Bolzano: “No, Father.”
Hunter: “My story is long and complicated. It will be told in its time. Do I make myself clear?”
Bolzano: “Yes, Father.”
Hunter: “Now, please explain to me, what in heaven’s sake did you people do to Martinelli? He was destined to save the world.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Firefighter II
(English translation)
Mother loved her gardens. Unlike most grand dames billeted inside secure estates of Northern Italy, she was willing to get down on her knees and actually work the soil. Father’s family had the good sense to purchase land with a pair of deep wells that never ran dry. In a parched world, we never lacked for cold, clean water–and neither did mother’s pansies or roses.
Her homegrown flower bouquets often became the focal point of her second-favorite pastime, oil painting. Mother generally concentrated her modest artistic talents upon still lifes, usually of her flower arrangements, and quite often with a family pet sleeping in the background, but she also dabbled in portraiture. She usually worked from photos captured by the household security drones to create her sketches of family members and household staff. She made an exception for me. After a three-day sitting, my eyes ended up a bit misshapen and off-kilter, but I rather admired the way she captured the strength of my jawline. I removed the painting from storage and left it hanging above my boyhood bed when I departed for The Team training–never to return. I must remember to ask Father what became of that heirloom.
Though Mother understood she was a better gardener than artist, it did not dissuade her from giving it her best effort. She lived by the motto, “I’ll try anything once.” If mother read about some art or craft that piqued her interest, she would quite often find the time to try it–occasionally with humorous results. Her apple-face dolls became the punch line of a family joke that never failed to bring a smile.
This was back in the 2210s. She ordered a kit to dry apples so they shrunk to look something akin to the wrinkled faces of old people. Once decorated with little homemade wire glasses, dog-hair wigs, glass eyes and wooden pipes, it did not take too much imagination to see the faces of 19th-century farmers named grand-mama and grand-papa. To complete the effect, the shrunken apple-heads were affixed atop simple dolls dressed in clothes hand-stitched by mother and two of her maids.
The dolls were finished just in time for the annual Christmas party for all of father’s children and his many, many grandchildren. As you can imagine, such large family gatherings were sure to attract their share of braggarts, louts and dingdongs. Fat uncle Vicente was all three rolled into one. The man was born to argue. And that is what made it was so funny when he mistook one of mother’s centerpiece dolls as actual food. Chomping down upon wire and dog hair, failing in his valiant efforts to consume the poison wad, he just barely managed to spit the apple-head into the meatballs and gravy. Braced as we were for the bellows and curses to come, the tiny, dry croak he emitted was nothing short of hilarious.
Unaware of the gravity of the situation, we stood there laughing till tears ran down our cheeks as poor Vicente fought for his life. Jabbing be-ringed sausage fingers down his own constricted throat, Vicente unearthed bits of cloth, then finally came up with a dog-hair wig. The puzzled look on his face as he examined the toupee was so priceless two cousins simultaneously shot wine from their nostrils they laughed so hard. Every time Vicente tried to roar his complaint, nothing came out but the croak of a baby toad. Evidently, the astringent used to dry and shrink the apples had done the same to his vocal cords.
When his voice finally returned months later, Vicente’s bellowing baritone had been reduced to a soft rasp. Mother not only became a family hero, she helped coin a new phrase. “Go chew on an apple” became the Bolzano equivalent of “shut up your mouth.”
The night Mother invited me to accompany her to La Scala’s production of Puccini’s “La Boheme,” she may not have known Father would be in attendance with another woman. Their security people would have shared those details between themselves. Would they have alerted her? Whether she was aware beforehand or found out from our balcony seat, I could not surmise, for her demeanor and appreciation of the performance did not change.
We had dined in her favorite restaurant, Don Marcos in the Galleria. Though I was just 12 years old, she insisted we share a bottle of red wine. “We mustn’t eat heavy food or we’ll sleep through the best arias,” she said with mock seriousness. “Never,” I insisted.
