Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  Father Lorenzo has been kind enough to extend my use of ear peas and computer to three hours this evening. Miles Davis has been on my mind lately. I think I will sample a little bit of “Round Midnight” and see where the mood takes me.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “It sounds like your man Tomon could have stopped the ivory cross if he tried. It says here it rolled right past him.”

  Bolzano: “Are you kidding me? Everyone says it was flying down the hill at great speed. You are lucky Tomon survived to make your headache medicine.”

  Martinelli: “That crap barely works. Esther could have done the same thing. What is this part about the ‘already-flagging mood’ of my congregation? Who says their mood flags? Your mood flags, that’s all. The people love me. Am I not the one who brought them a chance at salvation, tickets to heaven?”

  Bolzano: “It is you, all right. I am sure they would appreciate it more if they understood what was going on. These are nomads. Their lives are based on roaming with the seasons. The thought of settling in one place does not compute, whether it is heaven, hell or along the muddy banks of the River Arno.”

  Martinelli: “We’re not settling here. This is where we will hold our first Easter service, and, not that this concerns them, it is where we will bury our first package for the Church and Cardinal Sellaro.”

  Bolzano: “Do you not mean for The Team to recover?”

  Martinelli: “Damn The Team and its infidels! Never! We will build an airtight tomb where our artifacts and a computer with all of your notes will be encased. I had hoped to bury the ivory cross with this cache, but a smaller version must do. Esther and her girls are making it.”

  Bolzano: “How can you possibly hope to bury anything in a place where it will be found? The Team will not share sensors with Sellaro. You can be sure of it.”

  Martinelli: “They don’t need to. The Cardinal showed me where.”

  Bolzano: “He showed you?”

  Martinelli: “Sure. Did you know he came from a wealthy family? The Cardinal invited me to his family’s estate, which was easy to find, as it was located right at the top of that hill right over there. What a view. He said the structure dated back to well before Christ. Sections had been knocked down by earthquakes and invaders or damaged by fire many times through the years. It was always rebuilt on the same foundation, directly over the mouth of a dry cave which extended deep into the hillside. The secret cave served as wine cellar, storage chamber, hiding place and family crypt. Guess what, Sal, I climbed up the hill the day we arrived. The cave is there.”

  Bolzano: “You said the cave is deep? He will just dig until he finds it?”

  Martinelli: “He showed me the place to bury the goods at a bend of the left fork, 62 paces from the cave’s mouth. It’s 58 paces now, but I recognize the bend. It’s a miracle. Do you see? We can send proof of our great achievements to the future, along with enough treasure to clear all debts to the Church.”

  Bolzano: “You want to cut The Team out?”

  Martinelli: “Yes, my son, I do. Let the Cardinal sort things out with those clods. If he wants to share your facts and figures, trifles like the length of Neanderthal bones, he will.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  This evening’s sunset set the heavens ablaze with such beauty, it was easily the most spectacular we have seen since the jump. It reminded me of the blood-red sunsets of my youth. Back in those days, when the winds from the Alps blew strongly from the Alto Adige, Milano’s pollution and Piemonte’s dust were pushed to the southwest. Those sunsets had many different stages and lasted for at least an hour.

  The boot of Italy I knew then was such a dusty place.

  Tomon and I were attaching the cross beam to the post when I speculated there might be a dust storm to the south. He pointed to one of the nearby hills and pantomimed its top blowing off. Evidently, he attributes the particulates in the atmosphere to be caused by a volcano. I have learned not to doubt Tomon’s word when it comes to the ways of this world.

  The cross is nearly finished. Esther delivered its three ivory spikes today. All I must do is auger out the corresponding holes. I would not claim to be a craftsman, but now recognize the satisfaction that can be derived from working with one’s hands.

  Tomon and Gertie have been such valuable help. When the rest of the Porters grew bored and wandered away, they stayed to see the flints for my tools were knapped to razor sharpness and that I had adequate food and water so not to falter. We grow ever closer.

