Smooth. Not only does she pay homage to her benefactor, she does not completely minimize her own involvement. The coy modesty is a nice touch. “It was nothing,” she seems to say. “I only made the rope and caught the duck and threw the spear. Any one of you could have done it. If you had any skill or gumption or intelligence.”
The natural-born politician balanced herself on the bow of Lorenzo’s kayak as we paddled the boats to camp. Behind us on the eastern side of the river, his clan fanned out for one final drive.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “Wallunda says the yu-yu-tu are a southern animal. She claims they like the high country.”
Bolzano: “We saw a herd of them not more than a month ago. During the great wandering to the north. You remember, the endless, pointless hunt. We saw them in the distance. I believe it was Wallunda herself who identified them.”
Martinelli: “She says now, she may have been wrong. It might have been a different kind of gazelle. What does your fellow say? The clever boy. Tomon. Don’t want to tell me, huh? Suppose we build a fire under his feet when we get back? Think he’ll squeal you out?”
Bolzano: “I simply asked the man to list animals difficult to find and kill.”
Martinelli: “I thought the rhino was supposed to be alive?”
Bolzano: “It is, of course. I was thinking of the hairy mother, father, aunts and uncles you’ll need to slay before you drag a juvenile back to camp. Tomon says they are quite protective of their young.”
Martinelli: “You really are trying to get me killed. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you let Andre waltz off into the hills to the south, right into what is probably yu-yu-tu country. You didn’t say nothing. I knew you would screw me with this contest, just like you screwed me with the race. That is another thing we’ll ask Tomon as his feet roast. The race! Did you tell him where to meet us? Below the great falls? I bet you did, cheating bastard.”
Bolzano: “And you call yourself a religious man? How is torture a Christian practice?”
Martinelli: “What do you know, heathen? You don’t even go to church. You don’t pray. You have no right to presume to know the ways of God. It is I who walked beside Him, not you.”
Bolzano: “The ends justify the means. Is that it? Your clan can behave however it pleases, as long as you deem it ‘God’s will.’”
Martinelli: “All the time, you do the same thing. You hijack the conversation, take it away from where I want it to go. What did Tomon say about the yu-yu-tu?”
Bolzano: “On that long-ago afternoon, when Wallunda misidentified the gazelle as they scampered away, Tomon and I happened to be walking with you. You were chasing a herd of bison and we were trying to nail you down on a place to site the evening’s camp. When she said the gazelle were yu-yu-tu, I could tell by his reaction–it was not a laugh, a smirk, nothing more, anyway–I could tell he did not agree with her conclusion. I asked him about it later and he said the yu-yu-tu were from the south.”
Martinelli: “So he laughs behind Wallunda’s back. Does he snicker behind mine as well?”
Bolzano: “I misspoke. Maybe he belched and rolled his eyes, I don’t remember. What kind of megalomaniac have you become?”
Martinelli: “There you go again.”
Bolzano: “You leave Tomon alone. He does more good around here than any other five natives combined. His healing talents may keep you alive some day. You like that, Wallunda? You like it when your man and I argue, don’t you? She is convinced you will kill me some day.”
Martinelli: “She’s probably right. Tell that Tomon boy to be careful. I catch him looking cross-eyed at me, or Wallunda, I’ll shut him up for good. You got that?”
Bolzano: “I understand.”
Martinelli: “How far north does he say these gazelle range?”
Bolzano: “The northern reaches of Spain, our homeland of Italy, and along the Mediterranean coast.”
Martinelli: “You son of a bitch. I oughta smack you on the head. Make me waste almost my whole day looking for an animal which is not within 500 kilometers. What you’re also telling me is Andre’s not likely to shoot one either? Right? OK, we forget yu-yu-tu, go right to rhino. One thing, Sal, he comes back with a trophy yu-yu-tu, you and me are gonna have a serious talk. You hear me?”
Bolzano: “He may, you never know.”
