Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  Though limping badly, Cpl. Bolzano carried himself with a jaunty flair, raising and dropping his staff in time with the aria as he picked his way along the trail. The white fur cape draped over his shoulders fell to well below his knees. The old man says the cape is winter fox. Many hands of pelts stitched together. Warm, soft and hard to come by, he says.

  Sal’s hair and beard have grown long. Dark brown and wavy, they frame his face, cover the shoulders and chest of his cape.

  The warriors trailing along at the rear were focused on the running campers like leashed hunting dogs. Slowed by Bolzano’s pace, stacked into a tight bunch, their excitement was palpable. The caped woman’s head swiveled from side to side, searching for threats exactly the way they taught us back in basic training.

  Bolzano completed his aria with a flourish of his staff as he drew his crew to a halt in front of Kolettelena and her girls. Bowing low, he kissed the woman’s hand. She gave him a mighty hug, led him into the tent.

  Except for occasional exits to urinate, Cpl. Bolzano has remained in the tent through the evening. His raucous laugh and frequent opera songs boom all the way up to our burrow of shattered pines. About an hour before midnight, the volume of the festivities grew to a crescendo of wild shouts and screams and native singing.

  A half hour later, lit by the half moon and feeble torches at the door of Kolettelena’s tent, Bolzano’s crew staggered out one by one to retch in the grass. I assumed the old woman had poisoned them, until Cpl. Bolzano’s voice cut through the night air.

  “Fools can’t hold their liquor. Pip-squeak punks! Come get me! Jones! Kaikane! Duarte! I know you are out there! Come get me. I mean you no harm. Please!”

  His pleas into the darkness grew more desperate. Finally he gathered up his staff and limped from camp. Though stumbling, the corporal showed surprising speed as he followed the moonlit trail westward. His white cape made him quite easy to spot through the darkness of the trees.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Look at that gut. I thought maybe it was the fur coat, but hell, Sal’s fat.”

  Duarte: “See how his feet are wrapped? He must have injured them.”

  Jones: “Can’t just stand in the middle of the damn trail. Kaikane, take his legs. We’ll carry him over behind those rocks.”

  Kaikane: “Son of a bitch, guy must weigh 300 pounds.”

  Jones: “Duarte, clean our back trail as you follow. Kick dirt over that puke.”

  Duarte: “Already on it.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano dropped back into our lives today with a visit that felt a lot like an unexpected message from home, the kind I used to get back when I was on the pro surfing tour. Those transmissions from Hawaii always began with small talk before diving straight into the usual list of family problems and the eventual grab for more money.

  Don’t get me wrong, it felt good to see and communicate with another modern human, another member of The Team. There was something very satisfying about that, like we accomplished something.

  The Cpl. Bolzano I remembered from training was always good company once the hard work was done and it was time to relax. Unlike the other Italians, he was companionable and funny. Salvatore was never afraid to stab someone with his sharp wit, or take their money in poker. But he did it all in such an easy, offhand way, nobody seemed to mind.

  This Bolzano, the fatso we found passed out in a puddle of his own puke, is more like a whipped dog. Nervous, almost feral. I’m not sure if it was his hangover or the hardships of the past six months, maybe both, but the old zest for life wasn’t there.

  Sal tried to clear his head with a swim in a fast-running, ice-cold stream. Judging from my view from the rocks as he laid on his back in the knee-high water, he might well be the heaviest man on the planet. Humpty Dumpty.

  Over a turtle-shell bowl of Maria’s muesli, he began his rundown of the past six months. Some of the stories sounded like they might be true, but most seemed like the ravings of a lunatic–hunting contests for vole and rhino, tornados of fire, and church services with 200 newly baptized Christians.

  He insists nothing is his fault; not the killings, the burned-out camps or the sudden changes in native custom and behavior. He blames everything on Sgt. Martinelli.

  Maria was so mad, the little hairs on the back of her neck stood straight out. Sal had no idea of the danger he was in. He blabbed on and on about how he taught his Porters to carry the kayaks, and how they are now a drum and vocal group which performs to adoring fans in church. He admitted to making booze and bread, and teaching his people how to cook his food. There were a few times when I thought Maria might snap a spear over his head.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Come on, get up. Wake up.”

