Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (22 page)

“If only,” I sighed, “if only this were real life.”

Volatile smiled a secret smile and leaned over to whisper in my ear. What she said next covered my skin with tiny goose bumps, and I shivered.

“It could be.”

M
y father, unsurprisingly, was already awake as I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed, remnants of sleep still clinging to me like a persistent lover. He nursed a cup of coffee in his hands and he seemed to be studying the pattern of the tablecloth with an absent intent.

“Good morning, Papa.”

“Ah, Gabriel,” he murmured, springing to life and pouring me espresso. As I sat down, through my bleary eyes I noticed he had already set out a plate and utensils for me, along with a basket of bread with an assortment of Signora Khan’s condiments laid out upon the table. He had assumed my mother’s job. I felt awash with guilt. Shouldn’t I be serving him?

“It’s not so bad, you know,” he said, pointing to a tub of hummus, “once you get used to it.”

“I know,” I agreed, and my stomach began to churn and I realized how hungry I was. Enthusiastically, I snatched up a roll of bread. My father took this as a sign.

“I want to know when you’re ready to start work on the vineyard. I know your mother just…just passed, but I find being occupied helps keep the mind off unpleasant topics. For the most part.”

When he didn’t receive a response, he continued. “I thought I could start by showing you the books. I could teach you how to manage the accounts and—“

“I have to go into town today, Papa.”

His face fell and I felt a stab of remorse for disappointing him.

“What for, son?” he asked softly.

“I want to see Orlando.”

Papa was quiet for a moment, scrutinizing me in that gentle way he had about him, like he could divine my thoughts like they were his own. “If you two are thinking up some vigilante justice against Alfio Gallo…”

“I am going to get her body back, Father,” I growled.

He was taken aback by the formal use of his title. “I think you had better leave well enough alone.”

“How could you say that? He killed her! He
murdered
her in cold blood!”

“He believed he was hunting an animal.”

“How could you defend him? After all he has done to us?”

“I think Alfio Gallo has suffered enough.”

“You think the loss of his wealth is equal to a human life?”

“She was not human, Gabriel.”

I stood up, aggressively pushing the table away from me. “You cannot know what you’re saying,” I snapped, snatching up my jacket. “I’ll leave you now.”

Papa shook his head sadly. “Where has this violence in you come from? Laurentis men are men of peace. I did not teach you revenge or brutality.”

“All you taught me was—“

“Enough!” my father commanded, in a stern tone that I had not heard before, freezing me in my tracks. “I will not have you spitting words that will not only wound me, but yourself, only far more deeply, and much later, after you realize what it is you have done. You cannot unsay what has already been said.” He moved toward me and laid a careworn hand on my shoulder. I noticed new liver spots sprouting like mold.  “Do what you must, but hurt no one.”

I nodded solemnly, swallowing down the casual words I would have flung at him like a whip, words that were already dissolved and half-forgotten. I ducked my head in apology and headed for the Khan Emporium.

Declining Ayisha Khan’s offer of tea, I took the familiar spiral staircase to Orlando’s attic room, two steps at a time. As I sprinted hastily past the second landing, the door to the room of Imelda Khan, still a celebrated beauty yet unmarried, instinctively slammed shut. I had yet to lay eyes on her, and if not for the unmistakable girlish indications of a young woman present in the house, I would have dismissed her as entirely mythical.

Orlando was dressed and waiting for me. We had briefly discussed a plan yesterday, which could hardly be called a plan at all, it was so simple: go to the Gallo estate, get the body back, use force if necessary. I took a moment to subtly peer past my friend and into his cavernous room, once a haven of the exotic and the enigmatic to me. Two or three
huqqua
pipes sat on a floor strewn with lush rugs, silks and strips of unsold Persian carpets. The chartreuse paint that was once so bright lay flat and peeling from his walls, and tobacco smoke covered the beams. But as I peered closer, amidst the childish pictures Orlando used to draw all over the walls – peacocks and roses and mosques with domes rising like meringues, I could detect lines and lines of strange, coiled foreign writing, charts, and outlines of anatomies I never knew existed.

Orlando sensed my curiosity and budged me out of the way, closing the door firmly behind me. To my surprise, he drew a key on a long copper chain from his pocket, bolting the door behind him. Without offering any explanation, he waved me down the stairs. I could not erase it from my mind: the puddle of black satin in the corner of the room, with the hollow of a woman’s body still imprinted within in. I wondered how close he would sleep beside her.

We took a shortcut through town, and began our swift decent from Orvieto, through woods and wasteland of vineyards, and on towards
La Casa di Gallo
. Swift, chilly winds soared through the valley, stinging our bare faces with icy fingers.

“What happened between you and her, anyway?” I asked, deciding I had a perfect right to do so. We had yet to discuss any aspects of Volatile since her death, excepting today’s excavation plan.

“We wore away,” he responded grimly. He trudged along before me, without looking back. After a long moment he continued, “Make no mistake, I knew it was you all along. When you left for Rome, she changed. When you didn’t come home for Christmas, that’s when I realized that she stayed for you, and not me. We were never the same after that.  She could not give me what I wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could muster in return.

