Tuscany

by Matthew Thayer

  “Wallunda,” he calls out each time in a singsong voice.

  “Lord-enzo,” she finally replies. Her amplified voice echoes from high in the back of the crowd. You could hear an ivory needle drop in the sand.

  “Wallunda, find me someone who is worthy this day.”

  A few rubes gawk and hold their heads high, while veterans of Lorenzo’s services study their toes. Wallunda’s enjoying her moment to shine, literally, as she glows and disappears in one place, then reappears in another to study faces of people in the crowd.

  “Wallunda, have you tried up in the trees?” His Holiness asked in Italian. Wallunda’s head jerked toward the top of the hill, and she flicked from view. Her amplified voice calls on the staff-carrying Saints to rush to the top of hill. All heads turn to follow their progress as they disappear into the brush.

  The wind has shifted to blow the incense smoke straight into my face. Esther and Sarah give me dirty looks as I attempt to fan the foul-smelling herb away. His Holiness stooped low to talk to Big Ears and now the clan chief is supervising as a few of his warriors stoke the fires anew with fresh driftwood logs. New torches are being lit to replace those which have guttered.

  Wallunda has stepped into the now-bright firelight leading a pair of guards with a native girl in tow. The girl has been led to stand at the front of the stone altar.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Salvatore, Salvatore, look up. Come with me, Salvatore.”

  Bolzano: “It is a wonderful congregation, sir. You have done very well.”

  Martinelli: “I know, Sal. You can tell me all about it later. I’ve seen you typing away like mad over there, it’s time to pay attention.”

  Bolzano: “Who is the girl?”

  Martinelli: “Don’t you recognize her? Your own mother?”

  Bolzano: “My mother?”

  Martinelli: “For tonight, she’s Mary and you are Baby Jesus. It’s a Christmas play Wallunda and I cooked up. One the natives will understand.”

  Bolzano: “Why didn’t you ask me to help? I’m sure I could have….”

  Martinelli: “Butt out, Sal. This is our deal. All you gotta do is stand over there and cry like a baby when I tell you to. You got it?”

  Bolzano: “Shouldn’t I take notes?”

  Martinelli: “Nah, it’s too distracting. Everybody keeps looking at you instead of me. Stand over there and shut up ’til I give you your cue.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  To highlight the first Christmas Eve Service in the history of mankind, the Great One treated the natives to one of the most unique interpretations of a manger scene there will ever be. Told from the view of God, Lorenzo narrated the story of a young woman expelled from her clan for refusing to rut with a suitor.

  Once the plot line was established, Almighty Lorenzo pointed toward the comely young lass and bellowed her cue. “Why will you not lay with this man?”

  “I am saving myself for the Lord God,” shouted the girl. She was one of Sarah’s sub-witches and healthy enough to retain all but one of her front teeth. Flitting about the beach pretending to be attacked by auroch and lion, Mary faced many trials and tribulations, and each time, Lord-enzo was there to see her through. When he finally inseminated the writhing girl from afar, Wallunda took in the scene with a murderous look in her eyes.

  The passage of her gestation was portrayed by Mary’s dance around the altar. With each revolution she briefly ducked behind the altar where Esther and Sarah stuffed a fur inside her tunic. At the end of nine circuits, she looked very much pregnant. The girl displayed a real talent for pantomime. She waddled about asking for a spot to lie down and have her baby.

  I was cast as the Baby Jesus. Though my part was small, I would like to think I gave it my best. When the attention of the congregation was focused at the end of the beach, Lorenzo gestured for me to sit hidden behind the altar. There I was when the woman Mary lay on top of the stone altar, spread her legs over me and screamed the screams of childbirth. At the appropriate time, I stood and stuck my head up between her legs so the congregation could see my face. As instructed, I pretended to cry like a newborn baby slapped across his bottom.

  I expected the people to laugh and point. It seemed so silly. They sat there rapt by the spectacle and the words of His Holiness. Mary pretended to wipe my face and held my lips to her bosom. The things one must do to serve the Lord. I played the part of newborn to the hilt, greedily suckling one meaty breast and then the other. Mary seemed to enjoy it.