  As I look back on my life, I think, overall, it has been a good one. A stronger man may not have fallen prey to the foibles which checker my past. I am sure Mamma and Papa could have done without the embarrassments of my arrests and incarcerations. No one could say I haven’t stopped to smell the roses. Carpe Diem? I’d say I seized the day. Carpe Noctem? You bet. How many of my successful, athletic friends would have had the guts to travel back in time? Not a one.

  As I sort through the high points of my 31 years of life, I find myself dwelling more on recent events, like paddling a kayak up the Loire alongside Andre, or my brief love affair with the blue-eyed beauty, Stella. These recent memories have usurped the decadent nights at the opera or running with the whores of Rome and Zurich.

  From the earliest times I remember, perhaps since the age of four or five, my life goal has been to enjoy myself to the fullest, without breaking a sweat or getting dirty. Of course, all humans are hedonists in one way or another. Even Early Modern Human is healthily self-absorbed. I, however, have taken the trait to new heights, or lows, depending on one’s perspective.

  I would like to believe over the course of the past year I have managed to turn a corner in my life. Despite near-constant stress, I have done my best to treat everyone I meet with honesty and humility.

  That is what I will be most proud of if I do indeed end up hanging from my own cross.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Why? Why now? Zarashy, of all people.”

  Bolzano: “What are you going to do?”

  Martinelli: “Find them, bring them back.”

  Bolzano: “It is just a homesick boy and homesick girl. They miss their families. Miss the plains. Why not let them go?”

  Martinelli: “If I let these two traitors defy me, they all will.”

  Bolzano: “I thought you were going to let them depart after Easter anyway. What difference does it make?”

  Martinelli: “God has plans! I have plans! The congregation must witness Easter Mass. Once they do, they will be prepared to march forth and spread His word properly.”

  Bolzano: “What are you going to do?”

  Martinelli: “You say that too much, you know that? ‘What are you going to do, Lorenzo?’ ‘What am I going to do?’ I’m so sick of that shit from you, Salvatore.”

  Bolzano: “May I ask a personal question?”

  Martinelli: “No, you cannot. Though I know you’ll damn well ask it anyway. Go ahead. What?”

  Bolzano: “Your father, his side job must have caused his children difficulties in the community. Did the building manager’s protection extend down to you and your siblings?”

  Martinelli: “I protected my brothers and sisters.”

  Bolzano: “Who protected you?”

  Martinelli: “I took a few beatings, adults kicking a little kid.”

  Bolzano: “Adults? Surely the authorities….”

  Martinelli: “I never ratted anybody out. No, sir. I wasn’t my old man. They learned that. They also learned I had a long memory, and I paid my debts. In full. It is something Zarashy’s gonna find out.”

  Bolzano: “May I use the computer while you are gone?”

  Martinelli: “No. Finish this cross!”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “See how the spikes fit into the holes? It is perfect.”

  Martinelli: “What is this? A seat?”

  Bol
zano: “Of a sort, yes. As I was working on this cross, I had time to cast my mind back to the lectures and sermons of my youth. I did not sleep through every catechism class, I assure you. The Romans had crucifixion down to an art. By angling the condemned man’s legs one way or another as they were nailed to the cross, death could be rapid or slow, excruciatingly painful or somewhat tolerable. Asphyxiation was the usual cause of death when bodies sagged to be supported solely by the arms. But many poor devils lived long enough to die of sepsis, infection.”

  Martinelli: “I know that. Answer me. Why does your fucking cross have a fucking seat?”

  Bolzano: “To be authentic. I was taught this is how many were made back in the day of Jesus. If the condemned had ample money to make the proper bribes, or was shown favor by the court, his cross would have a lift, or as you refer to it a seat, attached to the post. My teacher used the example of a Persian merchant in Napoli who had been sentenced to the cross for cheating his customers.

