Unfurl (10 page)

Why did my freaking window have to face east? I felt anger rise at Christian for his mistake, even though I’d forgiven him. It looked like forgiveness was going to be more of an ongoing activity.

“Still, you saved her in the end, didn’t you?” asked Gwyn, brightly. “Tell her how you did it. How you could hear her.”

“Your thoughts called to me loudly,” Christian said to me. “Sir Walter said this might happen. He believed you to be gifted in this ability which is not shared by all chameleons.” He straightened proudly. “It is a de Rocheforte trait.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said. “But I can’t speak my thoughts to Will or hear his thoughts. We write stuff out, using images.”

Christian nodded. “He possesses not the trait. Your communication with him will be difficult always.”

Gwyn laughed. “While she’s invisible, you mean. They do just fine when they’re solid.”

Or on the same continent,
I added to myself, thinking again of the slow drift of tectonic plates as South America said farewell to Africa.

The Will–shaped space in my heart contracted, dwarfing my body’s other pains. It gripped me, this longing, so vast that it could swallow continents. I missed Will. I needed him. How could I be expected to face what I’d just faced, without Will at my side? I was calling Sir Walter tomorrow. Forget about safety and phone etiquette. I
needed
Will like I needed air and sunshine. Like I needed to run. I refused to live without him.

And then I thought about Helmann’s Brave New World video. About a holocaust that would leave humanity in shattered pieces. I couldn’t ask Will to leave Sir Walter’s side. He had work to do. And so did I. I would lock away this hurt, this ache that matched the shape of Will’s body no longer curved against mine.

I had to recover my egg. I had to thwart Hans and Helmann in every way possible.

Now all I had to do was convince Christian to help.

Excerpted from the personal diary of Girard L’Inferne.

Circa 2005

Our first purge has begun. After decades of collecting data on those who carry the chameleon gene, we have begun to eliminate them in numbers small enough to raise no suspicion. Hans, especially, understands the need for secrecy, in the more sensitive areas of the world, such as the United States. He pleases me, in his diligence to be certain the deaths might have happened to anyone.

Any hesitations I felt six decades ago, when I made available the medication which counteracts Helmann’s disease—these hesitations are laid to rest now. The medical records of the recipients lead us infallibly to eliminate potential carriers.

The way is being cleared for the future. For the day when I shall offer to the deserving the gift of life eternal. For their children at any rate. Although, who knows but that we may, in time, find ourselves able to fuse the gene for invisibility into the DNA of an adult. I am certain we shall not lack for volunteers should the day arrive!

I estimate we can eliminate ninety–five percent of all living carriers in the next several years. Those who escape us? Well, once I have the run of the planet, it will be a simple enough step to convince the jealous to turn in their neighbors or their family members.

It has been done before.

I hesitated briefly over removing the last of Elisabeth’s descendants. But I must show strength and not weakness in this matter. Who are they to me? Merely the offspring of her bastard bratlings.

ONLY MADMEN DRIVE IN ROME

·
WILL
·

“You think she was kidnapped?” I asked. “Did Pfeffer ‘hear’ us somehow?”

Sir Walter frowned and glared, the nearest I’d seen him to angry. “Formerly, Pfeffer
never
gave any indication that he could hear the thoughts from my mind unless we were
both invisible
. I tried for years to train him, but it was in vain.”

“Like me,” I said grimly. “But let’s say he
did
notice us: where would he take her?”

Sir Walter brought a fist down on the kitchen table in the first display of anger I’d ever observed. The bowl of pasta rattled and settled beside the computer. A flicker of light caught my attention: the monitor, coming to life, out of screen–saver mode.

“There’s a note!” I said, leaning over Sir Walter to read a brief message that had been typed onto the computer screen.

I went to Saint Peter’s. Got stir–crazy. Back for dinner. Make it good! ;)

“WHAT?” I roared. At Sir Walter. ‘Cause he was the only person in the room. But it wasn’t
him
I was pissed at and next thing I knew, I’d kicked a dining chair that bumped the table as it fell. The bowl of pasta teetered and slipped, dumping dinner all over the fallen chair.

