Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  The sergeant unholstered his revolver to squeeze off three ear-ringing shots at the body as it sank out of sight.

  I turned to find Duarte wiping away tears.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “You did good, Sal.”

  Bolzano: “I feel as if I’m going to be sick.”

  Martinelli: “You will become accustomed to it.”

  Bolzano: “No I will not. Never. Never again.”

  Amacapane: “Hey, Lorenzo, that’s a pretty fancy necklace you’ve got there.”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Old man nearly did our jobs for us. His attack caught me in a bad spot. Had my suit turned off, was crawling though tall grass along the riverbed, on my way to the kayaks.

  Hard to sit still as punks beat on the old man, but Martinelli had his gun out, covering his men as they made sport. Would have enjoyed putting my spear through their throats. Odds were all wrong. Left it behind and crawled straight into the water. I drifted with current till I bumped into an exposed root along the bank downstream. Hung on, just eyes and nose above water, in time to see Martinelli snap a spear over the old guy’s head.

  Dozen years of training told me to let that body float on by. Next thing I know, I’m swimming underwater, grabbing to pull him to shore. Saw first bullet sizzle through the water. Second and third hammered my shoulder.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “No you don’t. Breathe, you son of a bitch. Breathe!”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  We spotted Jones and the clan leader hauled out on the far bank about a half-mile below camp. Blood gushed from Jones’ left shoulder as he gave CPR to the native. His jumpsuit flickered brightly with each compression. If anyone in camp cared to wander down to the river and take a look, Jones glowed like a neon sign blinking, “I’m here. I’m here.”

  The five minutes it took to fetch the kayaks and drag them through the pines felt like five hours. By then, Jones had slumped down beside the Cro-Magnon. His damaged suit was a dull glow.

  “We need to bring him to this side of the river,” Duarte hissed as we climbed in our boats and started paddling. We were sitting ducks, but Martinelli and his boys must have been busy. We made it across without notice.

  Pulling back his suit, where smoldering wires and circuits poked from two ragged tears, Duarte inspected a pair of raw furrows across the top of Jones’ shoulder. I was thinking about how our first-aid kits had turned to powder when she took off into the night. The doc returned a few minutes later with a handful of goldenrod and birch bark. Pressing the stuff right onto the wound, she turned to me and whispered. “Hold this tight. Direct pressure. We need to stop the blood. Jones, you with me?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t hit bone. You’re also a dumbshit.”

  “Will he ever play the piano again?” My stab at humor drew a weak smile from Jones and a surprised glare from Duarte.

  “Never could play it before, but I always wanted to learn,” Jones added the punch line, wincing as she switched out another layer of yellow flowers.

  “You’ll never play piano, but I hear you’re an expert soloist on your two-inch organ.”

  That shut us up. She left me to apply pressure while she ran off to gather more goldenrod and a clump of dried moss.

  “Once we staunch this blood, we need to get to the other side,” she said. “I already hear dogs. Somebody’s going to come looking for him.” She hooked her thumb at the bruised and bloodied clan leader groaning in the sand. “I guess we’ll take him along.”

  “Side don’t matter as much as wind,” Jones coughed. “Go downwind. We’ll need a fire.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Amacapane: "What's the plan?"

  Martinelli: “I don’t know, what do you think the plan should be?"

  Amacapane: "We want to know why you are the one to wave your arms while we do all the work? I'm sick of it."

  Martinelli: "The answer is simple. I'm a sergeant and you two are corporals."

  Amacapane: "I'm getting sick of that, too. Our families paid the same money as yours, yet you play God while we sweat our asses off."

  Bolzano: “They do treat you as a god.”

  Martinelli: “Smarter than they look.”

  Bolzano: “It is wrong.”

  Martinelli: “Don’t start that talk again. I will not tolerate it.”

  Bolzano: "My concerns are valid. We are trained to tread lightly with these people, yet you leave your footsteps all over their history.”

  Martinelli: “Sal, you are free to go. Just leave behind your jumpsuit, helmet, ear peas and computer when you do.”

