Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (10 page)

“I was in India,” she said at length, “for the winter.”

“Do you…travel alone?” asked Mamma carefully.

“With my flock. The same birds I was born with.”

“I see,” said Mamma, and I could tell she had a wealth of controversial questions stored within her. I did too, frightful and scandalous questions, many of which included: do you sleep in a nest sometimes? Do the others notice that you’re much bigger than all the other birds? Do you speak swallow? How did you learn Italian? Are you a secret everywhere you go? Did a witch cast a spell on you? When was the first time Signore Gallo saw you? Do the other swallows pick on you because you are different? Who is that man who is just like you?  “And your parents?” Mamma queried cautiously, trying to appear nonchalant, and I was disappointed at such a dull question.

“I don’t know,” said Volatile. “Maybe they are in my flock, maybe not. I have no way of knowing, you see.”

My parents clearly did not see, but did not know how to go about asking more questions of the nature.

“Do you like the name we gave you?” asked Papa.

“Of course,” said Volatile. “It is my name.”

“Well, of course it’s your name!” I interjected inanely.

“You misunderstand,” replied Volatile. “It has always been my name, long before you called me that.”

My parents exchanged a confused look.

“It is all our names,” continued Volatile. “Every swallow calls me Volatile. And I call every swallow Volatile. It is our name.”

“Oh,” said Mamma.

“Huh?” said I.

Spring passed and summer came. The harvest was strong and the house was pervaded by the scent of fermented, frozen white grapes, which I had grown used to. Flies filled our rooms and our barn, but it was worth it. I watched Papa bottle the wine by candlelight, when summer was nearly over and the days became shorter. The liquid looked like thick caramel as it was filtered into clear bottles with necks as long as swans’. My mother would apply the labels with a sponge and her fingers and gaze proudly at each bottle before she stacked them in the cellar.
Laurentis Dolce Fantasia, Orvieto, 1958
.

Volatile became an intrinsic part of our lives once more, and it was almost forgotten that she had ever left. I grew accustomed to seeing her face over the breakfast table, and playing in the fields at night. She was strange, though, so strange that summer that we gave up all hopes of ever assimilating her, of making her human. It was clear that Volatile was an in-between child, a mixed-breed like one can be mixed-race, neither belonging here nor there, yet belonging to both. I recalled what she said to me the first and only time she appeared in my dreams:
“I am a human with bird tendencies when I am with you. And I am a bird with human tendencies when I am with them.”
And
I understood exactly what it was like to never belong.

Volatile was a creature of few words, in those early years. She hardly spoke of her own accord, and often chose not to respond to questions. Her Italian was good, but her accent strange, clipped and stark, like it came from a beak. “Have you always been able to speak?” I asked her once, when we were folding the linen.

Volatile spat out two wooden clothes pegs from her mouth and answered promptly, “Haven’t you?”

“It’s just that you don’t seem to say much, that’s all.”

“I only speak when there is something worth saying.”

“Were there many things worth saying to my parents and not to me?”

Volatile shrugged, if you could call it that: a nonchalant expression crossed her face and her wings bobbed up and down behind her in a way that indicated sarcasm. “Only a fool wouldn’t thank the hands that fed her.”

“And you speak to the others, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Who was that man that was with you that day?”

She shrugged.

“Is he your brother?”

Silence.

“Are there more out there, creatures like you?”

But no matter how I pressed, she would not answer personal questions or queries regarding her life with the swallows, partly out of concealment, and partly because she did not know the answers. “I don’t tell the swallows of my human life,” she would say whenever I pushed her too hard, “so why should I tell you about them?”

I never witnessed her conversing with swallows. Sometimes, she would make strange noises at the base of her throat, a weird gargling. Sometimes, when surprised, she would let out a very erratic squawk and her feathers would ruffle and stand on end, usually when Sweet Vittoria visited. Often, her head would bob about in a funny little nod, like a chicken. Like my mother when she was having an episode, which were rare that year, and every year after when Volatile visited. And when Mamma witnessed this strange head bobble, her eyes would mist over and she would gaze at Volatile like she was indeed the long-lost parrot of Signora Silvana’s advice.

