Rome

by Matthew Thayer

Kaikane: “Know what you’re gonna write?”

  Jones: “Thought I’d tell world how you can’t catch a fish to save your life.”

  Kaikane: “Straight-up lies then?”

  Jones: “Ain’t that how it’s done?”

  Kaikane: “How’s the shoulder?”

  Jones: “Fried, man. Long as I don’t do overhand throwing motion I’m OK. But damn, all it takes is one throw and my neck’s locked up for a week.”

  Kaikane: “How about pulling the bow? That hurt?”

  Jones: “Know about that huh?”

  Kaikane: “Yeah, I saw ya messing it with it the other day.”

  Jones: “Duarte know?”

  Kaikane: “I didn’t mention it.”

  Jones: “Cool.”

  Kaikane: “Well?”

  Jones: “Bow hurts, but less and less. Gettin’ used to it. Ya want my atlatl?”

  Kaikane: “Nah, you hang on to it.”

  From the log of Capt. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  I can think of a bunch of places I’d rather go than a land full of saber-toothed cats. And maybe no people.

  At least here in Europe the carnivores have been taught man’s not as easy to kill as he looks. Clans have had a long time to show what can be done with spears, clubs and a plan. I imagine fire will work as well for defense over there as here, but we’re gonna have to prove ourselves everywhere we go.

  Course, I’d like to see what Manhattan looks like when it’s not covered in water. Be cool to see Lake Erie, try to find my old neighborhood. Lake could still be a glacier for all I know. Really not expecting much. Army taught me it never pays to get your hopes up.

  Like with my shoulder, I can hope ‘til the cows come home, still ain’t gonna make it better. As good a native doctor as Duarte is, she can’t fix this. First time in a long time I wished the Einstein III and crew were around. Surgeons would have me throwing bolts in no time.

  Duarte does what she can. Massage, chiropractic, making me rub smelly gunk on it every morning and night. Been doing the strengthening exercises and stretches she looked up. They help a little. Only thing that really keeps pain away is not stressing the shoulder. Overhand throwing motion kills me.

  Think it’s time to pass atlatl on. Been trying to teach Sal and Flower how to cast a bolt, but it’s harder than it looks. Both got discouraged pretty quick. Kaikane seems like a natural choice, he’s a coordinated guy. Not interested. Best cast so far was by Summer Wind.

  I was trying to help Sal and Flower work on their technique when she marched up, nocked a bolt and let fly. Didn’t hit anything in particular, but probably threw it a good 50 yards.

  “Use your wrist,” she said in hand sign. “Snap it when you cast.”

  Wish I could say they caught right on, but they didn’t. Trying to teach ‘em frustrated Sal more than helped. Like watching Army recruits figure out who’s good at what. Lots of things about this clan remind me of an Army unit.

  Of all the squads I served with, not many were better than this one. Green Turtles may not look like much but we get the job done. Starts at the top with Dr. Maria Duarte, Chief Botanist. She provides focus and forward movement. Like all good commanders, she finds a way to maintain discipline and inspire the troops to do their jobs. Doc leads by example.

  Was up to me, I’d park the boat somewhere safe–like the bottom of the sea–and go see if anybody’s still living in Fralista’s hidden valley. Been thinking a lot about the hot spring, how it might help my shoulder. Valley was quiet and full of game. I wonder if any of our salted mammoth meat is left. Never thought I’d see a hunt to match the day we killed the big bull, but I have. One thing you can say about 30,000 B.C., it’s good hunting.

  Hunting may even be better in North America. First we’ve got to get there. Hope Kaikane’s right and boat is ready to cross an ocean. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

  Worst part about leaving? I’m really gonna miss that dang red wolf. I like it when Red swings by as he goes about his business. Not needy like Gray Beard’s new dog. He takes care of himself. Big wolf’s been following me around for a couple years now, stealing from snares and sneaking through camp as I sleep. Twice he’s let me rub his ears. Without him we would’ve burned. May sound strange, but I think of him as part of our clan. It’ll be tough to leave him behind. Wonder how long he’ll search for us.

