Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and I have not done one bit of shopping.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “In nominee Patris tu Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. How did I do?”

  Bolzano: “Almost, but not quite. It is, ‘In nominee Patris et Filii’.”

  Martinelli: “That’s what I said.”

  Bolzano: “Perhaps you did. I thought you said ‘Patris tu Filii’.”

  Martinelli: “Why would I do that?”

  Bolzano: “I do not know Your Holiness.”

  Martinelli: “Ah, come on, I’m joking. Everybody’s so serious all the time. What’s the other one gives me such a hard time? The one starts, ‘as it was in the beginning, it is now.’ How’s that one go?”

  Bolzano: “Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper: et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”

  Martinelli: “I’ll get it one of these times. Look at all those tents. Must be 400, 500 people. This is a great thing we do.”

  Bolzano: “Tomon worries about the food supply.”

  Martinelli: “He’s always worried about something. This time he’s right. Wallunda says the coast is picked clean. People are down to hunting wolf and badger. That’s why we’re leaving day after Christmas. We should be in Italy before the New Year.”

  Bolzano: “Easter in Firenze?”

  Martinelli: “Correct, and you’ll have a starring role.”

  Bolzano: “How so?”

  Martinelli: “You’ll be singing, of course.”

  Bolzano: “Of course. Did you find the Americans?”

  Martinelli: “I knew you were going to ask me that. No. Perhaps they did freeze up in the mountains, as you wrote in your journal. I hope they arrive in time for Mass.”

  Bolzano: “Please don’t hurt them.”

  Martinelli: “Hurt them? Why would I hurt them? I’m starved for conversation, and for some female companionship with a woman who does not pick fleas from other people’s hair to eat.”

  Bolzano: “May I make a suggestion for this evening’s historic service?”

  Martinelli: “You want to change the subject. As you wish. What is your suggestion?”

  Bolzano: “Do you recall, back in the day, how the priests and altar boys entered the church at the beginning of the service, during the opening hymn? And how they led the way out at the end? For Christmas Eve in Milano, midnight Mass at the Duomo, the choir assembled outside and entered singing the antiphons. It started soft and grew loud as they entered the church. At the conclusion of Mass, the choir left the church first, singing Christmas carols this time. As their voices faded into the distance, the Cardinal or Bishop or whomever was conducting the service would bid one and all a Merry Christmas, and remind them to be generous to those less fortunate. Himself, I suppose.”

  Martinelli: “You want to do it like that tonight? Not going to run off, are you?”

  Bolzano: “Where would I run?”

  Martinelli: “Sure, whatever. I hear you and the boys practicing down there every night. Not bad. You giving them alcohol?”

  Bolzano: “No, I, yes. But just a little.”

  Martinelli: “I’m watching you, Sal.”

  Bolzano: “I will not let you down.”

  Martinelli: “Yes, I know. Here, here is your computer. This is such a historic, momentous service. I want you to take notes as it happens.”

  Bolzano: “What about when I sing?”

  Martinelli: “Don’t be a fool. You can set it down then. Just make sure to capture my words, or at least their essence. Make me sound smart. This is a big day.”

  Bolzano: “It sure is.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  My fur cape is brushed clean and Gertie has been kind enough to oil my hair and pull it back into a single long braid.

  His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli, the man whose mighty vision has made this epic day possible, stopped by a while ago to collect the fruits of my labor–three clay jars of wine, two jars of slightly bitter olive oil and four flat loaves of bread. No one can say I have not done my part for the holiday Mass.

  While the Porters could use more polishing on their harmonies (who couldn’t, after all?), they are as prepared for tonight’s Mass as I can make them. My star tenor, Tomon, will sing a solo of which he understands not one word, but sounds divine. I myself will perform a selection of Christmas songs, including ‘Stille Nacht” in German and “Veni, Veni, Emmanuel” in, of course, Italian, the most beautiful language in the world.