“Church? Really?
Now
she gets religion?” I paced back and forth, uttering foul things about my sister and her sense of timing. I really wanted to kick another chair over, but I knew Sir Walter would be the one paying for damages. I settled for pounding my fist into my left hand. Repeatedly.

Sir Walter’s soft laugh filled the dead space. “Perhaps an invisible run would be in order?”

Somehow, him asking that just took all the fight out of me, and I sagged onto the couch. “I should’ve known to check the computer,” I mumbled. “We always leave notes on the kitchen table. It was so obvious.”

Sir Walter’s mouth curved up but just on one side. “
Calquecop le pa que be quand las denses s’en soun anandos
.”

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

“It is a saying in the tongue of my youth:
Sometimes the bread shows up after the teeth are already gone
,” he replied.

“Hmmph,” I grunted.

“It is a way of saying that bad timing happens, my young friend.”

He was trying to help. I made an effort to be less grizzly bear. “That sounded like Spanish. You spoke Spanish when you were a kid?”

“
Occitan
,” he corrected. “It is similar to Spanish. Or rather, to Catalan.”

I sighed, stretching my hands high above my head. “So you figure she’s okay, then?” I asked.

“I think it unlikely Pfeffer will venture to St. Peter’s cathedral this evening.” He tugged at his goatee as he answered my question. Meaning he was just a little worried.

Right then I heard Mick’s special knock at the door.

“You better get it,” I said, folding my arms over my chest, anger returning.

““I’m so glad you’re back,” said my sister, entering. “Locked myself out. It smells like heaven in … here.” Her eyes found the upside–down bowl of dinner as she removed sunglasses and some kind of head–covering. “Oh. Bummer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “A little casualty of your need for fresh air.”

She looked at me, puzzled, a questioning smile on her face.

“We thought you’d been kidnapped,” I said.

“I left a note.” She pointed to the computer.

“Yeah, well, first we thought you’d been kidnapped. Then we saw the note and realized you’d just been selfish.”

My sister closed her eyes and did her little count–under–the–breath thing. “I needed to get out, okay, Will? This apartment gets a little claustrophobic with that old grandma sweeping all day and shaking her head at me if I get too close to the window.”

My anger evaporated as I thought of the
nonna
muttering at my sister all day. I laughed. “Dude, she’s hysterical, huh?”

Turning, I asked Sir Walter about the exchange I’d seen between him and the old grandma.

“Ah, yes,” said Sir Walter. “It now appears most fortunate that I secured the use of her deceased husband’s Fiat.” He looked sadly at the pasta. “I believe we shall dine out this evening.” Taking one of my sister’s hands in both of his, he smiled. “A little celebration for things feared lost but happily recovered.”

“You think it’s safe for us to go out?” Mick asked.

“
Now
you think of that?” I asked, rising to clean up the mess of pasta.

I had the satisfaction of seeing my sister flush red and stop herself from responding in kind.

“I’m really sorry, Will,” she said. “Forgive me?”

I nodded.

“I left a note,” she said.

“Screen–saver kicked on,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t think of that.”

She seemed so genuinely repentant, I didn’t have the heart to mutter “obviously.”

“We don’t have to go out for dinner,” she said. “I know I took a risk earlier today—”

Sir Walter interrupted. “No, no. I believe the population of Rome should be sufficient to keep apart Pfeffer and ourselves.”

“Don’t forget Franz. He knows what you look like, too, doesn’t he?” I asked.

Sir Walter shrugged in a way that I translated as, “
Yes, but it matters not.
” Or maybe just, “
I’ve made up my mind, dweeb.
”

He turned to my sister. “You were wise to conceal your appearance.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Something Pfeffer taught me.”

“For when we used to visit his lab,” I explained. I didn’t mention how they used to force me to dress like a girl. Seriously, the sooner some things are forgotten, the better.

