He twitched in the soupy loam at her feet. Turning, she cast the knife into the river and stomped away. Nothing has been the same since.
Wallunda remains an ever-present force at the Great One’s side, but gone is the small talk and holding of hands. Lorenzo admits they no longer share the same bed. It is now solely power, not love, which drives their relationship.
I have never been an admirer of the woman, but can see that what they have lost weighs heavily on His Holiness. The tension between them accentuates the pressures caused by his lack of sleep, his headaches and daily burden of responsibility.
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “Your hair’s growing long again.”
Duarte: “It must look terrible. So greasy. What I wouldn’t give for a bath.”
Kaikane: “I think it looks fine. Wonder if we should cut it. Before we land.”
Duarte: “If we ever do reach land.”
Kaikane: “I imagine we will, eventually. I am starting to figure this baby out.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
I had a revelation this sunny morning. I haven’t filed a scientific report in 10 days. And the world did not end. If we ever make it off this damn raft, I think I’ll reassess my priorities. More doing and enjoying. Less observing at a clinical distance. Life is short.
Particularly so for the captain. He’s dead. We dumped his body overboard three nights ago and now find ourselves in the grip of doldrums somewhere in the middle of the Mare Tirreno, the Tyrrhenian Sea. At least we are no longer thirsty, or hungry. After parched and starving, wet and well-fed are welcome consolation.
Poor Malmud, he knew his business. As we rounded far to the south of the island of Sardinia, he positioned us squarely in the middle of a strong current sweeping northward. We enjoyed a clear view of the island’s rocky profile as we floated along the eastern coast. By my estimates, he took us 600 miles out of the way to see the view. Though our tongues grew ever fatter in our dried-up mouths, he refused to swing ashore for water.
“The current.” It was all he would say.
Several vents emitted volcanic steam and ash along the island’s jagged, snow-capped skyline. The first night, a red glow of lava lit the tops of two mountains. We all got our hopes up for water the next morning when a bank of clouds appeared on the northeastern horizon. The low pressure system must have been moving northward at the same pace we were, for we never caught up. Curtains of rain slanted down in the distance to mock our cracked skin and yellowing eyes. The four of us sat there and watched and hoped. No one prayed, but we did crack a joke once in a while.
When I thought of people dying of thirst, I always pictured a desert scene. Some poor dusty character, sweaty and hot, crawling in the sand. We shivered in a windblown 45-50 degrees Fahrenheit as the spray of the choppy waves doused us in a steady mist of seawater. And yet, we were dying of thirst nonetheless.
About an hour before sunset, the seas calmed as we entered a bank of fog and sweet rain. We tipped our heads back and soaked up the fat drops like sponges. Standing there, giggling with relief, we were silenced by a silver missile, seven feet long, which streaked directly between Paul and me. It bounced once off the deck and disappeared over the side. In less than a minute, the sea churned into an explosive froth of fins and flying, half-ton fish.
“Tuna!” Paul yelled as he grabbed a harpoon and ran to the edge of the raft. One sailed past his ear to land on the deck where Malmud was ready with a stone anchor to swiftly smash its brains in. “Go to sleep,” he shouted. Which I then translated to, “Take cover!”
We scrambled under sleeping tarps and huddled close to the bundles of goods to protect ourselves as fish pounded the boat. Tuna rammed the sides and flopped across the deck. Paul laid over me to shield my body as he yanked his thick tarp over us. I felt several fish buffet him. The collisions have left Paul with a slight limp, but he swears they were glancing blows, nothing serious. Gray Beard, like me, escaped unscathed.
The artillery attack slowly tapered off. We either drifted through the school, or it took the fight elsewhere. Emerging from our tarps, we found the deck littered with dying fish. Paul and I were inspecting a porpoise at least 800 pounds in weight when Gray Beard called out. He waved us to join him on the opposite side of the captain’s mound of bundles. From the look on his face, we knew the news was bad.
