“That seems rather simple,” I replied, looking over the selections but touching nothing. “Even by close observation, I already have opinions on at least two of your dishes.”
“Let’s hear them, then. I think this will be interesting.”
“Please forgive me if I did not make myself clear during our previous conversation,” I stated for all to hear. “I must have opportunity for gain, if I am to put my reputation on the line. You still hope to have Simple Salvatore make your point for you, OK, fine, I will play the dunce. I am sure you have made this devilishly difficult. Please sweeten the pot, sir.”
He looked to the man to his right, and at his nod turned back to me. “How much do you propose?”
I recognized the silent man as the owner of the hotel. “Oh, let us not be so crass as to wager money,” I said. “That may be illegal in this part of the woods. I will stake my room charges against yours. I wager that I cannot only pick out your synthetics, I will also identify each authentic vintage of wine by winery and year, and each food item by the region where it was grown.”
Von Delft spread his arms to invite me to join his table. I refused until we had each pressed thumbs to a receipt pad guaranteeing the bet. I also insisted the proper answers be written down and held by a neutral party of my choosing. I selected the soft talker, who kindly obliged by safely placing the paper betwixt her ponderous breasts. Side wagers began flying as Marco and the girls set up book on the edges of the action.
I made a show of examining the dishes and rinsing my mouth with water, then scooped up the Champagne and drank it down in one gulp.
“It would be a shame to let an authentic Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin grow warm,” I said. “That was tart, with just the right amount of bubble. At first, I was going to claim the year as 2221, but the tannins are wrong. This champagne was from the next year, 2222. Shall I continue?”
Von Delft clapped his hands together with a smile. “It appears that you know your champagne. Well done. Yes, by all means, please continue.”
Sawing the tomato slice in half with a butter knife, I lifted the plate and closely examined its cross section, sniffed its rubbery texture. The seeds sported a tinge of green while the rest of the meat and skin glowed phosphorescent red. Glancing upward as I used my fingers to convey a fleshy semicircle to my mouth, I saw that I had drawn the attention of a considerable number of spectators. No doubt, many were wearing viewcameras beaming their view of the party around the globe. Shaking off a nearly irresistible urge to perform a lewd act on the tomato with my tongue, I took a hearty bite and chewed it down. That took a while.
“It must pain the chefs of this fine establishment to serve such a tomato to a paying guest, even if only for a contest. If we turn our heads to the nearby gardens we can see the fine produce they generally offer.”
I noticed that von Delft and the hotel manager kept their eyes on me lest I had a trick up my sleeve.
“This fruit may taste like plastic, but it is not. It is also not from this region, or even Italy itself. I believe this tomato was picked green and shipped from the north.”
“Where in the north?”
Slicing off a red triangle, taking my time, giving folks ample opportunity to queue in front of my friends, I made another show of chewing, rolling my eyes, all the while feeling like jumping on the table and flapping my wings.
“This is English hot house,” I said with conviction. “Near London.”
Now it was von Delft’s turn to roll his eyes. “Well done, again,” he said.
Each performance has a lifespan. I have read that even old Chinese fireworks technicians knew people would tolerate only so many explosions and colorful fountains. The olive oil was grown on property, the white wine was a very fine synthetic, and the two reds were from Italy, a 2199 Monte Vibiano from Umbria and a nuevo 2207 from an obscure vintner named Stefano De Nofrio from along the banks of Lake Garda.
Having saved the cheese for last, I paused to sit back and watch von Delft and the hotel owner squirm. A more thorough accounting of my room charges had no doubt been compiled and they were now aware of how busy we had been buying suits of clothes, draining expensive bottles of wine and taking guided air-wing tours.
The hard wedge of cheese, tiger-striped with veins of green, was without a doubt from the pit, a Cacio di Fossa aged in a burlap bag buried in the soil under a cow heap. In the last century, every cheese maker in Italy had fallen in love with the showy aging process. This cheese emitted a strong aroma of basil and olive oil.
