Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (13 page)

When the performance was over, there was polite applause, confused expressions, and a great deal of loud chatter as to what the Orvietani liked and did not like about
The Nightingale
. (Liked: the Emperor, some of the trees, the costumes from the Khan Emporium. Did not like: the Nightingale, the makeup, some of the trees, the paper palace, the music, the Nightingale’s solo, the length of the play, how the Nightingale did not die at the end.)

As the crowd poured out of the Teatro Mancinelli to discuss the production in detail over cigars and red wine, and perhaps a late supper of rabbit stew or a plate of antipasto, I remained in my box, waiting. I watched the Marinos, Signore Marino’s hand shaken by many a patron, Mariko looking bored. I dug my hand in a pocket to pull out the remains of my lire, for I had chosen a cheaper box ticket in order to save for two cups of coffee. My hands shook.

One or two cleaners began to file into the theatre, and as I looked down upon the ground floor, I knew my moment had arrived. Mariko sat in the front row alone, her father undoubtedly gone backstage to congratulate and collect his wife.

“
Buonasera
,” I said meekly behind her, and her head whipped around to see me standing in the aisle, hands thrust deeply in the pockets to conceal the shaking.

She looked around her, searching for a way out, or perhaps for somebody who would see her, I didn’t know. I was filled with dismay.

“Your Mamma was great tonight,” I said, and I meant it, because everything associated with Mariko was grand, wonderful, just magic. I kind of just stood there, waiting for her to speak. An old lady cleaner sailed past me with her broom and rolled her eyes, as if she knew exactly what I was up to and did not approve.

“Uh…thanks. Thanks, Gabriel,” said Mariko, and my heart soared. She knew my name.
She knew my name!

“Did you…uh…did you help her with her lines?”

“Not really.”

“Well, someone had to, because she was great.”

“I think the rest of the cast would have done that, during rehearsal.”

“Oh,” I finished lamely. “Can I sit down?”

Mariko looked flustered. “Um…I don’t know, well, maybe for a minute…”

I understood immediately. “Your father?”

But Mariko frowned. “No.” Her voice trailed off. “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she said flatly, and turned away.

One by one, the house lights began to go out until we were sitting there in near darkness. Mariko squirmed uncomfortably. I felt terribly foolish, and the distant dream of the two of us, laughingly perched over cups of steaming cappuccino, seemed ridiculous indeed.

But instead of apologizing and slinking away, I grew indignant. I had dealt with rejection for too long, you see, and in my back knuckle-like bones began to click together like beads on a bracelet: the beginnings of a spine. And suddenly, I was weary of her, of her beauty, her unattainability. Sick to death of unrequited love from such a terrible distance, I realized the haunting truth: I was tired of Orvieto.

“I can guess why,” I replied peevishly. “I’m poor. My clothes don’t match and I never eat anything the way it’s meant to be eaten, because we never have the kind of food that you Orvieto folk do.” My hat quivered as I held it in my lap. Suddenly, the hat felt far too adult for me, and I must surely look laughable in it, a fifteen-year-old acting like Humphrey Bogart.
Shut up, idiot!
my brain said, but I continued on anyway. “And I know you all think I’m a reject of society or something. The boy who has no friends, except for that foreigner nobody else likes, and a mother that’s considered retarded.”

“Gabriel!”

“Oh, and not to mention, ugly as sin. ‘
Look at that lady boy! Is it a boy or is it a girl? What a mystery!
’ ” And I stood up, feeling like my whole body was shaking now, and I felt miserable, foolish and righteously angry all at once. All I wanted was to run along home, and hurl myself into Volatile’s bed, and keep her up all night moaning about it.

“Thanks for letting me sit here, Mariko Marino. What an honor it was to sit next to you for just a moment, considering how you’re not
supposed
to talk to me. What a privilege,” I scoffed, turned my back, and exited the theatre.

I hurled the hat away from me in disgust as I fled down the steps. Damn Humphrey Bogart, I mused viciously as I resolved to never think about Mariko Marino for the rest of my days.

But suddenly, I heard my name being called, and footsteps echoed behind me on the cobblestone street, and a cold hand clasped the bare skin of my forearm.

“So what if you don’t eat the way the rest of them do?” said Mariko, letting go of my arm and thrusting my discarded hat into my chest. “We eat uncooked fish sometimes. And sticky rice. And raw baby octopus when we can find it. And
edemame,
my favorite – that’s steamed green beans that Haha cooks for me.”

“Haha?”

“It’s Japanese for ‘mother’.”

“That’s funny,” I said, and grinned. We were alone on Corso Cavour, with only the Gothic wrought-iron street lamps and rooftop gargoyles to see us.

“And if Orlando Khan is a foreigner, then I am a foreigner too.”

“But why is it you have so many friends? Why is it no one seems to care?”