“I’m sorry about what I said that morning,” I said to her once in our olive grove, which wasn’t quite an olive grove, as it only consisted of five trees with dying roots.

“It’s about time,” said Volatile, smiling a little.

“I wanted you to come back, really I did. I asked you to come back in my dreams but you never came.”

“I told you I wouldn’t meddle in your dreams again.”

I was stumped then, and something fell deep into the soil of my heart, a seed. “But…I think I want you to.”

Volatile merely said, “Then one day you will have to ask me again, only very politely.”

And of course, Volatile remained a secret. She did not leave the house during the day, and no one spoke of her to outsiders. We had so few visitors and lived so remotely that it became almost easy. Orlando never asked me about my missing sister again, so I did not feel guilty lying to him. Although, sometimes Volatile would vanish, for days on end, only to reappear to the relief of all. “I had to go,” was all the explanation she would offer.

But at the beginning of autumn, when the pigeons and the sparrows and the ravens left Italy behind, Volatile said, “It is time.” And in the sky directly above our house, the swallows cried out for her.

Mamma began to weep. Papa put his arms around her and I grew nervous, having become spoilt and used to a normal mother. I detested the thought of a long winter ridden with screams and spasms. “I will return,” assured Volatile, “I will come back early.”

“How early?” sniffed Mamma.

“I will be back for
Carnevale
,” she said.

“
Carnevale
?” squeaked Mamma.

“For the masquerade parade. I want to join in. With all the other girls.”

“But they will see you, it is impossible –“

“Goodbye,” said Volatile, and flew away.

“Well!” exclaimed Mamma, for the shock of Volatile’s desire had shed away any sign of hysterics, “I suppose I have all winter to make a costume!”

T
rue to her word, when the ice coating the streets of Orvieto cracked and turned to grey slush, and the barren trees bent over and picked up their cloaks leaf by leaf, Volatile returned to the farm. We found her sleeping on the rug under the kitchen table, for the cot had become far too small for her. She had grown, and her face had changed again, and for the first time I recognized the woman in my dream. I could see her wings in the morning light, the deep oily patterns of midnight blue that whorled along each feather. They had grown even smaller this year. It was February and I was fourteen years old.

Carnevale
, the grand masked European tradition, was the most celebrated event of the year. In great cities like Florence and Venice, people came from all around the world to gasp at the spectacle of the Italian
Carnevale
. The children’s parade day, where the streets were lined with floats of such epic proportions and detail they seemed both monstrous and celestial. The blasting music and heavy rhythms. The dancing, drowning in confetti made from dyed newspaper and sold by the bag, the water balloon bombs and the administration of silly string on the persons of anyone who crossed your path. And elsewhere in Europe, the balls in the street, where everyone dressed as historic characters, every man Don Juan and every woman Marie Antoinette. And later, the private balls for the rich, held in ornate palaces where women ordered diamonds for their dresses and their masks. Orlando told me about the university festival too, but I didn’t believe him. “Sometimes during
Carnevale
”, he whispered, “and only in Rome, there is what’s called
Donne Notte
, Ladies Night.”

“That sounds boring,” I counteracted.

“You would think so,” continued Orlando, “only it’s anything but boring. It’s where every man wants to be.”

“Why?”

“Because the ladies choose any man they want, and take them away to do things to them.”

“What kind of things?”

“Sex things.”

“Wow,” I said, “like kissing and stuff?”

Orlando frowned at me. “There’s a lot more to sex than kissing, Laurentis. How have you not learned this?”

“Will you tell me?” I asked urgently, wondering which university Mariko would end up at.

“Not today,” said Orlando, screwing up his nose in distaste.

“But what if you don’t like the lady that wants to do sex things to you?” I pushed.

“You have no choice. It is said that once you enter that place, there is no escape. You must do exactly as the lady commands. Besides, what does it matter anyway? Everyone’s in masks, so you’ll never know who the lady is.”

“Even the men are masked?”

“Of course.”

“Would you go?”

Orlando sighed and sunk back into his pillows. “I doubt it,” he replied. “I’m not even allowed to go to the tedious kids’ parade here.”