  In conclusion: To my family, superior officers and fellow soldiers, I am well and doing fine on my current deployment. The chow is good.

  Until next time,

  Capt. Juniper Jones

  Einstein III

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “If we really are going, I must throw a wider net over my American playlist.”

  Jones: “What ya listen to now?”

  Bolzano: “Oh, Copeland, Barber, Gershwin, Stravinsky, if you will allow me to count him. Miles Davis, Steven Foster. I generally circle back to everybody’s 22nd century favorite, El Shekky.”

  Jones: “He’s not bad.”

  Bolzano: “What music would you suggest to help me get a handle on America?”

  Jones: “Long story, big place.”

  Bolzano: “What do you listen to?”

  Jones: “You know what I listen to.”

  Bolzano: “Besides Icelandic pop?”

  Jones: “Computer I ended up with has a collection of American stuff from the 1900s.”

  Bolzano: “Mine too. I found most of it to be schmaltzy guano.”

  Jones: “How about Toussaint? Listen to any of him?”

  Bolzano: “I do not recall.”

  Jones: “You’d remember. Cat was from New Orleans, played a mean piano. Made his own songs and produced a lot of other people. File has some cool interviews. Sounds like a good guy.”

  Bolzano: “I shall give Master Toussaint and associates a listen. Anyone else?”

  Jones: “After ya kick around New Orleans R&B, head north to Memphis and Detroit. Late ‘40s through the ‘70s. Some of the ‘80s and ‘90s is OK too.”

  Bolzano: “I never listen to the interviews.”

  Jones: “Best part. Learn the story behind the song.”

  Bolzano: “I prefer conjuring my own imagery to accompany the music.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  What chaffs me about catchy songs is how they enter the mind and refuse to leave. Pop hits are worse than relatives from Umbria! Invite them for a short visit and they pitch tents in your cerebrum.

  Ditties about mothers-in-law, staying funky and working in the coal mine loop through my brain. It started when a rain-soaked cold front settled over the coast earlier this week. Confined to our smoky, leaky tent for three straight days, Summer and I immersed ourselves in music. It was just too miserable to go outside for anything other than the most basic business.

  The expansive camp was a ghost town. Jones and Flower remained sequestered in their quarters on the knoll, while the four mariners, Duarte, Kaikane, Leonglauix and feisty Bello, remained in their tarp-covered bunks aboard ship. No doubt the Hawaiian was keeping close eye on the Tiber, ready to cast off should it flood.

  Though chill and blustery, the storm was kind enough to signal its watery intentions a full day before arrival. We had a sufficient interval to stock up on food and firewood, and also for Capt. Kaikane to drill us on emergency launch procedures should the need arise. We all have been assigned duties. My role is to make sure everybody else is aboard and every line is free before climbing up the rope ladder last. I am haunted by a vision of standing in knee-deep water, waving goodbye as all my friends float away.

  Father is still in hiding. Nearby is my guess. Without his belt or pulsers, I do not see him going far. He is not that brave. Having finally learned the details of his transgressions in the Middle East and Africa, I am ashamed to admit I am his son.

  I have more to say about Father, but must first deal with these coal miners tunneling into
my subconscious. While they did an exemplary job driving away our boredom with their tiny picks and perfect harmonies, it is time for the boys to pack up and leave before they drive me nutty.

  The miners are the creation of a gifted musician named Allen Toussaint. The New Orleans songwriter, performer and producer was featured in an anthology detailing the rise of American roots music in the decades following World War II.

  Listening to the evolution in our dreary tent, we consumed the songs and filler in the order presented by The Team’s computer. Though I generally skip interviews and backstories, I found the data included with the series to be very entertaining and educational.