A blue marlin, not more than six feet long, had driven its rough, sandpapery bill straight through Malmud’s neck. The point had become wedged in a leather-wrapped bundle. The fish thrashed its wicked tail as Gray Beard used his knife to cut away the leather tarp covering the bloody captain. When he pulled it away, the marlin really started raising a ruckus, forcing us to take cover on the other side of the bundles. The young marlin was stuck, but uninjured. Three hundred pounds of muscle. The dark man’s lifeless body jerked to and fro with each thrash. Finally, several swift blows from the meteorite club ended the commotion. It was too late to do anything for the mysterious mariner.
We sort of sat there, looking at each other, catching our breath, not speaking for the longest time. In the end, we gave the man our thanks and said our goodbyes. Paul and Gray Beard braced their backs against the bundles and used their legs to shove man and fish into the sea.
The rain began to pelt down in earnest as we cleared the deck of all fish but one, a stout tuna which weighed at least 500 pounds. We filled our gourds and our guts with water, then feasted on top-grade sashimi.
The next morning, a brisk wind blew in from the west to sweep the raft far out of the current’s path. When the gusts died off, we found ourselves stranded in a zone of dead water. Paul says he has an idea of how to navigate this vessel, but I’m beginning to wonder if he can. We had our first fight when he told me to stop fretting and leave him alone.
I told him to “fuck off” and retreated to a corner of the raft where I sat and wondered if I have indeed become a different person.
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “What do you know about the Roman practice of hanging criminals on the cross? Crucifixion?
Bolzano: “Not very much. Of course, I know Jesus died on the cross. It is said to have been painful. I believe the word “excruciating” is derived from the practice.”
Martinelli: “Pretty good, Sal. People think the Romans invented it, but the practice was old hat by the time they started crucifying people. You’re right, it’s painful. I should know, I nailed gentlemen to trees twice. One died within a matter of hours, couldn’t breathe. The other stiff lasted three days before his family paid up. We dropped him off in the center of Rome with arms three inches longer than when we picked him up. I’m not kidding you. His suit coat did not fit.”
Bolzano: “My mind cannot envision that version of Lorenzo Martinelli. I am so glad you have turned over a new leaf.”
Martinelli: “Have I?”
Bolzano: “Certainly. You work for God now.”
Martinelli: “Speaking of God, he says we’re gonna need a new cross. A wooden one this time. He wants you to build it.”
Bolzano: “Now?”
Martinelli: “No, not now you idiot! Why would you build it here and then carry it all the way to Firenze? Stupid head. Why must I do all of the thinking?”
Bolzano: “I thought….”
Martinelli “Don’t think, Sal, you’re no good at it. The cross is for the Lenten season in Firenze. It must be done by Ash Wednesday, that’s in six weeks. You and the Porters can build a nice one when we pick out a place.”
Bolzano: “Yes, sir.”
Martinelli: “From now on, I want to you to call me ‘Father.’ Enough of the ‘His Holiness’ and ‘The Great One’ stuff. Don’t think I don’t know when you are mocking me, smart guy.”
Bolzano: “Yes, Father.”
Martinelli: “Get out of my sight before I kill you.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Banging on this rock-hard computer shoots bolts of pain the length of my fingers. I have only 10 minutes left, however, as Father has granted me exactly one hour’s use. The previous 50 minutes have been spent chronicling my preliminary impressions of the fauna, wildlife, terrain and human development of this part of Tuscany. I could have saved myself 49 minutes’ time and enjoyed my music in peace by writing just one sentence. Tuscany has been cold, bleak and swampy.
Despite being wrapped in all of my clothes and bedding, sitting next to a fire inside a cozy lean-to made of pine boughs by Tomon and the other Porters, I cannot stop my teeth from chattering. A blizzard has pinned our group in a thick forest on the flanks of one of the hills north of the River Arno floodplain. A meter of the white stuff is on the ground, and every second more floats down out of the foreboding sky.