Martinelli: “Screw you, Sal. Always covering yourself.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Big Ears was in the midst of a nap, his narrow buttocks nestled squarely atop my boulder, as we rounded the bend in the river to complete our battle against the current. Roused by Lorenzo’s shouts, the swarthy Tattoo clan leader rose to kick a few of his companions awake and order them to help pull the boats to high ground.
Dusty, wrung out, the entire scouting party looked as if it had been dipped in egg yolk and rolled in corn meal. A chalky yellow mud, dried to pale gray in the afternoon sun, covered them from head to toe.
Amid much wailing by other survivors, Big Ears described their narrow escape from a territorial crash of hairy rhino to the north. The beasts were found wallowing in a boggy area one fifth of a day’s walk away. The Tattoos had been following a ridgeline, scouting two valleys, when they neared a stream and recognized the grunting, pig-like sounds emanating from the trees below. Moving carefully through the undergrowth, they managed to count four babies before a pair of mamas caught a whiff of their foul scent and sounded the alarm. The men were retreating back up the ridge when a single bull trundled from the brush to swiftly run down three members of the party. It stomped the guts out of two of them.
One of the men may still be alive, if he managed to find a good hiding place and had the sense to stay put. One of Big Ears’ nephews. The warrior had turned to face the bull, launched two ineffective spears and was cocking his third when the beast hooked him with his horn and catapulted him far into the air. Two survivors reported seeing the boy bury himself in pine needles as the rhino trampled his two cousins.
Big Ears claimed to have enticed the enraged bull away by throwing stones and then running for his life as the animal carried the chase for what sounds like kilometers. It is hard to tell with these people, they so love to embellish. Big Ears said they finally escaped by jumping off a cliff and into a mud bog where they hid like salamanders until the rhino lumbered away. They remained hidden for a long time, wary of tricks, only emerging when they were certain the killer had truly departed.
“Show me,” Lorenzo said.
Our reluctant guides put us downwind of the rhino’s bog about two hours before sunset. A runner had been sent to alert Lorenzo’s Saints. They in turn, had collected all beaters and clan members who could prove helpful and moved with haste to intercept Lorenzo along the river for a quick briefing. Having spent as little time as possible with the Tattoos over the past two months, it was eye-opening to see how he has trained these Cro-Magnons to follow orders and embrace new tactics. The dysfunctional rabble was brought to heel like a well-trained pack of hounds.
His elite eight warriors, the Saints, are the backbone of his operations. Lorenzo took a moment with each man to outline his specific duties. Wallunda followed behind, grilling each Saint to make sure he clearly understood his role in the hunt. Four men set off to round up the beaters and children and march them wide to the north. They were to gain the rocky high ground well away from the rhino’s bog and wait for the boom of Lorenzo’s thunder. From the safety of the hill, the people were to cast down stones and make noise to attract the attention of the rhinos.
The remaining Saints hoisted coils of rope and two stout poles to follow Lorenzo to the edge of the bog.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “This is where I bid you adieu. Good hunting.”
Martinelli: “Where are you going?”
Bolzano: “This towering pine, it looks easy to climb. The upper limbs shall provide an excellent, and
safe, perch to follow the action. Don’t worry, I will still be able count your shots.”
Martinelli: “You try to run away, we’ll find you.”
Bolzano: “I am not going anywhere.”
Martinelli: “That’s what I just said.”
Bolzano: “What is your plan?”
Martinelli: “Well, Sal, it’s like this. I’m gonna walk into the middle of those rhinos, use rope to hobble a kid or two, then start blasting. It’ll be amazing if my whole clan isn’t killed. Things end up like that, I’m saving a bullet for you.”
Bolzano: “Why not forget it? Andre is not going to risk his clan on a contest. My guess is he will shoot and kill a juvenile, and bring it back to claim it was good enough.”
Martinelli: “My people enjoy a challenge. I have prayed on the matter at length. The Lord assures me there will be a good result.”
Bolzano: “He spoke to you again.”
Martinelli: “Not with words. Feelings. I feel it.”
Bolzano: “May I please use your ear peas while you are hunting?”
