Andre, who does not understand why I become so excited when we see the barrel-chested hominids, watched them retreat before asking, “Are they stupid? Why live in a swamp?”
That set the old Bolzano brain to spinning. Having given the matter considerable thought, I hypothesize the emergence of Early Modern Human (Cro-Magnon) has relegated Neanderthal to safe havens such as this mosquito-ridden marsh.
While rarely a day went by out on the hills and plains when we didn’t spot at least one other traveling Cro-Magnon clan, we have not seen any along the river–save of course, the racing Green Turtles and Tattoos. The Neanderthal are here because the Cro-Magnon are not.
I wonder, when they heard us, did they sigh and say, “There goes the neighborhood?”
TRANSMISSION:
Amacapane: “Think we’ll see any snakes catch an eagle today?”
Bolzano: “My hopes are pinned on Neanderthal. You asked yesterday why they inhabit a place any sensible Cro-Magnon would surely avoid.”
Amacapane: “Here comes the lecture.”
Bolzano: “You did ask.”
Amacapane: “I asked if they were stupid. God, these bites itch.”
Bolzano: “As you know, we were sent back to a time when the species Neanderthal nears the end of its 600,000-year reign on earth. It has long been theorized the rise of Cro-Magnon causes the extinction.”
Amacapane: “My Turtles, they don’t care for them much. At least they don’t run ’em down like the Tattoos do.”
Bolzano: “Hunt them?”
Amacapane: “That’s what they say. I haven’t seen nothing like that yet.”
Bolzano: “Well, there you go, indirect proof Cro-Magnon is actively displacing Neanderthal, pushing them ever farther into swamps and hidden valleys. It won’t be long, a few thousand years, and they will be wiped out entirely, except for a few isolated colonies in Croatia and Spain. The last remnants ever recovered were from Gibraltar and dated to be as recent as about 6,000 years from now. We’re lucky to see Neanderthal.”
Amacapane: “If you say so. They give me the creeps. One of those things ever got you hugged in tight, he’d squeeze the life outta you like a snake. You see the size of their arms and hands?”
Bolzano: “Yes, they are very powerfully built. I would love to examine one closely. That first night, there were three seated close by, yet my attention was stolen by the antics of Cro-Magnon. If I had known they would vanish so quickly, I would have spent my time more wisely. Do you know where they went? For some reason, Tomon refuses to discuss the subject, and the rest of the porters follow his lead.”
Amacapane: “I remember one of my boys bragging if they weren’t under the protection of the old man, he would have bashed their brains in. Irenna, or whatever her name was, she helped them a few times. They were there to pay their respects.”
Bolzano: “Go on, what else do they say?”
Amacapane: “Black Eyes calls them ‘Flat Heads.’ He says they are very poor spear throwers and that makes them easy to defeat. Pimples claims to have bedded many Neanderthal women. He says they are a good lay, but you need to be careful. Turn your head or go to sleep, and they’ll up and stab you with your own spear.”
Bolzano: “From the small bits I have pieced together, I have heard the same thing. Neanderthal are not to be trusted. I wonder if it is rumor or fact.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
We thought it was thunder booming through the trees in front of us. The morning winds had swept a gray band of clouds in from the north. Though fat with rain, the clouds had not yet begun to unleash their torrents. As they do now.
Looking for a spot to pull out as we followed the percussions around a bend in the river, we spied Lorenzo’s kayak beached on the southern shore. He and his woman capered about in the shade of a willow hanging low over a stone beach. Their heads popped up when they heard the splash of our paddles. Lorenzo tracked our flight to shore while Wallunda continued on, rummaging through the belongings of a family of Neanderthal which lay dying on the beach. One brawny man, two females and three children.
Both of the male’s knees had been shattered by bullets. Covered with mud and leaves, he grunted and moaned as his lifeblood drained into the tea-colored water of the Loire. Two boys had spears through their bellies, proof Wallunda had participated in the slaughter.
“They jumped us,” Lorenzo said. “We were taking a break and he snuck up on us. Threw his spear. I chopped him down.”
