Lorenzo behaved like a proud middle school teacher, interrupting his bullet-making project to pat his Tattoos on their heads and hand out treats. From the joy on his face, it was easy to see he truly missed them. He has since spent nearly all of his time with the clan hunting, feasting and preaching in schoolboy Latin.
During their wanderings, they discovered a pair of mammoth tusks straightened by the fire into twin ivory stilettos seven meters long. The tusks belonged to a massive beast which boiled to death while halfway submerged in a muddy bog. The heat of the simmering water evidently relaxed the tusks’ sweeping curves. Lorenzo says he plans to construct a great crucifix. I fear he will.
The rift between the Tattoos and Green Turtles grows ever more contentious. Andre is convinced Lorenzo set the fire to roast his people out on the grassy plains. Lorenzo denies the claims vehemently. He, in turn, is angry because the Turtles and remaining porters declined his offer to be baptized a few days back. Religious acrimony has suddenly become one more wedge to drive our clans apart.
Sadly, the Green Turtles also turn up their noses to the plight of the porters, leaving them to either die or survive on their own. I expected the clanspeople to be relieved to see at least some of its members beat the Tattoos to the finish line. They shun their injured brothers just as completely as the Tattoos. I fear they view the survivors as damaged goods, anchors to drag along the trail and on the hunt. They set up camp more than two kilometers away, along the banks of the lake at the top of the falls. Some have wandered by to inspect the wounded and curse Tomon for letting the old fire starter die.
To add further insult to the porters’ injuries, the Tattoos refuse to accept their victory. The clan’s leader, Big Ears, points out, with some validity, the porters were never mentioned in the original wager. When his clan started its trek, the race was between the Tattoos and the Green Turtles. The porters, too effete and too starry-eyed to hunt, were not included.
Lorenzo and the Tattoos set up camp on the far end of our gravelly beach. Apart from a mild interest in our patients’ gruesome wounds, the clanspeople leave us alone. Not once in the past four days has a member of their clan offered to assist with the wounded or provide us with food. The women stop by occasionally to see who is still alive, discuss their prospects of survival. I am reminded of bored colleagues who used to bet on the slow death of flies on the staff lounge’s windowsill. They would wager on “first to die” and “longest to live.” Their apathy made me sick. As I was the one setting the odds and running the book, I refrained from verbalizing my disgust.
Tomon, Gertie and I have been left to run ourselves ragged keeping the patients fed, watered and braced against the cold nights. Can you imagine how a heavy leather blanket feels on raw, burned skin? We did our best. The fight is over. Tomon and Gertie now sleep by the fire, entwined in each other’s arms. Flounder and the drummers have wisely made themselves scarce, awaiting Tomon’s whistle should we need them back in camp. I sit in the dirt sorting through my music lists, searching for an aria suitable for Lorenzo’s soirée tomorrow.
He has put together quite an agenda. Evidently, while protecting the Prime Minister and other dignitaries, our Sgt. Martinelli learned a thing or two about staging a gala event. With surprising flair, he has planned a long weekend to mark the one-week anniversary of God’s nocturnal visit. Tomorrow night (we are calling it Friday night for some reason) he has scheduled a victory celebration. Already, entire pigs, horses and uncountable numbers of ducks have been slain and are slow-roasting in the bowels of immense cook fires up by the lake.
To quell the dispute as to who actually won the race, he has decreed that all three clans will be honored for their courage and resilience. The conciliatory maneuver has done nothing to thaw the tension between the Turtles and the Tattoos.
Saturday will include more feasting and celebration, punctuated by a great hunting competition between Lorenzo and Andre. Lorenzo has promised to allow Andre the use of one pistol for one day. I will believe it when I see it. Though Andre says he knows better than to get his hopes up, his excitement is palpable.
The event is scheduled to conclude Sunday with a church service which Lorenzo insists everyone, even the injured, attend. Sounds like holidays back in the Bolzano compound in Milano. At least then I was able to count on Father uncorking a rare vintage or two after church to make tolerable the inane conversation of my copiously fleshy relatives.
