Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (25 page)

“I do,” I replied darkly.

“It’s her, isn’t it? That girl.”

I looked up sharply. “What do you know?” I snapped. She had my undivided attention now.

“He killed her. That girl. The one with the swallow’s wings.”

When Darlo registered the expression on my face, her eyes widened and she continued. “I knew it! I knew she was real. I met her once, didn’t I, Gabriel? At the children’s parade during
Carnevale
.”

“You are going to tell me everything you know,” I commanded, getting to my feet.

“Oh, how I hated her, as a child. It’s strange, you know. I met you both, for the first time, on that same day. We had not been introduced, and I remember seeing you for the first time, playing with my wooden blocks and other toys in the house. I just stared at you for a while, I had never seen hair that shade. You were just like the cherubs Signorelli painted in his frescoes. But soon, I began to feel like I was not alone, and all the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end. And through the window, I saw
her
. A girl on the sill, with spectacular wings and a forked swallow’s tail, watching you so intently. And I was so jealous of her that I marched over to you and—“

“And hit me in the face with a doll,” I finished bitterly.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I did do that, didn’t I? I suppose I wanted to see if she really was your guardian angel, if she would fly down and smite me. And I might have forgotten her, but every day outside our classroom was that infernal troupe of swallows that perched in the Jerusalem trees, from first bell to last, therefore she was always in the back of my mind. I dreamed about her from time to time. I pictured her, wings splayed against the back of our domed ceiling, spying on me. Our eyes would meet and I would be overwhelmed by the color of hers: a strange green, I could never quite place it. I saw a chaise lounge in Toulouse that very color, and what do you think? I purchased it immediately. Even the manufacturer did not have a name for that shade. But I am getting sidetracked. In my dreams, she would gaze at me and say, “He’s mine, little girl,” and I would wake up in tears.  And when I saw her at
Carnevale
that day, I recognized her immediately. I’m sorry to say that I was very much aware that I tried to tear her wings. I felt them breaking, you know, the snapping of ligaments in my hands…” Her voice trailed away and she shuddered.

“You were a beast,” I said coldly, “a brutal animal.”

“I suppose jealousy makes beasts of us all,” Darlo conceded, and had the decency to blush. “Before my father shot himself, my mother telegrammed me a few times. ‘Papa sick. Stop. Hearing voices. Stop. Am afraid’, one said. Another: ‘He has killed her. Stop. He can’t see her. Stop.’  I supposed it was just my mother having her histrionics, as usual. But when she took me to the trophy room, showed me the blood she hadn’t yet allowed the servants to clean, and I saw that head, I knew. It was her. He had killed the swallow-girl. And the swallow-girl drove him mad, in revenge.”

I was staring at Darlo darkly, my arms crossed in front of my chest. She took a deep gulp and continued. “So I stole the head. I took the plaque right off the wall and I buried it in the woods. I came here today to show you where the grave is, because she at least deserves a resting place, don’t you think?”

I was surprised. Did this fashionable thing that modeled hats for a living, in high heels and a fox fur stole, really lug that gold-plated slab out into the middle of the woods and bury it with her own two hands?

“It was with a shovel,” said Darlo, as if reading my thoughts, “and my nails will never be the same.” I noticed, as she held her hands up to my face, the dark edges of deeply embedded dirt and the torn edges of each manicured nail.

“This is what you are going to do,” I said, after a moment’s pause. “You are going to tell me exactly where you buried her.”

“But if I lead you there—“

“You are going to
tell
me. And then you are going to get in your car and drive away. You will not step foot on my property again. You will go back to Florence, to your husband. And each time you return to Orvieto, you will forget my name, and you will forget hers.”

“But I never knew her name,” began Darlo.

“It was Volatile,
the fleeting bird
. That is who your father killed.”

After she had left and I was assured she was really gone, I ventured deep into the woods, following the directions that Darlo had left for me. Soon enough, I found myself in a picturesque clearing where a mound of recently unearthed dirt lay in the center, a strangely lovely circle of polished river stones surrounding it. I was surprised by what the scene said about my arch-nemesis. Had she really searched these woods, the weight of the stuffed head bearing her down, for the most beautiful place to bury Volatile? Had she brought the memorial stones along with her for this very purpose? It was a belated atonement, somehow. A haunted atonement. Not merely for her father’s sin, for her own past violence that she, too, had never forgotten.

Night was falling and I took a step out of the woods and into the clearing. In my hand was a fistful of hastily plucked wildflowers I had gathered along the way, a thoughtless ritual. Abruptly, the sound of rushing wind filled my ears, and I deftly moved back, returning to the dark cover of the forest. A monstrous shadow appeared at the grave, leaning over it and froze, like it was waiting for something. A powerful white arm, lined with blue veins like a slab of church marble, extended slowly from the silhouette, a mass of feathers, grotesque black wings.

