Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  The crowd parted as the stoic man moved forward to inspect the grave. It was now down to a depth of about five feet. He held his hands a foot apart and two men gathered up picks and jumped in to resume digging.

  “That’s the hunter I told you about. The one the anthropologists called Gray Beard. He’s the guy who killed and skinned the boar along the river.”

  I could imagine this man facing down a giant pig. Alert, green eyes set deeply in a face lined with sorrow. His weathered skin was the color of peanut shells, taut over ropy, lean muscle.

  Spreading his cape, he revealed five human figurines, each about eight inches tall. They had carved ivory faces and leather clothes. Zooming in, I could see each doll had unique facial features, hair color. There were three women and two children–the same ratio to those Martinelli gunned down on the beach.

  With great ceremony, the figurines were handed into the grave along with an assortment of belongings and clothes.

  The man dubbed Gray Beard directed how he wanted things done and kept at it until all was arranged to his specifications. He delivered a brief but powerful speech, often pointing to the figurines. A few women cried and a pair of men shuffled forward to toss leather bags into the grave.

  When the speech was finished, the crowd had an opportunity for one last look into the hole before the dusty workers filled it in. Walking respectfully, slowly, the crowd dispersed in all directions. It wasn’t long before every man, woman and child returned carrying armfuls of rock. Young men brought the biggest stones they could carry while women collected ones which were colorful and unique. They waited until the grave was filled in and compacted to satisfaction by stomping feet, then placed their rocks on top of the mound.

  Once the rocks were laid, Gray Beard uttered a final, brief eulogy. He marched solemnly back to his hut and ducked inside. The flap had barely closed when the sharp notes of a bone flute pierced the air. Drums and other flutes soon joined in. Logs dropped into the fires sent sparks flying to the sky. The wake had begun.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Did you ever go to the zoo when you were a child?”

  Martinelli: “The zoo? What do you take me for, a rich bastard like you? Of course I never went to the zoo. My brothers, sisters and I were under confinement until age 13.”

  Bolzano: “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  Martinelli: “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

  Bolzano: “Feel free to share.”

  Martinelli: “You wish. I never understood zoos, all those animals kept in cages.”

  Bolzano: “The zoos saved many species from becoming extinct.”

  Martinelli: “What’s the point? Their time on earth was finito. Set them free and they will die or be killed within a week.”

  Bolzano: “The zoos gave the world hope.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  If not for the armor of my jumpsuit and Lorenzo’s quick action, I would surely be dead.

  We had spent the day in quiet solitude, tucked comfortably into our shady spot overlooking the river, keeping an eye out for the Americans. Lorenzo hailed them every half hour on the com line to no avail. I listened to opera and watched the world go by while Amacapane napped. Between calls, Lorenzo sat poring over the master sergeant’s computer.

  Leavings from a nearby hazelnut tree sustained us through breakfast and lunch, but our rumbling stomachs finally forced us to shed our lethargy and get to work.

  Andre was left to build up the fire, while Lorenzo and I hacked inland to procure the makings of an acceptable dinner. Thick brush along the riverbank hindered our progress until we finally intersected a game trail, which we followed, invisible in our jumpsuits, to one of the long meadows. We emerged from the shadows to behold a painting worthy of Monet. “Meadow with Poplars” meets “Haystacks.”

  Bathed in golden afternoon light, the field’s tall grasses swayed in a gentle sea breeze. Butterflies and other bugs flitted through the air like innumerable floating jewels, their wings backlit by the setting sun. In case you are missing the analogy, it was a moment to be treasured. Gold, jewels–get it? Please do pay attention.

  Admittedly, the ambience was diminished by the incessant cawing of crows, roars of nearby predators, and the fragrance of feces, death and decay.

