Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) (5 page)

Mamma looked down at her knotted hands and began. “It’s uncontrollable, most of the time. I get…uncomfortable, in a way, and I start twitching. It’s unnoticeable, at first, but as my anxiety grows, so does the twitching. And sometimes, when it gets really bad, I begin…saying things.”

“What sort of things?” demanded Signora. “Do you prophesy? Speak to the dead?”

“Nothing like that,” assured Mamma. “I repeat things.”

“Oh,” said Signora Silvana, relieved she did not have a rival.

“Say my mother is angry with me and says ‘Don’t leave your clothes on the floor’. If I get an attack then, I might run around twitching and repeating ‘Don’t leave your clothes on the floor, don’t leave your clothes on the floor’ for hours sometimes. I try to stop, but I can’t – because those words repeat in my head over and over.”

“Well, this is very obvious,” stated the fortune-teller grandly. “There’s no illness inside you. There is a parrot.”

Mamma blanched. “A parrot?”

“
Si, si
,” affirmed Signora. “Wait.” And she closed her eyes and held a finger to Mamma’s lips and began nodding as if receiving a very important message. “A parrot. A very wise parrot, very exotic too, from Central America or somewhere like that. Let’s see.” She closed her eyes and consulted the spirits again. “She will repeat the most important statements in your life, through you, for the rest of your life.”

“‘Don’t leave your clothes on the floor’ is a most important statement?”

“Never disregard the gravity of tidiness,” advised the fortuneteller gravely.

“Anything else?” asked Mamma wearily.

“Yes,” said Signora. “The parrot’s name is Lulu.”

For the years that followed, ‘Lulu’ became a code word of sorts for Mamma’s disease. “How is Lulu this week?” Signora Silvana would query.

“A little on the quiet side,” my mother would reply.

“Has Lulu said anything interesting lately?”

“Only, ‘Catch that thief’!”

“Catching thieves is most important,” Signora would confer.

“Indeed,” Mamma would agree.

And now here was Mamma, believing her Lulu had come to life, but this Lulu was failing the repetition test. Yet my mother would not be discouraged. She dictated phrase after phrase, in hope that a parroty voice would echo it back to her. But this Lulu merely covered her head (and subsequently, her ears) with her wings and fell asleep.

It was only when Papa came home for a late supper, when I was supposed to be in bed but really spying through the crack in my door, that she stopped. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

“It isn’t her,” she confessed. “I thought it was Lulu at last.”

“But isn’t Lulu a parrot?” said Papa, crouching down beside her.

“Yes.”

“And isn’t this one a swallow?”

“Yes.”

And Mamma began to cry, and Papa was stroking her head and cradling her like she was a child. He murmured all sorts of embarrassing endearments that shall not be mentioned here.

“I don’t think,” he said at last, “that you should believe in Lulu anymore.”

“I know, but if Lulu doesn’t live inside me, what does?”

“You know its name,” pushed my father gently, “the doctors told you.”

“I forget.”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“The disease is named…”

“It is not a disease; it is a parrot. And its name is Lulu.”

“The doctors said…”

“The doctors,” said my mother’s new voice, icy and impenetrable, “have been
misinformed
.”

T
he swallow-girl was still asleep in the cradle when I woke the next morning. She looked too big for it, lodged in between the headboard and the base, her wings wrapped around her and her face burrowed beneath them. I noticed the bandage around her wounded wing no longer leaked blood, but instead boasted a distinctive stain the color of rust.

“Your father’s making a cot for her,” said Mamma, indicating toward the barn outdoors, where all manner of hammering and sawing could be heard. She handed me a lunch pail, filled with a hard roll, two boiled eggs and an orange. “Have a good day at school.”

I sighed; for I had hoped to be excused from the event, wanting to stay with my pet and watch her, train her. I was secretly begrudging the fact that the creature would be in Mamma’s care all day, most days, and would bond with her over me, like a dog whose loyalty lies with the one in closest proximity.

“And Gabriel,” added my mother as I opened the front door, “not a word of this to your friends.”

I nodded solemnly and sighed. Even had I wished to, I had no friends of which to recount the weekend’s wild adventure.

Closing the rickety wooden door with one foot, I shuffled on the front step, balancing my book bag and lunch pail in readiness for the long walk ahead. The front step was ancient, just like the farmhouse, and made of dirty tiles forming an earth-colored mosaic. Two concrete steps slippery with moss and I was on the ground. I walked past the chicken coop, the makeshift vegetable patch, and cut through the vineyard to make my way toward Orvieto town. I weaved through the grapevines and ducked under olive trees with earl-grey leaves, the ones with parasitic lichen clinging to their trunks like children to their favorite grandfather.