  Bolzano: “We should all leave this place, these people.”

  Martinelli: “You worry too much, Rabbit. As you have said, they will be left with a ghost story and nothing more. My question is, does the tale include three ghosts, two ghosts or one?”

  Amacapane: “So you do have a plan. Tell us.”

  Martinelli: “The clans are anxious to leave. The main body of the herd has passed. They say there is very good hunting to the north.”

  Amacapane: “Pillow talk.”

  Martinelli: “Yes indeed, Wallunda conveyed this information to me after a very good screwing. The girl is smart.”

  Amacapane: “You want to travel north then?”

  Martinelli: “For a while. To hunt. Don’t worry, Sal, eventually we’ll head south. Christmas in Nice as I promised you.”

  Bolzano: “And what are Andre and I to do until then? Run along beside you? Stay hidden and invisible in your tent while you rut with your bitch?”

  Martinelli: “Liked that, did you?”

  Bolzano: “Revolting.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Nearly a month has passed since my last missive. I am sequestered high in the limbs of a tall pine to escape the prying eyes of my hirsute traveling companions. From this perch some 10 meters above swampy ground, the views stretch forever. Across the treetops to the west, in a meadow several hundred meters away, the clans scurry about, arranging their overnight camps beside a fast-running stream.

  The last of the women and children, following the smoke from a signal blaze, wander in with the day’s gatherings. Men haul game and deadfall for the night’s roaring fires.

  To my great chagrin, Lorenzo has integrated us fully within the clan structure. We could have dipped our toe into the currents of their lives and left with the people not much the wiser. Instead, the Tuscan oaf has splashed in with both feet.

  The people love him. ‘Worship” may be more apropos. “Lorenzo, Lorenzo!” They chant it all the day long. When they aren’t blowing on their infernal whistles and flutes.

  Sgt. Martinelli basks in the adulation. He adds steadily to his repertoire of tricks. This morning he blazed into a hot sun out of thin air, then powered down. Quick drawing his two pistols like some sort of American cowboy, he blasted two fat swans out of the sky. The white birds were on final approach for river landings when they tumbled and fell. One of the swans hit an old woman and knocked her down flat. Everyone thought it was hilarious, especially when the woman stood up and rubbed her head, wearing the timeless expression of “What the hell happened?” The natives fell down they laughed so.

  He could have his pick of the women, or men for that matter, but remains content to share his affections with the first gal he bedded, a Tattoo girl of about 17 years. Unlike many of her counterparts, she has not filled her face with tattoos, but sports a thin pair of circles about the size of a teacup rim on each cheek. The designs are formed with alternating red and black dots. A pair of tattooed red eyes keep perpetual watch from her temples.

  While the boys have nicknamed most of the clan woman by the size and shape of their breasts, Lorenzo insists th
is girl’s given name be used. She is called Wallunda.

  Her long, jet-black hair is pulled back in twin braids which hang to her waist. The leather thong binding the braids is decorated with shells and human fingers. Her black, almond eyes appear oversized in her narrow face. Wallunda is fetching in a feral way.

  Having ingratiated herself into the fore of his love life, she now serves as his advocate and translator. With her help, Lorenzo has established himself as the penultimate leader of our traveling party of more than 60 men and women. The bulk of the group is made up of two distinct clans, rivals who do not like each other, the Tattoos and Green Turtles. The entourage is rounded out by an assortment of tiny clans and solitary travelers who have gravitated into Lorenzo’s orbit. We have seen no Neanderthals or hybrids, not since the first night.

  It is a fractious lot, which he holds together by his charisma and will alone. Each night, the disparate groups pitch their camps well apart from each other, though close enough to wander over to Lorenzo’s fire for the evening entertainment.

  Tattoos are outnumbered nearly two to one. They are by far the most troublesome of the two clans. Combative, competitive, they instigate virtually all of the petty conflicts, which end up in wrestling matches and crossed spears. The Green Turtles are tough fighters who survive by teamwork. They diligently watch each other’s backs, and fiercely protect all clan women and children. Lorenzo attempts to keep the peace, but, in the end, Wallunda is a Tattoo. Her people invariably receive preferential treatment.