We happened to be traveling along with Father Martinelli’s party when Tomon doubled back to alert me a storm was headed our way. I quickly passed the warning on to Father. Though he hated to halt the day’s march early–he has been under so much stress of late, tracking down runaways and stamping down hints of rebellion–there was no denying the dark gray clouds and rapidly dropping temperature.
The hunters flushed a herd of deer and Father brought six of the running animals down with six shots. They dragged the deer to a stand of medium-growth pines. That is where the Porters delivered the three kayaks and Father’s dozen heavy bundles. They relish the honor of carrying his cumbersome tent and other household goods.
While Father and his men assembled a section of his expansive leather home, the Porters hastily constructed a circular camp of small lean-tos, using pine branches for the walls and pine needles for the floors.
The Porter crew numbers 18. We share the pines with Father, Wallunda, a dozen Saints and their wives, as well as Esther and three of her sub-witches. Among Esther’s coven is my dear mum Mary. The Saints claimed the four biggest deer, while the Porters were left two fawns. Our animals were consumed the first night. Every bit, right down to the brains, sinew and marrow.
Though Father is anxious to get to Firenze, he intends to make a minor swing to the north to visit the future site of his old hometown, Pistoia. That was before the snowstorm halted our progress. I do so hope he gets to make the side trip. It hurts me to see the pain he goes through when he is disappointed. Several of his favorite Saints ran away last week. The defection weighed so heavily on his heart, I feared it might break.
Even when the men were tracked down and brought back in bloody pieces, his mood remained dark for several days. The lone survivor was used as an educational example during Father’s sermon at the next Mass. Father gave the man a very fair head start before bringing him down with an amazing shot. The bullet must have been directed by God. How else does a piece of lead fly nearly 1,000 meters to hit a moving target with such great force to knock it off its feet?
I see I have one minute left. I think I will concentrate on my music, Baldassare Galuppi’s, “Il filosofo di campagna.” I am so glad Il Buranello didn’t let the small matter of being hissed off a Venetian stage at the age of 16 stop him from creating some rather nice works. Vivaldi he is not. But then, who is?
TRANSMISSION:
Kaikane: “This wind is making me crazy.”
Duarte: “Why don’t you do something about it?”
Kaikane: “Like I can control the wind. Give me a break.”
Duarte: “Can’t you get this crate to turn around? All we have to do is go east, we have to hit Italy.”
Kaikane: “Don’t you think I know that? You’re not helping, Maria.”
Duarte: “I’m cold, I’m dirty and I’m frustrated.”
Kaikane: “So you take it out on me.”
Duarte: “Right! You’re the Hawaiian waterman. Start acting like it.”
Kaikane: “How?”
Duarte: “I don’t know. Do something!”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
Southerly winds blew us backwards for five days. Each day, we grew farther from Firenze and closer to insanity. The only consolation was after two weeks in the fog-filled doldrums, we were moving again. Paul claimed he hoped we could drift far enough south to pick up a westerly breeze to deliver us back to Malmud’s precious current. He dipped the anchors and tossed the floats and tried to appear as if he knew what he was doing. Lately, we haven’t had much to say to each other.
Not that there hasn’t been some good news. We’re rich.
To break the boredom of a calm day last week, we inspected all of Malmud’s precious sacks. The curiosity had been gnawing at me, and I guess each of us had been wondering the same thing. What was inside all the waxed leather? As I started to open the first bundle, Paul and Leonglauix (we’ve been calling him by his native name lately) immediately jumped in to assist. We unrolled the pouch to reveal a trio of smoked hams. We had been starving, and the wiry sailor didn’t offer us one bite. We starved while leaning on potential salvation. The greedy bugger probably enjoyed that.
Of the two dozen bundles, most contained food. Grains, nuts, dried fruits and a stinky, earthy cheese that, judging by the hairs running through it, was made from goat’s milk.