“Oh, they care,” said Mariko, somewhat moodily. “They used to laugh when Haha would paint my face white and dress me as a geisha for
Carnevale
and her dinner parties. They used to turn up their noses when they visited the house because of our furniture and tableware. They used to complain that I smelled…like
seaweed
! But after they would tease me,
she
would kiss me and say that it was all right, that I was her little China doll.”

“She? Your mother?”

Mariko frowned. “No, silly. Darlo Gallo.”

The name struck me with dread, that name I hadn’t heard for an age now. “What does she have to do with anything?” I scoffed, rather naively.

“Oh, come on, Gabriel. How have you not realized this?
She owns this place
.”

Goosebumps broke out all over my skin at these words. “But she’s in France!” I spluttered.

“Maybe so,” said Mariko, “but she is still here.” And she glanced over her shoulder, as if the villainous creature were standing right behind us. “Darlo Gallo is my cousin,” she said finally, and the admission seemed like a heavy burden she was finally free from, “only that’s not well-known. It’s not really something the Gallos wish to…
advertise
.” That word again. Only this time, I knew what it meant.

A voice came to us on the evening breeze, calling Mariko’s name. “That’s my papa,” she said, “I have to go.”

“Do you want to go to a caffé?” I blurted out.

Mariko looked flabbergasted. “Now?”

“Well, yeah,” I replied, and I could see her blush in the lamplight.

“Maybe someday,” she said, “outside this place.” And she looked around us as if the walls of Orvieto were a prison.

“Well, goodnight,” I said.

“Bye,” said Mariko and smiled at me, a heart-rendering smile full of promise. “Oh, and one more thing.”

I drew one step closer to her. “What?”

“You’re not ugly. You’re actually, well…anything but ugly. But I’m sure you hear that all the time.” She was really blushing now, and so was I, because I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Well…thank you, I guess?”

She laughed and headed back inside the theatre.

“So that was a yes to coffee?” I shouted after her, encouraged.

“Someplace else!” she called back.

“I would take you all the way to Rome!”

“Well, come and pick me up sometime! You got a car?”

“For you, I’d get one!”

“Who are you shouting at, Mariko?” came her father’s voice from the shadows.

“Ladies should not shout in public, they should be demure,” came Haha’s strange little voice.

“Oh stop it, both of you,” said Mariko, and she laughed.

I disappeared down Corso Cavour, the grin on my face threatening to split it in half. It was the happiest day of my life.

But this day, the final day of school, was surely the worst day of my life, I thought, as I hurled my school bag into the kitchen corner for the last time, and dumped my body into a chair, consuming in one gulp the steaming espresso that Mamma set before me.

“Gabriel?” said Mamma softly, and I could see her through my fingers, because both my hands were covering my face in despair. Her head was bobbing gently on her shoulders, and she had a wild look in her eyes. I could tell immediately, after all these years, that she was excited. Papa appeared beside her and then there was Volatile, her long brown hair hanging to her waist, nearly concealing the speckled wings that curled against her shoulders like a shawl. One of mother’s old dresses hung past the knees of her long legs, and she was bouncing the handle of a mop between her hands like it was a football. She smirked at me. She was always smirking in those days.

“We’re so proud of how well you’ve done in school,” began Mamma, and she began to speak, nervously and haltingly and feverishly.

They knew I enjoyed academics. They wished they had enough money to send me to university. They had been saving for it since they were married, but
Dolce Fantasia
is not as popular as they wished. They wanted a better future for me than a peasant wine-maker. I could be a writer, a teacher. If they had enough money, I could be anything I wanted.

But they never stopped saving, and last night, they figured they had enough for one year’s university, my choice, board and food and a little spending money besides. It wasn’t enough for a full degree, but it was better than nothing, right? But of course, if I didn’t want it, I could take the money as a gift and save it, or buy something: a car, perhaps? A nice watch?

But they needn’t have given me that choice. I chose university. And I chose Rome.

V
olatile had been such a successfully-kept secret that I could have strangled Orlando Khan when he just happened to “drop” past the house one summer’s day for a “surprise” visit, to put it in his terms.

I had never given him license to visit the house. I had never invited him, never hinted that he ever come of his own volition. If anything, I painted the farm in a greyish, dreary, unflattering light. It was unremarkable and dull, and nobody ever visited, and we wanted it to stay that way. But somehow, Orlando Khan, probably bored in the scarce months since he finished school, decided to venture into the valleys of Orvieto, march through the olive groves, enquire of a few farmers the location of the Laurentis vineyard, shuffle up the lichen-covered front steps, and rap presumptuously on the front door one hot Sunday morning.

I was in my room at the time, but I should have known it was he, because through the open window, I could hear the infernal chatter of that whole circus troupe of swallows that followed Orlando wherever he went. I sat up straight; my body all stiff angles with readiness, and listened as Mamma opened the door.