We shared a succulent veal saltimbocca and an antipasto salad heaped with cheese, prosciutto and olives, then finished with cappuccinos garnished with delicate horses made of real sugar. Throughout the meal, we discussed fashion and music, bickered playfully about the best tenor of all time. I took pride in the stares she elicited from the men. Though well into her 50s, Mother had not lost her ability to make heads swivel. After she pressed the pad of her thumb to the table screen to pay our bill, she took my arm and pretended not to notice the sea of admirers we passed through on our way to the door. Our security detail fell in step as she said, “I know a place; we’ll stop for gelato on the way.”
As walks through the city went in those days, this one was quite uneventful. Perhaps Milano Centro had been swept of troublemakers for the opera’s opening night, for I do not remember anyone begging for food or hurling insults. We took the long way, circling the Duomo with its many spires and statues lit by spotlights, and across its cobblestone plaza. No would-be thieves or murderers were stunned, beaten or killed by our bodyguards. Nose sanitizers firmly in place, we strolled without smelling the stench of urine and feces rising up from the gutters. I wouldn’t say I was drunk, mother had consumed most of the wine, but I had a happy little buzz–the first of far, far too many happy little buzzes.
From an outdoor stand a block down from the theater, Mother purchased us each a double gelato, and also a round for her bodyguards. The tough-faced men and women bore smiles as they ran with us to shelter under the awning of a water store when the season’s first drops of rain began tumbling from the dark sky. Mother had a way with the help. She knew all their names and did her best to remember their birthdays and the names of their spouses and children. I am certain her kindness played a role in the incredible loyalty our people showed to the family. Father claimed our access to water and willingness to share with the staff were the true reasons for their fealty. It certainly did not hurt.
As a schoolchild enrolled in an exclusive early-learning institution, I had been treated to several daytime performances by the Teatro alla Scala orchestra. During those field trips, the giant theater always seemed so colossally empty with just 50 or 100 kids filling the front rows. I would study the many private boxes circled above and dream of what it must be like to watch from such a lofty perch.
There was never much singing during those performances. An understudy or two would be trotted out to croon several arias and put the other children to sleep. Not me! Perhaps it is genetic, for I have always loved opera as much as my parents did–not only the sounds of heavenly voices, but also the stories, sets and costumes. It was calming for young Salvatore to realize I didn’t need to reach center stage to be successful. There were many ways to make my mark in the world.
Leaving our escorts in the lobby, an usher in red velvet jacket with gilt trim led us to seats in one of the uppermost levels, near the stage-left front of the theater. As I settled into my plush, floating chair, Mother leaned over to whisper, “I have it on good authority that every seat in the theater can be viewed from this box.”
“I thought we came to see La Boheme,” I replied naively.
“Of course, of course. That is the principal show, but there are many smaller dramas playing out all around us. Drink it in, figlio favorito.”
When I turned for the smile that always accompanied Mother’s proclamations I was her favorite son, the hood of her jacket was pulled over her wet hair to cast her face in shadow. At the
time, I thought the gelato had given her a chill. Now, I am not so certain.
As always in the boxes at La Scala, the theater’s magnifiers came to life one minute before the house lights were dimmed. All around the theater, people in the balconies were leaning forward to angle their square viewers away from the stage and toward the audience. People watching has ever been a popular pastime of Milano’s elite. After several sweeps of the assemblage searching for cleavage and famous faces, two seconds before the lights went out and the curtain was raised, I spotted Father having an animated conversation with a beautiful, young blond who boasted the most spectacular bosom of all.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Paul, what’s your take on the Hunter?”
Kaikane: “Guy’s hard to read. Reminds me of a leopard with those eyes of his.”
Duarte: “Golden brown. In sunlight they seem to glow.”
Kaikane: “In Hawaii we called ‘em ‘honey’ eyes.”
Duarte: “Apart from his eyes, what do you think of the man?”
Kaikane: “Not what I was expecting from a rescue squad. Can’t tell if he’s happy to see us–or bummed out.”
