Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  Bolzano: “At the end of the day, you must present to me three animals. Are you both familiar with the white-striped gazelle the clans call yu-yu-tu? The small, fast ones which we have only seen the hindquarters of as they bound into the distance? Apparently, the males have impressive horns this time of year. The clan which brings back the longest yu-yu-tu horn wins round one.”

  Martinelli: “Must we present the entire beast, or just the horn?”

  Bolzano: “Intact, of course. We’ll compare horns, then have the women prepare the meat as part of the post-hunt feast. The second quest is to bring down one of the great eagles which hunt the rivers and swamps. Longest wingspan measured from tip to tip wins. I will commission a necklace to be made for the winner from the claws and beaks.”

  Amacapane: “How much bravery does it take to hunt mangy birds and tiny deer?”

  Bolzano: “I recommend you move quickly with those tasks, for the third will sap every bit of your clan’s courage, as well as its cunning and strength.”

  Martinelli: “Sal, please, wrap this up.”

  Bolzano: “For the third portion of the day’s hunt, you must bring a living, breathing baby rhinoceros to this spot.”

  Amacapane: “A what?”

  Bolzano: “A hairy rhinoceros. Biggest calf wins, but it must be alive and generally unharmed. Ropes will probably be in order.”

  Martinelli: “You’ll get us killed.”

  Bolzano: “We could stalk voles again. If you prefer.”

  Amacapane: “The Turtles have been scouting the land east of here, that’s where I want to hunt.”

  Bolzano: “Lorenzo?”

  Martinelli: “Fine by me. A lot of game is moving into the burn zone as the rains make it green. We’ll cross the river, work our way north.”

  Bolzano: “It is agreed then. Be back by sunset. And now, Lorenzo, the time has come. Please present Andre with one of your weapons.”

  Martinelli: “Andre, don’t lose this. This lever is the safety. This one here. I’ve loaded the bullets with maximum loads. They’ll kill anything. Be careful who’s standing nearby when you fire. For some reason, the barrels emit flames about a meter long. The flare blinds you for a second, but not the targeting system in your helmet. By the way, I’ve programmed the gun in a special way. It will not fire a round at me. If that’s your plan, you can try right now. It won’t work.”

  Amacapane: “Lorenzo, I ain’t gonna waste a bullet on you.”

  Bolzano: “Gentlemen, good luck. Now, turn and face the crowd. Hey, wait, I’m not finished.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  I continued my yoga stretches as Lorenzo paced the beach in thought for nearly 10 minutes. His patience didn’t surprise me. Lorenzo is a planner. Each time he stopped to ask a question of a Tattoo hunter, Wallunda scurried close to interject her own, usually contradictory, opinions. This prompted several heated exchanges of which I understood not one word. The ambitious young woman protects her family’s interest above all others, except, of course, her own, and maybe Lorenzo’s.

  To the astonishment of seasoned elders and alpha hunters alike, she has leapfrogged them all to stand equal to, if not above, her own father, the clan leader Big Ears. Even the heavily-tattooed old man, with his jug ears and ever-present lion skin draped over his shoulder, seems wary of drawing the ire of his mole-faced daughter.

  Lorenzo rarely interrupts Wallunda. He lets her hammer away at people, while she makes them get to the point, think things through. He walked away from the skirmishes, sorting other details. After a great deal of arguing and pointing at the sun, Wallunda waved Lorenzo over when she had extracted an answer which suited her.

  The fact that Lorenzo often listens to their advice and then does the exactly opposite thing never seems to faze these people. They remind me of prison hounds, man-killers who wag their tails and clamor for the master.

  Though Andre has also become the pack leader of a clan, he enjoys a much more fluid relationship with the Green Turtles. I think he sees himself as some sort of captain of a native soccer club. He’s at home in the team dynamic, especially when he’s the alpha male.

