If not for man, and perhaps the wolves, they are immune from abuse. Harassing the megafauna is what our sociopathic crews live for. The native hunters leave a trail of carcasses in their wake as they compete each day for honor and glory. In their quest for advancement in the pecking order, they kill for practice, they kill for fun, and when they are hungry and close to where dinner will be served, they even kill for sustenance. Egged on by Martinelli and Amacapane, the waste has intensified.
The idiots have joined the competition. Amacapane runs with the Green Turtles. Martinelli sides with Wallunda and her Tattoos. Last night they dragged a pair of colossal auroch heads to the campfire for me to judge. Each head must have weighed 500 kilos with their sweeping sets of horns. The boys made it a competition to see which clan could drag their head to the fire first.
The porters and I were unwinding by the fire when we heard the commotion of the rival hunting parties’ approach. After much crashing and cursing, they staggered into camp to drop the bloody things in the dirt.
“You be the judge, Salvatore,” Lorenzo demanded, his words coming in heaves as he struggled to catch his breath. “Which set of horns is superior?”
Who does not love an opportunity to hold sway over their antagonists? Naturally, I elected to toy with them.
“By what criteria are they to be judged? Is it by length? Girth? Or by the perfection of their symmetry?”
Andre wobbled as if about to wretch. He gathered himself long enough to state his case.
“We agreed this morning, ‘biggest and baddest.’”
“Baddest? As in the poorest example?”
“No, it is an old slang. ‘Baddest’ means ‘goodest.’”
“What kind of Italian is that? Those are not actual words.”
Lorenzo’s left eye was beginning to twitch, a bad sign. I turned to make a show of examining the mighty horns. One smelly head had Green Turtle hunters clustered around it and the other was swarming with Tattoos. Not hard to tell which beast belonged to whom. I asked myself, which idiot did I wish to anger less? Poor Andre, he never had a chance.
Each individual horn more than matched the entire length of my body. Nearly greater in circumference than my waist where they joined the heads, they swept forward in great curves, tapering to wicked points. I fingered the tips of all four horns and used my hands to measure the girth of each base. I understood why they brought the heads to me. They were identical.
As I studied further, I noticed Amacapane’s beast had shed its right ear somewhere along the way. The wound healed over long ago and must not have been much hindrance as the animal lived a long and healthy life until today’s misfortune of crossing paths with the Green Turtle clan.
“While they are both spectacular, and though I must applaud the courage and skill it must have taken to bring each beast down, one must be judged to be more ‘bad’ than the other.”
Walking over to stand by the Tattoos and their prize, I spread my arms. “I judge this to be the superior auroch.”
Amacapane filled the night with a hoot of delight.
“I told you he would pick whichever one he thought was yours. I win, we win!”
Green Turtles erupted into celebration, leaping over the fire, dancing about, and generally antagonizing the losers.
“Get those heads out of camp!” Lorenzo barked as he snatched Wallunda’s hand and led her to the stream to wash.
The exchange has provided me with ideas. Games need rules and guidelines, do they not? Officials? Certainly. Perhaps I can help establish parameters to ensure fair play, and prevent them from killing each other.
I must call a halt to these meanderings. It is time to rouse my porters and get them back on the move. In an effort to raise their spirits, I sing to them, blending a mix of native rhythms I have absorbed, with (forgive me) an occasional aria or two. “La Donna è Mobile” from Verde’s Rigoletto is their favorite thus far.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “Do you ever think about heaven? What it’s like?”
Bolzano: “Not much anymore. As a child, I pictured it as the grandest of all opera halls, something the Germans might build if not confined by expense or the laws of gravity. It would be covered in gold and filled with the songs of angels.”
Martinelli: “Sounds nice.”
Amacapane: “Isn’t it supposed to be a place where people sit around on clouds playing harps?”
Martinelli: “I think there will be mountains and banquets, happiness and everything else a heart could desire.”
Bolzano: “A pretty fantasy.”