“You may have stumped me this time,” I said wiping my brow. “This cheese could be from any one of a hundred shops in the Alto Adige alone, or perhaps from a private home? I don’t suppose you will give me a clue? No? Well, the product itself has provided a few gentle hints. I detect a hint of sesame and poppy seed, as well as port wine. They are obviously cooked down in a reduction and added to the cheese, along with basil and olive oil, of course, before it is buried. This particular cheese has been aged further. It comes from the last of a wheel that was first cut, let’s see, I would say more than one year ago. If I must guess, my guess is this: This is a Pecorino al Basilico produced in Merano by the cheese maker Rudolpho.”
Rudolpho’s cheese shop was as obscure of a business that can be found in Italy. The color drained from von Delft’s face as my words struck like hammer blows. The boor did not have the good grace to acknowledge my victory or even shake my hand. Turning on his heel, he stormed out of the room trailing a string of toadies. The hotel manager offered his half-hearted congratulations while those few who had the good sense to not bet against me slapped me on the back and offered to buy me drinks.
Though I detested the thought of missing our seven-course meal, the cowboys of America’s Old West had a saying I am rather fond of, “It is best to get out while the gettin’s good.” We high-tailed it to the top floor and began stuffing belongings into bags. I was rounding up my toiletries when there was a chime at the door. I opened it expecting von Delft with a pair of swords primed to challenge me to a rematch. Instead, there was a worried little man in a rumpled suit in the hall asking if we knew one Teobaldo Schmidt.
“Yes, of course,” Marco said over my shoulder. “We flew with him today. Is he all right?”
“We do not know. His wife says he did not return home for the evening meal.”
“Perhaps he stopped to visit with friends.”
“The wife is Swiss German,” the policeman replied, as if that explained everything. “She checked with all of his friends and family before calling us. She says his flight suit is missing. We checked his records and found that you booked his only tour of the day. Was Signore Schmidt in the shop when you left this evening? Why do you refuse to answer our communications?”
We ended up with a police escort out of the hotel and straight to Carabiniere headquarters. No official arrest was ever made, but it was a night full of answering questions. “Where is Teo? What did you do to Teo? How did you come by so much money this evening?”
It was all quite uncomfortable. An hour or so after daybreak, Teobaldo’s body was found near the base of the WWI mortar platform. A scan of his equipment showed a malfunction shortly after takeoff. Power systems failed and he circled back for an emergency landing, breaking his legs in the crash. The friendly young man apparently froze to death during a pain-filled night on the mountaintop.
That is when the inquisition turned nasty. “How could you not notice Teo’s absence? Why didn’t you stop to help him? Why are you out of communication?”
For most people of that hyper-connected era, the thought of being an incommunicado was a concept as alien as gouging out your eyes for fun. Not being involved in at least four conversations at once while not watching at least two programs, and not keeping an eye on an endless ticker of stock prices, sports scores and news headlines was unfathomable.
My father was one of the most screen-addicted desk jockeys of them all. He had as many as a dozen conversations going at
all times. At least four people were in constant contact with Father–his brother, sister and two close friends. The nano-halo wound through Papa’s hair perpetually recorded the sights and sounds all around him. I would leave his den after a meeting and know they were all talking about me, dissecting what I said, what I wore, even how I stood.
Large-screen monitors covered the walls in his windowless room, allowing Father the voyeur to monitor the lives of friends, family and even complete strangers around the world. As the youngest child, a “surprise” late addition to the Bolzano clan, I was left to fend for myself. My parents had lost interest in nurturing children and retreated into worlds of their own–mother obsessed with her gardens and decorating, and father ensconced in his comfortable chair, chatting it up, eyes wide in concentration. My visits to the den were timed interruptions. I learned to tell a story fast, and to tell it in a way that would entertain Father’s friends.