What to sing, what to sing? Perhaps something from Pugioli’s 2073 opera, “Monte Bevagna.” There’s a great blaze in Act 2. The mood is suitably dark, the phrasing is akin to native drum rhythms. Yes, Pugioli will do just fine. Now, to learn the words.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “What type of noise was that?”
Bolzano: “Everyone’s a critic. It wasn’t noise, it was Pugioli.”
Martinelli: “Never cared for the modern stuff. Nobody did. I expected you to sing something from ‘Rigoletto’ or ‘Carmen.’ As we had discussed. Several times.”
Bolzano: “Was this not to be special event? I felt I should perform something memorable and appropriate.”
Martinelli: “What was the other opera?”
Bolzano: “The Prokofiev?”
Martinelli: “Yes, that one. Did you know I speak German? Fluently?”
Bolzano: “No.”
Martinelli: “Fiery Angel my ass. You were drawing a parallel between Wallunda and the evil Renata. Your arias give more respect to the devil than God Himself. I insist you sing us one more. A peppy song to liven their spirits. See how the clans sit apart? What about ‘La Donna é Mobile’?” You sing it all the time. Sing it. Make them happy.”
Bolzano: “I can’t make them happy.”
Martinelli: “Sure you can. One more.”
Bolzano: “My voice is not right tonight. I do not want to.”
Martinelli: “Salvatore, how would Corporal Amacapane feel if you caused me to rescind my generous offer to share for tomorrow’s great hunt?”
Bolzano: “All right, you win. I will sing now.”
Martinelli: “Not yet. The hunt. Have you determined which prey we seek?”
Bolzano: “Andre just asked the same question. I shall tell you what I told him. I have narrowed it down to three beasts. I will not yet divulge which three, lest there be a controversy that one or both of you took an early start. I suggest you get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
Martinelli: “We won’t start early. Tell us tonight.”
Bolzano: “I wish to see if it rains again.”
Martinelli: “Tomorrow, you hunt with me. I want you close, to be my witness when Andre whines I cheated him.”
Bolzano: “As you wish. Shall I sing?”
Martinelli: “Yes, and don’t insert the gibberish, those native words. Sing it as Verdi intended. As Pavarotti himself would sing.”
Bolzano: “Luciano?”
Martinelli: “No, the great-grand-nephew, Giuseppe. I liked his style better.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
I awoke the morning after Lorenzo’s opening feast, hunched atop a muddy rock, my neck frozen into the shape of the letter S.
The dancing and music were really starting to heat up when the surviving porters and I ducked away from the celebration well after midnight. More than one hundred men, women and children hopped about the lakeshore in a wild sort of cross between Swiss polka and an American Indian bird dance. Gyrating in circles, weaving close to great bonfires as sparks snapped into the sky, they let the pulsing rhythms drive their fatigue away.
Our ranks continue to swell as curious travelers, many of them pilgrims in search of the massive brushfire, swing by the lake to water and rest. Even during the feast, drawn like moths to the flames, more than a dozen solitary travelers and several small clans wandered in.
Casting nervous looks toward the menacing Tattoos, the leader of each group queried bystande
rs with hand sign until he was directed to the great leader, or more plainly, the “man in charge.” Lorenzo greeted the newcomers with surprising warmth. Through his interpreter Wallunda, he invited them to join the party, and bestowed his guarantee of safety for the next three days.
Thanks to Lorenzo’s obsessive planning, there was more than enough food for all. I am finding that when Early Modern Humans apply themselves, they can put together a rather savory meal. The women spent two days gathering grains, nuts, onions, dates and spices while the men slaughtered every pig, horse and duck which came within sight of the lake. Our main courses included pork stew, mashed oats, sweet dates and sweeter seared grubs (don’t scoff until you’ve tried them). Individual clans and families presented side dishes such as spicy dried clams, bison jerky and a green paste which tasted a lot like asparagus. I stuffed my face until I nearly regurgitated. Then, glutton that I am, I ate some more.
My eyelids were drooping when the percussionists I now call “Bongo” and “Conga” wearily abandoned the drum line to report to my side. They suggested we leave. The time was near when the competitive nature of the clans would shift from dancing to more manly pursuits. Even with Lorenzo’s insistence on a weekend of peace, bouts of wrestling and fisticuffs were right around the corner. We the meek elected to scurry for cover.