Martinelli: “It is not fantasy! Heaven is real. I know it. We are the first Christians on earth. We can be first through the gates.”
Amacapane: “You mean like, we could have the place to ourselves until Moses shows up? Or Jesus?”
Martinelli: “Yes, it is exactly what I mean.”
Bolzano: “Come on Lorenzo, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
Martinelli: “Of course I do. Let me ask you something, Salvatore. Your file says you were baptized and confirmed. It says you were an altar boy in Milano and studied seminary in Roma. What happened to you?”
Bolzano: “This information you speak of, it is not included in The Team profiles.”
Martinelli: “Leonard had files of his own. So what happened to you?”
Bolzano: “Call it a change of heart. How can there be Christianity 30,000 years before Christ is born?”
Martinelli: “God is forever and has always been. Jesus is His son.”
Bolzano: “More fantasy.”
Martinelli: “Do not bait me unless you wish to be thrashed! Your file says you were recruited for The Team by Cardinal Sellaro. A family friend?”
Bolzano: “It is true. My father led me by the ear to meet the Cardinal in his office inside the Duomo. His eminence persuaded me that The Team offered a way to….”
Martinelli: “You were up to your eyeballs in shit and he gave you a way out.”
Bolzano: “You speak the truth.”
Martinelli: “The Cardinal expected you to be more helpful.”
Bolzano: “He gave me several coordinates to cache artifacts. I still hope to follow through should we ever make it to the boot of Italy.”
Martinelli: “We’ll make it. And we’ll bury more than just artifacts.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Each day sans jumpsuit makes me long for the device all the less. My skin breathes. I control my own actions. It is difficult to explain.
Though Cpl. Amacapane and I don our helmets rather than tote them in packs, we generally leave them switched off. I wear a scarf of tanned leather wrapped around mine which makes it resemble one of the various types of headgear we see worn by the natives. I assure you, my setup looks quite jaunty.
With the equipment powered down, we travel through a much different world. Uncloaked, visors up, looking eye to eye with our native friends and foes, we experience reality. The real thing. Who knows what Lorenzo sees and feels these days.
The helmet makes a person hyper-aware, even more so as the audio creeps up, and augmented smells cause the eyes to water. Helmets needlessly ratchet up the intensity of a world which is more than intense enough. It is impossible to not think about the temperature, time, barometric pressure and five dozen other readouts that are available at all times. Once you think them, there they are. It becomes second nature to visually zoom in or out, click to thermal imaging or night vision, pinpoint sounds and everything else.
Add the suit and you multiply the discomfort by one thousand. In full gear I feel as if I am something akin to a machine.
Of course, it would be misleading to say we never utilize the equipment. I must flip my visor down 15 times a day to examine some faraway thing of interest. Occasionally, a chime rings in my ear. I power up and take the incoming transmission, each time hoping it will be Dr. Maria Duarte or o
ne of the other Americans. So far, disappointment blares in the form of Sgt. Martinelli’s demands to know my location, or Cpl. Amacapane’s calls to clarify the rules of the day’s challenge.
The radio signals carry nearly two kilometers before they fade. Each of us would probably be lost and alone, wandering separately across Eurasia without them.
Lorenzo continues to operate in his full jumpsuit. Rarely a day goes by when he doesn’t flare into a bright sun or sneak into camp under the cover of stealth to scare the wits out of some unsuspecting soul. When I watch closely, I can pick up his movement. A few of the natives have also recognized this flaw in the technology. Even so, when he appears, it is a surprise to just about everybody. I must admit, as magic tricks go, it is a doozy. The Tattoos fall in the mud and kiss his feet every time he appears.
When visiting travelers are treated to the show, their awe is struck so hard many soil their loincloths. Lorenzo has developed a little routine in which he incorporates native ritual, modern sports anthems and even a bit of schoolboy Latin from Catechism class. The performances allow him to steadily build upon his loyal cult following. He is a great recruiter for the Tattoo clan.