Martinelli: “No. Don’t ask me again.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
I climbed like a lemur to the top of the rock-strewn hilltop’s tallest conifer. Lungs pounding, hands and bare feet gluey with resin, nostrils filled with a cinnamon scent of pine, I emerged above the sparse canopy to slip my legs over a pair of opposite-facing limbs. Leaning back in a way which surely would have made my fair mother swoon, I snapped a dozen branches away to clear an opening where I could hug the narrow trunk and sway with the breeze.
Now I know why birds spend their days chirping such beautiful songs. The panorama of the Bourges summer countryside, graced by fluffy white clouds floating across a topaz sky, put a pucker to the Bolzano lips. Whistling softly, I took in the views as Lorenzo and his men made their last-minute preparations below.
To the east, the meandering Loire shone deep green. Running fast through narrow canyons, spreading wide to flood gravel washes and marshlands, the river snaked far to the north, to the vast swamps of Orleans. Looking south, a frothy mist marked its passage through the thundering cataracts below the lake. Beyond the lake, the Loire’s three tributaries disappeared amid the hills, toward a range of volcanoes snow-capped and smoking in the distance. Strange reflections winked like faraway stars along the base of many of the distant mountains. Melting ice? Glaciers?
The burn zone east of the river was nothing less than a giant rolling madras smudge. A melted box of crayons of such beauty no words of mine will ever do proper justice. Picture the notes of Mozart’s Symphony No. 35 in D Major played not with musical instruments, but by a billion paint brushes. Perfection.
The flowering bounty had attracted herds of every sort. Dialing up the power of the optics in my visor, I scanned the horizon to see thousands upon thousands of animals moving in to graze upon the multitudinous bloom. Closer by, almost directly across the river from my perch, a large herd of mammoth, perhaps 40 beasts in all, strolled in line, swinging their heads side to side to vacuum wide swaths of flowers with their hairy trunks.
Perhaps the color-drenched fields seem inordinately vibrant when compared to the rather monochrome world we have slogged through for the past two months. Green, green and more green. The contrast was particularly evident from my treetop perch. Spared most of the wrath of Lorenzo’s fire, the land west of the river remained forest primeval, an expansive, emerald sea bisected by streams, dotted with lakes and occasional meadows.
I could also see Lorenzo. Once he had his ropes and spears in order, he gathered his action team to kneel for one final prayer before leading the way down into the bog. I suppose I could have radioed him to let him know the ungulates had moved uphill into a grove of hazelnut trees, but that hardly seemed like proper protocol for an impartial observer. Anyway, it didn’t take long for him and his scouts to hear the ripping of tree limbs and mouthfuls of nutshells being crushed between powerful molars.
The term “megafauna” certainly applies to the hairy rhino we have encountered in our travels. Standing up to three meters in height, they dwarf the modern counterparts we visited in African zoos during training. They rival the mammoth in size and strength, the mighty auroch in overall cantankerousness, and the common slug in brainpower.
There was nothing hairy about the beasts Lorenzo and his men trotted toward with spears held low in their hands. Having just finished molting season, “furry” would be more apropos. The youngsters had a small head start on their shaggy winter coats. Long, wiry hairs of brown and gold trailed from the babies’ shoulders and hindquarters as they snarfled up nuts knocked to the ground by their elders. Crack, crunch! I could hear the hazelnuts popping even without my helmet’s receptors.
Lorenzo’s crew included four of his most trusted warriors, as well as Wallunda and Big Ears. Seven humans against eight adult rhinos. Though outweighed 100-1, the hominids had an ace up their sleeves, Lorenzo’s technology. One moment he was leading the way, and the next, to the naked eye, he was gone.
Through my visor, I watched his shimmering form circle wide around the bog and ascend to the edge of the nut grove. A handful of spears seemed to float by his side. Keeping to the rocks, he quietly picked his way into the midst of the giant beasts. The rhinos paid him no attention as they kept their heads down, gorging on tall grasses, leaves and nuts.