  His Holiness introduced me to the congregation as his son, the Baby Jesus. As he went on to detail many of the highlights of the life of Jesus, the people studied me, some no doubt thinking I was the one he spoke of. He concluded by explaining how Jesus will one day die on the cross to erase their sins. All they had to do was believe… and obey.

  Now comes my favorite part, the offering. I always enjoy seeing what the natives have brought us. Esther proves even sea shells and spear points, as long as we have enough of them, can be traded for fine objects. His Holiness hears rumors some clans carry particularly valuable goods as they head toward their traditional wintering grounds. Perhaps we will collect something special this evening.

  Oh my, a fight has broken out. The Saints are engaged in a skirmish with a wealthy clan seated in the middle of the amphitheater. The clan drew my attention earlier due to the quality of their clothes and accoutrements. They seem to be good fighters as well, holding their own against the Saints. Lorenzo refrains from shooting for fear of hitting one of his own men.

  The fight has spilled down the hillside now as other clans take sides. We have seen this before. The Tattoos have so few friends. I fear they drag His Holiness and his message down.

  He and Wallunda are both in stealth mode, wading into the melee with fists flying. Now he is pointing up to the hillside. I wonder what he sees. “Americans!” Oh my.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Come on, babe, run! Faster! Hold my hand, hold my hand. Come on! Move!”

  Duarte: “Where’s Jones? Where’s the old man?”

  Kaikane: “I don’t know. Happened so quick. To the meeting point. We go there.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Where the fuck is Bolzano?”

  Kaikane: “What kind of boat is this?”

  Jones: “Where’s Bolzano? His people?”

  Duarte: “Everybody started fighting, then Martinelli saw us. I know he did.”

  Jones: “Course he did, you two standing out in the open like that.”

  Kaikane: “The fight, we started to run. Fuck!”

  Jones: “Shit happens. You two stay with the old man, his leg’s bothering him.”

  Kaikane: “Where you going?”

  Jones “The dog ran off.”

  Kaikane: “We can help.”

  Jones: “No good to split up again. ’Nuff running around. Stay put. Load the gear on this raft or whatever the fuck it is, then stay out of sight. Kaikane, guard these folks.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Corporal Bolzano, have you seen Jones? Where are your people?”

  Bolzano: “Shove off, shove off. Get out of here. If he sees you, I am dead!”

  Kaikane: “Where’s Jones? We ain’t leaving without him.”

  Bolzano: “Jones is dead. Saints pushed him from a cliff. Shove off, shove off.”

  Duarte: “Jones can’t be dead!”

  Bolzano: “I apologize for being so blunt. He was a good man. There were too many warriors.”

  Kaikane: “You saw it? With your own eyes?”

  Bolzano: “They chased him down the trail to lookout cliff. Where it dead ends. It is a straight fall to rocks, 20 meters to the beach. Jones used a launcher to hurl short spears with great accuracy. He brought down several men, but the Tattoos are like dogs. They closed on him. It became hand-to-hand fighting, twelve against one. He took three warriors off
the cliff with him. Jones is dead. I saw it. Go!”

  Duarte: “What about you?”

  Bolzano: “I cannot leave my people behind. We will meet down the coast. Malmud claims to travel to Italy often. He knows the way.”

  Duarte: “We can’t leave you.”

  Bolzano: “I will see you in a couple days, if not, Easter in Firenze. Remember, Easter in Firenze. Be careful, his spies and lookouts are everywhere.”

  Duarte: “Florence?”

  Bolzano: “Why do you English speakers insist on changing the names of our cities? Milano becomes Milan. Roma, Rome. Firenze! That is where he is determined to celebrate Easter. Go. Hold the old man. Grab him! Do not allow him to abandon ship. Tell him his dog is dead! Slain while defending Jones! They are coming. Do you see the torches? They are coming. Go. Go now! Please!”

  Duarte: “What’s the big deal about Easter in Firenze?”