  The jumpsuit’s one flaw is that incoming sounds and scents are heightened to the point of overload. Even when we start off the day with our audio set to low, the volume invariably creeps back up to the default setting. It happens so slowly you do not notice it happening until you find yourself once again cringing at the blaring noise. Olfactory systems appear to have just one setting, high. They conceal our scents going out, and filter incoming air for germs, but deliver smells to our nostrils unaltered and in full force.

  Wading through prairie grass well over head-high, eyes watering from the nearby stench of a rotting woolly mammoth, I discovered a minor bonanza of several young onions sprouting in an area of low growth. I was going to call them “wild onions,” but suppose everything is “wild” in these times. Lorenzo patrolled the forest perimeter, yanking down tangles of grape vines to collect dried fruit the birds had missed. Sweet raisins full of sugar. The few handfuls he didn’t eat went into the backpack. I added young nettles and a collection of other greens which seem bitter but may improve once we figure out how to cook them.

  “Now for the main course,” Lorenzo said. “What do you fancy? Pork, venison, fowl?”

  “I’m still burping from the duck we undercooked yesterday. May I suggest tenderloin of deer. As you may know, my favorite preparation is medallions lightly cooked in a red wine reduction, accompanied by petite potatoes au gratin, steamed white asparagus, and for dessert, a half pear drizzled with white cream sauce. We should start with a bottle of something light, a recent Bordeaux seems apropos, move on to Monte Vibiano’s famous red ‘Andrea,’ then finish with cigars and Spanish brandy, perhaps a marc of ‘Tio Mateo de la Frontera’.”

  “Dream on signore. You shouldn’t talk like that. It does no good.”

  “Afraid I might become homesick? Lorenzo, I’ve been homesick the entire time. Even before we jumped. Don’t you miss Italy?”

  “We’ll be there soon enough. We can’t go back to those days, why even talk about it?”

  “I miss the finer things.”

  “The herd by the pines is not too far from camp. Pick your animal.”

  “From here? With a pistol? You must be joking!”

  The shot was at least 700 meters.

  “Pick one.”

  I studied the herd through my visor. A group of at least 50 deer foraged in the shade, pawing through a patch of clover and low grass. Their heads bobbed up every few seconds to scan for trouble. If they only knew. A new alpha predator was on the prowl.

  “See the fat doe, standing to the left? She has a notch in her right ear.” Before I could turn to see how Lorenzo intended to aim for such a distant shot, I heard his silenced gun cough. More than two seconds elapsed before she tumbled as if hit with a sledgehammer. When we arrived to the body, I saw his bullet had taken the animal squarely between the eyes.

  “Is this where you aimed?”

  “I wish it were true, but it was the neck I targeted. She turned her head our way, that’s all.”

  “It is an amazing weapon.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Will you let me use one? You have two.”

  “No, and do not ask again. There is your deer. I shot it, you transport it.”

  “We should share the burden.”

  “No. I will watch for predators, protect you and your prize.”

  We argued for a time, right up until Lorenzo pointed both guns to my chest and ordered me to get moving.

  Cpl. Amacapane and I have been reduced to using the kayak paddles for defense and hunting. With their stealth technology and sharp edges, they have proven rathe
r efficient for dispatching smaller game such as rabbit, duck, frog and turtle. My paddle was no match for his guns. I almost took a swing anyway. Would he really shoot me? With his eyes hidden behind his visor, there was no way to judge.

  I used a strap from my backpack to secure the deer’s neck and forelegs to one end of the paddle, then dragged the animal across the meadow, along the tree line, and as far down the game trail as was possible. When it came time to cut back to the river, through the brush, toward the smoke of Andre’s fire, there was too much deadfall, scrub and grape vine to permit dragging. The deer became stuck every two meters.

  That is how I came to be carrying a 50-kilo deer, when a 300-kilo lion dropped silently out of a tree squarely onto my back. Lorenzo said the cat came out of nowhere. The impact knocked me flat. I should have stayed flat. The cat was after the deer. It never saw us. Instead, like a surprised fool, I began flailing at my attacker. The lion released the limp deer and locked its jaws over the top of my helmet. My head was jerked to and fro like a rag doll, as it raked powerful claws along my thigh and shoulder. Somehow, my gloved hands found the cat’s ears. I grabbed them and held on, fighting to keep my neck from being snapped.