  “As the merchant’s favorite wife and children were en route from Syria, the wise judge allowed the man to pay a hefty fine to have a lift attached to his cross. The man lived for three weeks. His heart soared as his family’s boat pulled into the mouth of the harbor. When they arrived to his side he was dead, but witnesses assured them he died a happy man. The woman and children were sold into slavery and everyone lived unhappily ever after. That is how the teacher told the tale.”

  Martinelli: “I heard it different. I heard they broke a man’s legs to make him die fast.”

  Bolzano: “True, for some cases, but what is the rush? You are looking for a spectacle, are you not?”

  Martinelli: “What’s so great about watching the birds pick a man to death?”

  Bolzano: “I think you are more like those Romans than you admit.”

  Martinelli: “How so?”

  Bolzano: “When they nailed a man up, they knew within a handful of hours how long he would last. My bet is, you will have this coming crucifixion planned with a similar attention to the details.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “If you didn’t steal them, who did? Tell me, thief!”

  Bolzano: “Exactly what is missing? I remember a few of the more spectacular artifacts, but it has been so long. I have not had a peek inside the kayak since you sealed it back in Nice.”

  Martinelli: “All the best pieces are gone. What did you do with them?”

  Bolzano: “Esther was doing so much wheeling and dealing before Christmas, are you sure she did not trade them for honeycomb or pretty shells?”

  Martinelli: “Esther’s not stupid, she says you must have stolen them.”

  Bolzano: “How trite. Even in these ancient times, the guilty attempt to deflect blame by implicating an innocent bystander.”

  Martinelli: “We’re gonna search your gear, Sal. I find one of my belongings in your pack, it’s the penne for you.”

  Bolzano: “Search to your heart’s contentment. Hey, come on, do not dump my things upon the ground. Ah, merda!”

  Martinelli: “I knew you stole from me, Sal. This doesn’t look good for you. Not at all.”

  Bolzano: “Sergeant Martinelli, stand down. It is time for you to halt this nonsense and return to your training. Your behavior is unacceptable.”

  Martinelli: “You’re lucky I need you, Sal. You came closer to getting shot through the forehead just now than you will ever know. Don’t push me.”

  Bolzano: “Please, Lorenzo, just take a break from your planning and empire-building. You should see yourself. You look like shit and smell worse. How long has it been since you rinsed the inside of your suit?”

  Martinelli: “Don’t push me, Sal.”

  Bolzano: “All I am saying is, you have accomplished a lot, perhaps too much. You deserve a break. Why don’t you and I set off on our own. Say goodbye to the chaos and stench, walk down to the hills of Rome. We will see them before the Romans and their progeny build over every square centimeter.”

  Martinelli: “The words of the devil. The Lord warned me you would betray us. He said you would steal, and you have. He said you would lie, and you have. What do you say for yourself?”

  Bolzano: “You are mad as a hatter.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Leaving the current behind, we rode an easterly breeze to within five miles of the Italian coast, tracking due east. Maria studied the maps in her computers, looking for landmarks, islands, whatever, to tell us our location. She finally figured we were about 100 miles south of the River Arno’s mouth, and approaching the Golfo de Follonica between the island of Elba and the Italian mainland. Landing here would mean a bit of a hike north, but after more than 60 days at sea, we were more than ready to quit the raft.

  Drifting closer, we made out bare trees and patches of snow. Every once in a while, a campfire’s wisp of smoke would remind us we were not, after all, alone in the world. We packed our bags and made ready for a quick jump in case the landing was rough.

  I was feeling fairly confident about my new sail. It’s just a rectangular frame with stretched leather, but after a lot of trial and error, I had gotten the hang of where to place it to make the raft go in the direction I wanted, more or less. When the wind began to pick up out of the southeast, I did my best to keep us tacking toward shore. Worried eyes followed me around the deck as I coaxed every bit of tack I could out of the sail. In the end, there was just no way. Choppy waves punished us as the winds strengthened to a gale.

