Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (11 page)

“I’ll be back. Don’t move!”

And with that, I bolted down the steps and into the fray of Corso Cavour. The children were dancing and shouting, throwing confetti at the onlookers, engaging in silly string fights as they moved across town. I longed to be like them, a faceless child in a faceless crowd; enjoying moments I would soon forget because they were common and worthless. Alfio Gallo, a cigarette dangling from his lips, blocked my path. “What’s the rush, Laurentis?” he said in what he must have thought to be his friendliest voice, and his arm stretched out to catch me. I ducked under it and ran on.

Mamma and Papa were standing under Torre Del Moro, the monstrous brick clock tower. For a moment I hesitated, not wanting to disrupt this moment of rare pleasantry. Mamma’s head was resting against Papa’s shoulder, and she held a cup of chocolate gelato that Papa stole mouthfuls of. But the moment they saw my face, they knew. The gelato fell to the street and we hurried into the backstreets. When we were out of sight, we ran. Confetti poured from my hair and shoulders.

Nobody seemed to notice us as we collected a shivering Volatile from the balcony garden, rushed down alleys and lanes, jumped into the cart and whipped Tomasso into beginning the descent home. Mamma’s head and hands were twitching, and her lips were turning white in an effort to bite her mouth closed. To avoid the crowds, we had to exit the back way of Orvieto – which, coincidentally, was the old entranceway of the town in Etruscan times, an uneven cobbled road with an enormous stone archway that many a warrior had marched under.

Along the dirt roads toward the farm, we were isolated enough for Mamma to release herself. “
Oh God, oh God, oh God
!” she yelled, followed by a stream of gibberish so ferocious and loud even the birds were startled from their trees. The cart shook from the violent shudders of her body, and I grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it shut as Papa called her name. Volatile squirmed but remained silent. Finally, Mamma gained control of herself, and trembling slightly, crossed her arms over her chest and placed her head between her knees. And so, in silence, we brought our two damaged women home.

La Casa Di Gallo
lay in a prominent plain surrounded by vineyards and farmlands that stretched over many hills like several patchwork blankets. It could be seen from the entire western wall of Orvieto, an enormous yellow fortress surrounded by a plethora of thick, luxurious fir trees, with classical towers and turrets reminiscent of a castle in Germania. The roof was dome-shaped, like a holy church, and on top of it was a little glass room with one circular sofa, where you could sit and watch the world. It had thick stone gates, decorated with wrought-iron electric lanterns and carved stone cherubs in a variety of poses. An air of opulence would enfold you simply by gazing at it. And tonight, as Tomasso plodded down the tree-lined drive, I could already hear American jazz music in the air. There were more lamps than I remembered in the estate, hanging from trees and sitting amongst the flowerbeds. I could smell honeysuckle and basil, and I glanced down at the case of
Dolce Fantasia
that Papa had brought along as a gift – for it would be more shameful to arrive without one than to arrive hitched to a cross-eyed old beast.

A servant barely disguised his distaste as I leapt from the donkey and helped Mamma down. She looked well that night, her hair was sleek and pinned up, and she had taken great care with the black muslin dress that still smelled vaguely of mothballs. She had even dabbed a little perfume in the hollow of her throat, perfume from Sienna that Papa had given her as a wedding present. I could see its oily shadow shimmer there, like a secret. She looked a little nervous, the tiniest bit vague, like a portion of her mind was out to lunch. But Papa laced his arm fiercely over her shoulders and steered her past the enormous fountain and the monstrous wooden doorway with its wrought-iron gargoyle doorknockers.

The Gallos were standing in the foyer, a brilliantly lit, elegant room that reminded me greatly of the interior of the Teatro Mancinelli. They were proudly planted in front of two marble staircases that melded into one enormous balcony on the second floor. A glass and crystal chandelier trickled from the ceiling. Antiques and polished oak furniture were meticulously placed in all the right corners, and sumptuous red velvet curtains with gold cord tassels hung from every window. A great many Renaissance-inspired artworks hung in gilded frames, and waiters in suits served champagne and hors d’oveurs on silly little platters. Mamma and Papa greeted the Gallos with restraint, and Signora Gallo’s little eyes gazed at Mamma with some curiosity.

She had the air of an aged belle of the ball; a definitive example to all the Orvietani boys of what Darlo was bound to genetically inherit. It wasn’t bad. She was small and striking with smooth, young skin – but her red sequined gown and satin gloves that hugged her elbows attracted more attention than her face. Her greying hair was swept to the side, thirties-style. A jewel-encrusted piece depicting a bunch of grapes sat in that hair. She wore diamond and ruby rings on top of the gloves, which reminded me of pictures I had seen of a college of cardinals.

I only needed five minutes to assure myself that there would be no trouble tonight. All the strong boys, trotting after their mothers and fathers like well-fed dogs, were too in awe of
La Casa Di Gallo
, their parent’s wrath, and loyalty to Signore Gallo to bother with me. I took the liberty of staring at the boys in their finest duds, how like strutting cocks they appeared. So transparent. Suddenly, Papa’s stern voice was in my ear: “Gabriel, please answer when Signore Gallo addresses you.”

