Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  “Don’t worry,” he snapped in native dialect. “I am Lorenzo! I can do anything! Go, go!”

  “Hold on, Lorenzo,” I said. “I want to swim them across the river. The Tattoos are on this side.”

  Big Ears, the Tattoos’ sulky leader, had pulled the long straw during last night’s fireside ceremony. He chose to traverse the land south of the river, which meant the Green Turtles started their day with long swims across the kilometer-wide Loire this morning. The final Turtle had not taken more than one step on dry land before Lorenzo fired his gun to start the race. Andre cried foul. What did he expect?

  “If they go to the other side they’ll just join up with the Turtles.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Not much, I suppose. But I don’t think it makes any difference which side they are on. They’ll never catch up to my boys.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Tomon and I have been discussing the race for days, scouting a possible southern route. Lorenzo is so predictable. To Tomon’s credit, he did a good job of acting worried when the great man insisted he follow in the wake of the Tattoos. The porters will swing as far south as it takes to escape the swamp. If luck is on their side, their route may be longer, but much quicker. We will see. What I know for sure is this: the porters are ready to stretch their legs and run without the weight of the boats constantly dragging them down.

  Since the work of carrying the kayaks is viewed as unfit for proper hunters, and certainly no way to ascend in clan hierarchy, I was dealt the outcasts, the effete and the daydreamers. Tomon is one of the dreamers. A Green Turtle with sandy blond hair, about 18 years old, he prefers to let his brothers do the hunting. They call him “Little Woman,” demeaning him in an affectionate way. However, when they are lost, or have a splinter which has become infected, I notice they often run to Tomon for assistance.

  Raised at the knee of the old storyteller and his wife, Tomon is wise beyond his years. Growing up, while the rest of the boys his age longed to hunt, he says he preferred to stay with his aunt and uncle to see how they made their magic. Ointments and necklaces, fine clothes. They accepted him as a student, with the stipulation he be quiet and not ask too many questions. He absorbed much about native healing and other useful arts just by helping and observing.

  For example, when I plunged face first into a ravine thick with nettles, it was Tomon and his mate who found dock tree leaves to press upon my fiery skin.

  In our conversations, he often references his deceased uncle and aunt, Leonglauix and Irenna, as he explains one phenomena or another. Their stories of the herds and animals carry many details about the animals’ habits, range, and proven tactics for hunting them. He retells the stories to attentive listeners around the Turtle campfire each night. One story I asked him to repeat slowly enough for me to comprehend was a historical tale about hard marches through ice and starvation.

  Tomon has risen quickly through the ranks of porters to become my second-in-command. Though most of the men are older, his is the superior work ethic. He plots a good course through the terrain, whether it be rolling hills or muddy bog.

  Our friendship began slowly. The slender, medium-height boy was as standoffish as the rest until I began singing my arias. Tomon has a fine, clear voice, and I suppose he recognized a kindred soul. He slowly took me under his wing and helped speed my acclimation to traveling with the Cro-Magnons.

  His wife Gertie, a redheaded girl of about 15 years, did not at first approve of our relationship. She was jealous and claimed an association with me was sure to get her man killed. As my friendship with Tomon grows, however, she accepts me a bit more each day. Lately, when I take my evening meal beside them at the fire, she is no longer shy about correcting my poor grammar and pronunciation. I take it as a good sign.

  My native language skills continue to lag far behind those of Lorenzo and Andre. They have even begun to flavor their Italian conversations with guttural words and expressions of the clans. In a case of vice and versa, I have learned to watch my tongue around the natives. While training the porters, I must have said “Bravo!” one too many times. About seven days ago, I realized they had begun to slap each other on the back and shout “Bravo!” when they thought I wasn’t looking.

  Three of the porters are solitary travelers who somehow became attached to Lorenzo’s traveling show and never got around to leaving. The rest are Green Turtles who, for one reason or another, were volunteered for duty by the clan’s new leaders. Two are blind in one eye, one is prone to stuttering, and the final pair are male percussionists, a homosexual couple who tap rhythms on their kayak as they transport it.