  To his credit, so far, Martinelli has proven to be a better administrator than I expected. He is lucky, and exhibits an uncanny ability to anticipate problems. Some troubles he stops before they start, and others he guides, lets them unfold in ways which are to his benefit.

  A prime example would be his swift and decisive emasculation of Cpl. Amacapane and myself. A chess master sitting at one of the tables in Milano’s Parco Sempione could not have moved the pieces more superbly.

  We had been pestering him over his suddenly fine lifestyle. Andre was particularly agitated. He insisted there was no arguing with the facts. While Lorenzo was dining with chiefs and enjoying sexual relations with a young native maiden, we were pulling guard duty over the kayaks and slowly being driven mad inside our noisy, odorous jumpsuits. We confronted him inside his hut, catching him alone after waiting for Wallunda to exit from under the leather flap.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “If you won’t leave these clans, introduce us already. Share some of your precious power.”

  Martinelli: “Listen to the communist.”

  Bolzano: "I don’t want to be a god, or even capo. I want to take off this damned helmet and bathe in the damn stream. We have rights, too.”

  Martinelli: “Socialist blather. You know, they listen to every word, from outside the tent. Perhaps they’ll think I am speaking in tongues. It worries you, no? Should we not get away from camp to converse freely?”

  Bolzano: “We do need to talk. About many things.”

  Martinelli: “All issues will be on the table. Come with me.”

  Amacapane: “Where are we going?”

  Martinelli: “Outside.”

  Amacapane: “I know that, dummy. Are we to be introduced to the clan?”

  Martinelli: “Not yet. Soon. Keep the suits activated for now. Head to the kayaks and meet me there.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  We marched unnoticed, straight through the busy camp, and stood waiting a kilometer upstream when Lorenzo arrived with a pair of young men at his side. With his suit powered down and helmet tucked under his arm, Lorenzo wore a gracious smile, one I will never again mistake as genuine. It was the grin of a viper on the prowl, or an assassin nearing his moment of triumph

  The warriors followed him like spaniels, happy to be on a excursion with the master. The larger of the two wore a brown leather jerkin and mantle of pounded reeds. His companion’s apparel was somewhat finer. The stitched leather tunic hung to the man’s knees and was cinched at the waist by long leather cord. Lorenzo halted by our patch of reeds and gestured for the men to disrobe. They did so without hesitation and took merrily off, bare-ass naked, when he pointed them back to camp.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Those men are nearly the same size as you two. See if their clothes fit.”

  Amacapane: “I don’t want to wear the punk’s dirty hand-me-downs.”

  Martinelli: “Andre, just give the robe a try. For me, OK? I promise you your pick of women this evening.”

  Amacapane: “Even Wallunda?”

  Martinelli: “Everyone except Wallunda.”

  Amacapane: “I’m just busting your balls, Lorenzo. She’s too skinny for my tastes. I want the one with the tits."

  Bolzano: "They all have tits."

  Amacapane: "The one with the big tits. Out to here."

  Martinelli: “Yes! I know the one. Teeth like a broken comb.”

  Amacapane: “I didn’t notice the teeth. Bad?”

  Martinelli: “Look who’s busting whose balls now. I have no idea. Who looks at her teeth?”

  Bolzano: “Good thing they snipped your tubes before the jump. You two would start a race of little Martinellis and Amacapanes.”

  Amacapane: “And what a fine world it would be.”

  Martinelli: “Men, step over here for a moment, please. Let me see how you look.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  He cajoled us into donning the men’s clothes, then suggested we wash in a nearby brook. While we revived ourselves in the ice-cold water, Lorenzo gathered up our jumpsuits and helmets and secured them in one of the lockable backpacks. We returned to find him locking the pack around a limb of a stout oak tree.

  “What’s in there?” Amacapane asked from the base of the tree.

