Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (14 page)

“
Like her
? What does that mean?”

“She is fascinating.”

“Not after you get used to her,” I snapped with finality. “She’s actually very annoying.”

“And your secret is safe with me,” assured Orlando unnecessarily. “It wouldn’t do for so many people to hear about her.”

“What would you know about it?” I grumbled.

To my surprise, instead of lightly insulting me back, as I no doubt deserved, Orlando fixed me with a dark stare and hoisted his chair closer to mine, until we were almost nose-to-nose. He glanced over at the parlor door to ensure our abandonment. “I know what she is,” he breathed.

“She’s a girl with swallow’s wings,” I said drily.

“That’s what she wants you to think,” he said, “but she isn’t. She’s an
ifrit
.”

“A what?”

“Ifrit, a jinn. You know, like a genie.”

“A spirit?”

“Not exactly.” Orlando reached over to a heavy, leather-bound book, its title embossed in gold, curved Arabic. “
One Thousand and One Nights
,” he continued, “you’ve heard of this, I assume? It says in here that the ifrit is a winged creature of smokeless fire.”

“Well, Volatile isn’t made of fire.”

“It’s all figurative, Laurentis,” replied Orlando nonchalantly, waving his hand regally, like he was wiping away my ridiculous comment. “Does she disappear sometimes?”

“Well, once in a while, and she migrates every winter with the other swallows.”

“That’s what she tells you. How do you know she’s not returning to the spirit world?”

“Because when she returns, she has all these stories about where she’s been and what she’s seen…”

“Ifrit are cunning creatures, and much of what they say are deceptions,” instructed Orlando. “It says here,” he continued, consulting the book, “that the ifrit prefer to live underground, in ancient ruins. What better place than Orvieto?”

My mind immediately flashed back to the afternoon Christopher Esposito touched me. Where I had encountered Volatile again, in the old caverns deep below the city’s surface.

“That they have their own society, kings and queens and families and clans that live underground with them…”

I thought of the dark one, the monstrous, black-winged creature of death, crucifixes in his eyes. Who was he to her? Goosebumps broke out over my arms.

“That they are born from the blood of a murder victim…”

“You expect me to believe that Volatile just emerged from someone’s blood and guts?” I laughed, aiming to look braver than I felt.

“And to invite an ifrit into your life, a human being must commit that murder.”

“So someone in Orvieto killed someone just to get Volatile here?”

“Not just Volatile. A whole
tribe
of spirits.”

“I don’t buy it."

“That’s the legend, believe it or not.”

“So Volatile’s evil?” I snapped.

“Ifrit can be either good or evil. Our ifrit seems a good sort to me. And one more thing: ifrit can marry humans.” And Orlando winked at me rakishly and I grimaced. “Oh, Laurentis,” mocked Orlando amiably, “if only you could see your face.” And he laughed.

“I don’t think Volatile is any of these things you say,” I replied. “I’ve known her a long time.”

But my friend was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Think about it,” he whispered. “Oh! I almost forgot. Ifrit are jinn, they can grant wishes.”

“Is that why you’re so interested in her?” I demanded. “So she can grant your wish?”

“Of course not,” replied Orlando Khan sincerely. “I’m interested in her because she’s pretty.”

Pretty? Our Volatile?  She was many things, but pretty was not one of them. Mariko Marino – now that was pretty. Volatile was kind of plain but pleasing, like a quality, well-made sofa you sat on every day without a second thought.

“Mark my words,” announced Orlando, slicing through my reverie, “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I have a deep reverence for her, no matter what she is, and I am going to
respectfully
enquire. But you,” he slid his eyes over me like I was a slab of bad meat, “you have no curiosity, no wonder. So, so blind. A pity.”

“Hey!” I protested, stung.

“Such a passion for the mediocre,” he stated, and shook his head sadly.

I rolled my eyes. He could be so melodramatic.