Primal drum rhythms, discordant riffs on bone flutes, shouts of dancers and fighters faded behind us as we took the now well-worn path back to the beach hospital. Our stomachs gorged close to rupture, we waddled our way by moonlight along the rim of the canyon. Far below, water thundered through the narrow limestone cliffs, glowing with a pale phosphorescence to help light the way.
I barely remember reaching our camp beyond the falls. Sleep deprived, soothed by the river’s sloshing, I collapsed into my comfortable nest in the pebbles and dropped like a stone into deep slumber.
My siesta could not have lasted for more than three shakes of the proverbial lamb’s tail before a thunderstorm had the poor manners to drift in from the southwest. “Bocce balls on a tin roof.” That is how my family would have described it. Still, I managed to sleep through most of the ruckus, until, finally, the pyrotechnics stalled directly over camp. Lying wide-eyed on my back, I feared my short time on ancient earth was done.
Most of the ground strikes flashed down outside the canyon, eruptions of brilliant light instantly followed by sonic booms. C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-rack, Ka-Boom!!!!! Then, with a sound which made the others seem like ordinary static shocks, a pair of fat, blue-white bolts sizzled from the clouds to touch down simultaneously in the river not 50 meters away from my bed. That is a lot closer than it sounds. Not only did they scare me half to death, the hair on my arms and head stood straight out for more than a minute. I sat up in time to see rocks along shore glow blue as the electricity spread inland.
Pacified momentarily by the stunning dual discharge, the storm drifted on to the north. In its wake, the muggy, thick air gave way to gentle sprinkles which quickly became a deluge. Back in training, the Master Sergeant would have called the rainstorm “a real toad-floater.”
I dallied in my soggy bed long enough for the river sounds to take on a menacing timbre. Scooping up my belongings, I staggered though the dark to the smooth boulder where lately I sit and do my thinking. The downpour had caught us unprepared. All tents and tarps were two kilometers away, staked out along the sides of the lake. I wondered if the dancers were dry under the protective awnings, or still cavorting. I used my hand to swipe a puddle out of a cup-shaped depression at the crown of a boulder which fits my bottom as nicely as a handmade pair of London trousers. Sitting down on the dank throne, I pulled the diminutive tarp over my head and felt sorry for myself as I slowly fought my way back to sleep.
The sun woke me, slow-roasting my brains under the tarp. I flung it away and found my neck frozen in place. My posture was reminiscent of the hunchback of Notre Dame as I struggled to a standing position. Forcing myself to be calm, I slowly went through the breathing and stretching exercises they taught us in training. Though my neck felt as if a flint knife was lodged at its base, I had managed to regain perhaps 50 percent of my mobility when Lorenzo and Andre stormed down the bank.
“Where have you been?” Lorenzo demanded. Andre cursed me as selfish and late. Faced with such unfair, misplaced accusations, I did what I always do in such situations. I formulated a suitable lie and told it.
“I was struck by lightning, you fools! There is a strong possibility the blast has fused the vertebrae of my neck. I face the prospect of spending the remainder of my life bent over, staring at my toes, and you imbeciles clamor for me to be on time.”
“Where did it hit you?” Lorenzo asked with a menacing tone as he sidled close to inspect me from head to toe.”
“I was lying by the water’s edge. In the round pebbles, where I usually make my bed.”
“Where on the your body? Where were you hit?”
“My neck,” was all I managed to utter before he grabbed me from behind and gave my body a quick jerk upward.
“Ahhh, let me go.” My high-pitched screams drew guffaws from the women. I looked about for a stick to beat them, but we had long ago burned everything combustible within 200 yards. I just stood there shaking. The attack shocked and unnerved me. In my vulnerable state, I expected sympathy or mercy. Instead, he moved quickly to exploit weakness. The fact my back cracked and I instantly felt better does not mitigate his transgression. What if the risky ploy caused irreversible damage? He could have just as easily left me a paraplegic.