  My people rush about gathering the final ingredients for tomorrow’s feast. They understand birth and they understand feasting, but not much else about Christmas. I think half of them expect His Holiness to hatch a baby out his jumpsuit tonight. I am not sure what special surprises he has planned. His Holiness has been unusually secretive regarding the contents of tonight’s sermon.

  My only fear is that the Americans will somehow ruin everything. I pray to God they do not try some sort of ill-advised rescue mission. I do not need to be rescued. The Lord has shown me the proper path. My place is in the shadow of the Great Lorenzo Martinelli. If they try to take me, or trick me, that is what I will tell them.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Why do you suppose we can see the planets during the day?”

  Duarte: “Not all of them. Just Venus mostly, Jupiter sometimes.”

  Kaikane: “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen three. You better add Mars to your list.”

  Duarte: “My man with his head in the sky. We can see them because the atmosphere is so clear. It’s not like they are any brighter. As they reflect sunlight, that would mean the sun would need to be putting off more light, and that is not the case.”

  Kaikane: “How do you know?”

  Duarte: “We measured it, of course. Back on the ship. Are you worried?”

  Kaikane: “Me? Nah. How about you?”

  Duarte: “What a dumb question.”

  Kaikane: “I know, babe. You’re the worrier.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  Leonglauix says he has never seen so many people gathered together. We wait for it to grow dark before slipping from the trees and into one of the lines of natives streaming toward Nice’s signature hill. Several patrols have passed by. Jones swears he’s seen the glow of an activated jumpsuit.

  The old man used his skinning blade to cut Jones’ bushy hair this morning. Our soldier shrunk four inches in height. My fake beard itches terribly. I have improved the design, however, and Paul says it appears more real. Most of our hopes for stealth are pinned on the leather hoods we will fold over our heads against the night chill.

  We passed by the waterfall this afternoon and to our surprise, Conga was there with another message. This one was written across his chest.

  Merry Holiday,

  Do not come to Mass. Expects you.

  Meet after, along seashore below Old Town. Bringing 5 Turtles with me, and you 4. Tight fit. Malmud says should be OK. Bring food, water.

  Security tight. Do nothing rash. Patience is virtue. Once we are out ahead of L, can meet him on our terms.

  S

  While Gray Beard traded news with his still-healing grandson, the letter spurred a heated debate between the three of us, one we conducted in whispers.

  “I say, we get a shot tonight, we take it,” Jones said.

  “I wonder if he’s trying to hide something, like his own involvement,” I said. “His first letter said we could get close enough to see something. We need solid evidence before we can condemn Sergeant Martinelli.”

  Paul usually stays out of it, but this time he raised his index finger to request a moment to be heard. He told a story of a young Hawaiian monk seal which Fish and Wildlife researchers were forced to capture due to his penchant for nipping swimmers and playfully dragging them underwater. For two days the scientists made fools of themselves as they tried to net the power
ful, fast mammal in the near-shore waters of south Maui.

  Finally an old Hawaiian man, one whose own granddaughter had been bitten by the seal, took pity on the strangers and made a suggestion. “Try wait until he hauls out to sleep,” Paul recounted. “You catch him easy then.”

  The length of the story irked Jones, who snapped, “What the fuck is your point, surfer boy?”

  “My point, big guy, is no need to rush. Sal has a good idea. Once we get out ahead of Lorenzo, we’ll pick him off while he’s taking a dump or something. Wasn’t that our plan six months ago?”

  Jones’ head snapped up at the mention of the night he was wounded. His dark eyes locked with Paul’s.

  “Things turned to shit fast that night,” Paul said without blinking. “Say you throw a dart up there and miss. We’ll have 500 natives on our tails. Beyond numbers, Lorenzo has those two pistols. I don’t want to risk Maria’s life, your life, mine or his. If there’s really a boat, all we gotta do is sail down the coast and set a trap. Right?”

