Bordeaux

by Matthew Thayer

  TRANSMISSION:

  Duarte: “I hope they’ll be OK without us.”

  Jones: “Imagine they’ll do all right.”

  Duarte: “We’re glad you’re coming with us. I know it will be hard for you to say goodbye to her.”

  Jones: “Doc, I ain’t in the mood.”

  Duarte: “If you want to talk.”

  Jones: “Leave it.”

  Duarte: “I’m just saying, if you….”

  Jones: “Not now.”

  Duarte: “We care about you.”

  Jones: “I’m outta here.”

  From the log of Lance Cpl. Juniper Jones

  Security Detail II

  Waiting for Kaikane, Duarte and the old man to take their leave of camp. Suzie ran off crying so I headed up the switchbacks early. Sitting in the shade of a pine trying to decide if I’m happy or sad.

  Been a while since someone cared for me like that. She is sweet and generous. But. There always seems to be a “but” with me when it comes to romance. I didn’t travel all this way to settle down with the first girl I meet. Gray Beard says he’ll return. Maybe I’ll come. I get the feeling he has big plans for us between now and then. Grooming us for something.

  Clanspeople showed us more respect in today’s ceremony than they did getting ready for the hunt. Gathered us in a circle, knee deep in the hot pool, gave each of us a new necklace strung with ivory beads before swimming with us, one at a time, through the underwater passage to the secret chamber.

  I tried to look surprised when we surfaced on the sandy beach. Someone had cleared away the brush that blocked the gaps that serve as skylights at the top of the ceiling, so it was a lot brighter than when Suzie brought me the first time. Back when she was trying hard to convince me to stay. Interesting to watch the looks on Kaikane and Duarte’s faces when they saw those cave paintings for the first time. Stood there with their mouths open. Amazed.

  The painting chamber must be 40 feet long and 20 feet high. Sand floor. Limestone walls start about 15 feet apart and taper to a foot-wide vaulted ceiling that curves back upon itself in a sort of S shape. Rain and direct sunlight do not penetrate. Diffused light. The left wall has one central painting, about 10 feet long and eight feet high. A mammoth being slain by two men who stand on its head and use clubs to bash its brains in. Suzie thinks it was done by the same forgotten clan who carved out the salt cave.

  Makes me wonder what Gray Beard was up to, telling us to take the same pose. Trying to make us legends in our own time.

  Smaller sketches and doodles, caveman graffiti, litter the edges of the wall. They do not encroach on the main piece of art. I’m no connoisseur, but have no doubt this is real art. Shading gives the mammoth a sense of attitude, movement. Correct proportion and perspective. Hunters are depicted in only a handful of lines. I can relate to their emotion and the intensity of their struggle.

  Facing wall is covered in yellow, red, brown and black outlines of hands. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Tradition called for us to add ours by putting a metallic-tasting red powder in our mouths and blowing it over our hands when they were pressed to the wall. My imprint was the biggest of the lot.

  Karloon said something about one of his dead brothers being the official artist of the clan. The brother was timid, afraid to start something big. Many of the doodles were his. That brother was killed by the mammoth. The duty now falls to Karloon. I think that’s what he said. Looks like he’s too is afraid to do anything. Duarte encouraged him to go for it. Explained a few techniques the long-ago artist used to capture the mammoth and hunters. Showed him how to sketch ideas in charcoal before committing with pigment.

  Later, I gave her some shit about it. Telling the guy how to paint. Sounded like tampering with history to me. She told me the whole valley would be filled with ice in less than 2,000 years. Said the grinding of the glacier and eventual melt off was sure to wipe away any trace of Karloon’s artwork no matter what kind of masterpiece he creates.

  The old man gave his dogs to Fralista. All except the bitch. I gather he thinks the mongrels might tip the scales when it comes to keeping these folks alive through the winter. It must be pretty fierce this high up in the mountains. The people had gotten attached to the dogs anyway, picked out their favorites. Pups helped them through the pain of all those dead kids and family. The gift seems like a good move on Gray Beard’s part.