The Saints fanned out wide to circle the copse of trees. One sprinted free of the woods to motion the beaters to move south about 250 meters. While they were en route, Lorenzo pulled a coil of rope from the front of his suit and looped it over his left shoulder. A feeling of unease, restlessness, seemed to pass through the crash. They smelled or heard something. Adults probed the air with their snouts, weak eyes scanning for danger as they formed a circle around the young.
I wondered what predators these mighty horned giants could possibly fear, and decided it was probably man and man alone. Lorenzo flitted from tree to tree through the cordon, nimble as a ballerina, to take a crouching position at the edge of the nursery. A single female stood close guard over three young calves weighing not more than 500 kilos each.
Screened by a tuft of buffalo grass, Lorenzo fashioned a loop with his rope, then tiptoed right under the nose of the old female to lay the circle near the back feet of the smallest baby. The young male stood nearly eye to eye with Lorenzo when it stopped feeding and raised its head. Quirks of terrain and fate caused the young rhino to avoid the circle for more than 15 minutes. Wherever Lorenzo placed his noose, the animal would invariably avoid it by backing up to nuzzle the old female, or by turning to sample one patch of grass over another. The sergeant patiently waited for the rhino to stand with both hind feet within his circle. When it did, he yanked the rope tight.
Screaming in protest, the hobbled young male pitched nose first to the ground. Females rushed to defend the yowling baby. They found no adversaries to trounce, just an agitated junior member of the crash unable to rise out of the mud. The animals took turns nudging the infant with their snouts, coaxing it to stand.
With a suddenness which nearly startled me out of my tree, a geyser of flame shot from the grass, followed by a boom like thunder. A female toppled sideways. As she kicked her legs in the throes of death, her friends and family charged about, bellowing challenges to the world. The Saints emerged from the trees to fire a volley of spears, then hastily retreat to the four winds as fast as their legs would carry them. From the hillside, boulders began rolling down amid shouts and hoots.
A few rhinos chased the Saints, but they quickly broke off their pursuit to rejoin the circle tightening around the babies. They shuffled nervously, showing no sign of abandoning their crash’s progeny. Lorenzo was scooting between trees when a male tossed his head and by chance caught him squarely across the back with his two-meter-long horn. The blow knocked Lorenzo to the ground. The rhino called to his mates as he snuffled about, sweepin
g his head back and forth, searching for the thing he felt but could not see.
Lorenzo rolled away from the massive feet and staggered to stand by a tree. I could tell from my perspective, the impact must have loosened one of the seals on his suit, for the animals were beginning to pick up his scent. They circled the tree as Lorenzo pulled his gun from his suit and fired four shots in quick succession.
The deafening barrage, and the sight of four of their fellows flopping to the ground, put the survivors into a panic. I expected them to charge the beaters, but the beasts had had enough confrontation for one day. They abandoned their dead and bleating to escape through the forest like a phalanx of bulldozers.
The sun was setting as the Tattoos finished rigging a pair of long poles along the baby rhino’s sides and began their march back to the beach. When the animal refused to walk, or tried to run away, they lifted it up and carried it. Before long, the baby understood the rules and didn’t cause too much trouble. I scaled down the tree and joined the parade as they joyously walked their prize to the winners’ banquet.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “The little thing really is rather cute, don’t you think?”
Martinelli: “Big Ears says he’s never seen a live rhino baby up close. Nobody has, I guess.”
Bolzano: “Look at his eyes. Do you not think he is handsome?”
Martinelli: “It’s a stupid animal, nothing more. How do you think Andre did?”
Bolzano: “I truthfully do not know. I am just glad he was able to hunt with a pistol. I hope you will be willing to share more often after this. I know it means a lot to him.”
Martinelli: “If he comes back with a yu-yu-tu, I’m going to tell him to shoot you, too.”
Bolzano: “Very funny.”
Martinelli: “What do you mean, very funny?”
Bolzano: “Yu-yu-tu, you too. It was a joke, right?”
Martinelli: “I don’t joke, Sal. I want you to say the opening prayer tonight. A good Latin one.”
Bordeaux Page 29