The Green Turtles take a far dimmer view of the sergeant’s curious abilities. The clan pitches its camp away from the Tattoo fire. It cooks its own food and has recently began taking a pass on Lorenzo’s performances–unless he commands them to attend. A few Green Turtles, mostly women, slip over to participate in the nightly shows. I sense they will soon jump ship.
Diehard Green Turtles just don’t trust Lorenzo. He killed their leader, the old storyteller. For that, they will never forgive him. Some suspect his role in the deaths of their clan members on the beach. It transpires one of the gunned-down women was the old storyteller’s wife, a great healer and shaman.
Without planning to, Lorenzo severed both heads of the Green Turtle leadership. A trio of sons have assumed command of the clan. We have nicknamed them Black Eyes, Pimples and Fat Head. They seem capable enough. I assume the old folks groomed them for the roles they now fill.
Even those transgressions by Lorenzo the Green Turtles could probably forgive. He embodies great power and prestige. I assume it is why they continue to return to the vicinity of his signal fire each night. Their distrust runs with the company he keeps. They don’t like the Tattoos. Can’t stand them. When Lorenzo aligned himself with Wallunda and her father, the burly leader we call Big Ears, he alienated the Turtles.
It was only a quirk of serendipity which placed the Tattoos in our path in the first place. I am sure Lorenzo views it as another act of God. They happened to be passing inland as word of the great female healer’s death spread. She had helped cure several of their clan of unspecified maladies in years past. They swung out of their way to pay their respects in peace, and to see if the Turtles had any “troubles” to trade. I am not sure what that means.
The clans do not mix. Olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Even when almighty Lorenzo gives them a shake in hopes of blending them together, they quickly separate. As far as I can discern, the clans share few similarities. Vocal dialect, hunting styles, tools, food preparation, clothing, jewelry, social structure, and even the methods of child rearing are quite different between the two clans.
The Green Turtles are more thoughtful, methodical in their ways. The Tattoos are impetuous and loud.
Turtle hunters agree on specific animals to target, then work together to stalk and bring them down. More times than not, the kill comes beside a swift-running stream and downwind from the where the night’s camp is already located. They skin the game, toss the debris in the stream, wash themselves and carry the bounty to where their women squat waiting fireside.
The females use herbs to cover the deer, antelope, pig, horse or goat and often fill its body cavity with the day’s gatherings, usually a gruel of soaked grains, grubs, plover eggs, bugs, berries and nuts. Using bone needles and thin strips of leather, they sew the body cavity closed and then toss the entire animal into the coals. The lot is covered with more wood, dry and green alike, to create a raging inferno which burns just as long as necessary. Less than an hour for a large deer, and perhaps two or three hours for a 400-pound pig.
The natives take turns gathering wood to throw on the fire and snacking on appetizers of raw organs and lengths of intestine. The simple fare is offered in turtle shell bowls which are transported between camps in packs carried by dogs. When the coals are slapped away with pine boughs, the result reminds me of the poor potatoes we cooked in campfires back in training. The game emerges from the blast furnace looking like a lump of coal. Using spears and poles, they deftly lift it from the fire and place it on a flat rock, square of hide or sometimes right in the dirt. Though charred black on the outside, the meat is almost always moist and tender on the inside.
Men and women dine together in the Green Turtle clan. They circle the meal, generally sitting if the ground is dry, and standing if the rain is coming down.
Tattoos scoff at the notion of men and women sharing meals. They call the Turtles “Mice Eaters” due to their penchant for small game. Bravery and courage, those are what Tattoo hunting is based upon. Daring young men with red and black whorls etched across their cheeks and foreheads, they live to risk their necks for glory. Many have eyes tattooed at their temples, the better to see sideways I suppose. Their tattoos range from simple to quite intricate. I still do not know how they do it, or why. I would like to know, and perhaps someday they will let me watch. Maybe.
My personal relations with the Tattoos have been strained since I fired two of the unruly stinkers from the portage crews. Evidently, it was a big insult. They clear their noses on the ground at my feet, and pound their chests as I walk by. Too bloody bad. I’ll not have them back.