  “Help me, help me,” I shouted.

  To his credit, once the fight was engaged, Lorenzo acted decisively. He rushed in, squatted low to ensure a trajectory which would not puncture me, then pulled the trigger once, twice, three times until the mighty cat fell dead.

  “Sal, Sal!” He yelled as he rolled the cat off me. “Do you survive?”

  “Where were you? My protector!”

  “It happened too fast. I could not shoot. I may have hit you. Are you injured?”

  I stood up and rolled my neck, rotated my shoulder. Stiff but nothing broken.

  “Your suit, it is not even scratched. Come, let me see your helmet.”

  He held my head, turned it gently to study it.

  “Four little dents, from the canine teeth. How do you feel?”

  “Not as bad as you would expect. Sore enough. Look at the size of the monster.”

  The lion lay sprawled by the deer, dwarfing it as an adult would a child. Paws the size of dinner platters, tipped by wicked black scimitars for claws. Ribs showed through a shaggy, beige hide. I held its tail as Lorenzo walked off the length, more than four meters from tip to nose. Bending for a peek at yellow teeth, I observed the old male had recently lost an eye. The right socket was empty and inflamed, oozing yellow pus. It probably explained why such a powerful beast would be reduced to theft. A deer slowly floating down the trail must have seemed quite inviting.

  “Are you bleeding?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Pick up the deer. Let us get back to camp. I’m famished.”

  Both hafts of our final pair of knives snapped as we gutted and skinned the deer. What were Team leaders thinking, sending us back with equipment which does not last a month? Lorenzo took the animal’s head off with several sharp blows with a shovel from Leonard’s kayak. He stopped when its handle began to come apart. Together, we pulled away the hide, unsuccessful in our endeavors to avoid coating the bloody meat in dirt and bird shit. The legs were left attached because we had little choice.

  Now, between paragraphs, I hop about the roaring fire, muscling a charred carcass from one edge to the other to keep it from turning completely to charcoal. The pungent aroma of sizzling hoof and tendon adds a toxic flair to the air.

  My companions scooped the innards, head and other debris into the hide and dumped it all into the river’s current. They are currently off for a look at the lion. Andre just would not believe the size we described. One too many times he joked if Lorenzo was not an out-and-out liar, then he was a great exaggerator. He was having much fun at Lorenzo’s expense, teasing the way a little brother goads his hero, when the sergeant abruptly leaped to his feet, grabbed Amacapane by the arm and dragged him into the brush. “I do not lie.”

  The cooking is left to me. No salt, no pepper, no fine sauce or sparkling wine. Though our stomachs chorus loudly as toads in yonder swamp, this meal will be vile. They will blame me. They always do.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “Pinch me.”

  Kaikane: “You’re not dreaming.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  More than 40 Cro-Magnons danced counterclockwise around a ripping driftwood fire. Swaying and stomping. Some tooted on bone flutes, heads bobbing along with a five-man percussion section. Stripped bare, the drummers were really going at it, pounding their hands and clubs against anything and everything, including the tents and hollowed logs, different sized turtle shells and skins stretched over reed hoops. Some dancers shook gourds and others whacked shells with sticks. Just about everybody who didn’t have a flute to their lips was warbling some kind of song. More noise than what I’d call music, but still the most amazing thing I had ever seen or heard in my life. What goosed me the most was not how different everything is, but how some things are familiar.

  Even back now, girls flirt and giggle and boys try to act tough. A few other things caught my eye, but I just remember thinking, these people are people.