But if Orlando ever found out the truth about Volatile – whether she was a living, breathing slice of Arabic mythology or simply a girl with bird tendencies – I never knew. Not really. Where they went, what they spoke of, Orlando never told me. To this day, I have no doubt that she told him everything. There was something between them, you see, that I could never touch: not with him, not with her, and certainly not with anyone else.

Mamma, a romantic, thought what was happening between them was beautiful. Papa never mentioned it, but his interest in Orlando Khan was approval enough. They grew closer and closer with each passing day, sharing the same interest it seems, for fables and books and secrets meant for just two people. Even the small things worked in their favor. Orlando could never eat meat at the house, for it wasn’t halal. Volatile was vegetarian. Yet another bond to tie them closer. I felt a bitterness, like a forgotten orange left in the cupboard until it becomes a hard crystallized ball, grow steadily within me whenever I saw them together. I was losing my best friends.

In that final year of school, I saw more of Orlando Khan than I ever wanted to. I would continue to visit him at the Khan Emporium after school, but things grew stiff between us. Something hung there, a winged shadow called resentment. We were cordial, we were friendly, and on the outside it seemed like nothing had changed. But I had.

One day after school, I was walking alone in the woods muttering to myself a table of dates and events I had to memorize for an upcoming history examination. I stopped suddenly when I heard strange sighs coming from a thicket of oak trees, sharp intakes of breath, and panting. As silently as I could, I stepped forward, not wanting the crispy fall leaves on the forest floor to announce my presence.

And then I saw the most incredible sight: a man and woman, naked from the waist up. She was backed against the enormous trunk of an oak, he had pinned her there. Her skin was so white against his dark, his black hair fell into her face, hers wrapped around his wrist like a silken bandage. His other hand was upon her breast, long, elegant fingers wrapping around and clutching it with an assured possession. His mouth was at her neck, and her face was turned toward me, the eyes closed. An entire flight of swallows looked down upon them from the thicket of trees. They were singing.

Mesmerized, I watched as the hand slipped from her breast and wound around her, shifting her so part of her back was exposed to me. He began to caress the naked column of skin where her wings sprouted and soared above their heads. The wings visibly shivered, causing one or two primary feathers to fall to the ground. I stared at the feathers as they sunk to the earth. They sailed so lazily on the breeze that I felt the whole world must be in slow motion. I stared at the scar on her back, where Darlo Gallo had torn so vengefully.

The woman’s mouth opened, omitting sighs so carnal that I became conscious of the stiffening in my pants that I knew to be there all along, but did not want to acknowledge. I was wondering what to do about it when Volatile opened her eyes and stared right at me. I did not stay to catch her expression.

Once I asked her, “Are you in love with Orlando Khan?”

“Does it matter?” she responded lightly.

“I think you are,” I sulked.

“What would you know about it?” she quipped.

“I’m just asking you--“

“You don’t know anything about love,” she answered snippily.

“Well, even if you are, what are you going to do about it? It’s not like he’s going to marry you. What did you think, that you’d have a big wedding celebration and invite all of Orvieto to see you?” I was being cruel, but I couldn’t stop. “Maybe you think you’ll take his mother’s place at the Emporium after she’s dead. Only he will never introduce you, and you’ll never see that place.”

“I fly into his bedroom all the time!” snapped Volatile. “At midnight, I visit him and I stay all night! I’ve seen the Emporium hundreds of times!”

“Do you have sex with him?” I demanded.

“That’s none of your business!” screeched Volatile.

“It is my business! How could you go into town? It is not safe, Volatile, what if Alfio Gallo, or any other hunter were to see you?”

“Stop!”