  Jones: “Give ’im a kick.”

  Kaikane: “Kick him?”

  Jones: “Not too hard, just to get his attention. There you go. He’s moving now.”

  Bolzano: “Giuro su Dio! Ti adoro! Ti adoro!”

  Kaikane: “Sal! Sal! Calm down man. It’s only us.”

  Bolzano: “Paul Kaikane, it is you? You really came. All three of you! You’re alive. I, I, I, I never thhhh-ouughtt, you-you-you….”

  Duarte: “He bawls like a little girl. Was he always this emotional? Corporal Bolzano, I need to ask you some questions. Hey, hey, Bolzano.”

  Jones: “Something wrong with his hearing? Hey, Sal. Hey, cry baby!”

  Kaikane: “Sal, over there. Look over there. The Chief Botanist has some questions for you.”

  Bolzano: “Dr. Duarte, you would not happen to have two aspirin, would you? I thought not. My head feels as if it has been split by a flint axe, and my mouth is dustier than the mighty Sahara. Water.”

  Duarte: “We need to discuss some very serious issues.”

  Bolzano: “What, what? Oh, excuse me, my hearing is not what it once was. It helps me if I can see your lips when you speak. Doctor, do you know anything about auditory loss? Ah, uhh, excuse me for just a mo’.”

  Duarte: “Oh, wonderful. You ass. Vomit on my feet again and I’ll really give you something for your headache.”

  Kaikane: “Let’s walk him over to the stream, let him drink, maybe dunk his head.”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Established contact with Team member, Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano, firefighter, opera singer and drunk.

  Cpl. Bolzano appeared well-fed and healthy, except for poor hearing and busted up feet. Claims injuries were sustained during torture by Sgt. Lorenzo Martinelli and Tattoo women. Detailed long list of abuses by commanding officer Martinelli, including murder of Cpl. Andre Amacapane. Claims the sergeant drowned him. Not sure how much to believe, if any, of his horseshit. Do not trust him, never did.

  Bolzano denies involvement with sniper attack, destruction of our gear, and the campaign to modify native people. Says he’s a victim.

  Guy’s a regular Huck Finn. Talked us into helping him pick olives and grapes. While he sat on the ground and told us all his problems. Then he hustled back to Martinelli. Claims the sergeant holds his computer and friends hostage.

  Sounds like he wants us to sneak in and rescue everybody. Says he’s working on a plan. Sounds like a trap to me. Duarte and Kaikane agree.

  Old man sides with Bolzano. Two of ’em had long talk in native dialect. Sal’s got the language down. He had plenty of bad news for Gray Beard, who was ready to follow him back and take care of business right then.

  Bolzano told him to be patient. Sounds like we’re invited to church for Christmas.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “How did you get so, so big?”

  Bolzano: “Fat. You mean fat, don’t you? Go ahead and say it, you won’t hurt my feelings.”

  Jones: “Here, here, look at me. See my lips? Just answer her fucking question. Understand?”

  Bolzano: “I have a theory the jum
p condensed us, made us more of what we already were. In my case, that would make me more of a gluttonous, lazy coward. How about you, Corporal Jones? You feel any different? More angry? More violent?”

  Jones: “Just answer her questions.”

  Bolzano: “I am fat because my people take great joy in feeding me. They pamper me like a prized cow. Due to the torture, I was unable to walk for more than two months. The Porters carried me up and down the trail, usually strapped into the seat of a kayak. Their women made sure I was well supplied with nourishing food. And then the Bee Man arrived with his wife.”

  Duarte: “Bee Man?”

  Bolzano: “A quirky little fellow, he is adept at climbing trees and cliffs, and is impervious to bee stings. The Bee Man fell in with our rather eclectic group of Porters more than a month ago, and now keeps us well supplied with combs of honey. Tomon says he uses smoke to disorient the bees before he raids their nests.”