Duarte: “He’s certainly changed from the man I once knew.”
Kaikane: “You sure it’s him?”
Duarte: “It’s him, just different.”
Kaikane: “We’re all different. Adapt or die in this crazy world.”
Duarte: “Complaining?”
Kaikane: “You know better. Love being here with you.”
Duarte: “Even in a swamp, while being sucked dry by mosquitoes?”
Kaikane: “Even then. You know how long it’s been since we’ve been alone together?”
Duarte: “Do you?”
Kaikane: “Long time. Too long.”
Duarte: “Forty-six days.”
Kaikane: “No kiddin? You better shut off that computer and come to bed.”
Duarte: “My reports...I’m almost...ohh, that feels good.”
Kaikane: “Come on babe, let’s call it a night.”
Duarte: “Mmmmmm, OK.”
From the log of Dr. Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
“Quiet time” has chased me to the back of our private cave in a futile attempt to escape the incessant chirps and chatter of sunset. I did not expect so much wildlife this far north. Though we may be less than 80 miles south of the ice shelf, there has been no diminishment in the numbers of birds, mammals and amphibians we see. I have cataloged 27 new species of megafauna, and also many other distinctive carnivores and omnivores of varying sizes.
Today’s efforts were dedicated to botany. As noted in reports #WCD-1004 through # WCD-1026, I have confirmed 14 unique varieties of northern ivy, four of which bear edible fruit and two that have known medicinal properties. This zone is cooler and drier than the river basin, yet the valleys are home to many unique dicotyledons, monocotyledons, cone-bearers, ferns, fungi and algae. So many, in fact, it is impossible to properly catalog them all. I do my best, but there is never enough time in the day. In the past two years, I’ve come to accept that I’m going to miss a lot of important stuff. The options are simple, accept it or go bonkers.
My botanical studies are forever interrupted by other worthy pursuits–such as studying hominids. Lately, my focus has been on the hybrid sons of Dr. Mitchell Simmons, aka the Hunter. After three days sharing this valley, recuperating from our long, hard marches, I now accept they–or at least many of them–are indeed his sons. What a stupid son of a bitch.
Simmons is a much different man than I recall. The refined theorist, owner of castles and cellars full of the finest wines, has hardened into some sort of native despot. He flatly refuses to answer questions prior to tonight’s scheduled dinner meeting.
“You have no manners,” he scolded me on our first day together. “What is your bloody hurry? Let us renew old acquaintances and cement new ones before commencing with the interrogations, shall we? There are folks here I have not yet met.”
Turning toward Paul, he gestured to the meteorite club clenched in my husband’s right hand.
“Soldier, my name is Hunter. May I see the club you are carrying? Silver?”
“Nickel.”
“So it is, so it is. I imagine you know already, but this is a legendary weapon. The great club of the Green Turtle Clan. Did Leonglauix give it to you?”
“Prefer to think I earned it.”
“I’m sure you did. What is your name?”
“Paul Kaikane. Specialist.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of you.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
Keeping my curiosity to myself is impossible! Like it or not, I have questions. Who the hell wouldn’t? I know Cpl. Bolzano also has many things he wishes to ask this man who claims to be his father. That is one of the biggest goddamn questions of all! How can it be? To stave off Salvatore and me both, Mitch has promised to reveal all tonight. After dinner, we are to return to this cave for a frank conversation. Mitch says in the north the third day of a visit is when it is appropriate to barter and trade, to share important stories. That’s good. I have a list of questions a mile long.
This evening’s menu features a pair of three-foot-long salmon Paul gigged from a stream one mile east of this valley. He stuffed the fatty fish with a mash of nuts, grains, watercress, onion and sea salt, and now stands guard as they slow bake upon stones laid flat alongside our personal fire. Thieves of all sorts, including rodents, ravens, gulls, eagles and even hybrid Neanderthals have been known to swoop in and steal our food as it cooks. We have shared some meals and traded items with the Sons, and now know to keep an eye on our food and belongings. They’ll steal anything they think they can get away with.