We grabbed hats and scarves, me and Sir Walter swapping, which was pretty hilarious, seeing him wearing my Nintendo stretch–cap.

“You really want to look different, you could shave,” I said, tapping my chin.

He looked at me like I’d just suggested he cut off his right hand.

My sister defended him. “He looks plenty strange wearing the hat.”

Apparently our landlady agreed, shaking her head and clucking under her breath as we piled into her car. Sir Walter made me and Mick sit in back.

“You will be more hidden,” he said.

I shook my head. If he wanted hidden, we could grab my sister and ripple. But Sir Walter was in “be nice to Mickie” mode right now, and he knew she hated that form of transportation.

We pulled into the alley fronting our apartment building. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street. Most were parked half on the sidewalk, half on the street. I didn’t see how we were exiting this road without taking a few side–mirrors out, but Sir Walter managed it okay. The alley dumped into a little roundabout circling a fountain, and that was where things got interesting.

A group of guys my age were out on Vespas, two or three to a bike, zipping around the circle like it was a race. They called insults to one another, laughing as they passed us by, some of them reaching out to thump the hood of our car. There was no way Sir Walter could enter the roundabout without taking out a couple of the mopeds, so we just sat there until one biker took off down another alley, followed by the rest of them.

We reached a wider street where two–way traffic was a possibility, barely, and joined a handful of other cars, all in a hurry, like their
nonnas
were gonna give them what–for if they didn’t get back for dinner.

Sir Walter drove a little too slowly for some of them. A car would be coming our way, and we’d see, to our left, that someone had decided to pass us. It would look like collision was inevitable, but then Sir Walter and the oncoming car would each part just a tiny bit toward the outside, and maybe up on the sidewalk, and the passing car would zip through. Crazy.

We made another turn, onto a still–bigger street. I tried counting lanes, but it was tricky as the Roman drivers didn’t seem to stay in a lane for very long. I could see white stripes on the pavement, but clearly these lines meant nothing to the drivers. Apparently traffic signals didn’t mean much either. Even red lights. Eventually, though, enough cars at the front of traffic would stop for a red light and that would force everyone behind to stop as well. Except for the motorized bikers. They would zip between cars, or down the sidewalk, and line up in front of all the cars waiting for the light to change. When the signal turned green, the cars would pass the motor–bikes and race towards the next traffic light where the cycle repeated. All without staying in lanes.

Although it was February, and cold, many motorists drove with a window down so that they could communicate via hand–gesture, apparently a method preferred over turn–signal blinkers. Sir Walter did okay with all of it. I thought it was sort of funny, since I didn’t have to drive. Beside me, Mick clutched a beaded rosary necklace I was sure she hadn’t owned before her trip to Vatican City. Her lips hadn’t stopped moving since we’d left that first roundabout.

We hit a downhill stretch where you could get a look ahead to see how bad the traffic really was. White lights coming towards us for miles, red lights stretching into the distance until reaching a really large roundabout. I saw at least eight cars–widths of fluid, lane–changing traffic. We inched towards the roundabout. As we got closer, I saw a uniformed official directing traffic from atop a small cement column. Not a job I envied. I leaned my head against the window, wondering how much farther to dinner.

None of us were prepared for what happened next. A motorcyclist took advantage of a slender aisle between several cars and rushed forward to catch the policeman’s “Go” signal before it switched to a “Don’t even think about it” signal. The biker wasn’t going to make it. The Mercedes in front of us was attempting to sneak through while the policeman shook a threatening hand at the motorcycle. The car behind us apparently assumed Sir Walter would do the same. At the last minute the car in front of us changed his mind without notifying the guy behind us, who then rammed into us so hard that our hood crumpled into the Mercedes. Mick’s head jerked up from praying.

And then there was this massive chain effect, like, once a few cars saw us get sandwiched, they thought, hey, looks like fun, let’s all try it! Must have been a hundred cars smashing into each other’s bumpers. And probably three–hundred angry, gesticulating Italians shouting at one another and the one policeman. No one seemed to feel it was important to stay inside their car.