With his visor up I could see Lorenzo’s left eye twitch. I didn’t believe a word he said.
“What about the rest of them?”
“Oh, we ducked behind the rock over there and waited for him to call the rest in. He was singing a fine melody in the key of pain, F sharp, ‘til a few minutes ago. He’ll bleed out soon. Too bad, I’d like to see him suffer all day. Isn’t that right, you big-nosed fuck?”
He gave the man a kick which elicited a weak yelp of surprise.
“How did you get behind us? Praise Jesus, my arms were on fire trying to catch you. Where have you two been?”
“We’ve been following you, keeping an eye on what you are up to.” The lie arrived unbidden to my lips. I blurted it out before considering its ramifications.
“That’s a dangerous thing to do,” Lorenzo said in a low voice. “I’ll forgive you this time. What do you think of these tool kits? So simple, would they be worth anything?”
I wish I could say I refused to answer, or found a way to punish Lorenzo for his murderous ways. I considered climbing in my kayak and leaving without a word. That would have been the appropriate thing to do.
Salvatore Bolzano is nothing, however, if not a self-serving opportunist. I used Lorenzo’s guilt and discomfort to buy myself two hours with the cadavers. Using the ruler on the shaft of my paddle, I mapped and measured every aspect of their bodies’ exteriors, including massive teeth, long fingers and toes. As my hands were soon coated in blood, I called my notes out verbally as Andre used two fingers to input them into my computer.
I then attempted to use Wallunda’s razor-sharp flint knife to carry the anatomical research a step further. Oh, Michelangelo, how did you ever do it? And they say the bodies you worked with were well past their prime. The smells must have been awful.
I poked and sawed, got nowhere fast. Frustrated by my lack of technique–I was attempting to peel back the muscles of the abdomen to reveal the dead male’s ribs and making a hack job of it–Wallunda snatched her knife away and delivered several bold cuts through sinew and tendon to release the muscles. I ended up letting her do most of the cutting as I examined the man’s heart, liver, spleen and whatever else looked interesting. At one point I looked up to find blood-drenched Wallunda taking a bite out of the man’s dark-purple liver. Without her help, I would never have been able to remove the skullcap so cleanly.
I think she enjoyed the autopsy as much, or more, than I did. Her new-found respect for me is unsettling to say the least.
I bemoan the tragic end visited upon the Neanderthal family. Attacked by a man and weapons which have no business in this time. However, I would like to hope their deaths will prove worthy beyond measure in the long run. Having finished the first edit of my notes (Andre’s spelling is horrendous), I feel as if I am at last living up to Team standards. If this clunky old computer survives through the millennia, I now have something important to contribute.
Perhaps I have finally created something to make my parents proud. I wonder if they ever think of me as they go about their days inside their warm compound. If they do, I am sure they envision me standing proudly at the helm of a sleek modern ship, or hunched over a microscope doing important work. Could they picture their son huddled in a smoke-filled, dirt cave, chewing on half-cooked venison, idly picking ticks off his legs?
We are lucky we are not huddled under leaky tarps in the rain. Wallunda espied the mouth of our cave as we padd
led through a steady downpour in late evening. We had hoped to paddle free of the storm. As darkness approached, our quest for a dry place to beach for the night took on a sense of urgency. Although the wind and rain seemed to dampen the mosquitoes’ enthusiasm, there were still a million or two buzzing around our heads as we tied the boats off to trees and clambered up a muddy trail to reach the cave, a former bear den. That is what Wallunda claims. The plethora of long brown and gray hairs littering the floor tend to support her theory.
Fortunately, she is better at making fires than being civil. Some thoughtful soul had left a pile of wood, as well as dry, handful-sized chunks of peat, at the back of the cave. We left her to the task of rubbing sticks and expelling air. It took about 15 minutes, but she adroitly conjured flames from friction.
Lorenzo shot a deer at twilight. He and Andre used flint knives to extract the loins and a few other select cuts before pushing the carcass out into the river’s current. Roars of lions inform us another pride is out and about despite the inclement conditions.