I gasped aloud. The dark one’s head whipped around in my direction and I saw a glint in his unearthly eyes.

I ran.

D
arlo Gallo, or should I say Signora Guiliani, came right back to the house two days later, bearing gifts of smoked ham, tinned peeled tomatoes and syrupy peaches, boxed
pannetone
, jars of maraschino cherries and dense Christmas cakes spiced with raisins and cinnamon. “It’s going to be a long winter,” she said to my father, “and I thought I’d bring you a few treats.”

“You darling girl,” exclaimed my father, and I heard the sound of his kisses on both cheeks, smacks of sheer gratefulness. “You didn’t have to.”

“You sweet old thing,” said Darlo. “I can’t imagine going back to Florence knowing the two of you are all alone without a woman to care for you.”

“It’s too kind,” said Papa.

“Now then, Signore Laurentis, wait ‘til you hear this! I have a boy we no longer need, after what happened to the estate. He’s well trained and a hard worker, and I couldn’t bear to put him out of a job.”

“But Miss,” protested my father, “I could not afford to—“

“He works for me, Signore,” pressed Darlo firmly, “and he will begin Monday morning at six a.m.”

“I simply could not accept such a generous gift,” stated Papa.

“What rot!” exclaimed Darlo. “What stuff and nonsense!”

“But I—“

“I’m afraid it’s already been settled, Signore Laurentis, and I am sure you would not want to deny this poor boy an honest job. No, I am afraid it is a done deal. And look what else I’ve brought,” she whispered, drawing two bottles of
limoncello
out of her shoulder bag.

My father did not speak, so overwhelmed with emotion.

“Merry Christmas, Signore Laurentis,” said Darlo.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” said Papa, and his voice was muffled, as if he was choking up.

“Say goodbye to Gabriel for me,” said Darlo in a loud and pointed voice directed right at my bedroom door, as if she knew that I were eavesdropping just beyond it, “and remind him that I am not far away, if he should need me.”

“Has she gone now?” asked Volatile that night.

“Yes,” I replied, her shins tangled around my own. I lay in perfect peace, my belly full of the rich delights that Mamma had prepared. I had just woken in the white world, and I was telling Volatile a dream I had, a dream where I lived on a tiny farm, and Darlo Gallo was there offering canned goods and cakes and labor while I hid behind my bedroom door. My Papa looked so old in the dream, so different from how he looked here.

But I shook my head and remembered. It wasn’t a dream.
This
was the dream and I was getting confused again. The confusion was normal, occurring more often than not.

“Have you decided,” pressed Volatile, “if you are here to stay?” She seemed unaware of my confusion.

“Must I right now?”

“You must make up your mind. If you don’t want to live here with me, then I must leave.”

“But why?”

“Because I cannot be in two places at once,” she said huffily, as if it were the most natural thing on earth. But there was something more pressing on my mind.

“Why am I unchanged?” I asked her, switching subjects.

“Unchanged?”

“Everyone else is changing. Orlando Khan has become so mysterious and wise, so driven. He left me because he outgrew me, didn’t he?”

I didn’t say it aloud, but I couldn’t stop thinking how even Darlo Gallo evolved from a horrid little witch to a considerate, self-possessed woman that my Papa had fallen head over heels for. Everyone I knew was transforming before my eyes. But I remained the same.  I began to suspect that despite my adult appearance, I was merely a frightened little boy, holding onto the fears and grudges of the past like they were underpants with a rocket ship print. A child who longed for the night, to live in a dreamland.

“I’m just the same,” I muttered.

“Let me protect you,” soothed Volatile, “in this unchanging world. Isn’t it beautiful, Gabriel? Isn’t it everything you ever wanted? You don’t need to adapt here, because everything remains the same.”

I believed her. I wanted to give up. And I would have retreated completely into Volatile’s world, if it were not for a irritating little thought at the back of my mind: I would not break in front of Darlo Gallo. I would show her.

I closed my eyes and breathed the aviary scent of this world Volatile had created for me. Settling into her lap, my eyelids felt like dried old leaves as they fluttered open. “I’m so tired, Volatile,” I said. “I can’t go on any longer.”

The winter passed. Papa seemed more rested and nourished than usual, with the help of the boy that Signora Guiliani had procured for us. He spent his evenings writing long letters that he later mailed to Florence, walking all the way into town to post them, as we had yet to find the money to replace Tomasso. I knew he was corresponding with Darlo, and when he was out in the fields, I would fish about in his nightstand drawer for her replies. But once I held the creamy stationery in my hands, I would lose interest and replace them in their neat, date-ordered bundle.