I would not call the Hunter or his Sons gracious hosts, but in their own way they have made us welcome in the valley. Among the men there is the usual preening and jockeying for positions in the pecking order. There has been only one altercation of any magnitude between our groups and that was on the first day when we women were receiving far more attention than was appropriate. My husband laid down his guidelines that day, and the hybrids have generally kept their hands and their crude words to themselves ever since.
In honesty, it feels good to be part of a community, to sleep in a place where no bear, lion or pack of wolves will creep in and surprise us. It took me a while to acclimate to being around so many strangers. Paul and I have not sat down to a meal with this many people since we sailed from Nice more than a year ago. Even within our own clan, Paul and I often find ourselves excluded and alone.
Mitch has given the Sons simple names that descend alphabetically by age. The eldest son is Aa, second is Ba, third is Ca, and so on. The names go all the way to Ta, with several gaps where brothers have faltered through the years. The youngest men in the pack are denoted by hyphens–Aa-Aa, Ca-Ca, Da-Da, Fa-Fa, and the once-genial Ha-Ha. Ha-Ha quit laughing about the time Paul snapped his collarbone.
Ha-Ha was part of a contingent of four hybrids Mitch kept by his side throughout our first afternoon together. Weighing about 185 pounds and averaging 5-foot-10 in height, they were the strongest and most impressive specimens of the tribe. Whether they were intended to be bodyguards or advisors, I could not say. From the start, they made little effort to hide their interest in Green Turtle women, particularly me. Fralista, Gertie and Lanio mostly huddled with the drummers, leaving me to fend for myself as the unwanted advances became emboldened.
Paul was preoccupied with the burial of Gray Beard’s poor dog. They would wait for him to take his turn down in the hole, then stand close to me, brush against my hair and try to cop feels. When I knelt to give comfort to my native father, they jostled to join us on the ground. I just kept moving, circling the grave, taking turns digging, anything to keep them away from Leonglauix.
Paul was not as oblivious to the action as I thought. As soon as he had the bitch safely buried under five feet of sand and stones, he and his meteorite club were
right by my side. The sight of Paul and his shining club slowed their advances, but did not stop the leering.
Everything came to a head during the evening meal. Two of the boldest lads insisted on sitting so close to me they basically ended up in my lap. Jones, Salvatore, Tomon and Greemil were all standing up, reaching for their weapons to halt the nonsense–and probably start a war–when Paul grabbed the boys’ forearms in aikido holds that made them cry out in pain.
I have witnessed Paul in battle many times. He functions with a calm confidence and with such fluidity of movements they look choreographed. Paul is not one for boasts or taunts. He does not throw the first punch. His game is reaction and retaliation, fierce and unwavering.
Forcing them to stand, Paul guided the idiots away from the fire. Releasing them with a shove, he used his head to signal the other two advisor-guards over to join the fight. In native sign language, Paul issued his challenge. “One, two, three, four, I will beat you all. You will fight me one at a time, unless you are cowards. Who is first?”
Paul had them by at least three inches in height, but not more than a pound or two in weight. In no way is he fully recovered from his brush with death off the coast of Spain. My heart was in my throat as he handed me his meteorite club and turned unarmed toward the first hybrid.
The other Sons quickly formed a circle big enough to ring the combatants and the members of the Green Turtle Clan. Paul stood at loose attention with his arms at his sides as the first hybrid, a battle-scarred lout named Fa, charged. To his credit, Fa had been the ringleader of the troublemakers and he was the first one brave enough to step forward and face my man. Fa put his money on a battering ram attack, which Paul deftly sidestepped. Tripping the on-rusher to the ground as he passed, Paul stomped a Polynesian war chant as he stuck out his tongue, slapped his chest, bared his fine white teeth and howled to the circling crowd. Again Fa charged and again he was tripped.
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