Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (26 page)

“Oh, just look at me,” she said, producing a linen handkerchief and dabbing her eyes daintily, “you’d think the world was coming to an end.” She sniffed loudly and smiled brightly at me. “What my husband just realized is that I am, unapologetically, a one-man woman. And I expect equal treatment. We’re getting divorced,” she announced.

“What will you do now?”

The whiteness of her teeth were blinding, and suddenly, I could see that face encouraging women to buy the hats all around Europe. I had finally seen the print advertisements, clipped from the newspapers and placed proudly next to her letters in Papa’s beside table. “I think I will restore my father’s estate,” she said softly.

“You’re going to stay in Orvieto?”

“Does that meet with your approval?” she asked mockingly.

“I don’t care.” I shrugged and was shocked to see the empty paper cup on the table, milky pink pools staining the bottom.

“Do you hear that?” she asked suddenly, and her shoulders began moving up and down. I stared at her, bewildered.

“Just listen!” she said. And a joyous, melodious clash of high voices met my ears. I had never heard anything like it. “They’re called ABBA!” she said, singing a few bars of an upbeat tune.

If I had to do the same again, I would my friend, Fernando.

“I saw them in concert in Madrid last year,” she shared.

They were shining there for you and me, for liberty, Fernando.

We sat there, listening to the entire song blasting out of the radio, both enraptured. I watched as Darlo closed her eyes and mouthed the words, as if she had forgotten her husband, her divorce and all her troubles. As if, in the entire world, she only cared about Fernando.

“Why have I never heard of them before?” I wondered.

“Because you never leave that dreary room,” she said and winked. “Stick with me, kid, and I’ll show you a thing or two.”

“Darlo,” I said urgently, as the radio announcers squabbled. She sat up straighter at the use of her name, spine like a new knife. “I’m hungry,” I realized with some astonishment.

And an enormous smile spread across her face, and that was the moment it occurred to me: that someone who wasn’t Volatile, wasn’t a heavenly creature of spirit and fire, could be so enchanting. How someone I hated for so long could reverse everything. That despite myself, a stubborn affection for Darlo Gallo was growing within me. Life; the ultimate backstabber, the scheming court jester.

“Then,” stated Darlo, “we are going out for spaghetti with clams, and wild boar steaks with mounds of potatoes!” And she seized my arm, throwing a bundle of lire on the table.

Later that night, stuffed to the brim with fine Umbrian fare and chilled golden chardonnay, Darlo and I strolled down Corso Cavour. All of the street lanterns had been turned on, their flame dimmed by glass casing covering the streets, oily and slick from a light downpour, in soft honeyed light. Orvietani children, called by their mothers on balconies overflowing with bougainvillea and piano music, hurried up the stone steps to bed. Gentrified couples made their way to the Teatro for the night’s performance, tourists adjusted the lenses on their cameras to adapt to the dark, and young people snuck away to the tiny bars of the alleyways, to smoke and drink in secret. It struck me that I was one of those young people. I had, for so long, felt ancient, as ancient as the bones of this town. “Come on,” I said to Darlo, “let’s go and smoke cigarettes.”

She laughed and we soon found ourselves parked on a ridge near St Patrizio’s well, smoking Camel cigarettes and drinking Irish cream out of a brown paper bag. She turned the car radio on, and we listened to ABBA, Aerosmith and a scandalous new band called The Rolling Stones.

“What are you humming?” asked Volatile.

“A song,” I replied, “called
Fernando.
”

“Stop,” she said, “I don’t like it.”

“But Volatile,” I said, “don’t you like ABBA?”

“What?”

“ABBA.”

“No, I don’t like it. Please stop.”

I steadily regained weight, and when I began waking at a decent hour to help my father prepare for harvest, he gave me a hint of a smile but said nothing. I was more alert than the previous year, and began to find a strange satisfaction at the end of a day’s work, as simple and meager as it was. And every Thursday evening, Darlo appeared in her convertible to take me out for dinner. She always invited Papa, who politely declined on every occasion. “All that rich food,” he would complain. “I’m happy with my bread and onion, and a little peace and quiet.”

