Read Online Vango by Timothee de Fombelle - Free Book Online
Authors: Timothee de Fombelle
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the great migration. Like a magnet, Vango attracted the swallows and all the other birds too.
One winter, when he was six or seven years old, he had rescued a swallow that had crashed into the windows of a deserted house. He had looked after it for six months, keeping its wing in a splint made out of a vine shoot. It had spent the winter without traveling, fed on crushed midges and butter. And then it had flown off in April, when its companions returned from exile.
Since that time, all swallows seemed to feel a mysterious gratitude toward Vango. A dancing gratitude that brushed against him at a hundred miles an hour, whipping up breezes in his direction.
Sometimes Vango found them a bit too close for comfort. “All right, all right,” he would say to them when they flew between his legs. Swallows grow to a ripe old age — much older than the oldest horse — and their affection for the boy showed no signs of abating.
Vango turned back toward the sea. In the middle of the huge expanse, he could make out a sail in the distance. It was the big merchant ship on its way to Palermo, the same ship that had dropped him off when it passed close to the island of Arkudah.
Just as the vessel was leaving the port of Malfa, Vango had jumped aboard. The captain was a Frenchman. He had been taken aback by this boy who spoke to him in his own language, with no trace of an accent and a refined way of speaking that seemed to date back to another era. Vango explained that his uncle lived on the island they could see across the way and that he’d missed the fisherman who usually took him there every Sunday.
“But it’s not Sunday today,” the captain had pointed out, “it’s Wednesday.”
Vango had confidently stared him out.
“Wednesday is called Sunday over here,” he had explained very seriously. “You’re not in France now, remember!”
In just a few days, Vango had caught up in the game of lying. He was enjoying beginner’s luck.
He spent the few hours of the crossing explaining to the crew that his uncle lived on the island with a bear and a small monkey. Vango had never been so talkative in all his life. When a Russian sailor inquired where the monkey came from, Vango told him, in Russian, that the monkey had been found in a barrel that had washed up on the pebbles.
“You speak Russian?”
Vango hadn’t replied, as he was too busy explaining how the bear had swum to the island. It was hard for him to resist the thrill of talking complete and utter nonsense.
He had left a note for Mademoiselle, letting her know that he would be away for a few days because he was going to “court somebody.” He still believed this meant he was going to give a hand, which, for once, wasn’t far from the truth. Pippo Troisi was in danger.
Above all, his real goal was to understand if what he thought he’d seen on this island really existed.
But when he got to the top, there was nothing.
He looked around and couldn’t see any sign of human life. He’d been expecting to find a dirty encampment, a few caves: the pirates’ hideout he had imagined as he had repeated the name of Arkudah over and over again.
As far as he was concerned, the man he had talked to in the dazzling light of that morning back then was the pirate chief, and Pippo Troisi was their prisoner.
But there wasn’t a single three-cornered pirate’s or corsair’s hat on the island, no black flag with a skull and crossbones, no rude loud parrot, no human skull carved into an ashtray.
There were just stones and shrubs.
He couldn’t quite admit it to himself, but Vango felt let down.
“Of course, I knew it.”
He kept repeating those words over and over again, and for once in his life, he sounded just like any other ten-year-old boy.
He headed off down the gentle slope. A single tree had sprung up among the rocks. He decided to establish his base there and to draw up his plan to leave this island and get back home to Mademoiselle. He leaned against the
One winter, when he was six or seven years old, he had rescued a swallow that had crashed into the windows of a deserted house. He had looked after it for six months, keeping its wing in a splint made out of a vine shoot. It had spent the winter without traveling, fed on crushed midges and butter. And then it had flown off in April, when its companions returned from exile.
Since that time, all swallows seemed to feel a mysterious gratitude toward Vango. A dancing gratitude that brushed against him at a hundred miles an hour, whipping up breezes in his direction.
Sometimes Vango found them a bit too close for comfort. “All right, all right,” he would say to them when they flew between his legs. Swallows grow to a ripe old age — much older than the oldest horse — and their affection for the boy showed no signs of abating.
Vango turned back toward the sea. In the middle of the huge expanse, he could make out a sail in the distance. It was the big merchant ship on its way to Palermo, the same ship that had dropped him off when it passed close to the island of Arkudah.
Just as the vessel was leaving the port of Malfa, Vango had jumped aboard. The captain was a Frenchman. He had been taken aback by this boy who spoke to him in his own language, with no trace of an accent and a refined way of speaking that seemed to date back to another era. Vango explained that his uncle lived on the island they could see across the way and that he’d missed the fisherman who usually took him there every Sunday.
“But it’s not Sunday today,” the captain had pointed out, “it’s Wednesday.”
Vango had confidently stared him out.
“Wednesday is called Sunday over here,” he had explained very seriously. “You’re not in France now, remember!”
In just a few days, Vango had caught up in the game of lying. He was enjoying beginner’s luck.
He spent the few hours of the crossing explaining to the crew that his uncle lived on the island with a bear and a small monkey. Vango had never been so talkative in all his life. When a Russian sailor inquired where the monkey came from, Vango told him, in Russian, that the monkey had been found in a barrel that had washed up on the pebbles.
“You speak Russian?”
Vango hadn’t replied, as he was too busy explaining how the bear had swum to the island. It was hard for him to resist the thrill of talking complete and utter nonsense.
He had left a note for Mademoiselle, letting her know that he would be away for a few days because he was going to “court somebody.” He still believed this meant he was going to give a hand, which, for once, wasn’t far from the truth. Pippo Troisi was in danger.
Above all, his real goal was to understand if what he thought he’d seen on this island really existed.
But when he got to the top, there was nothing.
He looked around and couldn’t see any sign of human life. He’d been expecting to find a dirty encampment, a few caves: the pirates’ hideout he had imagined as he had repeated the name of Arkudah over and over again.
As far as he was concerned, the man he had talked to in the dazzling light of that morning back then was the pirate chief, and Pippo Troisi was their prisoner.
But there wasn’t a single three-cornered pirate’s or corsair’s hat on the island, no black flag with a skull and crossbones, no rude loud parrot, no human skull carved into an ashtray.
There were just stones and shrubs.
He couldn’t quite admit it to himself, but Vango felt let down.
“Of course, I knew it.”
He kept repeating those words over and over again, and for once in his life, he sounded just like any other ten-year-old boy.
He headed off down the gentle slope. A single tree had sprung up among the rocks. He decided to establish his base there and to draw up his plan to leave this island and get back home to Mademoiselle. He leaned against the
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