  He says we’ll be traveling fast once we clear the hill country. A straight shot along the river down to the Mediterranean. Everyone says we’ll be seeing more and more people as we head south. Clans moving with the herds to their winter feeding grounds. Makes me glad Fralista convinced Duarte to change her image. Haircut was a good start. They wanted to trade clothes, but Gray Beard wouldn’t have it. Sounds like he has a plan for Duarte, too. Insists she needs those ceremonial duds.

  Fralista gave her a ratty old cape and thin leather shift to wear over the fancy get-up. Also made her a bushy fake beard from some of the hair they sawed off her scalp. Hair is attached to a leather string that can be tied around her head. The beard would not pass muster on even a cursory inspection, but in the dark, in passing, and with a hood over her face, I can see it coming in handy. May keep us from needing to kill too many punks between here and Italy, or wherever the hell it is we are going.

  Time to finish up. I can see the three of them and the dog winding their way up the switchbacks. Gray Beard hasn’t started blowing on his damned flute yet. The bitch has two fat side packs. I bet she’s glad to be quit of those noisy, bothersome pups. Gray Beard leads the way with two spears in his left hand and one in his right. His two “turtles” wear their backpacks as they huff and puff behind him up the steep trail. Duarte has her hood up and it does a good job of concealing her beauty.

  Kaikane spotted me and gave a wave. The guy is just so positive, so nice. Bugs the hell out of me. But I’ll never forget him leading the mammoth across the flats. Running full out, over that rocky ground. Climbed back up that rockslide like an antelope when Suzie was in trouble. Put his life at risk for her. Still doesn’t realize how close he came to buying the farm. I made a few lucky shots. He says he expected nothing less. What if he knew I almost didn’t throw any darts, or that I almost decided to miss on purpose?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “I want the code. Give it to me.”

  Bolzano: “On the first day, what did we agree on? What was it? We agreed to respect each other’s property.”

  Martinelli: “I remember no such thing.”

  Bolzano: “It was your idea. In your prayer over the graves. You must remember.”

  Martinelli: “You make that up. Give me the code.”

  Bolzano: “I do not want you fussing with my notes. It is all extremely complicated.”

  Martinelli: “I don’t care what you wrote about bugs and the lengths of Neanderthal ulna. I want to read what you wrote about me. Give me the code.”

  Bolzano: “Lorenzo, I….”

  Martinelli: “Last chance, Sal, give me the code. Give it to me.”

  Bolzano: “If I were to…. Hey! Ow, stop it, you evil motherfucker.”

  Martinelli: “Evil, hmmm? You just bought yourself another day in the penne pasta.”

  Bolzano: “The code is 1-2-3-4-5. That is it, that is the code.”

  Martinelli: “Too late, Sal. I been telling you for weeks, warning you. It’s time to dispense some discipline. Do you know what the penne pasta is?”

  Bolzano: “There, I fired it up for you. Read anything you want.”

  Martinelli: “The penne pasta is one of my own inventions. You see, clients didn’t always hire me to dispose of a target. Sometimes they sought a piece of information, or wanted to send a message.”

  Bolzano: “Torture.”

  Martinelli: “An ugly word for a part of mankind as old as language itself. You call it torture, I call it the ‘sweet science.’”

  Bolzano: “Breaking legs and arms? How scient
ific.”

  Martinelli: “You have earned another day. I suggest you stop. Believe me, your sanity hangs in the balance. I’m not joking. Shut up and listen. You need to learn respect. Do you understand?”

  Bolzano: “Yes.”

  Martinelli: “Bravo. I admit, there are times when breaking a leg or slicing a hamstring is appropriate. Say, for a cheating athlete who struts with too much pride with a client’s ex-wife. My specialty, however, was delivering the goods without leaving an external mark. You would be surprised, we spent much of our time protecting our captives from themselves. They can so easily be hurt while struggling to escape. That’s why I developed the penne pasta. You are familiar with the penne, no? The short tube of pasta. We’d take a bed cover or a couple blankets and wrap the mark up tight and let ’em lie there in their own piss and shit for a few days. Sometimes we’d insert sound peas in their ears and make ’em listen to crazy music or recorded messages from their ‘friends.’ Four days and, believe me, they come out a changed person. Crazy. You’re up to three days. Have anything else smart to say?”