At Darlo’s insistence, and also because I would never get used to the stares, I consented when she pushed me into a barbershop, who promptly shaved my beard and cut all my hair off.

“Much better,” said Darlo when I emerged from the shop, nodding with approval.

We ate pizza topped with zucchini and generous, thick shavings of wild truffle. At nine o’clock, the lights went down in the pizzeria and a disco ball descended, patrons rushing to sign up for the night’s karaoke list. “Dance with me,” yelled Darlo amidst the chaos, and we joined a group of clumsy, careening Orvietani on a floor peppered with shivering lights, shouting lyrics to the popular songs at the top of their lungs. A group of tourists danced among us, distinguishable by their hemp belts, sideburns, and trousers with hems so wide they reminded me of a bride’s train. They shouted lots of foreign words aloud, especially “Groovy”. Darlo laughed and tested this word with her own tongue. “What did I tell you?” she shouted in my ear. “They have horrible taste in clothes!” I surprised myself with how many songs I recognized, how many words I knew. I forgot my awkwardness and my sorrow. I forgot my past and my dreams too.

I was pleasantly inebriated when Darlo dropped me back at home, and I leaned against the door of her convertible, laughing at something only the drunk could understand.

“What is it?” she demanded playfully.

“You’re so stylish,” I muttered, twirling a finger in the air. “Darlo’s so fashionable.”

“So?” she laughed, smoothing down a yellow silk skirt.

“You’re a fashion model,” I said, “you’re too pretty to be seen with the likes of me.”

“But I want to be with you,” she said, “and I am only a hat model. They only photograph my face.”

“It’s your best feature, I think.”

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, Volatile?”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No, I’m stuffed.”

“You were late again tonight, Gabriel.”

“I’m sorry. I was out.”

“With her?”

“Yes, Volatile, with her.”

“Do you want to stay with her?”

“No, Volatile, I want to stay with you.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Of course not!”

“Promise me you won’t fall in love with her.”

“I promise.”

Little by little, the pull of the white world weakened. I drank less and hardly ever alone, often pouring a night cap for my father and I after a hard day’s work. We began to talk of many things, the future of the vineyard, the progress of the farmhand, memories of Mamma, Darlo Guiliani. Some nights, the helper, whose name was Alfredo but who Papa nicknamed Freddy, joined us. When it became clear to Papa that Freddy was an orphan who lived in town with an aunt that did not want him and sorely neglected him, Papa cleared out Volatile’s old closet-room and Freddy became a part of the Laurentis household. I did not mind. Two wine emporiums in Rome and one in Milan had responded to my letters last summer, requesting bottles of
Orvieto
Dolce Fantasia
to be sent to them for sampling. Such written requests also arrived from Florence, a city I had not inquired with in the first place.

“I think it’s about time,” said Darlo one night at a caffe, moving a glass of red wine out of her eye-line, “that you tell me everything.”  Summer had come and gone, and still the swallows had not returned.

I readjusted my chair and leaned forward, and for the first time in my life, told a human being the inmost secrets of my soul.

To her credit, Darlo did not ask questions or comment on my tale. It was only weeks later, as winter once more approached, that I asked her for her opinion.

“I think,” she began after hesitating a moment, “that you know what you must do.”

“And what is that?”

“She’s dead, Gabriel. And she won’t come back, no matter how much you love her.”

“You think I love her?”

“Oh,” she said, “very much so. But you won’t admit it to a soul, not even yourself. It’s your deepest, longest secret, and you will carry it to your grave.”

“Why can’t I live in both worlds?”

“I doubt any man can bear that burden. One reality here, one over there! I mean, just look at you, darling. You were absolutely bonkers last spring, and such a fright! Trust me, I’m quite an expert, you know. I would entertain stark raving mad politicians in Florence every weekend, one foot in this policy, one in the other! They would attend my dinner parties and eat all my imported goose liver, acting quite deranged, I simply couldn’t make heads or tails of what they were saying at all! No, I’m afraid you must choose one or the other.”

“But I will lose her. This is the last link I have to her.”

“Nothing lasts forever. At one point in life, we will always have to say goodbye to everyone we have ever known.”