The Florenzer ...

The cabana looked like a veranda, closed in only on the back side, with windowless openings atop railed half-walls broken only by a doorway on the ocean side.

As Cleo hauled her bedroll and the food we’d scrounged into the cabana, I walked down to where the ocean met the sand.  The water was crystal clear and when I hunched down and wetted a hand, it tasted of salt.  Off shore was an island crowned by the ever present dark crimson clouds, but the ocean stretched to the horizon with clean blue skies above it as far as the eye could see.  As hopeful as the seascape was, I found it disturbing; the water lay flat and unmolested by wave or ripple.  No moon, no tide.

With this complete lack of movement  in the water and the island cloud, a small motion between me and the island caught my eye; a man in one of the cabana boats was waving at me.  I waved back, then watched him for awhile as he rowed his boat back toward the beach.

As I walked back to join Cleo, I saw a thin young woman in a sarong two cabanas down sweeping sand off her doorstep.  I waved at her, but I don’t think she saw me.

“A man in a boat waved at me.” I said to Cleo after I unstrapped my gear from Bone Shaker and carried it into our cabana.

“That’s the Florenzer.” Cleo said, “Him and his fenuclum live here permanently.”

“Fen-whazzit?”

“You saw her sweeping.” Cleo said, “You waved.”

“I don’t think she saw me.”

“She saw you.  She needs the Florenzer’s permission to talk to another man.”

“Even to wave?”

“Even that.” Cleo said, “Don’t misunderstand, the Florenzer isn’t cruel.  It’s a game she likes to play so he indulges her.”

I looked around and saw Cleo had placed her bedroll in a back corner.

“We bunkmates or you want solitude?” I asked her.

“Solitude.” Cleo said, staring out the front of the cabana at the beach, “I’ll come to you.”

“I see.” I said and laid my roll out on the other side of a kitchen island where I had cover and could see the door.  Old habits die hard.

“I think the Florenzer wants to meet you.” Cleo said as I heard him call out to Cleo.

“Salve Cleo, come va?”

The Florenzer had a smooth, melodic voice, thick with an Italian accent and I could hear he was right outside the door.

“English, Florenzer.” Cleo said to him.

“You wound me, Cleopatra.” he said, “We have each known the other for centuries, yet you call me names?”

“You’re a puppy in my eyes, Lorenzo.”

“Then come rub behind my ears.” I heard the laughter in his voice, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion?”

It was my cue to make an appearance, so I stepped up beside Cleo and extended my hand through the doorway.  He didn't shake it – his hands were full.

Lorenzo looked to be in his late forties, his hair a long, wild tangle of grey and white with threads of black, his skin dark and leathery, his eyes a brilliant blue.

“Max Brandt.” I said, withdrawing my hand.

“Lorenzo di Piero del Tazzera, late of Firenze, now permanent dweller of these sandy shore.” he declared, “You ride the motor-horse like the bella donna egiziana.  Such power, such tuono …”

He looked at Cleo for a translation.

“Thunder.” Cleo said with a smirk.

“… such thunder!” Lorenzo finished.

“Yeah.  I ride the motor-horse.”

“Avventura!” he cried out, smiling and waving his arms.  I saw that he held a sack filled with something in one hand and five thick raw steaks on a hook in the other.

“Tonight, you come for cena.  Bistecca alla fiorentina!  Verdure grigliate!  E vino!”

“Meat, potatoes, and wine.” Cleo translated, “And some kind of vegetable I suppose.”

“You up for that?” I asked Cleo.

“Why not.” Cleo said, “He’s a good cook.”

“Si Grazie.” I answered him, nearly exhausting my personal Italian lexicon.

“Eccellente!” Lorenzo said, bowed, and walked off toward his own cabana, “I … fischio!” he said, then whistled loudly.

“He’ll whistle when it’s ready.” Cleo finished translating.

"BETWIXT - where the dead things go"