  Andre trotted away immediately, across the beach with Pimples and Dog Breath, sharing the rules of the hunt as they climbed the muddy path to the rim of the canyon. He stopped only long enough to shuck off his jumpsuit, stuff it in a dog pack, and give me a wave with the pistol before loping off to the south with his excited hunters. Nearly all the males and most of the female Green Turtles, 32 in all, disappeared over the ridge. Left behind were a couple handfuls of clan members too injured or weak to participate. These folk waved half-heartedly before scurrying off with the porters to find a place of shade and fresh water. And safety from the Tattoo women.

  Lorenzo split his 40-member force into three groups. Big Ears was tasked with leading a scouting party upwind, into the unburned area east of the river to search for signs of rhinoceroses. Lorenzo, Wallunda and I, along with eight of his select warriors, the ones he now calls his “Saints,” used the two working kayaks to float downstream for several kilometers to set up a spear and pistol enfilade.

  Mind you, I did not take up arms or participate in the hunt. My role was observer.

  The rest of the warriors, women and children crossed the river on their own. They were ordered to spread out and beat the bushes as they headed north, to hopefully drive a herd of yu-yu-tus into Lorenzo’s trap.

  Riding the currents downstream, stone-faced Saints hanging determinedly to the sides of our kayaks, we drifted to a stop in a marshy area which had escaped the fire’s wrath. We hauled ashore amid a landscape teeming with wildlife. The marsh was an oasis of leafy shade in the denuded burn zone. Deer, bison and antelope foraged in tall grass by the hundreds. Though I imagine there were predators about, we saw none. Waterfowl of every sort plied the waters and shoreline along with otters, muskrat and mink.

  Lorenzo’s Saints barely made a splash as they slipped out of the water to fan out into a protective shield around the great couple. He has obviously been drilling them on security. I notice they also say little prayers before they eat. My question is, “To whom do they pray? Is it God, Jesus or Lorenzo Martinelli?” Do they know the difference? I know one thing, his boys don’t think much of me. I have grown accustomed to tattooed faces mocking me, casting me the evil eye.

  Lorenzo and Wallunda studied the soaring brown eagles overhead for a few minutes before he brought one down with a single, amazing shot. One second the raptor was floating high above the swamp and next it was tumbling from the sky. Lorenzo marked the landing zone with his eyes and then used a series of low whistles to direct two of his men to the carcass.

  Upon their return, Wallunda ordered the men to hold the bird so she could compare its wingspan with hers. The fact her fingertips stretched nearly as far as the eagle’s pinion feathers didn’t sit well with the skinny, greasy-haired girl. Wallunda slapped the carcass to the mud, muttered the Tattoo words for “puny, not worthy,” then pointed to the sky for Lorenzo to take another shot. When he refused, she badgered him on the issue right up to when his left eye began to twitch. The grinding of his molars was still in the preliminary stages. Sensing a healthy smack was right around the corner, she asked for, and was granted, permission to catch the next eagle herself.

  We left her sitting on the bank weaving together a makeshift twine of reeds. A pair of resentful Saints were tasked to protect her. While we engaged in the yu-yu-tu hunt, she secured the twine to the leg of a wounded duck and waited patiently in the marsh grass for an eagle nearly twice the size of Lorenzo’s to be lured close enough to slay with her own spear. I admit, the girl does have certain talents.

  Lorenzo had rhino on his mind as I followed him up the side of the canyon. He muttered several times he would not waste his ammo on birds. We emerged into a world of color beyond imagination. While we had spent our entire day along the river, the burn zone
had been slowly transformed by the rain.

  TRANSMISSION :

  Martinelli: “Hey Sal, wait until you see this.”

  Bolzano: “What have you spied, a crash of rhinoceros?”

  Martinelli: “Better than that. Looks like the fire triggered a massive bloom.”

  Bolzano: “Molto bene! Yes, indeed. Look at the colors. My goodness, it takes the breath away, does it not? Bravo! Bravo!”

  Martinelli: “Maybe this is what those other clans were talking about, the ‘juicklain’.”

  Bolzano: “What do you mean?”

  Martinelli: “The leaders of those groups wandering in, most of them said they followed the smoke looking for the ‘juicklain.’ Didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. I thought it was an animal. Nobody could explain it, not even Wallunda.”