I moped about the beach, made them wait a good hour before I divulged the rules of the hunt. By the time I stood atop my boulder, the crowd on the beach had swelled to include more than 125 natives. The men, women and children arrayed below me were of all shapes, sizes, hair color and shades of dirty, soot-stained skin. On average, they were darker and bit more swarthy than their Northern European ancestors will someday be. I suppose shaved and cleaned they could pass for Sicilians or Neapolitans. Their stature and skin tone was about right.
There was a preponderance of dark hair mixed in with blondes, balds, silvers and even a handful of red heads. Robust teeth. Summer wear of light skins or woven mantles of reeds and pounded bark. Feathers and flowers in matted hair, necklaces of shell, ivory and fang. Women with Venus statuettes hanging between bare breasts of every shape and size.
Lorenzo and Andre stood out in the crowd like the visitors from the future they are. Dressed in their jumpsuits and helmets, taller than most of the natives, they stood with their respective clans about 10 meters apart. Both had their visors pushed up and I could see by their determined eyes that they were anxious to begin.
Escaping from the back of Andre’s helmet was a single long ponytail which one of his women had braided with great care. Dark black, flecked with silver, it hung to his waist. Lorenzo teases him about the hair, threatens that as his superior officer he may order him to cut it. Wallunda maintains Lorenzo’s hair a uniform seven centimeters by sawing on it weekly with sharp flints from her kit. Streaks of dirt and sweat showed they had taken no great pains to spruce themselves up for the big day. Both men looked as if they rolled out of bed, pulled on their helmets and came looking for me.
I spread my arms for silence, studied all those upturned faces, milked the quiet for more than a minute to let the tension build. When the mood was right, I broke into an impromptu rendition of “Asile hereditaire,” from Rossini’s opera “Guillaume Tell.”
What can I say? They loved me. After mixed reviews the previous night, the morning performance was a hit. Perhaps all my screaming had loosened the vocal cords, for I hit the high C as never before, holding it, holding it until the natives gasped in amazement. My mind was searching the Bolzano repertoire for an encore when I saw Andre chewed on the inside of his cheek and Lorenzo’s left eye had begun to twitch. I decided to leave the audience clamoring for more.
In my most stentorian voice, I called the games to order.
&n
bsp; TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Attenzione, attenzione! The great hunt is about to commence. Lorenzo Martinelli and Andre Amacapane! Approach the lectern.”
Martinelli: “How’s your back?”
Bolzano: “You could have paralyzed me.”
Martinelli: “You slept wrong, that’s all.”
Bolzano: “How do you know? Are spies watching me?”
Martinelli: “All the time, Rabbit. All the time.”
Amacapane: “You two clowns gonna repeat the same bullshit over and over, or are we gonna hunt?”
Martinelli: “Don’t call me a clown.”
Amacapane: “Whatever you say, sergeant. Just gimme one of those pistols and get the show on the road.”
Bolzano: “I have planned a brief ceremony.”
Amacapane: “Enough with the fucking singing already. You waste daylight. Animals are gonna lay down when it gets hot.”
Bolzano: “I’m done singing. This won’t take long. Both of you must bear with me for a few more minutes. Lorenzo, you stand here, Andre, you stand there facing him. Lorenzo, when I tell you to, please hand one of the pistols to Andre, along with the spare ammunition.”
Martinelli: “He gets six shells, that’s it.”
Amacapane: “How many do you get, brave man? A couple hundred probably.”
Martinelli: “Same thing as you, six shells. I don’t trust you not to lose them. Each one is irreplaceable.”
Bolzano: “You’ve mentioned it quite a few times already. Six shots sounds sufficient, though I suggest you gentlemen aim straight. Andre, I will be with Lorenzo. I will know if he fires more than six times. In that event, the match is forfeit.
“I have thought long and hard about what animals merit carnage for the sake of sport. I asked Tomon for his guidance on particularly difficult animals to kill, even with Lorenzo’s mighty weapons. With his help, I have selected three animals to test your prowess, your tenacity and your bravery.
Amacapane: “Get to it! Please! Before I fucking kill you.”
Bordeaux Page 27