  Lorenzo addressed us from his seat on a limb two meters above our heads, the mountaineer at ease with the height, visor up, smiling again.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “I’ve been asking myself, which is the superior motivator, the carrot or the stick? What do you think Sal, do you catch more flies with honey or with the fly swatter?”

  Bolzano: “Are we the flies?”

  Martinelli: “In a way, yes. My flies.”

  Amacapane: “Go fuck yourself, Lorenzo, and your mamma, too. Where are our jumpsuits?”

  Martinelli: “You should watch your mouth, Andre. Do you want to push me over the limit? Is that what you seek?”

  Amacapane: “Of course not. Where is my suit?”

  Martinelli: “Tucked away for safekeeping. For now. You two shall be introduced to the clan as mortal men.”

  Amacapane: “It is a fly swatter. He wants to get us killed.”

  Martinelli: “You will have my special protection. Even as we speak, Wallunda prepares the people for your arrival. They will welcome you as members of my clan.”

  Bolzano: “What is your game? Why confiscate our gear?”

  Martinelli: “I don’t want you to lose anything.”

  Bolzano: “My ear peas and computer?”

  Martinelli: “Locked safely away. Only I know the code.”

  Bolzano: “Locked away for how long?”

  Martinelli: “Don’t worry, I’ll give them back. You will have the opportunity to reacquire your gear. I give you my word.”

  Bolzano: “There’s only one ghost in this story?”

  Martinelli: “For now. I must consider my plan carefully, and yet, you rush me so.”

  Amacapane: “What the fuck, Lorenzo? Why are you such an asshole?”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Sgt. Martinelli tossed a stick to the ground. As our eyes followed its flight, he dropped silently to land with both feet on Cpl. Amacap
ane’s shoulders. The impact knocked both men to the dirt. Lorenzo was up as quick as a cat. Pulling free one of his pistols, he used the butt to club Andre to the ground each time the corporal attempted to rise. Not killing strokes, but solid cracks on the shoulders and neck which thwarted his efforts.

  “You–force–me–to–do–this.” Each word punctuated with a blow by Lorenzo. “It–is–your–fault.”

  In his rage, I was forgotten. The sergeant’s back was turned. If ever there was a chance to make a bold move, this was it. I lifted a rock more than two kilos in weight and carried it with wooden legs to waver at his back. One good bash could have ended this nightmare. Instead, I froze. I am a coward.

  When Lorenzo turned, his eyes registered alarm, first at my proximity and then the stone in my hands. Darting out of range, he shook his head with a hearty laugh.

  “Missed your chance, Rabbit. It will be the last. Help Andre over to the stream, see that he washes himself.”

  An hour later, he did indeed introduce us to the natives as mortal men. Dressed in native clothes, I never felt more like an impostor. Wallunda delivered a lightning-fast monologue which apparently explained that we enjoyed Lorenzo’s protection. The necessity of the protection was proven after dinner, when Amacapane began inflicting his brutish charms upon the residents.

  They welcomed us with curious eyes and solemn dignity. Seats were offered at the leader’s mat where bowls of cooked food and dried fruit and nuts were soon arrayed. Lorenzo had been starving us. We tucked in with great gusto.

  Curious natives circled the mat in nervous rows at least four deep. Murmuring and pointing, they drank in our every move and utterance. Andre and I dined with grubby hands, gulping down the bland fare, then smacking our lips and rubbing our bellies to exhibit approval.

  As it will be in the future, the children were the first to succumb to their curiosity and break through the group’s inhibitions. Several cheeky little devils wiggled through the adults’ legs until they had front row seats. One little boy touched my hair, and then they all had to do it–daring each other, whooping for joy when one of their mates worked up the courage to approach the strange newcomers. One clumsy child stepped on a bowl, spilling gruel on Andre’s foot. His backhand sent the boy sprawling, and caused the entire group to scoot a half meter back. I did my best to play peacemaker with soothing sounds and gestures, and soon ended up with the kid in my lap.