“Oh, now you remember Signore Gallo. The one that put the bullets in you to begin with. Remember that you’re a secret, Volatile. You are not a person. You have no rights. You’re like…you’re like a pet we keep around for our amusement. There’s not much difference between you and Sweet Vittoria, really. And just like an animal, you could be snuffed out, like that,” I snapped my fingers for emphasis, “and no one would bat an eyelid. You will never be anyone’s wife. You are never going to matter. All you will ever be amusement for some…some
bastardo
, if he can get over what a freakish anomaly you are—”

I should have seen it coming. She punched me in the face as hard as she could and ran out of the room. I felt guilt descend on me like a cloak. I was utterly wretched. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be happy for her? Happy for Orlando? I knew I was jealous, but I didn’t know of whom.

It took six weeks for my dislocated nose to heal.

Volatile did not speak to me again until the morning I left for Rome. I had summoned all my courage and knocked on her bedroom door the night before, in order to apologize. When she did not answer the door, I pushed it open. Empty.

At sunrise, I stood in the kitchen in my best suit, hat in one hand and a small suitcase containing my meager belongings in the other. Mamma was crying a little, and gave me a paper bag of
torrone
and crusty chocolate-filled
crostini
from Montanucci’s bakery for the journey ahead. Papa was hitching Tomasso to the wagon, in readiness for our short journey to the train station.

I don’t remember much of Mamma’s goodbye speech, but she echoed herself more than usual, and her head bobbed sadly, like a lonely buoy in bad weather. Her rapidly greying hair smelled like fresh tomatoes and basil as I held her to me. She barely reached my chest.

Orlando was there too, and he shook my hand heartily. “Write often, would you, Laurentis?”

I said that I would, and was astonished when I felt Volatile’s arms wrap tightly around my waist, her head jammed up against my neck in earnest. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I lamely petted her hair until she let go. When she looked up at me, I was shocked to see that her eyes were full of tears. Once more, she was the little girl on the kitchen table, paralyzed with fear in a pool of her own blood. I was flooded with a feeling that I could not explain, and I felt a sharp pain in my sternum, the pain of a seed that dropped deep into my heart a long time ago, a seed that was growing and breaking into the empty atrium, filling it with its cloying green fronds.

“Stay away from the woods,” I said to her, shaking her by the shoulders gently. “Do not let anyone see you. Promise me.”

She nodded, and Orlando put an arm around her.

“Take care of her,” I commanded him.

“I will,” he promised.

She did not say anything else, did not ask me to write, did not say I was forgiven.

But as I climbed into the cart, and Papa lashed Tomasso once with his whip, I turned and waved to the three people who stood on the mossy front steps.

Orlando went inside first.

Mamma took turns using her red handkerchief to wave and simultaneously dab at her eyes and forehead. After a few minutes, she too went inside.

But Volatile stayed, until the cart disappeared around the bend in the wall, until she was a tiny black spec amidst the trees and dust and vines, until she vanished completely.

D
ear Mamma and Papa,

Finally, I am here and I am settled. I’m sorry my first letter was so brief, but I wanted you to be assured that I did arrive safely and I found my way around without too much difficulty. This evening, I have time to write, and more importantly, I have things to write about. You will note, on the envelope, that I have included a return address, so you can write to me and tell me all about the farm and of course, Orvieto.

I must announce, with some pride, that I have completed my first week at Universita di Roma! You were right, Papa, studying literature was the best decision in the end, if only for a year. It’s interesting, it’s invigorating, and I understand most of the concepts my professors (and the textbooks I borrow from Everard Fane across the hall) tell me. (More on Everard Fane later.) You will be very happy to hear that you were also correct, Papa, in suggesting that economics might be far beyond my comprehension. I met quite a boring fellow during orientation week who went on and on about economic this and economic that, something about a crisis and foreign export, whatever that means, needless to say I had no idea what he was talking about. I am glad I am not taking economics and turning out a bore like him! We are currently learning English classics, and some of the books were written by women. I am unsure whether I have read a book by a woman before. (Everard says I must be crazy and that in his country, there are many famous female writers.)  Who knows, I may write a book of my own one day.