  Bolzano: “Haven’t you figured it out? Well, you have not had as many clues as I have. It is where Lorenzo plans to hang me on the cross. Go!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “They tell me Jones is dead. You witnessed it?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, my guards made first contact. We were on our way to your camp. He took three over the cliff.”

  Martinelli: “The Saints say the same thing. What is this strange weapon?”

  Bolzano: “What was the game the Basques played in Spain? Jai Alai? That is what it looked like when he used it.”

  Martinelli: “Only thing, he threw spears, not balls. With great accuracy and force. Killed nine of my men with the damn thing.”

  Bolzano: “I thought Jones was invincible.”

  Martinelli: “Nobody’s invincible. Tell me about the other Americans, Duarte and the surfer. You met them, did you not?”

  Bolzano: “Met them? When?”

  Martinelli: “Careful, Sal, the rhino skin is right over there. You can see it if you turn your head. We’ll start over. When you slipped away from your escorts and went missing for more than an hour as they called out and searched for you, did you meet with Duarte and Kaikane?”

  Bolzano: “Yes.”

  Martinelli: “Very good answer, Sal. Do you know why?”

  Bolzano: “No, your Holiness.”

  Martinelli: “It is a good answer because Esther followed you. She saw you with two strangers and the storyteller. She says they floated away on a wooden altar. Care to add any details?”

  Bolzano: “I told them about Jones. I told them they had to leave and go far away.”

  Martinelli: “You just happened to meet them where there was a boat waiting. I find it hard to believe. Who arranged transport, you or them?”

  Bolzano: “They did.”

  Martinelli: “You flinched a little. Was it a lie? No matter, for now. What I want to know is, why didn’t you go along? You had the golden chance to leave. Yet you didn’t take it. Why?”

  Bolzano: “I planned to, I swear to God I did. I had my computer and was set to go. Along the trail in the dark, God reached down and changed my mind. His words came to me, so forcefully, my legs buckled. The Lord chastised me for contemplating leaving in your time of greatness. He said you have started something momentous and I must remain to see it through.”

  Martinelli: “The Lord spoke to you?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, clear as a bell. Do you think since we are Earth’s first true Christians, God may have more time to spend with us? We might have greater access.”

  Martinelli: “What else did He say? What did He say about me?”

  Bolzano: “He said you were doing your best and he appreciated your efforts. I should continue to pay you the utmost respect.”

  Martinelli: “Sounds like you are making that part up.”

  Bolzano: “Not at all. He seemed to be in a hurry. He just wanted to set me straight. He was obviously not as interested in conversing with me as He is with you.”

  Martinelli: “Did He say anything else? Anything about me?”

  Bolzano: “Not that I remember.”

  Martinelli: “OK. Back to the Americans for a moment. Did you invite them to Easter Sunday Mass in Firenze?”

  Bolzano: “Yes.”

  Martinelli: “Good boy, Salvatore.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  In an effort to keep the peace, as well as put a more personal touch on his Christmas Day celebration, the Great One Lorenzo Martinelli invited the clans to his hilltop camp individually, one at a time. Throughout the afternoon, they arrived in panicked little groups, escorted by squads of Saints. Drawn to his dangerous power like moths to a flame.

  Most clans consisted of no more than a dozen people, usually two or three extended families. Two exceptions were a pair of traveling bands which arrived within the last few days from the east. Each of those groups may well number in excess of two dozen. It is hard to judge exactly, they move around so.

  My guess is, they are Northern Italians, paisans who display more complex social systems than we have become accustomed to. They follow fairly strict protocol, and observe a hierarchy which includes chiefs, chieftesses, sub-chiefs and sub-chieftesses.

  At my suggestion, we presented gifts of food and trinkets (surplus from our trade supply) to each clan. Spear points, feathers, shells, wooden Venus statuettes, sets of turtle shell bowls, all doled out by Esther and Sarah in their ceremonial capes. My Porters will have that much less burden to shoulder.

  It was a damp, overcast afternoon, cold enough to keep those of us not wearing jumpsuits close to the fire. My fox fur cape and leather leggings are warm while I exert myself along the trail, but not so much today while doing nothing more than gorging on food and drink, studying faces, guessing each clan’s net worth.