It was here that I turned for a last look at the farmhouse, atop the valley of grapes, woods surrounding it. It looked tiny from where I stood, and I could barely make out its old roof consisting of a plethora of misshapen curved tiles, like fingernails. A tiny sheath of smoke exhaled from the chimney. My refuge. I sighed and continued on my way as the sun ascended its ladder.

The cobblestone road was a stiff, steep climb. On my right, fir trees soared elegantly into the clouds, their thick, angular branches fragmenting the light that fell on my face. To the left was the volcanic wall of Orvieto, and as I craned my neck, I could see where the wall turned into houses at the very top, with arches and windows and laundry flapping in the wind. I sensed faces full of
biscotti
and
cappuccino
looking down on me. I tarried, hoping to delay the eventual moment in which I arrived at the dreary jailhouse of school.

I saw Sweet Vittoria trotting down the road, in the proud swagger of one who’s had a successful night out on the town. I waved at her and wished her to stop, but she merely looked at me from the corner of her eye haughtily, and continued on her way.

The ground began to shudder ominously, and I lunged off the road into the brush as a shiny black Chrysler sailed past. The road was barely wide enough for a pair of donkeys, and I found myself gripping the brick railings as the tires crashed past my toes, mere inches away. Just for a moment, I could see the haughty profile of my arch-nemesis in the window and I recoiled in fear of the teasing the day would bring. As the vehicle soared past, I toyed with the notion of waving my fist in vindication, and resolved to do so once Zeus and his mighty armies deigned to fight beside me.

But in a moment, the Chrysler was long gone. It was once more quiet and lonely, save for the caws of the early ravens, and I mourned that I was the only child too poor to be driven to school. My papa did not have a car, and would not own one in his lifetime. Sometimes, he would go to town on the back of the old donkey Tomasso, and I had taken lately to staying at home because I was ashamed. Last year, when Papa went to market, I would ride behind him because I was so slight (boys at school taunted that I would fall over if they sneezed on me, which they often did). I used to be able to ignore the children talking behind their hands, laughing at my Papa’s mismatched clothes and poor Tomasso, who was cross-eyed. I would hold my head high and scan the crowds for a glimpse of Mariko.

I entertained these gloomy thoughts as I passed through the summit, the monstrous cylindrical Fortress Albornoz with its narrow slits for windows. But when I had taken that last step through the crumbling golden canopy, there I was. In Orvieto.

The tall, ancient stone buildings, with walls so high one could only see a sliver of sky between them. A jigsaw puzzle of misshapen apartment on top of apartment, with stained glass windows and doorways in the wrong places. The streets seemed like tunnels with crossing bridges and irregular archways that soared above the head, a kind of reverse labyrinth across the city. Walled-in gardens draped in moss and roses sat fifteen feet above ground. Wooden window-shutters flung open, potted berry bushes and chrysanthemums unfurling. Someone was always practicing the piano.

As I dragged my feet along, the Baroque lanterns that lined the narrow streets began to go out, thanks to electricity, one by one. I barely registered the street signs carved into marble at every twist in the alley. Instead I watched as grocers opened glass doors to reveal purple artichokes, oranges, and crisp yellow apples. Potters were already deep inside their vine-covered caverns, whirring away at the wheel. I stopped for a moment and peered inside a ceramics store through red and blue glass. I drooled over glazed pastries in the baker’s window, promising to burst open with custard at first bite. And already, at this time of morning, the amateur theatre group, Signore Belivacqua and Co., were downing coffee from thermoses and shouting King Lear’s threats at passer-bys. They were waiting for S. Belivacqua to unlock the doors of the magnificent Teatro Mancinelli to begin rehearsing this season’s production, and I tried not to stare at Signora Marino, the mime artist, wiping tiredness away from her strangely shaped eyes.

Convinced I must certainly be running late, I hastened my pace past the Duomo, the grand Byzantine basilica that hovered over Orvieto like a great striped gargoyle. We learned at school that Luca Signorelli, the famed artisan, had crafted the façade of the Il Duomo – lifelike frescos of devils and angels and people engaged in agony, warfare or debauchery – that served as inspiration for the Sistine Chapel itself. I crossed myself as I hurried past it and said a prayer. “Please Zeus, let us move to town,” I whispered. It was cooler up in Orvieto than our farmhouse in the valley. And if we lived in town, I wouldn’t see the black Chrysler sail past every morning.

I reluctantly turned my back on the Duomo and wandered away. And as I stood on that circular plateau of the town, all around and beneath me lay the green farmlands and woods, where people who were not Orvietani belonged.