I have found a modest little boarding house in an area called Trastevere, have you heard of it? It’s west, over the Tiber river, and it reminds me of home. Trastevere is a very interesting area – can you believe people hang their laundry from house to house, underwear and all? That’s Rome for you. But it has cobbled streets like home, only not so worn, and I get blisters if I walk them for too long in exploration. The apartments are medieval, not modern as I expected, tall and old but spacious, with long lanes between them (and that confounded laundry whenever you look up!). There’s the Piazza Santa Maria, with a clock tower and fountain, just up the street from me. I live in a boarding house for students, in a little room that has one window with a view of the neighbor’s window, which has curtains that are always drawn, making me wonder if I live next door to a murderer or circus freak. There are six other students, all boys thank you Mamma, and they live in their own rooms. There’s a kitchen with a refrigerator – can you believe it? And one bathroom that gets awfully busy in the mornings. I don’t see much of the others except for Everard, who has the same class times as me, because he studies the same course.

Everard Fane is the nephew of the British Ambassador, and when I asked him why on earth he was boarding in such a cheap place if that was the case, he responded that his father was the ambassador’s least favorite brother, and it was enough that the ambassador put a good word in to the university dean about him, what with his grades. I’ve never met a British person before, have you? He has the strangest taste in foods. Some of the smells that come from his bedroom are alarming. But he’s familiar with the area, and he showed me the markets on Viale di Trastevere where I buy pizza by the slice and fresh apples.

It’s getting late and I must study more. It’s growing colder and I find myself glad for Papa’s overcoat – Papa, you will stay warm this winter, won’t you? I hope you don’t still have that awful cough? You’ll be pleased to know, Mamma, that I found a bank right near my university, so I can take my checking book there at any time. You were clever to start a bank account! I was so confused the first time I went there.

Affectionately your son,

Gabriel

14 October

Trastevere

Ciao Orlando,

Thanks for the postcard. I’m guessing Mamma gave you the address? I’m sure the postman wondered what kind of freak receives a postcard of Orvieto with the words, “Tell me everything, figlio di puttana!!!” written in capital letters on the back. I showed it to Everard and he said he’s seen worse.

Rome is amazing. I mean, we all knew Orvieto was old, but Rome just seems ancient. There are reminders of the old world everywhere you look, little scatterings of past civilizations upon every corner, on top of buildings, in the old churches. But it’s modern too, with new technology and straight-edged buildings and people wearing the most extraordinary clothes. It’s so busy here, girls on Vespa’s and guys in leather jackets drinking wine around the fountains, whistling at the girls in their enormous sunglasses and neck scarves. You have to watch it here – if you don’t cross the street when the little green man made of light tells you to, you may get run over!

Everard took me on a tour of the most important sites of Rome. He has a scooter (a white Lambretta) and on weekends we go to see the important things. The Pantheon has an open roof, and it rained on me as I sat and sulked that the once-great tribute to the ancient gods was now a Catholic farce. The Trevi fountain was mind-blowing, but all Everard could talk about was the summer the glamorous Americano Ms. Hepburn was here filming Roman Holiday, oh, perhaps twenty years ago. When I saw the enormous marble figure of Oceanus, all his muscles caught permanently mid-ripple, I remembered my childhood fascination with the old gods. What a long time ago, right, my friend? We saw many others things, but I’ll reserve all that for later, and when it grows warmer we have planned to visit Vatican City.

You’ll never guess who lives in the same district as me. Mariko Marino. Of course you knew we attended the same university, but I underestimated the size of the student population, and I have never seen her on campus. However, when I was picking up some sausages at the butcher’s on Viale di Trastevere, there she was, in a rabbit-fur coat and a hat that reminded me of a Russian Cossack. She wasn’t alone either. There were two dull-looking girls on either side of her, and one gangly red-haired man. They were chattering so loudly and fiercely about the picture theatre that I turned right around and didn’t greet her. Before you start, I already know what you’re thinking. And I’m not a coward, I am just biding my time. Did I mention she was wearing the sexiest pairs of heels? Red. At least six inches. Shoes like that make a man think he’s died and gone to heaven.