  Duarte: “Who is Tomon?”

  Bolzano: “My best friend. Tomon is the nephew of the great clan leader of the Green Turtles. He and his wife are my right hands. They were the first to accept me and have taught me most of what I know about surviving in this wild land. Lorenzo holds them hostage to ensure I will return. We must rescue them.”

  Duarte: “It looks like someone else has a question for you. His name is Leonglauix.”

  Gray Beard: “Hijlknds thrunbves Tomon? Ghoopsh, washop, klix?”

  Bolzano: “Ghoopsh, klix Tomon. Tomon, Gertilkgs ursad. This is Tomon’s uncle? The storyteller? You are traveling with a very famous man indeed. You must excuse us, I need to share some troubling news with Leonglauix.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  He and Gray Beard jibber-jabbered for what seemed like an hour. The old man would fire off a question and the corporal would shake his head and answer. Maria said it sounded like a roll call for the dead. I guess, according to Sal, Gray Beard’s family is pretty much wiped out.

  At one point, the old man unwrapped the leather bindings on Bolzano’s feet to inspect the damage caused by the supposed torture. Tracing the burn scars with his finger, he confirmed it was the work of Tattoo women. He showed us how they make a game of bending sticks to snap them against the bones of the feet until they break, and how they use glowing embers to burn their personal family tattoos onto their enemies.

  Gray Beard offered to re-break the bones and set them properly, but said it would take several moons for the feet to heal. No walking for two months. Bolzano declined. Said it was more important to fetch the one called Tomon and the rest of his people. That seemed to please the old man. He took great care in re-wrapping Bolzano’s feet.

  Somehow, we ended up picking olives and grapes while Bolzano sat in the grass and complained about how hard his life’s been. He said Sgt. Martinelli only allowed him to leave their camp to search for the makings of wine, bread and olive oil for their big Christmas celebration. Bolzano boasts there will be more than 300 people at the Mass. I don’t believe that part. Cro-Magnon just do not gather in such big numbers. Only once or twice have we seen more than a couple dozen together in one place.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “You shouldn’t teach the natives to make wine. That is so against Team rules it stinks.”

  Bolzano: “I agree. For what it is worth, I do not allow them to observe the process. They think I use magic. I will admit, however, I have shared a few culinary tricks to improve their sauces, and how to do more with the abundant grains than add water to make gruel.”

  Duarte: “Were you the one who taught Kolettelena how to construct a pie crust?”

  Bolzano: “Is she not a delightful woman? I hope her head feels better than mine today. Yes, yes, the recipe is mine. She promised to make a goose pie for me to eat on the trail home. I hope she’s well enough to fulfill that oath.”

  Duarte: “Don’t you feel any guilt for the crimes you have been part of? Hell, you could cause our whole species to die off. Just introducing alcohol to the natives, that alone is ignorance beyond belief.”

  Bolzano: “You three better move to another olive tree. This one is about picked clean. That one over there looks promising. It was Lorenzo’s idea to make wine. He wanted it for his church ‘services.’ I obliged him as long as he allowed me a portion to dull the pain in my feet. I was drunk for a month.”

  Duarte: “You and everybody else.”

  Bolzano: “Oh no, not at all. The natives get a rare taste and nothing more. We do not have much to share. It is a difficult process in these times, I assure you.”

  Duarte: “How did you learn to make wine? It’s not in any of the computers.”

  Bolzano: “I learned in jail. Don’t give me that look, I am not a murderer. It was a minimum-level facility, more like a country club actually. My roommate taught me how to cook up a powerful grappa from raisins, dried fruit, potatoes, whatever we could lay our hands on.”

  Duarte: “I’m not even going to ask what you were doing in jail. Why screw around with the natives?”

  Bolzano: “Once again, that would be Lorenzo, not me. I swear to you. He started serving it to the top members of his inner circle for communion. And, of course, Wallunda. She takes communion with the men.”

  Duarte: “Who’s Wallunda, his girlfriend?”