Once Wallunda was satisfied with her fire, she ducked out of the cave to scamper into the driving rain and fading light. Dripping mud like a drowned rat, she returned a short while later with an armful of large brown eggs, perhaps from a stork or swan. Tucked in her tunic were four enormous mushrooms. I wish I could say she whipped up an amazing omelet, or she let me try my hand in the culinary arts. Instead, she promptly dropped the eggs into the coals of the fire.
Once the resulting amalgamation of egg, shell, ash and dirt was charred to her satisfaction, Wallunda used a spear to quarter it. She then shoveled the rubbery pieces onto the mushrooms. I added generous pinches from a pouch of sea salt fetched from the kayaks before we settled in the dirt to nibble the disgustingly crunchy fare and watch the venison cook.
To say Wallunda has annoying habits would be akin to claiming Michelangelo made a painting or two. Digging boogers is a favorite pastime. She devours them as voraciously as she does the lice and fleas she picks off her hairy legs and arms.
Lest you think me unkind, the drowned rat reference truly is appropriate. Her pointy face does indeed summon images of a rodent, particularly so when she dines. Both hands to her pinched mouth, almond eyes darting, she appears ever ready to dart for cover. Or fight for her life.
To Lorenzo, Wallunda is caring and compassionate. Equal parts lover, bodyguard, confidant, interpreter and guide, she tends to his every need. If the man asked her to wipe his bottom, I have no doubt she would happily oblige. Having witnessed their sexual gyrations, Wallunda could best be categorized as “uninhibited.” I dread tonight’s inevitable exertions.
The Cro-Magnon girl’s motivations remain as unclear as the muddy water of the Loire. There is something about this daughter of “Big Ears,” the Tattoo clan chief, which reminds me of a conniving mezzo-soprano. Though she remains fiercely loyal to her people, she lords her relationship with the Great Lorenzo over them. Bossy and intolerant, she would crack the whip if whips had been invented.
Contemptuous of our association with the Green Turtles, she views Andre and me as the low of the low. Lorenzo has stopped reminding her to treat us with respect, so she no longer bothers with civility. We are most often treated to her back as she eats or talks to Lorenzo, constantly shielding and cutting him away from us the way a cattle dog might cull a steer from the herd.
After several “accidents,” like being showered with hot sparks when she drops logs on the fire, or being nudged from behind as we descend a steep ravine, Andre and I keep watch of each other’s back whenever Wallunda creeps about.
Following tonight’s meal, Lorenzo stoked the fire with peat in preparation for making bullets. Breaking off one of the ribbed sections of lead, he dropped it into the crucible along with a handful of bullet fragments he must have liberated from his victim’s bodies.
“Running low on lead?” I asked.
“None of your fucking business. But I’ll tell you this, Rabbit. If you see signs of some, let me know.”
TRANSMISSION:
Amacapane: “You think he might run out of bullets?”
Bolzano: “You notice, he has become more selective of what he shoots.”
Amacapane: “How stupid can one man be? He has wasted several kilos of lead.”
Bolzano: “Lead shouldn’t be too hard to find. It is the shell casings which are irreplaceable. He seems to do a good job of accounting for them.”
Amacapane. “Wish I had a pistol.”
Bolzano: “Why do you need a pistol? You and the Green Turtles do fine.”
Amacapane: “It’s what gives him power, confidence. He takes chances on the hunt I never could. Things get hairy, Lorenzo pulls his guns, blasts his way out of trouble.”
Bolzano: “Why don’t you steal one?”
Amacapane: “Listen to the thief. I’ve tried. They are with him at all times. In the night, if ever I try to sneak up on him, the damn woman is awake, watching. I hate that shrew.”
Bolzano: “The feeling is mutual.”
Amacapane: “What’s that mean?”
Bolzano: “She hates you right back.”
Amacapane: “Tell me something I don’t know. She reminds me of players’ wives, the ones from opposing teams. The men, you could share a beer with some of them after a good match. The women, forget about it. Like cats with their backs up, hissing.”
Bolzano: “What happened? I remember reading about you in the web-paper. Not very nice things, I might add.”
Amacapane: “You can’t believe everything you read, rich boy. It was a mess, I’ll say that.”