  When training instructors said Cro-Magnon had the same basic body and brain as modern man, I didn’t believe them. They called him “Early Modern Human” and swore if you put him in a suit and tie he would be hard to pick out of a crowd in Manhattan. I’m not sure where those teachers partied in the Big Apple, but there must have been a lot of leather. And wrestling and spitting and couples screwing not quite in the shadows. And tattoos, long hair, body paint, feathers, and tons of jewelry. Necklaces and bracelets of carved ivory. Little statues of big-boobed ladies hanging from leather strings around every woman’s neck.

  Mr. Gray Beard ducked out of his tent to sit off to the side with two men Dr. Duarte claimed were his fellow clan leaders. They looked like bosses, so I didn’t bother arguing. Set on a woven mat between them was a bunch of wooden platters and turtle shell bowls loaded with meat, fish and fruit. Once he was settled, they all dug right in. A slender girl with braided hair and wearing a soft leather shift had the duty of replenishing the platters of food. Stooping low each time she neared the chiefs, she crawled in to do her work and respectfully backed away before rejoining the dancers for a few turns around the fire. Everybody kept a respectful distance from the leaders, but most took a peek as they circled past.

  Then Jones blocked our view. Motioning us to flip up our visors, he spoke in his usual calm voice. “Quiet on the com lines. Might as well power down your suits too. Italians are coming.”

  We scrambled up into the tree line as three shimmering assholes edged through the huts. They huddled up beside a tent, their jumpsuits standing out like beacons in our visors. We watched for a while and then Maria tried hailing them on the com line. She got nothing but static.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “This is unfit to eat. Where did you learn to cook?”

  Amacapane: “He don’t know nothing about cooking. How could he? People been making his food and washing his dishes his whole life.”

  Martinelli: “Wiping his ass too.”

  Bolzano: “I’ll have you know I am a gourmet chef. Given the proper ingredients and necessary implements, I could make you anything from a soufflé to seafood linguine.”

  Amacapane: “My mamma made the best linguine. She didn’t put all the crap in hers some restaurants do. Beans and shit. She kept it simple. Garlic, noodles al dente, olive oil, onions from the garden, salt and pepper. It was….”

  Martinelli: “Shut up!”

  Amacapane: “I was just saying, my mamma….”

  Martinelli: “I know what you were saying. I’m telling you to desist. Pronto! We got no more mothers. We got no more linguine with oil. I don’t want to hear about it. You understand?”

  Bolzano: “It is natural to miss the comforts of our homes. Talking about it is….”

  Martinelli: “Co
unterproductive. Keep that nonsense to yourselves.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  The deer was far worse than I feared. Burned flesh, heavy with a flavor of musk. We used our fingers to tear away chunks of tenderloin, charred black on the outside and bloody rare along the bone. The greens were bitter, the nettles stung our tongues and the raisins were too few to matter.

  We knelt around the steaming carcass with our helmets off, working hard to choke down enough meat to survive. Andre and Lorenzo complained through the entire meal.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “I know where to find food and tools.”

  Amacapane: “How about pussy?”

  Martinelli: “That too, but I think it may be against regulations.”

  Amacapane: “Fuck the regulations.”

  Martinelli: “I agree. How about you, Sal? You would like some tools, wouldn’t you?”

  Bolzano: “You must be speaking of the native camp.”

  Martinelli: “Yes. I wish to pay a visit.”

  Bolzano: “Tonight?”

  Martinelli: “Yes tonight, you rabbit. Right now. We can paddle there in 20 minutes.”

  Bolzano: “Slow down one moment, Lorenzo. You are correct to mention regulations. We cannot march into the camp and introduce ourselves, ask for plates of food and a price list for stone tools.”

  Martinelli: “With these jumpsuits we can go anywhere, do anything. We won’t ask, we’ll just take what we need. You should be good at that. Master Sergeant Leonard’s computer had a very thick file on you, signore. My goodness, you surprise me, Rabbit. Andre, did you know Sal was a big-time swindler and thief?”

  Amacapane: “No, I didn’t know. Thanks for the warning.”