  The porters’ wives and women, gap-toothed slatterns one and all, are also second-class citizens in the eyes of the clan. Most are recent arrivals or widowed outcasts. My boys have no compunctions about inviting the girls to warm their fern beds.

  The motley crew followed Tomon to the southeast this morning. I don’t expect them to win, but do hope they make a good showing.

  The paddle upstream gave us modern folk plenty of time for conversation. Once Lorenzo caught up, with grim-faced Wallunda balanced on the bow of his kayak, we never lacked a topic to help pass the day. To our utter amazement, once tight-lipped Lorenzo opened up, he became downright loquacious.

  The trout are finished and the mosquitoes grow thick as Edinburgh fog. It is time to pull the fish to the side and add armloads of wet driftwood to the fire to see if we can’t make enough smoke to drive the bugs away. No wonder the clans prefer to camp on ground which is high and dry. I have a feeling it is going to be another long night.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Tell us, Salvatore, about your past. Your file lacks as much detail as mine. Were you really a professor?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, my last job was teaching Anthropology and General Science at San Marco Academy in Milano.”

  Amacapane: “I wondered why you always deliver such long-winded lectures.”

  Martinelli: “And yet, you were fired in disgrace. Your file doesn’t explain why. It was an all-boys school, no? Buggering young butts, were you?”

  Bolzano: “Perish the thought. I once turned in a colleague for just such an act. Reprehensible. My termination was more a misunderstanding. A large sum of money went missing from school coffers, and the administration blamed me. I wished I were innocent.”

  Martinelli: “The file said you were a thief.”

  Bolzano: “It is true. Look how those water bison are reflected in the water. Lovely. I have been stealing items big and small since I was young. Some boys played sports, I ran scams on the neighbors. Perhaps it is a disease.

  “My family is rich, you see. They have always bailed me out, and this time was no exception. Father paid back the money, plus a hefty bribe. He then enlisted the Cardinal’s help in sending me as far away as any family has ever exiled a larcenous offspring. Thirty-two thousand years away. My goodness.”

  Amacapane: “How did you get on The Team?”

  Bolzano: “The church pulled many strings for me, as they did, I’m guessing, for you as well, Lorenzo. Am I correct?”

  Martinelli: “Sì, it’s true.”

  Bolzano: “The Cardinal said my mission was to lead a ‘penitent life,’ and to locate and stash artifacts where he might find them. He was well aware I received my doctorate in Anthropology at the University of Zurich. That is where he turned to concoct my cover story. During school in Switzerland, I lived in a small village, one which required all residents to volunteer for the community fire brigade. I picked up enough terminology and expertise to allow me to be squeezed onto The Team as a fireman on the multi-purpose security unit.”

  Martinelli: “We all knew you were no soldier.”

  Bolzano: “How about you, Lorenzo, Mr. Cat? I have been dying to know. What is your story?”

  Martinelli: “Not going to happen, Rabbit.”

  Bolzano: “What is stopping you? I told you my tale of woe, I am sure Andre will share hi
s. How can anything you say hurt you now? Consider it confession. It will be good for your soul.”

  Amacapane: “Looks like he’s thinking about it.”

  Martinelli: “Let me ask you. Do you think the ship would have survived the waves if the original captain was in charge?”

  Bolzano: “Who could say? What do you think, Andre?”

  Amacapane: “What do I know about boats?”

  Martinelli: “I was paid to come back. It was my final job.”

  Bolzano: “What sort of job?”

  Martinelli: “An important one.”

  Bolzano: “Go on. Perhaps if you start at the beginning it will be easier.”

  Martinelli: “Should I lie on a couch as we speak, Herr Dottore? The beginning? No, we shall not delve so far.

  “When I left the military after serving five years, I founded a protection business for clients who were under threat–both real and perceived. My last year of service had been spent guarding the Prime Minister of Italy, a real feather in my cap when it came time to compile a résumé.