  “So tired of chasing these fuckers. Just want it to be over.”

  “We’ll get him, Jonsey.”

  We spent the rest of the day searching for foodstuffs and found the area more or less scoured clean by hungry Cro-Magnon clans. Gray Beard showed us how to collect dried gourds to use as water carriers. We spent most of the afternoon above the waterfall, hidden in the birches, carving round birch plugs to use as stoppers. Muesli’s gone. I’m sure the boys will be disappointed. We still have a bit of smoked venison, shelled hazelnuts and dried watercress. That will have to do.

  We just heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired. It’s time to log off for now. My heart beats fast. My palms sweat. As Jones says, “It’s go time.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “This guy’s Latin is atrocious.”

  Kaikane: “Careful, guard’s looking our way.”

  Duarte: “What a hokey, poor excuse for a Catholic Mass. Martinelli hasn’t recited a verse correctly yet.”

  Kaikane: “Babe, just cool it, all right?”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  I arranged the Porter choir in line from shortest (Gertie) to tallest (me) along the coast trail in the dark. Even from 100 meters away, we could hear the buzzing of the extraordinary crowd filling the rock amphitheater. Studying the glow above the trees, I fought the urge to go over our routine one more time, lest my anxiety be passed on to my hirsute singers and drummers.

  As we waited in silence for the Great One’s signal, the sounds of the Saints calling for quiet drifted our way. Suddenly His Holiness’ amplified voice filled the night in Tattoo dialect. “Sit down! Shut up! Mass will start!” A few moments later, the roar of a pistol signaled it was time to begin the entrance procession.

  At my command, Bongo and Conga started rapping a stately, five-beat rhythm on their hoop drums. Boom, boom, ba-boom-boom-boom. The Entrance Hymn was one which I had written recently in native dialect, to the tune of “Gloria in Excelsis.” It is a call to pray, an invitation to learn about the Lord Jesus and a pragmatic warning to sit still and be quiet all the way to the end. I sing the words and my Porters hum along.

  “Glory, glory, you are lucky to be here today. To hear the Word of God from his saintly son Lord-enzo Martinelli! This is a sacred ritual. One you may someday understand. Know now, God loves you and cares for you. As long as you behave. From now until the finish, do not talk. Do not sing. Do not touch your neighbors. Unless commanded to do so by Lord-enzo. This is the start of Mass. Glory, glory, you are lucky to be here today.”

  We cycled through the hymn twice before we rounded the corner to behold just how hard the Great Lorenzo and his helpers had worked to make the Christmas Eve service truly memorable. Two giant bonfires roared on the beach, along with several dozen cattail torches, illuminating the scene in flickering yellow light. The fires were positioned on opposite sides of an altar made of stacked flat stones. Rising from the middle of the altar was the five-meter-tall ivory cross. Having been buffed countless hours by the Saints’ women, it shined as white as a baby’s first tooth.

  Wallunda, Big Ears and three of the most pious of His Holiness’ Saints were seated on wolf skins near the cross, close enough to the fires to make me wonder if their backs might spontaneously combust. Clad in their feather capes, the witches Esther and Sarah fussed about, tending incense braziers and arranging the most sacred ivory carvings which stood in a wobbly line atop the stone altar.

  Though I couldn’t see her face, I knew it was Wallunda sealed up tight in Andre’s jumpsuit and helmet. The suit was powered down to a dull beige. She obviously had the optics and scanning systems in the visor engaged. Her head slowly swiveled back and forth as she studied the crowd.

  The most saintly of them all, the Magnificent Lorenzo Martinelli, stood regally at his pulpit with a fur cape (mink and fox) slung over the shoulder of his lightly-glowing jumpsuit. His visor was up to allow the parishioners the honor of seeing his beatific brown eyes and handsome face. He has shaved off his beard!