  Bolzano: “She is much more than that. Though she has no official title such as wife or consort, she wields considerable power as his ever-present supporter and confidante. To be blunt, Wallunda is a shrew-faced, power-mad, sociopathic little bitch. I hate her.”

  Duarte: “Was she the one who tortured you?”

  Bolzano: “No, Wallunda and Lorenzo were off gallivanting. Although, now you mention it, she could have planned the whole thing. It bears many hallmarks of her style. The woman is downright diabolical. Wallunda is not the prettiest or the strongest, but she is by far the most politically motivated native I have encountered. As the daughter of the Tattoo clan’s chief, the figurehead we call Big Ears, she instantly recognized the possibilities of Lorenzo’s power. She became his mistress, interpreter and advisor, and gradually made herself indispensable.”

  Duarte: “Does he love her?”

  Bolzano: “What a loaded question that is! Darling, we don’t have enough time to explore the psyche of Lorenzo Martinelli. I will never understand how you Americans allowed such a cold-blooded killer to be inserted onto your team. The short answer is, no, he doesn’t love her. I am not sure Lorenzo is capable of love as we know it. He loves himself, and he thinks he loves God. That is about it. Wallunda was a sexual release who became a shortcut to learning the language and culture. She protects him, guards him day and night. You will think I am crazy, but the woman has eyes tattooed on her temples and the nape of her neck, and I swear they actually work. She sees all. Andre and I talked about killing him in his sleep, but on our few trial runs, we realized we could never get close. Each time we approached, Wallunda was sitting up, watching us in the dark.”

  Duarte: “You say he gives the natives communion?”

  Bolzano: “Not all of them. Just his inner circle, his ‘Saints.’ Look, we do not have time for all these questions. I must get back to the camp before they depart without me. I left the remaining grappa, so hopefully they will have a drink and wait. The louts better not drink it all! Oh my, if they do, it will be a long, painful walk home. What was I thinking? I must leave immediately.”

  Duarte: “You cannot give the natives alcohol. Ever!”

  Bolzano: “You are so pious. I notice you speak English in front of Leonglauix. Do not fool yourselves, he is picking it up. I assure you, dispensing grappa was the only way to escape my guards. I am not daft, I have been plotting this for weeks. I am sure Jones and Kaikane could mop the decks with those warriors, but if I return without them, Tomon and Gertie will be killed. And my precious computer will be tossed into the sea. He will do it. He will do it. He will do it.”

  Duarte: “OK, OK. It’s all right.
Calm down. Calm down. There you go.”

  Bolzano: “I must sound crazy. The bizarre stories, the crying. At times, I just cannot stop myself. My emotions are so fragile these days. I fear a major portion of my sanity was left in Lorenzo’s penne pasta. You cannot imagine what it is like to be wrapped with your hands to your sides in a stinking rhino skin for three days. He turned the volume of my ear peas up to a painfully high level, forced me to listen to an hour-long loop of 20th-century political commentaries by Americans named Will Rogers and Garrison Keillor. Over and over, for three days. At some point, perhaps it was the second day, you lose all sense of time, the women began their ministrations on my feet. You see, while my head was firmly covered, rolled up, my feet protruded out the end of the tarp. A Bolzano crepe. The first burn took me by complete surprise. I was dozing when the jab of a red-hot poker jolted me awake. I flopped with each attack, blindly sloshing in my own shit and urine. They sat on top of me to keep my body still. I must have had five of them crushing me. I was sure I would suffocate. The torture went on forever, and still haunts my dreams. Lorenzo rolled me from the skin a broken man. I am much better now, you will have to take my word for it. For a long while, I was afraid to shut my eyes. Lorenzo accuses me of over-dramatizing my injuries, and perhaps I do milk them to gain advantage. I have so few bargaining chips.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  After spending six months searching for Cpl. Bolzano, it made no sense to simply set him free to limp away and resume his mischief with Sgt. Martinelli. But in the end, that is just what we did.

  We walked him to the edge of the forest where the boys carefully placed his fur coat in the middle of the trail. The coat was laden with olives and red grapes sure to leave stains. Bolzano said he didn’t care.