“
Si
?” 

Mamma and Orlando Khan beheld each other for a moment, Mamma in her apron, a smear of flour on her face, a fistful of dough in one hand. “Good morning, Signora,” said Orlando pleasantly, “is Gabriel at home?”

I jumped off the bed and threw my book on the floor. I hastily searched my own mind.
Where is Volatile?
It was almost as if I could hear the same question echoing in Mamma’s thoughts.
I have no idea. She could be anywhere.

“You’re Ayisha Khan’s boy,” breathed Mamma and as if in a trance, stepped to one side to allow Orlando entry. I rushed out of my room.

“Hi, Orlando. What are you doing here? You know what, I was just about to go for a walk. Join me.” My voice was high and strange and unusually forceful. I gave my mother a reproachful glare as I hurried over to him, and snatched up my boots from where they sat near the front door.
Where is Volatile? I don’t know. She could be anywhere.
I put a hand forcefully on my friend’s shoulder to push him out the door.

“Uh,” responded Orlando, looking confused, “okay. Goodbye, Signora Laurentis, it was nice to finally…”

But I had already pushed him down the stairs. “Goddamn it, Laurentis. What’s your problem?” he snapped as I slammed the door shut. I knew Mamma was just behind it, her ear pressed against the door. I wondered if her heart was hammering as loudly as mine.

“I was just on my way out,” I muttered, and stomped forcefully up the trail into the olive grove. Orlando had no choice but to follow me.

“Fine Italian hospitality,” he commented drily, and rammed his cap over his ears sulkily.

“Who asked you to come over here?”

“Well, I guess I’ve learned my lesson,” my friend growled.

Suddenly, the air around us became disturbed, and there came the sound of rushing wind, and the crackling of broken sticks, as if a very large bird had flown by and landed.
Where is Volatile?
screamed my mind as sweat broke out all over my body.

“What was that?” whispered Orlando, trying to follow the movement with his eyes. Above him, the flight of swallows perched in the treetops and stared down at us.
She’s here
, they sang. I froze. Did the swallows just speak to me? Did those birds just answer my question? Could Orlando hear them too?
She’s here,
said the swallows, and that was the first time of many I questioned my sanity.

The air seemed to stand still and the world became eerily silent. A sound of crunching twigs, a footstep. Then Volatile’s voice said, “It’s
you
.”

As she stared at Orlando, I could see what she saw. Tall, olive-skinned, exotic Orlando Khan, and written all over her face was that same expression some Orvietani girls gave him as he sauntered down Corso Cavour. Delicious, juicy, forbidden fruit, their faces seemed to say. I was terrified, launching into damage control.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad. That trick Volatile had of wrapping her wings around her shoulders made them seem like an elaborate shawl. Sure, it was strange to have a shawl made of feathers, especially in the summer, but maybe Volatile was just a weird girl, who knew? She had practiced and could keep her wings lifeless, without flinching or stretching them, for hours sometimes, depending on her concentration. They ached, though. She described it as holding a calf muscle taut for an age and walking on it all the while. I had tried it out, and she had laughed at the result.

Orlando turned to me, and he had that ridiculous smile he thought was so charming on his stupid face, the one that made his dimples stand out. “Is this your sister, Laurentis?”

“My cousin,” I mumbled moodily, before recalling my slip with Orlando years earlier on this subject, under the multi-colored silk skies of the Khan Emporium. “I mean sister, whatever.”

“Well, hello, Sister Whatever,” said Orlando, approaching Volatile sleekly, moving like he considered himself a panther or some such jungle predator.

“She’s just visiting!” I yelled defensively at his retreating back.

“Orlando Khan,” announced Volatile, and placed a hand on her hip sassily, “we meet at last.” And her eyes scraped over his body, dragging her gaze so slowly from muscle to muscle that I could sense the tremor that ran through both of them.

“I see you are aware of my paltry existence,” exclaimed Orlando, giving the poor girl the entire dazzling array of his white teeth.

“My cousin-brother has a big mouth,” commented Volatile drily, and she was gazing fearlessly up into Orlando’s eyes, smiling in a way I had never seen before.

I wanted to throw up.

Why wasn’t she running? Why wasn’t she afraid?

I desired nothing more than to jump between them but I was frozen in horror as Orlando’s hand stretched out to touch her.
Why was he touching her?

The birds in the trees began to screech in warning.

The piercing, shrill sound surely travelled through the entire wood, but Orlando seemed immune to it. Volatile looked up at the swallows sharply, but it was too late.

Orlando’s fingers grazed her outstretched hand and her wings bristled, the feathers standing on end like a cat’s fur when it has had a fright. Orlando immediately drew back with a cry, as if she was a flame and he had been burnt. His shout seemed to petrify her, and her wings unfurled and hung stiffly from her back, their tips pointing skywards. Orlando stared at her in horror and awe.