“Your father again?” I asked, by now used to the list of restrictions that caged Orlando. It was strange how in the beginning I thought him completely free, smoking a pipe at eleven years old. I was mistaken. We all have our prisons.

“Yeah,” he said. “And my uncles, too. Even Mother. It’s not a fitting code of conduct for us,
et cetera
and thank you very much. But it’s okay. I can watch from the window anyway.”

“Aren’t you tired of never being able to go to parties?”

“Come on, Laurentis. As if we ever get invited.”

“I have to go to one this weekend,” I said quietly, because I was unsure how I felt about it yet.

“At
La Casa di Gallo
. Lucky you,” sneered Orlando and rolled his eyes. “Be careful of little pig Darlo. She’s sure to squeal.”

Over the winter, my parents had decided in favor of Volatile joining the
Carnevale
celebrations. Mamma had prepared a costume for her, a pale blue dress made of satin, with plenty of padding at the back to disguise her wings underneath.  The plan was to visit Orvieto town as a family, and pretend Volatile was a distant cousin come to stay, should anyone care to enquire. Papa could not see anything going wrong, especially during a day of outrageous noise, costume and crowds. No one was sure to even notice her. And at the Gallo’s party, Volatile was to stay at home, out of sight, the whole incident forgotten. But an icy pair of fingers sunk into my heart, and I could not eat that day.

“Here,” said Mamma over breakfast the morning of the parade, and placed a neatly folded something in front of my plate. She stood back and watched me with anticipation.

I swallowed my mouthful of porridge and hastily unfurled the bundle. A shiny red cloak, a pair of tight green satin leggings, a white billowy shirt with puffed sleeves, and a brown vest that seemed the only wearable garment in this group of travesties. “What the hell is this?” I cried.

Volatile was choking on her breakfast with the effort of trying not to laugh.

“Gabriel, language!” chided my father. “Your mother worked very hard on this.”

And I looked over at Mamma, who was gazing at her creation with pride.

“But Papa, I can’t…” I began under my breath. “Do you want me to be a laughing stock?”

“It’s to match Volatile’s costume,” sang Mamma. “You’re a prince for today! Isn’t that wonderful?”

I held up the pair of shiny leggings gingerly with two fingers, as if bad taste were contagious. “Papa, do I have to?”

My father glared at me and I sighed deeply. And I don’t think, to this day, with all the misery I have had to endure this lifetime, that I have sighed more deeply than at this moment.

I have to confess I was very poorly behaved that morning, and I refused to dress myself in that hideous monstrosity. I stood there like a wooden boy, while Mamma pulled and fretted over every inch of the glimmering costume that was sure to concrete my reputation as a lady boy for the rest of my days. Volatile sailed by my open bedroom door and giggled at the sight of me in my underpants, but I was too devastated to be embarrassed. And when Mamma finished dressing me, I stood there like a statue, face deadpan, my arms hanging by my sides like a puppet. “Oh, you look so handsome!” gushed Mamma, and pushed my unyielding body over to the mirror. I looked like a more ridiculous version of a court jester.

“It’s perfect,” breathed Mamma, “and matches Volatile’s —Volatile! What on earth are you doing?”

And my reverie of self-pity was broken at the sight of Volatile kneeling on the floor with a pair of scissors, slicing up her dress. Mamma snatched the shears away and held up the dress, wailing. “This took me three months,” she cried, “three months!” Her head began to jerk steadily on her neck.

“I couldn’t breathe,” said Volatile.

“What do you mean, you couldn’t breathe? Was it suddenly too tight? It fit perfectly last night!”

“No, I mean my wings. I couldn’t breathe.” And Mamma unfurled the garment and saw two slices along the deep padding of the back.

“But my dear child, you can’t go out like this,” my mother said, “everyone will see.
Everyone will see, everyone will see. You can’t go out like this for everyone will see
.”

“But if you cover my wings, I’ll suffocate.”

“Let her have them,” advised my Papa, “people will think they are part of the costume.”

“Celso, they look far too realistic!”

“Not after a few glasses of grappa,” came Papa’s response.

And so Tomasso was hitched to the cart and off we went to Orvieto – Volatile overjoyed and soaking up the sights that she had never seen from this angle before, and me, sulky and humiliated in my yards of shining satin. Papa and Mamma seemed happy enough, although I could sense tension, as Mamma was wary of making a spectacle of herself at public outings.