When I came of age, much to the vexation of my parents and associates alike, I made a conscious and moral decision to reject all forms of constant connection, even the ubiquitous portable holophone. They would complain about my long absences and I would ask why they didn’t leave a message with my service. “But you do not answer messages!” It was a familiar refrain. It did not take long, however, to find I was not alone. There were others who preferred to remain similarly disconnected.
The police refused to believe that four people in today’s society would travel without some sort of communication device. We had no phones, no computers, no call records–and thus, no traces of where we had been or where we had not been. After a day of questions and hollow threats, they let us go with a suggestion we never return.
Having re-read this rather long-winded swan dive into the past, I am amused by how memories are lovingly massaged by time. Or perhaps it is a matter of, if you tell a lie enough times you begin to believe it yourself–this from a man who has vowed to face the truth of his own many failings without flinching. I cannot even make a claim of protecting the reputations of others. With Marco long dead from heart attack, who can I hurt but myself? Let this be a lesson on how far you can trust the word of Salvatore Bolzano.
We may as well go straight down the list.
First, regarding Aunt Isabella’s will. It is true I did visit the woman in her later years. Thrice. Once to establish a connection, the second to break into her safe and change her will to my benefit, the third to return the will.
It was Father and Mother who were invited to the gala benefit weekend in Castelrotto. Father was one of the would-be investors of the meadow. I filched their old-fashioned paper invitation off the entryway bureau and began cooking up a plan. I knew Marco had a second cousin who worked in the hotel office. We had met the previous summer during a scuba dive trip to Venice. He was able to provide the hotel’s shipping manifests and inventories.
Though I did and do consider myself a true gourmet, there is absolutely no chance I could have pulled off such a culinary coup without the cousin’s help. There I go again. What I meant to say is, I could not have done it without cheating. I am a cheat and always have been. The only one who cheats more than I do is Gray Beard when he throws the bones. I do not know how he does it, but I am sure he does.
Did we strand Teo on the mountaintop purposely? Did we sabotage his suit or bash him with a rock? Of course not. Our only crime against the lad was one of indifference. Did we know he did not return with us to his shop? It is possible, but I do not think we would have taken note or cared. So wrapped up in our mission, so ready for the kill, we had begun putting our flying adventure behind us before the auto-piloted suits came to rest in their holding racks.
In the interest of full disclaimer, a bit of housekeeping remains. It was I who buzzed Helmut’s walking tour and I was also the one who carried the flask of booze, a potent port which had little effect on the four of us who had been taking the proper combinations of drugs to counteract the alcohol. If the fact that I pressed the flask into Teo’s unwilling hands several times had anything to do with his accident, I am truly sorry.
And finally, I must also apologize to Father for once again attempting to blame him for my idiotic mistakes. As I used to do with the psychotherapists he so generously paid for, I attempt to deflect my culpability onto him. Papa, you were a big target, and you were always nearby to take the hit. I used to wonder if it was all part of entertainment for your friends–“wait until you hear what Sal did this time.” Now, I prefer to view you as the patriarch of a dysfunctional family trying to do the best he can.
My percentage from the bets my friends handled on-site for the food-testing demonstration (scam) totaled nearly 10 million Euro. As expected, the spectacle drew action worldwide. With proxies well-placed to handle much of the wagering, my total earnings were close to 100 million Euro.
It took me less than a month to piss it all away.
CHAPTER SIX
TRANSMISSION:
Jones: “Based only on looks, how would you rate the doc?”
Bolzano: “In this day and age, I think it is fair to judge Dr. Duarte as a 9.9, if not a perfect 10. She still possesses all of her teeth, has good posture, sports all the right curves in all the right places, and is pretty enough.”
Jones: “Pretty enough? I’d say.”