  Bolzano: “The concept of beauty is mostly lost on your Tattoos. They see it in the oddest places, like death and torture.”

  Martinelli: “Yes. Aren’t they wonderful?”

  Bolzano: “At first, these flowers appear so dainty, but they have a rubbery feel, rather like bromeliads. There must be billions, trillions of them, each one a slightly different shade. Would you mind asking your men if there are any medicinal properties associated with these wonderful plants?”

  Martinelli: “Later. Let’s get off this ridge and into position. You stay with me.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  No artist, not Monet, Gauguin, or even my generation’s hue-drenched master, Darrell Orwig, would dare dream up such a riot of reds, yellows, blues and greens. Picture the entire earth carpeted by an ankle-high blanket of brilliant felt, or a five-day growth of Technicolor beard. Apart from a few rocky patches, and, here and there, islands of trees the flames missed, flowering plants covered everything. A sea of spilled paints waved hypnotically in the breeze before us. Gusts of wind coursed across its surface in rivers of flashing color.

  My theory holds that the seeds for the plants must have been lying dormant, just under the surface of the ground, patiently waiting for all competition to be wiped away. I wager the seeds are activated by heat, the way in which some pine cones release their seeds after a fire. By the time these wonderful beauties yield to taller, more aggressive neighbors, their flowers will have produced the next generation of seeds, a trove which will also rest dormant, waiting for the next big fire. Or I could be all wrong about that. I wish there were someone with brains around here with whom I could share my hypotheses.

  Our footsteps were hushed by the dense carpeting as Lorenzo led the way down into the bottom of a rock-strewn wadi.

  “Yu-yu-tu, yu-yu-tu, yu-yu-tu,” he admonished his men. “Only yu-yu-tu.” Once he was satisfied they would rein in their basic urges to kill everything afoot, he individually instructed each Saint where they were to hide and wait. Grabbing them by the arms, turning them in the correct direction, he sighted his arm over their shoulders to point to the exact boulder or charred tree stump where they were to crawl and hide.

  Each man carried five spears as they fanned out above and behind us to loosely seal off the mouth of the valley.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Why did you put them so far behind us?”

  Martinelli: “You don’t know much about hunting with the Tattoos. At times, I wonder if I would have been better off with the Green Turtles.”

  Bolzano: “I’d say it is rather obvious. The Turtles have manners, a sense of culture. The Tattoos are little more than a gang of violent misfits.”

  Martinelli: “Their exuberance doesn’t bother me. I’d say it is one of their most redeeming qualities. I was thinking about the Turtles’ patience. Wait and see, one of these boys will probably get excited and do something stupid. He’ll throw a spear at a bear or jump out at the first sign of yu-yu-tu. I’m saving a bullet for the giullare who does.”

  Bolzano: “You plan to shoot one of your own men? Your Saints?”

  Martinelli: “If he fouls up bad enough, yeah. These boys gotta learn discipline.”

  Bolzano: “You’ll be down to just yourself and Wallunda before long.”

  Martinelli: “I don’t think so. Have you seen how many clans have gathered at the lake in the past few days? Once they hear the word of God, these people become entranced.”

  Bolzano: “Entranced by your magic tricks?”

  Martinelli: “It is more than that. Several leaders have asked permission to accompany us when we leave. This morning’s service had nearly 80 worshipers.”

  Bolzano: “What do they worship?”

  Martinelli: “Why don’t you join us and see? I tell you, Salvatore, it is a beautiful duty, bringing the word of God to people who have never before had the chance to share in His glory.”

  Bolzano: “Word of this gets back to the Pope, he’ll make you a saint.”

  Martinelli: “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Bolzano: “What was the name of the 20th century English band, the one which claimed it was bigger than Jesus? That sort of describes you.”

  Martinelli: “You play me for the fool.”

  Bolzano: “It was uncalled for. I apologize. What Testament do you prefer to preach from, the Old or New?”

  Martinelli: “I pick and choose different parts. They like stories about floods and disasters, plague and infidelity. I teach them how to pray to the Lord to seek His help in overcoming hardships, or to ask His forgiveness for when they have sinned.”