  As we marched in slowly from the South Transept, we stopped one by one to dip our hands in a turtle shell bowl of holy water and genuflect in front of the cross. As always, this caused a murmuring as the natives tried to figure out just what we were doing. Once we had taken our positions, seated on skins laid out on the right side of the stage, His Holiness began the Mass with a traditional greeting in Latin.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

  Perhaps 30 percent of the crowd knew the proper response. “Amen,” they shouted.

  I realize, I should explain why the congregation remains seated throughout the Mass. This is a concession His Holiness was forced to make when it became apparent the natives just could not discern the proper times to stand, sit or kneel. It was chaos. Mass became an exercise in herding cats. For now, they sit, they listen and hopefully they will find The Way.

  “The Grace and Peace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

  The same 30 percent shouted, “And also with you.” Though I am not sure they know the meaning of what they said, the fact that they understood enough to respond properly is a testament to the Great Lorenzo’s efforts. Oops, I was typing and missed the Penitential Act. It is one he has trouble recalling, but with God’s help, I am sure he recited it perfectly tonight.

  Time for me to sing “The Gloria.” In proper Latin this time, sans drums.

  I think that went well. His Holiness was not forced to shoot anyone. Perhaps word has spread since the incident at last week’s Third Sunday of Advent Mass. Two swarthy men got into a shouting match during the Gloria at that service and His Holiness brought them both down with a single bullet. A truly miraculous exhibition of shooting.

  The Opening Prayer offered a chance to study the crowd. The Exalted One instructed the congregation to pray in silence, a silence which seemed to go on for a long time. His Holiness set a fine example by clenching his eyes closed tight and mouthing a prayer with silent lips.

  There must be more than 600 people sitting on stones and downed trees, patches of grass. Though the natural amphitheater at the end of the narrow bay is at least 30 meters tall and 60 meters wide, the audience is jammed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder to hear the Word of God. Saints carry stout staffs as they roam the congregation’s perimeter, ready to prod parishioners into silence if need be. One boy, Kloick is his name, is a real terrier when it comes to enforcing the rules.

  The Liturgy of the Word was given in proper sequence–the Lectionary, a reading from the Old Testament, a reading from the Epistles of the New Testament and a reading from the Gospels. As the Great Lorenzo is the only person allowed access to Master Sgt. Barnes’ computer, and as that is the only source for The Holy Bible, the readings are done in Protestant English. I tried to help him memorize readings in Latin or even
Italian, but I am sad to admit, I do not know the Bible by heart.

  Almighty Lorenzo chose interesting selections to read. His first text was on Moses and the burning bush. He knows the natives love stories like this. His decision to next read passages from the “Epistle to the Romans” was sheer genius. By pointing out the possibility of saving Greeks and Jews, he serves notice that not just Tattoos and strangers who glow in the dark are welcome in the church of the Great Lorenzo.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “What is he trying to prove? They don’t understand a word he says.”

  Kaikane: “Sal said we should be quiet.”

  Duarte: “I am being quiet!”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  The Porters and I were called on to perform our version of the responsorial antiphon and the Alleluia. I could tell by the faces in the audience, our efforts were well received.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Bolzano wasn’t lying, the Porters are pretty good. Look at Bongo and Conga go to town on those drums.”

  Kaikane: “What song is that?”

  Duarte: “A native variation of the “William Tell Overture” would be my guess. Heads down, here comes that guard again.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  For his gospel reading, His Holiness has chosen to delve into the Gospel of San Marco, his parable about the miracle of the wine, the bread and fish. It being Christmas, I thought he might speak about the birth of Baby Jesus, but what do I know? Having been hungry at least once in their lives, the miracle follows a theme most of the congregation can grasp. With Wallunda’s interpretative help, I think it is big success.

  Lorenzo flourished his hands a moment ago and Wallunda blinked from view. He gives her a moment to sneak up into the audience as he pretends to look for her behind the cross, in one of her father’s colossal ears and under the tunic of a particularly fetching young lass seated in the front row.