  The Great Lorenzo and co-hostess Wallunda reclined in comfort on a pile of wolf skins. Their suits were set to a light glow, and visors were retracted to reveal their benevolent faces. It was all a very powerful effect, a real jaw-dropper. Visitors gaped in wonderment, most too awestruck to properly enjoy their roast pork, sliced figs, melon, baked tuna and flat loaves of bread.

  Only one or two observant souls spied the not-quite-invisible Saint who stalked the hilltop like a nervous, shimmering cat. In contrast, His Holiness’ rows of heavily-armed Saints could not be missed.

  The Holy Couple began each session by engaging the visiting clan’s people in a half hour of small talk which, to me, at least, sounded a lot like an interview. Of the dozen or so tribes who stopped by for Christmas dinner, four are invited to join our ranks as we move east.

  The invitations were presented to the entire clans, not just the leaders. With Wallunda’s help, Lorenzo explained that although traveling with his mighty cavalcade can be lucrative and exhilarating, there are serious stipulations to membership. To join, each individual must agree to relegate clan and even family loyalties to secondary positions. Their fealty to His Holiness, the penultimate ruler, must come first at all times. Most importantly, Lorenzo’s clan is a Christian clan, thus, all members must strive to learn and understand the Word of Almighty Jesus. Young men will be expected to undergo Saint training to become God’s warriors.

  Though both Italian clans were invited, only one chose to follow His Holiness back to the homeland. The sole decliners were the well-dressed group at the epicenter of Christmas Eve’s brouhaha. They apparently carry a grudge.

  I deduce the clan’s leader enjoys being the top dog, and he is good at it. Burly, with a face like a hawk, he wore a fox fur cape similar to, but much finer than my own. Dangling at the center of his shell necklace was a teardrop of bright yellow amber twice the size of my thumb. When I expressed interest, he proudly showed me the line of baby termites frozen forever, marching straight through the petrified jewel. When Wallunda leaned in for a closer look, he tucked it quickly back into his tunic.

  I gorged to the point of bursting three times as Lorenzo t
he Wise mixed business with pleasure on the holiest of all holy days. Our time in Nice has shown us why these people are such nomads. In not much more than a month, we have completely denuded all resources this area has to offer. The food for our feast had to be packed in from more than 20 kilometers away.

  Was fear of starvation the reason I sucked down so many fatty pork sandwiches garnished with dollops of cooked fig and soaked in olive oil? So much for my diet.

  His Lordship pulled me aside near the end of the long day and pressed a folded leather packet into my hand. “Buon Natale!” Merry Christmas. I had given him a jar of my best wine and a pair of matching ivory bracelets hours earlier, and was beginning to think he had forgotten me.

  Opening the small pouch, I found Andre’s pair of ear peas.

  “Your hearing is getting better, I thought you could use these. I promise, I won’t take them away again. You did a good thing last night. The two of us will reshape the world.”

  “Thank you, Lorenzo.”

  “Go on, get outta here. I know you’re bored stiff. Go tie one on and listen to some music. You deserve it. Just make sure you’re not too hungover to pack up. We move out day after tomorrow.”

  So here I sit on a stack of deerskins, sipping grappa, wrapped in a fur cape and most of my bedding, jabbing frozen fingers at a computer, as a 2023 recording of Teatro alla Scala performing Johann Strauss II’s “Die Fledermaus” lightly caresses my eardrums. I resist the urge to dial up the volume. The Great Lorenzo is correct, my hearing does improve. I must do nothing to set back my progress.

  Not long after I returned to my tent, as the gloom of dusk gave way to pitch dark, Tomon, Gertie and the rest of the Porters stopped by to collect the presents I had promised them. I find Esther is a better trader than accountant. I was able to abscond with enough minor pieces of ivory and beadwork over the past two weeks to see that each of my followers was presented with a nice gift. I had planned to invite them for a drunken jam session, but my heart just wasn’t in it. Too much food, too cold, too befuddled.