There was a farmer’s market and craft fair at the Piazza del Popolo, where Papa tied the donkey and the cart, gave us 5000 lire each and told us to run along. There was a restrained raucousness in the air as I took Volatile’s hand. Shopkeepers had closed their stores and parents were pushing their children to the traditional meeting place at Repubblica square, where they were assembled into lines to begin the parade down Corso Cavour. I shuddered when I saw my classmates, the boys dressed in their non-shimmery, masculine costumes. There were cowboys, matadors, policemen, and some dressed as a new hero called “Zorro”, who had his own TV show and everything, although I had never seen it.

All the children from my school seemed to be clustered in a circle, as if orbiting around a particularly shining star. A few turned to regard me.

“Nice costumes, ladies,” sneered a cowboy as we brushed by.

“Was that thing made from your mamma’s old panties?” laughed a football player, raking Volatile over with his eyes.

“It would take more than those threadbare old rags to make a prince out of you,” commented Zorro drily.

And then, as the lively music started to pump out of loudspeakers, the orbiting crowd broke apart to reveal its star. My blood ran cold when I saw Darlo Gallo, regal in a sapphire-colored silk gown and a pointy, dangerous-looking tiara. And there, curling over her spine, was a pair of costume wings so realistic, they may have been constructed from her father’s hunting successes.  

Sweat broke out on my brow as Darlo spotted me. Her expression changed from that of a fat, pedigreed cat languishing in attention to narrow-eyed suspicion. Then, a red fury seemed to descend over her like a visible cloud, and everything became slow motion. I cringed like a baby when she stalked over to me and I recoiled in anticipation, but to my great surprise, her outstretched claws did not graze me. Instead, they grabbed Volatile by the collar of her dress.

“Who are you?” screeched Darlo Gallo, and suddenly, we were surrounded by her band of strong boys, who served to conceal us from the world of adults. “Answer me!”

But Volatile was speechless, and I could hear her heartbeat hammering like it was my own.

“Leave her alone! That’s my cousin!” I spat, but Darlo ignored me.

“Answer me!” demanded Darlo, and she shook Volatile. “I want to know! I want to know why…you…are…wearing…my…costume!” Every word was punctuated by a violent push, and then two boys had Volatile by each arm and whirled her around. I was tall enough to see into the crowd of people, but none of the adults seemed to be paying attention over the deafening music. I tried to call for help, but my mouth was as dry as week-old bread. Darlo Gallo had worked herself into a white-hot rage. “How dare you?” she shrieked. “Don’t you know who I am
? I own this place
!”

And with all of her strength, hands clutching Volatile’s wings at the base, Darlo tore with all her might. Volatile screamed – not the scream of a human being, but the cry of a bird shot down in flight. And through the crowd, I saw Alfio Gallo snap to attention.

At that moment and right on cue, the children assembled in the square began to dance in time with the music, moving in a line down Corso Cavour. The
Carnevale
parade had begun. The confetti and streamers began to fly, and the boys around us had no choice but to disband and join in their allotted places. Darlo shot Volatile a hateful glare and looked almost depressed that she couldn’t finish the job. But instead, she sniffed, put her nose in the air, and marched away. I sighed with relief, and placed an arm over a shaking Volatile to disguise the blood stains that had already began to seep through the back of her gown. I jostled through the children and the crowd of admiring parents, my arm tightly around Volatile’s shoulders. I felt the eyes of Alfio Gallo on the back of my head, so I hurried further, until I found a deserted lane. My eyes searched for a hiding place and immediately located one – a balcony concealed by cherry tomato vines, three flights of steps up. I half-dragged, half-carried Volatile up the steps. The garden was built around the entrance to an apartment, and stretched over like a bridge to the building opposite. It was silent, for everyone had gone to
Carnevale
.  

Volatile collapsed. I was alarmed at the rate the bloodstains were growing, and shocked at Darlo’s strength. “Wait here,” I whispered urgently, “and do not make a sound. I’m going to get help.”

“Don’t leave me,” whispered Volatile.