  Bolzano: “How about tithing? Have you taught them that?”

  Martinelli: “What is tithing?”

  Bolzano: “You know, making a regular offering to the Church. Back in the old days, families were expected to give 10 percent of what they earned. I think Father averaged less than one percent annually, but it was still an enormous sum. As I think about it, that is probably why I’m here and not sitting in a Modena jail cell.”

  Martinelli: “I never know when you are mocking me or offering me a good idea.”

  Bolzano: “Give someone something for free and they wonder what’s wrong with it. Charge them a fair price and they walk away thinking they got a great deal. Never mind, forget I said anything.”

  Martinelli: “Do you hear? They come.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  The vanguard was a single she-wolf, ears back and tail tucked, trotting straight for the spot where we knelt in the lee of a fallen poplar.

  With his visor down and suit in full stealth mode, Lorenzo was invisible to the world. He focused his optics to study game near and far while I played the role of impartial observer by impartially observing the sights and sounds and glorious fragrances. My uncomfortable, ill-fitting jumpsuit was locked in a kayak. Dressed in native garb, my visor up and helmet turned off, I noticed the flowers have a scent a bit like lavender with a pinch of gardenia. Not overpowering, but apparently pervasive enough to clog the nose of an old wolf.

  The gray bitch was so intent on covering ground, casting glances back over her battled-scarred shoulders, she didn’t see or smell me. When she closed to within 20 meters, Lorenzo rapped a warning with one of his spears on the charred, meter-diameter trunk. The bitch continued her advance unchecked. She was about my weight, and apparently deaf or rabid. “This is what the ‘help’ is for,” I thought as I cocked my spear.

  “Let her go,” Lorenzo commanded. The amplified words snapped her daydream in mid-jump. Yellow eyes flared wide in surprise as they registered my presence. Angling my spear before me like a medieval pike, I braced for attack.

  Momentum dictated the wolf continue its flight to the log, the improvisation which followed showed though she was old and toothsome, the old broad still had a few moves. With a yelp of surprise, she hit the trunk as if it was a trampoline. Vaulting three or four meters up into the air, she twisted as she tried to keep me in view. She landed in a heap, well within kicking distance, but
of course, I did no such thing.

  Whirling to face me, snarling, with the hair on her back standing straight up, she weighed her options, fight or flee. The spear felt small in my hands. I wondered if Lorenzo would waste a bullet to save me. Stupid games. With a quick turn, she resumed her sprint for the valley, dull silver coat flashing like a beacon as she navigated a pastel sea.

  Soon, other fleeing animals began to pass.

  Despite Lorenzo’s worries, his Saints held steady. Herds of horse, sounders of boar, cackles of hyena, bevies of roe deer, droves of oxen, flocks of goats and even prickles of porcupine all passed without one of the hunters making a gaff worthy of divine exampledom. To everyone’s chagrin, however, there were no crashes of rhinoceros or gu-tus of yu-yu-tu spotted. I am not making it up, “gu-tu” is what they call a collection of the elusive gazelle. Tomon told me. He also told me the species is rarely seen this far north, especially this time of year. Almost never.

  The beaters slumped down around us to sit and await the great man’s next whim. He welcomed them with terse questions. “Did you see yu-yu-tu? Plminbenh (rhino)?”

  As we waited for the Tattoos to wander in, a few women used burned-out turtle shells to dig a hole in the sand at the base of the dry wadi. Less than a half meter down, they struck water, a muddy seep which everyone took turns lying beside to drink their fill.

  We returned to the marsh to find Wallunda standing proudly next to a condor-sized eagle. The girl played her cards perfectly. Rather than throwing the dead bird in Lorenzo’s face, one-upping him in front of his people, she gave all credit to him. To all who would listen, she described how Lorenzo had used his mighty fire stick to chase all the lesser eagles away. He did not have time to wait for the big one to come, as he knew it surely would, she said. Oh, no, he needed to put his Saints in their proper places. He instructed her to wound a duck with a stone and then tie it to a string. Thanks to his foresight, she was ready to spear the giant bird when it swooped down to inspect the decoy.