the suggestiveness of sunglasses.

I believe they explained they were somehow affiliated with the DOC, the wine regulation board the
Dolce Fantasia
and most of the Gallo estate’s labels were under. They said something about checking the PH levels, whatever that meant, and specified that they did not wish to be accompanied and could find their way around. The tallest one refused the offer of coffee and
crostini
with a simple wave of his hand. I asked Mamma if she had seen these people before but she shook her dazed head, and went inside to lie down. Papa appeared unconcerned, and took his place once more at the kitchen table, picking up his newspaper. I watched the men from my bedroom window.

I can’t recall exactly what it is they did. They had no briefcases, no tools in which to measure the soil, and did not seem inclined to do so. They stood at the far end of the vineyard, frozen like statues, for an immeasurable amount of time.

They returned to the house, rapped on the door, and handed Papa an official-looking envelope. A few arbitrary statements were made, but I couldn’t quite make them out, it was as if they were speaking a language that was half my own, and half someone else’s. We must have understood it, at the time, because we smiled at the men and I walked them to their van. Papa reached out to shake the hand of the tallest, but the man elegantly withdrew his hand before contact could be made. After the men had left, we all retreated to our beds and slept a drugged, hazy sleep well into the next morning.

Sweet Vittoria had curled herself atop the table, half-covering the letter the men had left. Yawning deeply after emerging from my room, I extracted it, sending her yowling out the kitchen window. The letter was from the DOC, officially declaring the Laurentis vineyard reopen for business.

It was then that the very last thing I recalled of yesterday came to mind. I don’t know what I was saying in farewell, but as I held the car door open for the tallest man out of a long-ingrained sense of courtesy, he lowered his sunglasses and looked at me.

His eyes were simply extraordinary, crucifixes where pupils should have been.

It was precisely one month later that Orvieto was inflamed with news of a colossal, sensational nature, news so inconceivable that many ventured to the scene just to confirm its truth. The Laurentis family was no exception. After receiving the gossip from a neighboring farmhand, my father hitched the wagon to old Tomasso’s back, who grumpily conceded to the interruption of his long retirement, earned by his stiff joints and completely blind left eye. But Tomasso’s comfort be damned, this we had to see with our own eyes.

And praise Zeus, it was true.

All around the road where we stopped the cart, over the hills and valleys, the green vineyards of the Gallo estate lay brown and decayed, once-luscious trees now skeletons of sticks, the vines crisp and dry, like loose hair lying scattered on the ground. Not one blade of grass had escaped; all was shriveled brown and roasted by the sun. The Gallo estate’s vineyards were a wasteland.

Perhaps the most remarkable occurrence was that not a single leaf of the neighboring vineyards had been touched, they remained lush and ready for the continuing harvest. Something mysterious was afoot, whispered the Orvietani, but as police, horticultural experts, poison control and members of the DOC flooded the estate, they confirmed the original statement: the ruination of the Gallo vineyards was an act of God. No human interference was detected nor suspected. The decay had been achieved completely by nature.

My Papa had whooped in joy when he saw the ruin, but clapped his hand over his mouth and said, quite seriously, “Remember to always respect your elders, Gabriel.”

That night, after habitually swallowing my medicine, was the happiest I had felt in a long time. I resolved that upon waking the next morning, I would sit with my father and plan the next year of the Laurentis dessert wine, to listen to his thoughts, which I had always tuned out before. But that night, I reflected upon the miracle that had happened, what Volatile had done. And suddenly I wanted her near, I wanted her to parade cockily up and down the vineyard, I wanted her to pick a fight with me. And this time, I’d fight back. I wouldn’t, what had she said? Extricate myself. Dismiss myself.

I suddenly noticed that, outside of my window, nature seemed to have returned to normal, only the chirping of crickets breaking the deep silence.

A loud banging at the door startled my reverie, insistent and authoritative. There was still only one man I knew with the gall to knock like that, and at this hour. I flung my sheets back, slammed my bedroom door behind me, and crossed the kitchen, my one aim to get rid of the caller without involving my parents.

Alfio Gallo looked taken aback when I hurled the door open violently. “Oh, you’re back, are you? Didn’t have the gumption for another year of university, did you? Step aside and let me in.”

“If you wish to come inside,” I began steadily, “you will have to ask politely.”

“What did you just say to me?” growled Gallo, and leaned forward to siphon his stale wine breath over me, but stepped back in surprise when he realized I was now taller than him, and he had to look up to me. His eyes were unfocussed and he was swaying a little.

“On second thought, you won’t be coming inside. You’re drunk, you stink, and you’re waking the entire valley.”

“Get your smart-mouthed, piss-ant
culo
out of my way,” he demanded, shuffling forward. “I’m here to see the head of this pitiful winery, not some deluded little farm boy.”

“The Laurentis farm is mine,” I declared, without really knowing what I was saying. “
Orvieto Dolce Fantasia
belongs to me now, and in light of your recent losses, I’m the one who should be offering pittances to buy your worthless land. But I won’t throw one lira your way. Now get the hell off my property.”

But Gallo began to laugh, a deep, shaking braying, like a demented donkey. “Not like your father, are you, my boy? He’s always been green about the gills, a coward hiding behind his books. But I like your spirit. You and I, we could be partners.”

“I’d rather dine on
merda
.”

“That’s your retarded mother talking.”

Without a second’s pause, my fist found his jaw and there was Gallo, sprawled out on the ground. He straightened up, his head hanging crookedly from his neck. “Is that all you’ve got?” he sneered.

So I kicked him in the stomach, followed by the chest. And as the enemy of my family struggled to get to his feet, I kicked him in the face, and felt his teeth loosen as I withdrew. I readied myself for another attack when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“That’s enough, Gabriel,” said my Papa.

“Listen to the old man,” mocked Gallo, as he wiped a slick of blood from his mouth. He stumbled to his feet and I clenched my fists, waiting for him. He looked down at his hand, only to realize for the first time that he was bleeding.

“Look what you’ve done, you stupid fool!” he snapped. “You are going to pay for this!”

“Like how you paid for trying to close down my farm?”

Gallo’s eyes widened, sheer hatred pouring from his stare as he hobbled forward, pointing a shaking finger at me. “I knew it was your doing,” he whispered, “I knew it.”

“Prove it,” I sneered, and turned to go inside.

“I know all about you, Gabriel Laurentis,” he hissed. “You and that
bird
of yours.”

I whirled around. “What did you say?”

He grinned evilly. There was blood in his mouth. “I’ve seen her, the falcon. I’ve been tracking her for years. I know you’ve been keeping her here.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

Gallo’s face was mere inches from mine now. I was shaking all over, desperately trying to hide it. “Prove it,” he sneered. And he spat on me.

As Papa brought me inside, I realized I was still shaking. Mamma was in the kitchen, her fists clenched around her dressing gown, eyes wide with fear. “It’s over, Blanca,” said my father. “It’s all over now.”

But Mamma just stood there, staring at the both of us, her head beginning to bob on her neck. “I’ll make you some tea, and you can drink it in bed,” soothed Papa, steering her back into the bedroom.