“Don’t be. I was there when she needed me. I would not,
could not
abandon her. The many nights she needed comfort, someone to hold her. So many nights she could not bear to be in the same house as you. And there were the times she couldn’t go back, no matter how much she wanted to.”

I knew he was referring to her final days, barely being able to fly with the pain of the decaying bones on her back. Suddenly, my old friend whipped around and stared at me with a haunting expression. “I want you to know how much you did not deserve her. I don’t know what it was she saw in you. Your pretty eyes, your pretty hair and face are not enough to earn the love of that creature. A part of me hates you, because you are, unquestionably, an ingrate. You never saw her for what she was. And you still don’t know who she is.”

I could not argue with him, even if I wanted to, because we had arrived at the heavy gates of the Gallo estate. But most of all, because I knew he was right.

A servant opened the door with a rag in one hand and bucket of water in the other. “
Si?
” she drawled lazily, frowning a little at Orlando’s unsightly ensemble consisting of black jeans, sneakers, an embroidered silk shirt, and a purple fez complete with yellow tassel.

“Signore Gallo,
per favore
,” I demanded.

“My husband is not at home,” said a regal voice. We peered past the servant and saw a white-haired, straight-backed woman descending the grand staircase in the foyer. “How can I help you?” She gave the servant a sidelong glance, who immediately scurried away. As I looked down on this woman with her pursed lips and hard lines etched around her eyes, I recalled the last time I had seen her, noting her resemblance to her daughter. But after all these years, in my mind’s eye, I could not picture Darlo Gallo anymore.

I stepped forward, about to speak, but suddenly halted. How on earth was I to identify Volatile? As a half-woman, half-bird? She would think me mad.

“Your husband shot a…a creature on my property,” I begun, in my sternest voice.

“You must be that Laurentis boy,” she said, but there was no flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“I am.”

“Then you must mean the falcon,” she stated flatly.

“Uh, yes. The, uh, falcon.” I glanced over at Orlando, whose eyes were wide and upon me too, as if wondering where this was going.

“And you are?” She was addressing Orlando.

“Signora, my name is—“

“Never mind,” she interrupted imperiously, “just don’t touch anything. This way.” She beckoned for us to follow.

Orlando and I exchanged a heavy glance as we alighted the red velvet staircase to the first landing, an enormous circular hallway of doors leading to large, opulent chambers. Original paintings in heavy gold frames lined each wall with an eerie symmetry. Signora Gallo led us through the hall, to the very last door, which opened without a creak, as if the hinges were frequently in use.

The room was wallpapered in a dark green design, heavy black curtains drawn across long latticed French windows. Silently, Signore Gallo strode across the room and unfurled the drapery. I gasped aloud.

Screwed onto four walls of the room were the stuffed heads of multiple animals, their eyes glassy, mouths wired open. There were hundreds of them, mounted on heavy rosewood slabs, brass plaques underneath stating their species and date of kill. There was no furniture in the room excepting a revolving chair in the very center, suggesting the precise purpose of the room: the hunter’s viewing pleasure.

“Is this what you mean?” came the soft voice of Gallo’s wife.

There, in the exact nucleus of the south wall, was an enormous head mounted on a slab of wood plated in pure gold. Orlando and I crossed over and examined it. It appeared to be the cranium of an aviary species, certainly a falcon or possibly even a hawk.

“But it’s just a bird,” I breathed.

“What else did you think it was?” said Signora Gallo, a hard edge to her voice.

“No, Laurentis,” whispered Orlando. “Look harder.”

And as I peered closer, I noticed the features of the bird were inexplicably blurred, blurred into the contours of Volatile’s face. And the eyes, burned with acid and crystalized by formaldehyde, were unmistakably hers. There was a sharp intake of breath from Orlando, and he seemed to melt to the floor in disbelief, one hand covering his mouth. I was filled with rage and horror. “How could you?” I cried at Gallo’s wife.

It was my statement, not really intended for her, that made her instantly come alive. “
You want it
?” she screeched, hurling herself toward the wall. She unhooked the slab, struggling with its weight, thrusting it toward me. “Then take it. Take it away from here!”

“Are you mad?” I shouted, shielding the head away from me, not wanting to touch the thing that was not quite Volatile. I couldn’t bear to look at it one more time.

But Signora Gallo, her eyes wide and crazed, pushed her face close to mine. “Do you know what my husband says?” she hissed. “He says it
speaks
to him.”

All the hair at the back of my neck stood on end. Tears were streaming down Signora Gallo’s face. Unable to support it any longer with unstable hands, she dropped the slab onto the ground, but it did not crack or splinter.  “He said it was a sickly thing,” she whispered, “not like a real bird at all. Like predators had got to it first, sucking its flesh away.” She looked down to where Orlando remained stricken on his knees. “He had a hard time convincing me to keep this in the house,” she murmured absently. “He said it was the head of a falcon.
‘How could you say that, Alfio? You’ve committed a murder!’
I screamed that night. But he wouldn’t listen, he called me a madwoman, said he’d lock me away. Because I told him what I saw, and it’s no falcon. I see the face of a woman.”