  Summer Wind has a discerning ear for music. She does not understand the lyrics per se, but has an uncanny ability to grasp their tone and mood. She knows if the singer has been done wrong or is mourning a lover who has died by tragedy. In case you are wondering, my Cro-Magnon girlfriend has taken to technology like a duckling to water. By the end of her first movie she was beyond the “baffled stage” and on to “show me another, pretty please.”

  Songs we judged a notch above the others were repeated several times. All my favorites had a rhythm and backbeat, a soul that made us desire to get up and dance. Clever use of tempo, lyrics full of heartbreak, sex, desire and sometimes comedy, every song had a “hook.”

  As Jones claims, the back half of America’s 20th century had musical chops. Before digesting this anthology, I was unaware how instrumental American syncopation was in providing the foundation for nearly all of the world’s popular music of the 2200s. In Italy, we made fun of Norte Americano music. If it was not a sappy love song it was a hate-filled rant against water-grubbers and outsiders.

  To my paisans in Milano and Rome, if you are reading this epistle from the past, I suggest you turn your listening pleasures backward 270 years. You too can have coal miners singing non-stop between your ears. The moment I chase one tune away, another scurries onto the treadmill. I reached this ancient world with Vivaldi humming in my head. Now a Bostonian named Steven Tyler swoons about having sex in an elevator for six hours straight.

  On the sunny side, the music is enjoyable. Why else would we have it repeat so many times? It got us through the foggy, windswept days and inspired several tender sessions of lovemaking to the sounds of Rick James, Marvin Gaye and Bonnie Raitt.

  I should be thankful to have these melodies to obsess upon. It certainly beats fixating on dying at sea. This trip to North America has haunted me for years and now it is nearly time to set sail.

  Italy is and always will be my home. It gives me hope to see how many olive trees survived the fire. I will miss this picturesque land. It is a shame we will not be here to witness its recovery. We discuss returning some day. The odds of that are quite small. It pushes our luck to cross the stormy Atlantic even once.

  As Chief Anthropologist, it pains me to sail to a continent where we have better than a 50-50 chance of being alone as the only humans. A majority of the scientific evidence says so. Could not my talents be utilized in a better way than scrubbing decks and building a beachhead in an empty land?

  Now, having made my case for canceling our trans-Atlantic reservations, I must admit to being anxious to get there. I am ready. Salvatore Bolzano has never been last to leave a party, even his own.

  For me, the most difficult aspect of any endeavor is sticking it out through completion. Finishing is hard, while starting is exciting and fun. Even if I am having the time of my life, maybe watching the year’s top opera from La Scala’s most choice seats, my attention begins to drift as the finale grows near. Remaining still all the way through anything, be it a movie, soiree, concert or loving relationship, has ever been a personal challenge.

  Some dilettantes in my social circle referred to me as “Flighty Salvatore” in honor of my unexplained exits. Excusing myself to attend the restroom never to return was a trademark.

  For those readers assuming I was ducking the tab, shame on you! I picked up more than my fair share of checks. It was the long goodbyes, the admonishments to stay and inquisitions of where I was going next I could not bear. There is no polite way of saying, “If I wished you to know where I was headed, you colossal bore, I would have told you.”

  I relished the feel of slipping out into the cool night alone or with a select few. Sound of the party dying behind us as the doors closed, nothing but endless opportunity stretching before us, we were on to something new.

  Another of my hallmarks was finding my way onto a roof, usually with a young woman and bottle of champagne in tow. It is amazing the doors that can be opened with money and the right last name.

  Those who admired the Bolzano style and aplomb would scarcely recognize me in my new leathers. After two weeks sizing the pants to fit properly–Sal Jr. and company were being squeezed–my traveling duds are now complete. Accessorizing the pants and jacket set are a rainproof slicker, sturdy sandals and a second pair of footwear that is a cross between boots and moccasins. They cover my calves and are as waterproof as Summer and I can make them. She has a matching set of leatherwear, as will Flower and Jones when they finish their sewing.

