Passenger (KHR • 69+96)
PASSENGER
EVENINGLAND
for 31_days
Series: 家庭教師ヒットマン・ＲＥＢＯＲＮ！» Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Characters: 69+96
Rating: G-PG
Summary: In which a short tour of the Duomo commences.
All characters belong to Amano Akira.
...beaneath you life is lived, and nothing is idle long.
-from "O Mia Bela Madunina"
The Duomo towered over the square, its ghostly spires disembodied against the blackened stone buttresses. Evening fell early over the city, and even at five in the afternoon, the gas lamps began their firefly glow. From the window they followed her, flickering to life in turn as the streetcar ambled down the avenue. A strange city, a beautiful city, and she felt very removed from it, an outsider.
The driver was chattering in a crude form of the local argot, with none of the words he used in the familiar conjunctions she had learned by heart. She could only pick up some of them, the speed of their passing leaving her tripping over her neatly paved textbook Italian.
"You tell where we go," the man had said loudly, "I take you."
His exclamations punctuated perfectly with every abrupt bump on the cobblestone streets, and she started each time, wondering if he was angry. He said he spoke English ("Can speak English, un poco!"), and she instinctively hurried to reverse her gears and remember the phrases learned in middle school: "How do you do" and "yes! I am interested in." The seemingly seamless shift from thought to tongue stunned her.
Her companion was a polyglot, however. He took it all in with comfortable ease: the driver's cobbled Milanese, the occasional English word that wandered in, her thoughts in frantic Japanese. He translated the old man's rant smoothly, as the latter exclaimed over the noise of the car radio.
"He's lived here all his life, the farthest he's gone only south to Bologna. Signore is a Lombardian through and through," her companion said softly, and she calmed down a little. "He's never even been to Rome. 'What is in Rome, but Le Mafia Cattolica, the Grand Syndicate of the Catholic Church? Let them throw Tragic Rome in the Tiber③' " Her translator chuckled lightly. "He says Milano has enough of it already."
They drew further away from the maze of alleyways that hid another side of wintry Milano. They had entered the city clandestinely, aware of the multiple factions that sought to control the metropolis, and its thriving trade centers. They had kept to the shadows as they made their way through it earlier, with him soundlessly guiding her where to go, and she following his directions closely.
Even while the Cavallone, loyal family allies, had a strong clout in the general Lombard area, it was still prudent to lay low. She was now used to looking over her shoulder furtively, now used to crossing open spaces with caution, especially now that neither Chikusa nor Ken could follow to where they were.
She nearly missed the corner that led away from the labyrinthine backstreets. "To your right," her companion had said, again with the mild, chiding amusement in his tone.
"Eh?" the driver fairly yelled, pulling his wheel a hard right, as she realised that she'd spoken aloud. They hurtled between parked cars, narrowly coming away without a scratch. Frantic, she opened her mouth, ready to throw out a badly pronounced apology.
"That was close④," she found herself saying smoothly instead, in a low but sure tone that stepped over her own incapacity, and carried the conversation.
The driver smiled at her in the mirror, impressed. "You have a Bolognese accent, and there you are looking for all the world like a Japanese tourist. No offence. We get plenty. 'Where is Armani' and 'Where is Prada' and 'Where is Versace' always, always, talking like it is their neighbor or friend or distant relation!"
It irks him to have his hometown become too accessible to everyone was the translation she received, even as she was aware of herself saying something warm in reply, which made the driver break into laughter. It was her voice, her tongue moving, but the words came from elsewhere.
"I tell them: Signorina, Signore Versace is having antipasti with my great-great-granpapa. Hah!"
He does not like too many elements of the outside world coming in arbitrarily to what he believes is his 'personal' place, like so. Strangers, becoming familiar with what is his.
"But the Japanese are like that too," she began to say, then bit it back, quite confused--was she talking to the driver, or was she talking to her companion? It was the signore speaking to him now, her multilingual and able counterpart, like old friends over espresso; and she was the silent observer, the words she knew meaning little in the currency of expression.