Bolzano: “Did you throw the game? I told you my dirty little secrets. Go ahead, it is cathartic.”
Amacapane: “I did not throw the game. I did everything I could to win it. When you are playing nine against 13, the odds are poor.”
Bolzano: “Nine versus 13, what do you mean?”
Amacapane: “You want me to tell the story, mouth-and-a-half? Or you wanna interrupt me every two seconds?”
Bolzano: “Proceed.”
Amacapane: “It was the division semifinal against Roma. Loser goes home for the summer, winner plays Padua for the title.
“The match was held in Bologna, in front of the hometown fans. Two of my mates played to lose. Little things, like passing just a millimeter too long, or taking poor shots on goal. They couldn’t be too obvious, could they? We players could tell, though. Didn’t pass to them unless we had to.”
Bolzano: “How did you know the fix was in?”
Amacapane: “They had invited me to join them. Ah, don’t give me that look. The practice was not unheard of. I told them to go suck themselves, it was my hometown. I got a few phone calls from a few people, putting the pressure on. I made no promises, but let them think I was along for the ride. Buying time, you know. My family was excited, this was a big thing for them. You know what I’m talking about?
“On the day of the big match, after like, 13 months of drought, it poured like hell. Everybody was so happy to see it rain. It was kind of a magical day. My knee was feeling good, the turf was soft, I scored on a breakaway midway through the first half. Flicked the ball over my defender’s head and outran him to the ball. The goalie came out too far and I beat him with a nice left-footer which curved just inside the far post. My teammate was there trying to head the ball over the crossbar. Asshole. He was from Parma.
“The crowd went nuts. Probably the high point of my life. You could see in our opponents’ eyes. They knew they were in for a fight. It was one of those games where you hold nothing back. Roma, mighty Roma, for Christ’s sake, is down 1-0 late in the game to lowly Bologna. Then they tied it on a penalty kick in the 80th minute. You know me, I’m no fan of the officials, but this time the referee had no choice. Our man was beaten on a breakaway and nearly killed the poor Roman with a tackle you might see in American football. The center referee gave Oscar a red card and he was done for the day.
“Their big scorer, Miguel Orseolo,
the pompous ass, he knocked in the penalty kick and then added another goal not more than a minute later. You could hear a pin drop in the stadium.
“We had one last chance. By this time, Roma’s defenders weren’t even guarding the two fuck-ups. Me and a kid from Verona, he had a bunch of family there too, we ran a sweet give-and-go play to spring me clear to the corner. The match was deep into extended time. I knew the referee would soon blow his whistle.
“My teammate from Parma is wide open in front of the net, but I know I cannot pass to him. I dribble through a pair of defenders and take my best chance, a right-footed kick which sailed just wide. The whistle blew, I became the cheater who lost the game on purpose. ‘Amacapane should have passed!’ Everybody said it.”
Bolzano: “Weren’t you assaulted?”
Amacapane: “Yeah, they broke a few ribs, tried to destroy my knee, but I had my brace on. It had been feeling stiff. My old man came out in the street with a stun-stick, chased the punks away.”
Bolzano: “Hometown fans showing their displeasure?”
Amacapane: “No, the people of Bologna are fatalists. They expect the worst to happen. This was mob guys, sending a message. Bologna was supposed to lose by two goals. I cost the gangsters a lot of money. Maybe that is another reason the neighbors weren’t too bad to me. I made them a lot of money. And it was the end of my career. My disgrace cheered everybody up.”
Bolzano: “Why the end?”
Amacapane: “League banned me 10 years for gambling. Smart guys reviewed my previous games. What can I say, I was no angel. My dad sets up a meeting with the priest. By this time, I’m desperate to get back to playing. How many years do you have to make the top league?
“Next thing, I’m in Milano, in that office at the Duomo, talking to Cardinal Sellaro. He informed me the football career was indeed finished, but he could offer me a greater challenge. I told him I was no religious man. He said it was all right, when the time came, I could let my conscience be my guide. What’s that knocking noise? Sounds like it’s coming from your kayak?”
Bordeaux Page 21