I’ve been noticing some peculiar reactions from the ladies lately. They seem to stare at me a lot, and not in the way the Orvietani girls did, either out of pity, or belief I was some kind of freak. I would never notice it myself, but I am most often with Everard, who elbows me in the ribs and grins every time it happens. The first time I ever met Everard, he threw his hands in the air and with an expression of genuine astonishment, he cried, “Well, would you look at that? It’s James Dean!” I was quite disturbed by this, but Everard assured me I was the splitting image of the movie star, although I am sure he is the only one to think so. He can be quite idiotic at times too, stopping girls on the street to ask if his friend (me) resembles anyone they know, and they always say James Dean or a blonde Warren Beatty, just to mock me I am sure. He probably paid them beforehand.

Don’t tell Mamma or Papa, but I bought some new clothes. Everard said mine were laughable and I resembled a country bumpkin, so he made me withdraw some money and took me out shopping. I never thought I’d say it, but I am wearing jeans. I have two pairs, blue and black, and they are a little tight for my taste, but that’s what all the Romans are wearing. He said Papa’s overcoat looked like something from the charity bin, so I splurged on a leather jacket, and now will have to eat sausages and salad for a month if I want to stick to my budget.

At nights, Everard takes me to all the Trastevere bars, where I’ve learned to throw back whiskey and make a habit of a daily Peroni (or five). Some bars are all male clientele, and they talk about horse racing and football, which bores me. I prefer the hipper caffes. I’ve come to learn that Trastevere is where two worlds meet: rich young heirs come to play with painters and sculptors who pay for their beers by the work they sold in the markets that day. There are foreigners galore too. Japanese tattoo artists, French fashion designers, musicians from Nairobi with their sleek charcoal skin and almond-shaped eyes.

When I feel reminiscent, or broke, I climb to the top of Gianicolo Hill and think about Orvieto. I look down on the sun-drenched view of the domes and bell towers, and I remember how fortunate I am to be here, at this moment, to watch this sunset. And when the sky begins to turn black I wander back to my boarding house, I desperately miss home.

With regards from the Eternal City

Your friend

Gabriel Laurentis

30 November

Trastevere

P.S. University is fine, by the way. But we both know I am not in Rome to study, so I will say no more on this topic.

Hi James Dean,

So you didn’t make it home for Christmas after all, you pezzo di merda. You strung us along for long enough! Sending a telegram at the last minute saying you had had a minor traffic accident was a terrible lie. And don’t even deny it. I know you. I want you to know that I spent two hours on Christmas Eve comforting your mother, feeding her spiced ale to calm her nerves, all the while saying it was tea. She shook and spasmed and by Allah, how she wept! You’d have thought beloved Gabriel had died, not ‘scraped his leg’ as you so mildly put it. Your Papa sat there attending to your Mamma just to feel busy and not too disappointed. He kept cleaning his spectacles with his shirttail for lack of anything else to do. We put your Mamma to bed early, for she was raving about taking the next train to Trastevere to check on you. I did everything I could to change her mind. Imagine her broken heart to enter your room, with you perfectly fine, just drunk with your British friend, I imagine. You owe me. And don’t bother writing your lies back to me. I knew all along you never wanted to come home for Christmas. I don’t blame you. The Ifrit saw right through you the moment the telegram arrived (great timing too, by the way) but I reminded her you’re only in Rome for a short time, and you might as well enjoy it.

Christmas day was interesting. I spent the morning with your parents, and although your mother still can’t grasp the notion of halal-style meat, she cooked some vegetarian food that I could stomach. I don’t know what it is about you meatball-eaters, but your flavors are all the same! We drank some wine and listened to the radio. Your Mamma gave me a scarf she had knitted herself, which I wore on the walk home. It smelled a little like you, which was nauseating, but I’ll live. The Ifrit arrived in my room later that afternoon and gave me a gift too, although that is private (use your imagination!!!).