I jumped a little to find Alfio Gallo observing me with his shadowy eyes. “I’m sorry, sir,” I managed to stutter.

Alfio Gallo cleared his throat grandly and said, “I said that I was wondering, boy, if you had any smart-mouth words this evening, but it looks as if you are rendered speechless.” A loud guffaw that no one else joined in on. “Don’t worry, boy,” he continued, shoving a blur of hair and silk and lavender water at me, “this one gives me enough snarky remarks these days, don’t you,
bella
?”

And he leaned down and kissed Darlo loudly with a large, juicy smacking of his lips, and pushed her toward me. I was terrified. “Show young Laurentis around, will you?”

Darlo looked equally as horrified as I and stood staring at me, her mouth gaping open, doubtless wondering if this was some sort of trap. “Go on!” her father boomed, and then turned his back on us. Darlo collected herself, rolling her eyes, and I reluctantly began to follow her, watching as Alfio Gallo lit a cigarette and began to bully my father into selling the vineyard.

I seized an abandoned half-empty goblet of something brown on a table and swallowed it down. It burned. I was suddenly feeling courageous.

“This is the ballroom!” Darlo was declaring, as we entered the room with the dome roof. Frescoes decorated the walls and wooden fixtures had been brazenly, pretentiously painted gold. I had grabbed another glass of thick, brown, strong stuff and had poured it down my throat as fast as lightning, not caring if Darlo saw. She looked at me in distaste and wrinkled up her nose. She opened her fat mouth to speak but I cut her off.

“You can shove this tour up your
culo
,” I said. She gasped in shock as I whirled around, stuffed my fists into my pockets, and strode away as carelessly as I could.

Of course, the Gallos had an even bigger fountain at the back of the estate. This one had three sculptures inside it, spouting sparkling water: a sea-god with a conch, a mermaid with a trumpet, and a lost-looking little boy with a pail. Milling around it were people I had never seen before, and amongst the shadows of the firs their conversation ranged from their children to their spouses to their lovers to their favorite summer food. A waitress, yellow-haired like me and perhaps only a few years older, had taken to serving me brandy whenever no one was looking. I sat on a park bench; partially obscured by wild berry bushes and a waist-high stonewall, and watched.

Volatile had to have twelve stitches – seven in the right wing and five in the left. She did not cry, but Papa’s spectacles were misty as he deftly worked the needle from feathers into flesh,
The Oxford Guide to Birds
open on the kitchen table, section:
Anatomy
. Mamma was confined to her room for two days after the parade, I brought in all her meals and spoke to her in soothing tones, all of which she ignored. But today, it was as if nothing had happened, and Mamma seemed serene, her eyes cloudy and glazed, which I suspect had something to do with a little bottle of formulae that Papa had procured in town.

“Who was that?” asked Volatile, when we were alone the next day. She was lying in a bed that Papa had made her in what used to be a closet of sorts, a small room containing Mamma’s bridal trunk, bottles of preserved tomatoes, and dried wild boar meat.

“That was Darlo Gallo,” I hissed, “and I hate her.”

“You shouldn’t hate, Gabriel,” responded Volatile.

“And why is that? I’ve always hated her and I always will!”

“Because hatred does
things
to you. I’ve seen it. Don’t ask me anymore.”

“Well, she hates me, so why shouldn’t I hate her?”

Volatile gazed at me, almost through me, and I felt uncomfortable. “Darlo Gallo does not hate you.”

“Yeah? And how would you know?”

Volatile narrowed her eyes. “I just know.”

“
Buonasera
,” came a sticky sweet voice behind me, and the devil herself appeared. She had a flute of champagne in one hand and waved it about, trying to draw my attention to her hollow rebellion. What was she hoping for – my admiration? “May I sit?” she inquired, a mocking ruse of good manners.

I didn’t respond, but my whole body sighed with impatience.

“Since you ran out on my tour, I’ve felt like such a terrible hostess,” she chattered, flinging a rope of hair from her shoulders, the silk of her dress whispering as she lowered herself onto the bench. She sat on the edge of it precariously, not wanting to dirty her bottom. Her ankles betrayed her as she buckled in high heels. Darlo took a dainty sip of her champagne and glanced around her, as if embarrassed that someone she knew would see her there.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice hard.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she responded flippantly. “You were on your own and I would be a horrid hostess if I just—“

“Drop the
merda
, Gallo.”

“Oh, well…I…yes….sorry…” she stammered, and fidgeted with her hair, twirling it around an index finger. There was a long pause and she drained the glass. Wait, did Darlo Gallo just
apologize
?  

“What do you want?” I repeated, and noted even through the fuzziness of my head, that she was acting strangely.

“Did you know I’m off to boarding school next week? To Paris. Charm and etiquette school for young ladies. I can hardly wait!” And she let out a strange, forced giggle.

“I really couldn’t care less,” I counteracted truthfully, and got up to leave.

But Darlo Gallo grasped my hand, and I felt her clammy skin against my own. I instantly recoiled and violently withdrew my hand. “Why don’t you care?” she said, wide-eyed, her skin ashen.

“I just…
what
?”

“All the other boys care. They care a lot. Some even cried,” she continued softly. I saw my chance had come at last. I knew what I had to say.