We would sometimes eat at the table together, Papa, the teenage boy and myself. I would watch in a mildly horrified stasis as the boy heaped helping after helping on his plate, examine the food slipping down his wet, pink throat while I toyed with my pig’s knuckle and boiled peas. He would steal glances at me beneath his black eyelashes and I would stick my tongue out at him or silently heckle him on occasion. Then I would hug myself from the cold that pierced me deeper than ever before, and feel the ribs that jutted out of my skin. I knew I had to eat but had no appetite for this flavorless fare, a poor man’s dinner. There was always a feast waiting in the white world. All I had taste for was liquor, and lots of it.

A man in a grey suit and a monocle appeared at the house one day and made me sit with him in the kitchen. He had a lined notepad and a silver fountain pen, and asked me a series of questions while holding up white cards splayed with strange, black, moving inkblots. He left soon after, and I watched him talk with my father, yet did not strain my ears to eavesdrop, because I simply didn’t care. My father covered his face with both hands as the man drove away.

My hair grew to my shoulders and my beard with it, and I spent the days holding my mother’s dressing robe around my naked limbs, perched up near the window, watching the grey snow drift down to earth, the faint outlines of Papa and the boy moving in a rigid dance.

Darlo Giuliani reappeared with the spring, racing down the road in her convertible, auburn hair flying from a headscarf, and a brilliant smile on her lips.

“It’s a gorgeous day,” she said after greeting my father with a flurry of packages and embraces, “won’t you come with me for some gelato?”

I stared at her in horror when I realized she was addressing me, and not my father.

“Shan’t,” I said rudely, and turned my back on her.

“Gabriel Laurentis,” commanded my father sternly, “you are going to get dressed and accompany this young lady into town for gelato.”

“But I don’t like gelato,” I moaned childishly.

“Yes, you do,” he said firmly. “He does,” he confirmed to Darlo.

And so, dressed in pants that swam on me and a shirt that the boy had washed, and badly too since he had taken over the laundry chores, I sat in the front seat of the convertible, pressed up against the door to get as far away from Darlo as possible. I felt assaulted by the fresh air as she sped the vehicle through the narrow streets and under the old stone canopies, their protective gargoyles shaking their heads at me as we passed. She whizzed through Orvieto town, without a care for potholes or the state of her poor tires, honking her horn at the tourists that gathered to photograph Il Duomo, sending them scattering and cursing in English. I had whiplash as she suddenly braked, stopping the car in front of an unimposing, candy-colored ice cream store on Corso Cavour.

“Out!” she said, slamming the car door behind her. I had no choice but to follow her. I moved slower than I supposed, and everything about Orvieto hurt my eyes. People moved so fast, like lightening. They spoke with an animation I hadn’t seen in months. The sound of their laughter was like warm, salted bathwater over old scabs that the owner can’t stop picking. They did not seem to notice me as they clung to each other’s arms, striding with purpose, praises on their lips, curses too. What did they live for? Why were they here? It felt like my first time in Orvieto. Had I ever really been here before? I glanced down the road. There was Montanucci’s, my favorite bakery with its sticky
torrone
I loved as a child, the venue where I first laid eyes on Mariko Marino. Mariko. What did her face look like again?

A little bell chimed as I pushed open the door of the
gelateria
. Darlo was standing at the glass counter where a rainbow of flavors met my eyes, jabbering away with a serving woman in a comical pink hat. I sat down weakly and a paper cup overflowing with green, pink and white spheres was pushed in front of my nose. “Eat,” she said, and dove into her chocolate cone, keeping her narrowed eyes on me.

I was so unnerved I did as she commanded. An explosion of taste made my eyes water. “That lemon is quite sour, isn’t it?” sympathized Darlo.

“I thought,” I said, once I came to myself, “that I told you never to return to my house again.”

“And I thought,” replied Darlo smoothly, “that you knew I wasn’t the type to take orders from a man.”

When I didn’t reply, she directed my gaze outside of the window. “I like to come here to watch the tourists,” she said, referring to a loud group rollicking up the cobbled street. “The Americans always wear the strangest clothes. Things that don’t really fit them, and the most obnoxious colors. The British, they are on either end of the spectrum. Too formal, or too sloppy, but almost always inappropriate.”

“Do you come here a lot, then?” I muttered.

“When I am in town,” she responded.

“What does your husband think,” I began, “of you coming back here? Doesn’t he want you in Florence?”

But Darlo began studying the grains in the wooden table intently, a jaded expression passing her face. “My husband certainly wants a woman by his side, several, if he can manage it,” she replied softly, “and does not permit me to comment or complain.” She looked up at me, her eyes bright with tears. The first sign of weakness I had ever seen in Darlo Gallo inexplicably moved me. The child in me wanted to throw my ice cream in the air and dance a victorious jig around the table, laughing at her misfortune. But I couldn’t move. I could not even find the tiniest sliver of joy in this revelation. Instead I felt sad, sorry that this Florentine did not want Darlo anymore.