Then perhaps we are similar beings, you and I.
A differently-coloured eye glinted ironically back at her from the reflection in the window. Against the glass, the city was a smear of light as they careened through the small roads that circled the San Babila square. The Duomo loomed like an apparition before her.
"The Madunina," the driver now said, slowing down as they approached the square. He pointed up to the tallest spire, and she could barely make out a faintly gleaming figure--the celebrated statue on Milano's tallest spire.
"She watches the city when it sleeps. Do you know? We have songs for her, the Madunina of Milano. When the Duomo was destroyed in the war, she was the only one of the old church that was left standing. And now," the driver spread his arms in the small space of his car, "she stands on its highest point, and she carries the city, even as the city carries her."
They came to a halt, and the driver rolled down his window, looking up wistfully. "And she doesn't even need to say a word."
Her companion was agitated, she could sense, and just as she was about to say something to apologise for being clueless enough as to get into the first taxi that came their way, the quarter-hour bell tolled. Its sound reverberated clear from the square and outward, like a ripple. She looked up, at the cathedral, pale in the winter cold. She could almost make out several shapes against the roof, restricted to all but those called to rendezvous with the Vongola.
She thought of the magnificent structure as a mound of ruin, a mass of bombed-out marble and stone; the Madunina, symbol of the city, cold, quiet and triumphant in her perch. The bell tolled again and she jumped, jolted out of her reverie.
An old, warm hand gently covered hers as she fumbled for the fare. "Che va bene bambina," he said gently. "It is alright. Friends of my famiglia are famiglia to me as well, and you are more than welcome to this city. Even with your...il estraneo friend."
He looked at her knowingly, levelly, and then fixed his eyes past her, as if to something immediately behind her, a taller figure. It was to this that the old man nodded stiffly and rode away, squeezing back into the early evening traffic.
"Estraneo⑤," came the soft sneer. "Strangers. That was a Cavallone plainclothesman. Very smart to control this city's comings and goings this way. We will send our...thanks for the escort service."
From deep inside, the ironic sigh carried through her softly, and for a moment it was a different city she saw, from mismatched eyes. A low mist over the wet dawn of Lombardy; the ubiquitous police in pairs patrolling every checkpoint, and checking every underaged child passenger for their target; the Duomo from far away, throttled on every side by scaffoldings and renovations, telling this young Bolognese fugitive that he had reached his destination.
"Nagi."
She turned, to the voice without a body, to the will without a weakness, whose real self was imprisoned somewhere, incapacitated, a broken, frozen, dangerous thing.
You tell me where to go. I will take you.
Her shadow stretched long and solitary against the uneven ground, as they made their way into the church.
--------------------------------
NOTES:
① Doria » A common dish served in family restaurants, popular among schoolgirls. (photo) Viale Andrea Doria is a long stretch of road connecting to the Central Train Station.
② the instances where the driver's speech pattern can be thoroughly understood by Chrome, are the instances where Mukuro translates to her directly what the other was saying. Sentences italicised are Mukuro's personal thoughts transmitted directly to Chrome.
③ Tragic Rome » another line from "O mia bela Madunina" (Se sbaten in del Tever: "Ròma tragica!") which goes, "Now there is the song of "magic Rome" about Nina, the Cupolone, Rugantino. They throw [their song] Tragic Rome in the Tiber, but they exaggerate, it seems, a little bit... a sarcastic, playful jab at how everything, including folk songs and love songs, seems tragic in Rome.
④ right/steer/maneuver » destra is literally the "right-hand side" in Italian, while destreggiarsi is to "maneuver deftly."
⑤ Estraneo » literally, "strangers." Also the name of the family Lancia used to belong to.