  Bolzano: “Lorenzo, please, in heaven’s name. Give me another chance.”

  Martinelli: “Now you get religion. I tell you what, Sal, you’re welcome to join us at church in three days. There, there, don’t fight the boys. Relax, let them get a good wrap on you. It’ll go better for you if you do. Recognize this skin? It comes from the baby rhino. Hopefully there’ll not be too many ticks or fleas. Ciao bello!”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli conducted mass this day along the banks of the Rhone River. The sermon was once again on the topic of tithing and the importance of paying proper tribute to the church. I sang the hymns “Veni Creator Spiritus” and “Cor Dulce Cor Amabile.”

  Praise the Lord, the sores on my feet have healed sufficiently to allow me to stand at the appropriate times. The last major scab, the one on my left heel, peeled away after church. Gertie was able to staunch the blood with an oak leaf and mossy poultice.

  I knocked it off on a stone while conducting the Porters’ Choir in my latest creation, a dirge which explores the concept of the fiery depths of Hell. Though most of my hearing has not yet returned, a restoration for which I pray daily, I now read lips rather well. I think they sounded pretty good.

  His Holiness seemed particularly pleased with our performances. So much so, he has permitted me to use my computer for the first time in more than a moon. I spent the first hours scanning though family photos and reading old letters. These treasures, which once gave me so much happiness, no longer make a connection. It was a different life, a different world. If I could, I would go back in an instant. But I can’t. So why bother dredging up the memories? I doubt I will look at them again.

  My work? What a joke. I played doctor, pretended to be a scientist, when I was nothing more than sinner and a pompous ass. Without the Lord’s divine assistance, this computer will never make it back through time. My energies are much better spent helping Lorenzo spread the Word of Jesus.

  We have spread His Message down both sides of the Rhone, before stopping yesterday along the outskirts of a great wetlands where the deep, fast-running river spreads out to form a swampy, mosquito-ridden delta. In his wisdom and mercy, the Great Lorenzo allows me to travel at my own pace, which means, “at the Porters’ pace,” since it is they who must carry me.

  Now that Wallunda has learned to paddle her own kayak, she and Lorenzo zoom ahead to share His Word. The Tattoo warriors and their growing contingent of recruits run the riverbanks behind them. By the time we straggle into the evening camp, we have usually missed most of the excitement.

  Although I have not been able to witness the missionary work personally, I can vouch that the Supreme Commander has done a bang-up job of converting heathens into God-fearing Christians. Also, it would be impossible to overstate his tireless work collecting offerings for The Church.

  Having combed both banks of the Rhone for sinners and treasure, he has decreed that we will now turn eastward toward the beautiful region of Provence. As it is not yet mid-October, his stated goal of spending Christmas in Nice seems well within reach.

  Our route is scheduled to pass by a trading post run by a woman named Kolettelena. The Tattoos claim she is renowned for her cooking. Tomon confirms this. I look forward to sampling her fare.

  Our numbers have swelled to now include more than 120 warriors and at least that many hangers-on. It is a stunning number in a land where groups larger than 40 are extremely rare. With his usual flair for detail, His Holiness has implemented a system similar to the Roman Legions. Each of his 10 Saints are in charge of 10 men. As new recruits arrive, they must bide their time and train until an additional Saint is qualified to lead. Before a new Saint is given his ivory-tipped staff of leadership, there must be a total of 10 men to follow him.

  As the numbers increase, His Holiness has had the good sense to insulate himself from many of the day-to-day chores which would otherwise bog him down. For instance, I have been placed in charge of evaluating and cataloging the many artifacts the Tattoo praetorians are so handy at procuring. Tomon and Gertie bear the duty of making sure the workers are fed and clothed.

  The Great Lorenzo no longer has much time to spend with the common folk. He dedicates himself to preaching, preparing sermons and praying to his Lord. Most of his free moments in the evening are spent in conference with his Saints and other members of his inner circle. He seems to have developed a warm relationship with this group of hardy young men and comely women. And Wallunda, too.