  My unspoken fear has been that the winds and currents will spit us out beyond the northern tip of Corsica. Look at the map and you can see how easily we could be sent drifting right back to Nice. That’s probably the route Malmud used to get to France in the first place. Pretending not to worry, I tinkered with my sail and watched the coastline disappear behind us.

  It was the next day, around noon, when Gray Beard spotted land on the horizon to the north. A rock, nothing more. With his and Maria’s help, I lashed the sail into position to turn us generally northward. Through the afternoon, the rock grew into a jagged scrap of island. I was sure we would miss it by no more than a half mile. Then a chance shift in the winds gave us the barest of hopes. I pitched anchors overboard, deployed all the floats that still had lines attached, did anything and everything I could think of to give us a chance to latch on to that land.

  My worries shifted gears fast as we bore down on a wall of sea cliffs. Scanning for a safe place to beach and seeing nothing even close, my mind raced to figure out how to stop without smashing the raft into a thousand floating poles. It was Malmud who said rocks were his boat’s Achilles’ heel.

  In the end, it was one of those moments of dog-ass luck that make you look like you know exactly what you are doing. If only the clapping spectators had an idea of how scared I was, or how close to disaster they had just come, they wouldn’t be nearly as impressed. All I had to do was smile through the bile in my throat and act like it was what I meant to do the whole time.

  We were charging hard toward the cliffs when I ordered Gray Beard to pull in the floats and Maria to man the long pole that has been lashed to the deck since we left Nice. Slashing two sail lines with my flint knife, I lifted and feathered the sail by hand so the raft slowly turned broadside. Backwash from waves splashing against the cliffs cushioned us from the rocks, but also heaved the raft up and down. We sloshed along the shoreline for nearly a quarter mile, all the time within 10 feet of rocks covered with sea lions, penguins and seals.

  Seeing we would clear the rocks only to head, once again, back out to open sea, I dropped the sail, lashed one end of Jones’ rope to the side of the raft and jumped ship. Maria’s scream followed me overboard as I flung myself at the biggest boulder in sight. Bloodying hands and knees on landing, I looped the rope over the top of the rock and braced for the giant raft’s heavy pull. Thankfully, the rope held. If it broke, I would have been stranded, and they would have been off to who knows where. The thou
ght makes my heart pound even now.

  Slowly, she turned. Maria was on top of things, as usual. My doctor made me proud. She stood tall at the raft’s edge, jabbing the pole to protect the boat from pounding against the rocks, while I hauled in just enough rope to lash a slipknot around the limb of a driftwood tree wedged tight in shoreline boulders. Gray Beard scrambled down the side of the raft and nimbly leaped off to fall flat on his face in the shallow water. Wobbling up no worse for wear, he staggered on sea legs to grab the other end of Duarte’s long pole. My crew.

  I climbed like a drunk man on noodle legs to the crown on the cliff to scout the island terrain. A protected little bay sat quiet in the lee of the wind not more than 120 yards away. Using the rope and pole, we carefully walked the fat pig of a raft around the point and into the clear waters of the shallow cove. Once free of the wind’s constant pull, our bucking whale turned tame as a tadpole.

  The wad of sticks now sits anchored just offshore. I sit nearby, hunkered low in the black sand of a rocky beach littered with tons and tons of driftwood. Though seals, turtles, penguins and a million birds call the beach home, we humans barely rate notice. They are all too preoccupied with love and sex to pay attention to us.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Come now Salvatore, do not struggle so. Let me get a good tie on you. It will go better.”

  Bolzano: “May you rot in Hell, Lorenzo Martinelli.”

  Martinelli: “Quit jerking like that! Sal, listen to me! Listen! You want me to nail you to this fucking cross instead? Is that what you want? Huh? Strip away this suit and pound nails through your profane hands and feet? The way it’s supposed to be done? Are you that strong?”

  Bolzano: “Why?”