Set sometime around the 5YL timeline, before the 'current' events of the 10YL (as Mukuro is still physically imprisoned) and after the 'present'. (Thanks to yonashi for prompting me)
Crossposted to pineappleluff
EVENINGLAND
for 31_days
Series: 家庭教師ヒットマン・ＲＥＢＯＲＮ！» Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Characters: 69+96
Rating: G-PG
Summary: In which a short tour of the Duomo commences.
All characters belong to Amano Akira.
...beaneath you life is lived, and nothing is idle long.
-from "O Mia Bela Madunina"
The Duomo towered over the square, its ghostly spires disembodied against the blackened stone buttresses. Evening fell early over the city, and even at five in the afternoon, the gas lamps began their firefly glow. From the window they followed her, flickering to life in turn as the streetcar ambled down the avenue. A strange city, a beautiful city, and she felt very removed from it, an outsider.
The driver was chattering in a crude form of the local argot, with none of the words he used in the familiar conjunctions she had learned by heart. She could only pick up some of them, the speed of their passing leaving her tripping over her neatly paved textbook Italian.
"You tell where we go," the man had said loudly, "I take you."
His exclamations punctuated perfectly with every abrupt bump on the cobblestone streets, and she started each time, wondering if he was angry. He said he spoke English ("Can speak English, un poco!"), and she instinctively hurried to reverse her gears and remember the phrases learned in middle school: "How do you do" and "yes! I am interested in." The seemingly seamless shift from thought to tongue stunned her.
Her companion was a polyglot, however. He took it all in with comfortable ease: the driver's cobbled Milanese, the occasional English word that wandered in, her thoughts in frantic Japanese. He translated the old man's rant smoothly, as the latter exclaimed over the noise of the car radio.
"He's lived here all his life, the farthest he's gone only south to Bologna. Signore is a Lombardian through and through," her companion said softly, and she calmed down a little. "He's never even been to Rome. 'What is in Rome, but Le Mafia Cattolica, the Grand Syndicate of the Catholic Church? Let them throw Tragic Rome in the Tiber③' " Her translator chuckled lightly. "He says Milano has enough of it already."
They drew further away from the maze of alleyways that hid another side of wintry Milano. They had entered the city clandestinely, aware of the multiple factions that sought to control the metropolis, and its thriving trade centers. They had kept to the shadows as they made their way through it earlier, with him soundlessly guiding her where to go, and she following his directions closely.
Even while the Cavallone, loyal family allies, had a strong clout in the general Lombard area, it was still prudent to lay low. She was now used to looking over her shoulder furtively, now used to crossing open spaces with caution, especially now that neither Chikusa nor Ken could follow to where they were.
She nearly missed the corner that led away from the labyrinthine backstreets. "To your right," her companion had said, again with the mild, chiding amusement in his tone.
"Eh?" the driver fairly yelled, pulling his wheel a hard right, as she realised that she'd spoken aloud. They hurtled between parked cars, narrowly coming away without a scratch. Frantic, she opened her mouth, ready to throw out a badly pronounced apology.
"That was close④," she found herself saying smoothly instead, in a low but sure tone that stepped over her own incapacity, and carried the conversation.
The driver smiled at her in the mirror, impressed. "You have a Bolognese accent, and there you are looking for all the world like a Japanese tourist. No offence. We get plenty. 'Where is Armani' and 'Where is Prada' and 'Where is Versace' always, always, talking like it is their neighbor or friend or distant relation!"
It irks him to have his hometown become too accessible to everyone was the translation she received, even as she was aware of herself saying something warm in reply, which made the driver break into laughter. It was her voice, her tongue moving, but the words came from elsewhere.
"I tell them: Signorina, Signore Versace is having antipasti with my great-great-granpapa. Hah!"
He does not like too many elements of the outside world coming in arbitrarily to what he believes is his 'personal' place, like so. Strangers, becoming familiar with what is his.
"But the Japanese are like that too," she began to say, then bit it back, quite confused--was she talking to the driver, or was she talking to her companion? It was the signore speaking to him now, her multilingual and able counterpart, like old friends over espresso; and she was the silent observer, the words she knew meaning little in the currency of expression.