  I sign off for now as the blare of the horn calls us to evening vespers. It is never good to be late for vespers.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Martinelli: “Look here. Look at my lips. What’s all this ‘His Holiness’ nonsense? You dare mock me.”

  Bolzano: “No, no, please. It was not my intention. Quite the opposite, Your Majesty.”

  Martinelli: “There you go again. Look at me! I said, there you go again. ‘Your Majesty?’ What’s that about?”

  Bolzano: “A man of your stature can no longer be called ‘Hey You.’ I called you ‘Lorenzo’ before my revelation….”

  Martinelli: “I bet you called me much more than that.”

  Bolzano: “Yes, it is true. I was filled with sin. And now I wish to show proper respect.”

  Martinelli: “Your ‘proper respect’ smells a lot like old fish, but all right, I do not wish to argue with you. I must say, I think I preferred your previous writing style. Warts and all. The old Sal had a humorous way of seeing everyday things.”

  Bolzano: “That man was left in the rhino skin. No, no, I am not complaining. I was too full of pride and sinful ways. Though your techniques were harsh, you saved me from myself.”

  Martinelli: “I’m not sure what your game is, but it’s good to hear you sing in church. I’m amazed you still can after losing your hearing.”

  Bolzano: “I play no games. I can hear some, a little. It is when there are four or five sounds competing with each other that I have problems. I can no longer separate them.”

  Martinelli: “Big Ears says there is a cave full of witches I need to visit. Their den is high in the Alps. Our journey will take 10 to 15 days. Have the porters carry our kayaks to the trading camp of the woman Kolettelena. Tomon knows where it is. Wait for me there. I’ll send the main body of the lower classes farther south. They can graze slowly eastward, then join us for a grand Christmas service in Nice, just like you wanted.”

  Bolzano: “What I wanted?”

  Martinelli: “Don’t tell me you have convinced even yourself it was my idea. Don’t you remember? It was you who started the talk of Christmas in Nice. We were sitting around one of the Green Turtle tables, back in Bordeaux. You must remember. You said your family wintered in Provence, in a chalet high above the city of Nice. You would attend mass at the church with the ename
l-tiled roof in Old Town, then go buy pastries in the narrow streets. Remember?”

  Bolzano: “Yes, I remember now. I was looking at photos of the chalet earlier. My mind plays tricks on me these days. Yes, of course, it was my idea after all. I seem to forget so many things.”

  Martinelli: “Keep praying. The Lord knows what you truly need.”

  Bolzano: “I will. May I ask you something, sir?”

  Martinelli: “Yes, but make it quick, Wallunda calls for me.”

  Bolzano: “Why did you let them burn my feet? The penne pasta, the music, these are things I understand. I thought there were to be no physical marks.”

  Martinelli: “I’ve told you, the women did it on their own. It was the wives and mothers of the men the rhino stomped. They have been dealt with.”

  Bolzano: “Dealt with how?”

  Martinelli: “Why, they have been sent to Hell for their sins, of course.”

  Bolzano: “My torture went on for days. Why didn’t you stop them?”

  Martinelli: “I wasn’t aware of it. Wallunda wanted to show me a meadow in the mountains. We lost track of time and spent the night. Can you forgive me?”

  Bolzano: “I already have.”

  Martinelli: “Good, because I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you forgive me or not. Hand over the computer and ear peas for now. I might return them when we meet at the trading post. If you behave.”

  From the log of Cpl. Salvatore Bolzano

  Firefighter II

  (English translation)

  The combined stench of greasy food, smoke and urine chased me out of the Cro-Magnon trading camp. I used a long spear to pole a kayak out to the middle of the shallow lake, and was sitting there enjoying the fresh air and towering mountain views when His Holiness Lorenzo Martinelli arrived leading a force of 132 warriors and two witches.

  The Lord God himself heralded their approach by striking dead a pair of storytellers who were preaching caveman nonsense to a cluster of children. One minute the old fools were relating foul tales about the dead rising up to spend eternity roaming the stars, and the next they were toppling to the ground, set free to test their errant theories. It happened suddenly, as if they had been struck in the head by the butt of an invisible pistol.