The second-to-last bundle, a small one wedged down at the bottom of the pile, made Gray Beard suck in his breath as we unrolled its contents. Intricately-carved ivory discs and bracelets, thumb-sized jewels of amber, all with intact mosquitoes or honey bees trapped perfectly in their middles, rude gold nuggets, jade Venus figurines with oversized hips and breasts, ceremonial bone daggers and assorted precious stones–rough rubies, emeralds, diamonds, feldspar and onyx.
Paul whistled softly. “Is this Malmud’s traveling around money?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” I said. “Not all of it, at least. I smell Bolzano’s light fingers in this. Look at the quality of these items. I bet this was his payment to Malmud. His fee to either take us to Italy or starve us to death along the way.”
Our subsequent picnics of ham, cheese, nuts and dried fruit were a welcome respite from the standard fare of raw seafood, raw turtles and raw fowl. Sliced thin, the salty meat reminded me of the Italian prosciutto my friends and I scarfed down long ago during my graduate school years. We took the train to Italy several times, poor college students living on bread, cold cuts, cheese and, of course, wine. One evening, I even tried a real cigarette.
Despite the bounty of food, tensions have been running high on the tall raft. We’ve been getting on each other’s nerves. There is no way to take a walk or even a swim. Sharks are always nearby. Yesterday afternoon we were bobbing along as the sun prepared to set. Alone with our thoughts, no one was speaking or making eye contact when Paul said, “I’m sorry.” From out of nowhere.
“Sorry for what?”
“For letting us drift out of the current. For not understanding this stupid raft. For fouling things up while Martinelli gets away.”
I let it sit for a while, then cleared my throat.
“You’re forgiven. Even though you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve been a bitch. You can’t control the wind and the tides.”
The tension thawed away from the raft in a rush. We embraced like teenagers for our first kiss in more than two weeks. Gray Beard rolled his eyes, then rolled himself up in his tarp to give us the privacy to make up properly. With frantic hands, we undid each other’s leggings. I gripped his erection hard and stroked it, guiding him inside to fill me with warmth and love. Afterward, as we lay there on the windswept deck, we noticed the wind had shifted from a southerly to a westerly.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “Father, I wish to ask you something.”
Martinelli: “Not so loudly, idiot. I’m right here beside you. What do you want?”
Bolzano: “Another headache, Father dear?”
Martinelli: “Fuck you, Sal, What do you want?”
Bolzano: “I was wondering, in your past professi
on, did you ever get to know your, er, victims?”
Martinelli: “Know them? I had researched them so thoroughly by then, I knew more about their tastes and habits than they did themselves.”
Bolzano: “I meant personally, did you ever become friends with the people you kidnapped?”
Martinelli: “I see where this is going. Sometimes, yes. I played cards, watched movies with guys right before we dropped them headfirst down a well, or tied their head in front of an air car’s exhaust port. It was always better they died in an overly-dramatic way. It helped ensure the next bozo’s people would pay up.”
Bolzano: “While you were playing cards, did they know it was coming?”
Martinelli: “Probably. They had seen my face, knew their families had refused to pay. How could they not? Don’t worry, Sal, you’re like a brother to me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
TRANSMISSION:
Martinelli: “This river must be the dry ravine where my brothers and I played at night. The relationship with the mountains is perfect. We lived several kilometers outside of Pistoia Centro and were backed up right against this hillside. On summer nights, a cool breeze funneled down the valley. The neighborhood was called Cacciaia. I guess it used to be a farming village, but everything was city when I lived here. Pistoia spread up into the hills, man.”
Bolzano: “Yes, Milano was the same way. The joke was, ‘When will Milano touch the Swiss border?’ ‘Why, it already does, sir.’”
Martinelli: “That’s a real knee-slapper, Sal. Why don’t you try not interrupting me for a while? All right?”
Bolzano: “Yes, Father.”
From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Snowmelt has turned the landscape into a semi-frozen soup.
Tuscany Page 10