  Our last personal project before departure is to replace the bindings that affix my club’s heavy granite head to its oak shaft. Leonglauix took note of the worn condition of the current wraps as we walked together recently. In his roundabout way, he suggested I replace them by sharing the story of a cousin who ran into trouble while attempting to prevent a raider from absconding with his wife.

  The cousin swung his club with all his strength, Leonglauix said, only to have its stone head fly off, bounce twice and splash into a stream. As the cousin frantically searched the muddy waters for his club’s head, the outsider spirited his woman to another land. She was never seen again.

  He let the story ferment for the remainder of our trek to the storage cave. Later that evening, hefting my club from where it was propped against the cavern’s fire-lit wall, he pointed out the wear on its bindings. “Are you a dumb cousin from the Elk Horn Clan, or a Green Turtle? If some man tries to take your woman will you too lose your head in the stream?”

  He supervised temporary repairs that night and made me promise to do a proper job prior to the “big sail.” I was not aware how much I missed our resident shaman until he returned with his dry wit and penchant for shouting “Bravo” when something we do makes him happy. Kaikane says he is his best sailor by far.

  Sorry, Team leaders, I know how much these revelations must hurt. We are far from perfect.

  As long as the world in 2232 doesn’t end up populated by 20 billion Father look-alikes, I believe the work contained within this computer will provide more than adequate compensation for our sins. If someone is reading this journal entry I assume The Team has had opportunity to peruse my reports, as well as those submitted by Dr. Maria Duarte and the others. Do they make you want to shout bravo?

  This download represents countless hours of effort. We hand our research, theories and conclusions–flawed as they are–to you, knowing they will be nurtured and improved in your hands. Thank you in advance for taking our data to the next level.

  Please be gentle when judging our efforts. These reports were compiled under very difficult, dangerous conditions and with little in the way of what you people would think of as comfort. Most times they were transcribed while we sat in the dirt, hunched before computers propped upon rocks or fallen trees. Whenever a lair was available, we worked in caves and giant hollow trees to reduce our chances of being pounced upon in the dark.

  What a far cry this soggy residence is compared to the lavish family compounds I took for granted in Milano, Nice and Perugia. Mother, you alone in the household properly appreciated the beautiful gardens, servants and amenities. Having been raised in more humble conditions, you knew how fortunate we had it. Rarely a day went by without you reminding me to be thankful.

  Well, Mother, I believe I am starting finally to understand the meaning of your words. There is n
o shame in settling for what you have and what feels good. For accepting what is possible instead of holding out for some fantastically ideal situation.

  Father has been merciless in demeaning my native mate, but, Mother, I believe you would love Summer Wind. She is fun in her polite, Cro-Magnon way. Supremely capable in native crafts, she is ever looking for ways to make her alpha male’s life better. As the object of those attentions, I cannot complain.

  How do I describe Summer Wind’s looks? Start by picturing the under-gardener’s wife. I forget the woman’s name, but she was short and somewhat stout. Summer is roundish through the torso though she carries no fat. Hauling firewood and keeping a clan of no-good Mammoth Killers fed and clothed for years evidently builds muscle. She and Flower were little more than slaves before starting their new lives as members of our clan.

  In perhaps her late 40s or early 50s, Summer Wind wore her long silver hair pulled back into a pair of braids that reached to her waist until a recent makeover by Duarte and Flower. The botanist has concocted some rather nice soap. The women have been taking turns shampooing each other’s greasy hair. Yesterday they returned to camp with matching haircuts–short bobs with bangs across the middles of their foreheads. Even short, it still startles to see Duarte’s hair so dark. As yet, neither her gray sprinkles nor crow’s feet have returned.

  No sprinkles for my Summer Wind. With her poofed-out hair, she looked like a white dandelion as she bid her friends adieu and sauntered to my side with hands spread in the universal question of, “Well, what do you think?” I told her I loved it.