“
Ifrit
,” he whispered, and bowed low to the ground.

And then Volatile said something strange. Her tone was off-key, and the voice was hers yet not hers, at the same time. “What do you see, boy?”

Orlando raised his eyes to hers. “I see you,” he said.

I vomited.

It was strange having Orlando around the farm. In one way, it was a relief, an enormous weight lifted from my shoulders. In another, it was aggravating, having him sniffing around Volatile whenever he pleased, taking her off on private strolls, giving her those deliberate glances across the dinner table.

Mamma and Papa quickly adjusted to the continual Turkish presence on the property, and Papa took a heady interest in Orlando, like he was an exquisite, mysterious artifact from a time and land trapped in the past. Mamma secretly adored Orlando, who poured his charm all over her like sticky honey, although he wasn’t nearly as charming as he thought he was and I could see right through him. He’d always bring a little gift along with his visits, and Mamma was such a hypocrite, consuming the Ceylon tea, dried, smelly Chinese mushrooms, and rose-flavored Turkish delight when she had no business to.

“I thought you said the Laurentis family didn’t consume strange, foreign foods,” I would whine when Orlando had gone home.

“Oh, be quiet and go back to your books,” Mamma would happily respond, biting dreamily into a slice of pistachio halva.

The effect he had on Volatile, however, was nothing short of alarming.

“Tell me everything about Orlando Khan,” she sighed that first night, floating into my room like a cloud and arranging herself on the bed, propping her head up with one arm as she gazed not at me, but at the memory of Orlando, his big lumbering head and all that ridiculous hair that he should probably shave off. Wouldn’t his religion deem all that hair inappropriate and excessive? I thought so. It was too fashionable for a good Muslim boy. It was altogether too much.

I peered at her over my book with what I hoped was my most withering expression. “You already know everything about him,” I responded, acting as bored as I could.

“Tell me again,” she said, and writhed around on the bed like a worm.

When I didn’t deign to encourage her by responding, she began chattering anyway, mostly nonsensical things I would never have thought I’d hear utter from her rational tongue.

Orlando Khan looks like a god.

Orlando Khan’s profile is like all the sculptures of the Roman emperors.

Orlando Khan’s body has muscles like Hercules.

Orlando Khan’s eyes are like black coals that just burn on and on forever.

“Oh, would you just stop!” I moaned, louder and more forcefully than I had wanted.

Volatile looked at me scornfully and bounced off the bed. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s just wrong. He’s my friend, you know?”

“So what?”

“I don’t want to hear you go on and on about him. It’s disgusting.”

Volatile sniffed haughtily. “Well, I’ve had to listen to you rave about Mariko all these years.”

“That’s different!” I snapped.

“Is it?” She took two steps deliberately toward me. “
I tried to write a note to Mariko today but I ripped it up and flushed it down the toilet because I was scared
!” Volatile mimicked, in a silly little voice I suppose must have sounded like mine.

“Shut up!” I hollered, and threw my book at her, but she bounced out of the way just in time, laughing gleefully.

“
I love Mariko Marino and she agreed to have coffee with me years ago and I am still waiting to take her out because I’m a big, fat baby!
” simpered Volatile, snickering, and picking up the book, hurled it back at me. It hit me on the nose.

“Children, your mother is sleeping!” barked Papa from the other room.

“Shut up, Volatile, and go to your room, or closet, or whatever you prefer to call it,” I hissed, rubbing my nose.

“With pleasure,” laughed Volatile. “I’m going to bed to have sweet dreams about your friend!” she jeered with a wide grin, and danced out of the room.

“Well, you can go to hell!” I whined sulkily at her.

“I’m already there living with you!” she quipped cheerfully back.

I sighed and buried myself to the chin in bed sheets. We had been fighting like this for the last year; silly, meaningless tiffs about nothing, arguments we forgot about in the morning, all battled with the passion of a zealot. Volatile seemed to enjoy them, beside herself with glee when they occurred. She often picked the fights. They had a strange effect on me, I would feel somber and lonely when Volatile slammed doors and disappeared.

“What are you doing?” I demanded soon after that fateful morning. I had kissed Signora Khan on both cheeks absent-mindedly, and settled into a parlor chair in the back room of the Khan Emporium, while Orlando’s mother hurried to the kitchen to prepare coffee.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Orlando testily, when his mother had disappeared once more. He lifted a steaming pink glass to his mouth.

“With Volatile.”

“What do you care?”

“She’s my sister,” I explained.

“I’m sure she is,” replied Orlando sardonically, lifting his eyes to the roof, as if praying to Allah for deliverance from his stupid young friend.

I was silent, surprised by the pit of rage that had begun to deepen within me.

“I’m not doing anything,” said Orlando finally, “I just like…her, that’s all.”