  “I used the contacts I made to quickly build an impressive list of clientele. I hired the best help, charged the most, and bought the latest equipment. No customer of ours was ever killed, kidnapped or harmed in any way that could be said to be my fault.

  “The extreme diligence and obsessive planning it took to make that possible also served me well in my side profession. You see, I played both sides of the fence. In all, I was contracted to kill 37 men and women, many of whom had made the mistake of hiring my competition to protect them. I brought down the first 36 without incident. The last proved to be my downfall as well.

  “A stinking industrialist with enough money to be truly careful, the mark forced me to work in broad strokes. The bomb I planted in the air car he was riding in took with him several other high-profile targets.”

  Bolzano: “When was this?”

  Martinelli: “Two and a half years before the jump.”

  Bolzano: “Not the prime minister? That was you?”

  Martinelli: “It was the only way to reach my mark.”

  Bolzano: “Your client must have been furious.”

  Martinelli: “Not so. He was fully apprised before the bomb was planted. He signed off on all collateral damage.”

  Bolzano: “Your client must be a man of great power.”

  Martinelli: “You would know, perhaps better than I, though I suspect he was no more than a go-between for powers far greater than he.”

  Bolzano: “I know him?”

  Martinelli: “Yes, and if it was 32,000 years from now, I would never tell you his name. But as you point out, what difference does it make now? It was your father’s friend, Cardinal Sellaro, who hired me. I had a different name and different face then. We knew the heat would flare so hot, I must disappear completely.

  Bolzano: “You said you were paid to make the jump, it was your last job.”

  Martinelli: “You don’t know? Neither of you suspected anything? I’m surprised.”

  Amacapane: “Maybe we did. Tell us.”

  Martinelli: “Why not? After the jump, my animation tank was programmed to open 30 minutes early. It felt as if my limbs would never loosen, but I was up and around in plenty of time to welcome the top brass as their tanks began opening, one every five minutes. They were too weak to struggle as I gently held shut their noses and mouths to suffocate them without a trace of bruising. I opened the way for Captain Miller to assume command, then crawled back in my tank to feign sleep until it was time to rise and act surprised by the tearful chaos. It was a good hit, well executed.”

  Bolzano: “And for that, the Cardinal offered you absolution of all of your sins.”

  Martinelli: “How did you know?”

  Bolzano: “He offered me the same deal, all I had to do was bury a couple billion Euros worth of artifacts, and all would be forgotten. I see now why you worry Miller’s mistakes may have destroyed the ship.”

  Martinelli: “I do not think that at all. I have come to accept it all has been God’s will. The equipment failing, the waves, finding Leonard’s pistol and computer, has all been preordained.”

  Bolzano: “Why would God destroy the ship and its crew?”

  Martinelli: “The ship was an abomination filled with sinners. The scientists were so keen on proving their theories, they never thought about asking for His Lord’s permission. He struck them down for their impertinence.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  Poor Andre, every square centimeter of his upper torso is covered with the welts of mosquito bites. The vile creatures attacked the moment the sun set. Enduring the onslaught just long enough to wolf down our succulent fish, we threw the leftovers in the river and dove for cover under our native sleeping skins. Though I feared I would surely suffocate, I managed to keep my cover more or less tight through the long night.

  Andre evidently shucked his leather blanket as he slept. The thirsty bugs filled his helmet. More than a thousand bites must cover his face alone. He sits by the fire and groans. I think he’ll survive. Although this may sound callous, I cannot help but secretly enjoy seeing the corporal served his just desserts for being such a sound sleeper. How many nights have I lain awake listening to him snore?

  In a surprising development, we waved hello to both main clans this morning. They spied our smoky fire and thought they had reached the finish line. Lorenzo’s Tattoos were first to arrive. They poured down the riverbank in whoops and leaps, mocking us as we watched from our island.

  “I wonder why they celebrate so?” Andre deadpanned through swollen lips.

  “They believe they are victorious.”