Bolzano: “True, true, I am jaded. Growing up witty and handsome in Milano, the son of a wealthy man, how could I not be? Our city was the world’s epicenter for fashion and taste. There were parties every night. I rubbed elbows, and often much more, with the most beautiful women of the 23rd century. In all honesty, even with her mesmerizing dark eyes and flowing mane, Dr. Maria Duarte would be fortunate to garner a score of 7.5 when compared to the other females at those grand affairs. The breeding, the surgeries, the–”
Jones: “Yeah, but how many of those broads could skin a wolf?”
Bolzano: “Not a one.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
A lot of water has passed beneath our sailboat, as well as sand under our feet, since I last added any personal ramblings to this journal. For a while, I just didn’t feel like writing, my thoughts were too angry and dark. And then we got busy.
With each mile we sailed, south by southwest, Paul and I seemed to travel further back in time. This land is unlike anything we have yet experienced. Untouched by Cro-Magnon, spared the worst of the ice ages, the Iberian coast is home to a diversity of plants and animals beyond measure. And yet, nearly every unique species has one very important thing in common. Everything from the robust clans of barrel-chested Neanderthal, to the cantankerous, horse-sized, flightless moa birds, and the tall, spindly paperbark trees which dominate this landscape, all will be extinct long before mankind has the means or know-how to catalog their existence.
That job falls to me, I suppose. Having just completed my 59th report on the area’s unique botany, I have paused to rest before beginning the long trial of deciphering my anthropological and zoological notes. We have made cold camp for the day on a mountain ledge far more suited to nimble-footed goats than humans. No more than five feet wide at its widest, the ledge overlooks a drop of approximately 77 feet. We scaled up to the dusty spot, invisible in our jumpsuits, with hopes of finding a safe place to take off the suits and helmets and relax while maintaining a view of the cave dwellers of Boquete de Zafarraya.
After chasing away the crows, lizards, centipedes, scorpions and snakes, we used the shafts of our spears to scrape away the ledge’s top layer of guano. Deep sleep has been a rare commodity during our five-day hike inland, especially for Paul. Even in our jumpsuits, we faced danger nearly every step of the 40-mile-trek through dryland forest teaming with panthers, lions, giant eagles, moa with bad attitudes, rhino, hippo and surly mammoth. Once he peeled off his suit, my husband could barely keep his eyes open. I volunteered for first watch.
Paul is now stretched out by my side, snoring softly with his head propped upon his light pack. One powerful arm is dra
ped over his eyes to shield them from the late afternoon sun. The golden light found our hideout about an hour ago, and has transformed a chill shady spot into one that is quite balmy. Paul is so tired he has not moved despite the warmth. Pools of sweat collect in his navel and along the ridges of his washboard abdomen. This time on land has been a grueling test, but good for our bodies and souls after so long at sea.
Guttural songs of Neanderthal and discordant drum notes of sticks banged upon stones waft over the ledge to assure me the clan is still gathered around its fire and not sneaking up the hillside to tear us limb from limb. Last time I checked, there were 33 adults and 14 juveniles lounging in the shadows near the mouth of the cave. Piled near the central bonfire are two dead horses and at least five goats which have been rudely butchered and left in the dirt for the clan’s folk to carve their meals from. I witnessed a few females taking the time to skewer bits of meat and cook them over the flames, but most members ate their portions raw.
We began spotting Neanderthals and their habitation sites along the coast of the Golfo de Mazarron. It was a surprise, for Paul and I hadn’t witnessed any hominids for weeks, none since reaching the Mainland after our ill-advised voyage to Ibiza. It was a breezy afternoon, and Paul was about to land the catamaran for the night, when we almost beached right in the middle of a hairy lovers’ tryst in the sand. Paul spotted the mating couple just in time to make an abrupt turn and take us back out to sea. I don’t think they ever saw us.
Since then, while covering roughly 150 nautical miles of coastline, we counted at least 236 individuals and 14 habitation sites. During our hike inland, I added another 119 individuals to the total, and an even dozen camps. These Neanderthal roam with a strut and confidence we did not see in the north–where the species is losing a one-sided battle with Cro-Magnon.
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