Alas, despite my tarrying I arrived at Piazza Marconi Elementary School five minutes before first bell. It was a fairly modern, formidable white building, two small sunken courtyards under the shade of mammoth Jerusalem trees to either side. To the left, a schoolyard existed, simple concrete with shabby fencing. The sight in the schoolyard was typical; clusters of children forming tightly knit cliques that would last their whole lives. There were the academics, serious boys and girls with complexions wan from too many nights pouring over books in puddles of lamplight. Close by were the strong boys, athletic and too tall for their ages, who considered taunting and goading as much a sport as football. Pretending not to look at them were the pretty girls, apples of their papa’s eyes, in their store-bought dresses and a different hair ribbon for every day. I prayed for the moment that just one of them would gaze adoringly at me, particularly Mariko, but today she was fiddling with the strap of her book bag, and would probably not notice me all day. And scattered around these groups, like dandruff on a jacket shoulder, were those weird, solitary persons who could not boast a fair face, sharp tongue, mindless boldness, or bookish mind. They were the ones with buckteeth, a limb shorter than the other, a speech impediment, one green eye and one brown. Poor farming folk, or charity orphans taken in as work boys. They had an instinctive, unearthly pull toward others of their kind, attracted like magnets, and clung to each other like drowning rats. And even they did not deign to speak to me.

Unwilling to draw attention to my ever-apparent exclusion, I thrust out my chest in faux nonchalance and marched up the marble stairs to the school doorframe. Hoping to dissuade any opportunity of teasing, my step was hurried in the attempt to reach the sanctuary of the classroom.

“What’s the rush, lady boy?” came the dreaded purr behind me. I froze momentarily, and turned slowly to behold my arch-nemesis. Darlo Gallo stood, her legs spread apart and planted in the soil like unearthed roots, arms crossed boldly over her chest. Behind her was her band of strong boys, their fathers all workers at
La Casa di Gallo
, snickering and appraising me with mocking eyes. She was like her father in no way but her presence, that sickly-sweet phantom presence that could fill a room like the remnants of body odor. Darlo tossed her head and licked her lips. “What’s the matter, lady boy? Do you like my dress? Jealous, perhaps?” And she twirled around, the full skirt of her rich garment swirling around her, the boys snickering.

“No,” I mumbled.

“Do you know what I think?” she hissed, pushing her face within inches of mine, “I think that you
are
jealous. Not of the dress, but of my hair.” And she ran her fingers through her auburn waist-length hair, grabbed a fistful of it to fashion a whip, and smacked me across the face with it.

The boys began to laugh as I staggered back. They circled me, and one reached out his calloused hand to stroke my face. “Pretty boy,” he murmured, “so beautiful I might take you for my wife one day.” I recoiled at his breath and stumbled. “What’s the matter, pretty boy? Embarrassed of the rags your Mamma dressed you in? Don’t worry, it’s not your fault she’s retarded.” There were roars of laughter all around, and my eyes began to smart with tears. The boy locked both his fists in my hair and began to drag me even closer.

And as his nose grazed mine and I could see every black patch between his teeth, Darlo Gallo pushed him back. “That’s enough, Christopher!” she barked, elbowing him out of the way. “He’s mine.” And her hands flittered over my face gently, but the look in her eyes was feral. “Don’t be frightened, lady boy. I know you want to be just like me. But you must be content, for now, to be my slave.” And she sank her teeth into my bottom lip.

I fought the urge to scream and in those few moments, my mind found refuge as I thought about the swallow-girl, and how she would turn her head toward me and stare when I spoke to her.

“What on earth is happening here?” shrieked Signorina Greco, the teacher. Darlo released me and whirled around, flustered. She appeared shocked, as she should be, for it was a well known fact that Signorina Greco always sat behind her great oak desk and did not move from the period of seven-thirty to eight-fifteen, after every pupil was seated before her. I had never seen her in the corridors before this day. “I beg your pardon, Signorina, I was just—“

“That’s enough, Miss Gallo! Kissing your boyfriend in front of the classroom like a common girl, and you so well brought up! Wait until your father hears about this!”

Darlo gazed up at our teacher with a well-practiced expression of wretchedness. “I’m ever so sorry, Signorina, if you could only punish me instead of disturbing my poor papa. He has been so overworked lately and…” The lies slipped from her tongue as easily as grease.

“Enough,” commanded Signorina Greco. “Go inside, we will talk about this later.”

Darlo lowered her head in false humility and obeyed, followed by her group of boys. But when the teacher’s back was turned, she glared at me and mouthed, “Later”.

“And as for you,” began the Signorina, but I had already reached for her hand and grasped it.

“
Grazi
,” I whispered, “
grazi tanto
”.

“Why, Gabriel—” stammered Signorina Greco, astonished.

“And I am not,” I murmured, rearranging my tousled shirt and picking up my book bag where it had fallen, “her boyfriend.” I noticed that out of the two eggs that had rolled from my lunch pail, one had been trampled on.

“I suppose then that I am glad I was alerted in time,” stated the Signorina, and sailed past me back into the classroom.

“Alerted?” I called after her.