  “Too bad Lorenzo’s not here to set ’em straight.”

  We let the Tattoos dance and endured their taunts with barely concealed smiles. The Green Turtles emerged from the north bank’s trees about 30 minutes later. Andre turned his back to the Tattoos and used hand signals to quickly convey the race was not over, and the clan should continue heading east.

  “Why didn’t you let them rest?”

  “Didn’t want them to think they lost the race. Confidence is everything.”

  Arriving in single file, sketching little waves, Andre’s Turtles followed the shoreline about 100 meters before turning inland to disappear back into the black-watered marsh. Tooting whistles and flutes, tugging dogs on short leashes, they chewed up the sodden ground as if they were born to it.

  Realization dawned slowly on the Tattoos. The ingrates reminded me of a herd of deer, standing frozen as they watched the last Green Turtle, a woman four months pregnant and carrying a baby, duck into the brush. Tattoo heads began swiveling quizzically as they struggled to assess the situation. Finally, without another taunt or fist shaken in our direction, the celebration became a wholesale retreat up the muddy slope. I looked toward Andre, his face swollen like a strange puffer fish, and began to howl. It startled him at first. Soon he stood to join me in the Green Turtle wolf call.

  We sent them packing, covered in mud, and with more reasons than ever to test Lorenzo’s protection. Andre and I torment them as boys tease a dog on a short leash. One of these days, I fear, the leash may snap and we will have a dogfight on our hands.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Amacapane: “They made good time.”

  Bolzano: “Stunning. By my estimates, we paddled at least 30 kilometers yesterday. Most of the shoreline was swampland. I can’t imagine how they did it.”

  Amacapane: “Pimples and Fat Head have been telling me for weeks, we travel too slowly. I explained it all to Lorenzo, he don’t listen.”

  Bolzano: “They will need to stop and rest eventually. Even so, we better put as much river behind us as we can today.”

  Amacapane: “I’m ready to get the fuck away from this marshy territory. This place we’re headed, Orleans, it hilly country?”

  Martinelli: “I don’t think so. It will lik
ely be as flat as this land, and just as prone to wetlands. In Orleans, one branch of the Loire may even turn north to join the Seine. At some point, geological uplift wipes that branch away. It may have already happened. Either way, we’ll follow the southern branch as far as we can up into the hills, the Massif Central.”

  Amacapane: “Here comes Lorenzo. I’m gonna wear my helmet, hide these bites. Don’t you say nothing.”

  Bolzano: “Don’t worry. Did we see the clans?”

  Amacapane: “What do you think?”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  As I complete this journal entry I look up to see Lorenzo and Wallunda have swept by the island without scenting our fire or observing us waiting for them amid a gaggle of incurious geese and ducks.

  “Let them think we’ve gone ahead,” Amacapane said when he saw my surprised expression. “He’ll paddle like mad trying to catch up.”

  We elected to give them a half hour head start. I am anxious to once again be on the river, even if it does mean an arduous day of stroking against the current. I could never grow tired of this unspoiled landscape. Each kilometer, each turn in the river, provides new surprises for the eyes to feast upon. Yesterday, it was bright red herons, mammoth babies wrestling in shallow water and a water snake turning the tables on an eagle by squeezing it to death in midair. The bird plucked the two-meter-long yellow snake from the river sixty meters in front of our kayaks. The bird hadn’t flapped its mighty wings more than five times before the constrictor got its tail around the bird’s head and wrapped tight. They tumbled from the sky in a twisting ball of feathers and scales. Curious to see what happened, we angled toward the spot where they splashed down. The snake had the eagle in a death grip, its diamond-shaped head extended up like a periscope as it rode the current downstream. Score one for the underdog.

  Having saved the best tidbit for last, I am pleased to report we have begun to once again see signs of Neanderthal, including several abandoned camps and a fleeting glimpse of a hunting party as it splashed into the scrub. The group looked to be digging for clams when the sound of Italian voices echoing across the water spooked them into flight.