The Tattoos have no honor, no style. Their tactics are less than what we see from the packs of wild dogs competing one rung below us on the food chain. The wolves and hyena at least take the time to gorge on choice bits of organ, intestine and tongue before they leave the carcass to rot. Lorenzo’s boys kill indiscriminately, competing daily for a pat on the head from the great man.
They leave a path of blood in their wake. We often carry our canoes within sight of hunts in progress. Tattoo tactics are simple. In this bountiful world, simple is usually good enough. They stalk through meadows, or along the tree lines until they happen upon something worth killing. Menacing, grunting, they circle their prey, lunging with their spears, vying to see who will deliver the death stroke.
At night, they eat half-cooked, unseasoned meat and recount the day’s hunt, laughing and jostling each other as they describe the action. Necklaces of bear claws and lion fangs adorn their necks, while owl feathers are tied into the leather cords which tether long, greasy hair into tight ponytails. Women have their own fire and their own food. Wallunda has become the lone exception.
Wounds such as broken arms, lacerated faces and crushed toes are badges to be worn proudly–particularly when they may go septic and cause death.
From where I sit, the loss of a few Tattoos would not be such a bad thing. As their ranks swell, it upsets the imbalance of power the Green Turtles once enjoyed. I care, for each night when I lay my head down to sleep, I do so in the Green Turtle camp. Cpl Amacapane and I have been adopted.
In spite of his insulting nature, Andre is now one of the Green Turtles’ favorite sons. He hunts alongside the clan in the daily competitions. His ability to throw a spear has become the stuff of legend. Two years training with The Team finally pays off. His experience with soccer also serves him well. He knows how to be part of a close-knit squad, even if his approach is the exact opposite of what any rational person would consider good sportsmanship.
Andre has always sought to lift himself up by putting others down. It is a basic part of his nature. I don’t think he will ever break the habit. Two years of officers telling him to “knock it off” certainly didn’t ease the trait. He has a knack for identifying the ones he can pick o
n and those he should show respect. Don’t I know that!
He also recognizes he is not the one who should be formulating an overall strategy. Even with the Green Turtles, he is content to let others dictate tactics while he waits for the moment to let his athletic prowess shine.
Or miss on purpose. At least that is what the papers said.
Andre played forward for the team of his hometown of Bologna. In the second league. He wasn’t bad. I remember him as the one who was always on the screen complaining about a call, or non-call. Most of the time, replays revealed he was the one grabbing the opponent’s jersey or tripping him. There was always lots of arguing with officials, arms spread wide as all good Italian men do.
When there is an opposing team to harass, he is really in his element. The Green Turtles adore the way he taunts the Tattoos and belittles their nightly trophies of deer antlers and lion tails. He’s an asshole, but he’s their asshole.
Andre’s boasts of being a ladies’ man may not have been idle fiction after all. His first, disastrous attempt at love was consecrated upon a Tattoo wench, an act easily forgiven by the Turtles. Now that he has learned a few of the courtship ground rules, he services a steady stream of women, attached and single alike.
His exploits began with one modest-looking widow willing to take a chance on the dangerous newcomer. The result reminds me of the old blues song, “Woman be Wise,” by Sippie Wallace. Old Sippie’s sultry ballad warned women against bragging about their men, lest they lose them to a friend.
Andre’s willing widow gossiped and soon found herself displaced by a line of women anxious to see what made him so special.
Me? I continue to cling to the notion I can survive this ordeal untainted. My association with the porters has won me grudging acceptance. The crews are now staffed completely by Green Turtles. I dismissed the Tattoo workers for being too disruptive and combative. Their departure calmed things down, as does the singing and regular breaks.
I can also usually be goaded into performing an aria or two after the evening meal, but in terms of love, I prefer to keep my distance. I live the celibate life of a monk. I am sure I could warm my nights with one or two of Andre’s leftovers. Perhaps some day I will, but not now.
Bordeaux Page 14