Then perhaps we are similar beings, you and I.
A differently-coloured eye glinted ironically back at her from the reflection in the window. Against the glass, the city was a smear of light as they careened through the small roads that circled the San Babila square. The Duomo loomed like an apparition before her.
"The Madunina," the driver now said, slowing down as they approached the square. He pointed up to the tallest spire, and she could barely make out a faintly gleaming figure--the celebrated statue on Milano's tallest spire.
"She watches the city when it sleeps. Do you know? We have songs for her, the Madunina of Milano. When the Duomo was destroyed in the war, she was the only one of the old church that was left standing. And now," the driver spread his arms in the small space of his car, "she stands on its highest point, and she carries the city, even as the city carries her."
They came to a halt, and the driver rolled down his window, looking up wistfully. "And she doesn't even need to say a word."
Her companion was agitated, she could sense, and just as she was about to say something to apologise for being clueless enough as to get into the first taxi that came their way, the quarter-hour bell tolled. Its sound reverberated clear from the square and outward, like a ripple. She looked up, at the cathedral, pale in the winter cold. She could almost make out several shapes against the roof, restricted to all but those called to rendezvous with the Vongola.
She thought of the magnificent structure as a mound of ruin, a mass of bombed-out marble and stone; the Madunina, symbol of the city, cold, quiet and triumphant in her perch. The bell tolled again and she jumped, jolted out of her reverie.
An old, warm hand gently covered hers as she fumbled for the fare. "Che va bene bambina," he said gently. "It is alright. Friends of my famiglia are famiglia to me as well, and you are more than welcome to this city. Even with your...il estraneo friend."
He looked at her knowingly, levelly, and then fixed his eyes past her, as if to something immediately behind her, a taller figure. It was to this that the old man nodded stiffly and rode away, squeezing back into the early evening traffic.
"Estraneo⑤," came the soft sneer. "Strangers. That was a Cavallone plainclothesman. Very smart to control this city's comings and goings this way. We will send our...thanks for the escort service."
From deep inside, the ironic sigh carried through her softly, and for a moment it was a different city she saw, from mismatched eyes. A low mist over the wet dawn of Lombardy; the ubiquitous police in pairs patrolling every checkpoint, and checking every underaged child passenger for their target; the Duomo from far away, throttled on every side by scaffoldings and renovations, telling this young Bolognese fugitive that he had reached his destination.
"Nagi."
She turned, to the voice without a body, to the will without a weakness, whose real self was imprisoned somewhere, incapacitated, a broken, frozen, dangerous thing.
You tell me where to go. I will take you.
Her shadow stretched long and solitary against the uneven ground, as they made their way into the church.
--------------------------------
NOTES:
① Doria » A common dish served in family restaurants, popular among schoolgirls. (photo) Viale Andrea Doria is a long stretch of road connecting to the Central Train Station.
② the instances where the driver's speech pattern can be thoroughly understood by Chrome, are the instances where Mukuro translates to her directly what the other was saying. Sentences italicised are Mukuro's personal thoughts transmitted directly to Chrome.
③ Tragic Rome » another line from "O mia bela Madunina" (Se sbaten in del Tever: "Ròma tragica!") which goes, "Now there is the song of "magic Rome" about Nina, the Cupolone, Rugantino. They throw [their song] Tragic Rome in the Tiber, but they exaggerate, it seems, a little bit... a sarcastic, playful jab at how everything, including folk songs and love songs, seems tragic in Rome.
④ right/steer/maneuver » destra is literally the "right-hand side" in Italian, while destreggiarsi is to "maneuver deftly."
⑤ Estraneo » literally, "strangers." Also the name of the family Lancia used to belong to.
Set sometime around the 5YL timeline, before the 'current' events of the 10YL (as Mukuro is still physically imprisoned) and after the 'present'. (Thanks to yonashi for prompting me)
Crossposted to pineappleluff