Tribesmen (2 page)

The man screamed out in ferocity (or was it pain?) and began running. The waves sloshed against his face. The sea water cleaned off some of the blood, but the bearded man’s skin was still crimson with sunburn and exertion.

As the second white man hit the water, Oroto sprung to his feet, intent on saving his young son.

Vatu must have seen the frenzy in his father’s eyes, because he turned then, from his grandmother to the men coming up onto the shore behind him. “Father,” the boy cried, breathless and terrified. The men left red streaks in the water as they closed the distance between their boats and the boy.

Oroto stopped, halfway between his son and his mother. The sun was so hot that it had turned the white sand of the beach into fire. It was the kind of flame that licked the bottoms of your feet if you did not move with enough haste.

The biggest man, the first off the boat, would be the first one to reach his son. Sea water, spittle and grue ran down his neck as he removed a large hook from the scabbard of his belt. The cast iron hook was the same kind they used to hang up pigs at the larger ports that surrounded their small island.

One disgusting white calloused hand grabbed Vatu by the shoulder, like a white scab on his beautiful, healthy skin.

The man’s other fist brought the hook down, straight into his son’s neck.

Oroto screamed, a wild sound. It was the sound a boar made when you had it cornered, the scream an animal makes when it knows that it’s too late

“Get up! We have to run!” Oroto shouted to his mother, as he raced back toward her. But he knew she could not run. He scooped one big arm around her waist and hoisted her up like a baby. She was not a little woman in her youth, but the years had dried and hollowed her like a prune. She weighed almost nothing in Oroto’s strong arms.

“The bones, I have seen that there is no escape.” Her voice was too calm. How could she be this calm after seeing what happened to her grandson? Oroto wanted to get to the village, rouse the men and kill these bastard invaders with his bare hands.

He could hear the pounding of footsteps behind him, and the laughter of the red devils as they nipped at his feet.

It happened too quickly after that. Oroto’s left foot made an unlucky choice and disappeared into a deep hole in the sand, snapping his ankle. Some animal, maybe a crab or marmot, had dug the hole, and that hole had destroyed him.

The pain was excruciating, the sound of breaking bone loud enough to startle the jungle beasts. He heard chirps and cries as creatures rustled, fleeing deeper into the brush. Oroto made sure to toss his mother clear of his landing, extending his arms to try to cushion her fall.

The laughter of the men gave way to their dark shadows, spilling down upon mother and son. The hot sand burned Oroto’s arms and stomach as he lay defenseless.

“You bastards,” Oroto said, even though they would never understand.

One of the men put a soggy boot into the small of Oroto’s spine. The laughing man pinned Oroto to the sand.

“Mother,” Oroto said. The word came out a whimper. He had cried out for his mother in front of these men, these beasts that would kill a child.

His mother paid Oroto no attention; she was too busy scratching her ancient marks in the sand. The angular characters were ones Oroto had never seen her write. She spoke in the same clear, detached tone that she had taken to Vatu’s death.

“I curse this place,” she said. “I curse these men. I curse every grain of sand on this island. And I am ready to die.”

They were the last words she ever said, and the last that Oroto would ever hear.

The white men gathered around their bodies.

And painted themselves red again.

Chapter 1

Roland Pressberg
Executive Producer

A scream reverberated around the room.

The skinny redhead fell to her knees. She was surrounded by three nearly naked men. Over their dark skin, they wore a fine layer of gray ash, hair matted with clumps of dirt and mud. Their loincloths barely covered their buttocks, which quivered in anticipation of their next meal.

Grabbing at her tattered blouse, the center male gave a grunt of excitement. His hair was the dirtiest and his teeth were the greenest. This meant that the makeup girl had spent the longest amount of time on him, indicating to the audience that he was the group’s leader.

After the men were done clawing away her undergarments, they set to work on her flesh.

“God damn it! Tito. Why do I have to watch this shit?” Pressberg stubbed out his cigarette and stared down at the ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. He had no desire to see whatever disgusting special effects the demented fucking Italians who made this shitty movie had come up with.

“But watch, this is the best part,” Tito said. His English wasn’t terrible, but his accent was laughable. His dialect was an inconsistent cartoon mix of Spanish, French and Italian. He held onto his ‘e’ sounds too long and put ‘a’ sounds on the end of words that didn’t need them.

Tito’s English was made impervious to criticism by the fact that he was also fluent in four other languages. Unless you could speak six languages to his five, you’d best leave his humorous pronunciation alone.

Tito pointed towards the screen as the film stained the walls of Pressberg’s office red. Pressberg was dumb enough to look. The shot was a tight close-up of one of the ashy man’s teeth as he squished down on one of the redhead’s eyeballs.

Pressberg felt his stomach attempt a somersault.

“It looks fucking real,” he said, suppressing a gag. “Are you sure it’s even legal to be watching this in this country?” Pressberg hid his eyes in his hands again.

“No. Of course it’s not legal in Portugal, are you kidding? Legal?
In Portugal
? Hah! All of this guy’s movies are banned here,” Tito smiled. “But don’t worry: that’s not a human eye. It’s a goat eye. You can get anyone to eat anything, if you are having them eat it for the cinema. It is quite a neat trick.”

Tito pronounced ‘cinema’ as ‘chin-e-ma.’ It was one of those holdovers from Italian that Tito kept consistent, no matter what language he was speaking. The word sounded pretentious, and Pressberg suspected that was exactly the way Tito liked it.

Tito Bronze had never been a name synonymous with art films. More like fuck films and exploitation garbage. It were as if the little man thought that by tossing in the word ‘cinema’ often enough, he could fool you into believing he was François Truffaut.

Pressberg was no longer even facing the screen, but he could still hear the munching of the three ashy men and the vaguely sexual moans of the redhead as she was torn apart.
If this were real life
, he thought,
she would be dead already, not coming.

But it wasn’t real life. It was the movies, and garbage like this played just as well in the Euro-markets (with a few cuts) as it did in America.

“Alright, I’ll turn it off. Is that okay? Is that what you want, you big baby?” Tito asked, heaving himself up from the half-eggshell chair with both arms. Tito’s open silk shirt billowed behind him like a cape as he rose.

The shirt was a disgustingly bright and brash floral pattern. Pressberg’s father had been fond of saying that you could tell a lot about a man from the way he dressed. This meant that Tito was a clown.

“In business,” Tito continued, “you are a very hard man, but in entertainment, you are as soft as her tits.” Tito pointed once more to the screen, indicating the redhead’s exposed breasts. They were slathered in fake blood so radiant and unrealistic that you could paint a barn with it.

“So this is it,” Pressberg asked. His tone was not defeated, per se, just resigned. He didn’t have to elucidate any further. Tito knew what he meant. What Tito heard was something like:
This is it? This is your next bafflingly profitable piece of shit? The next project I’m bankrolling?

“This is it. A film for the eighties. A film for every market,” Tito said, twirling the end of his off-white beard like some homeless magician.

“Except for Portugal,” Pressberg said under his breath.

“To tell you complete truth,” Tito said ignoring him, “I have already booked flight and put in order for equipment.” Tito would drop articles from his speech when he was trying to get away with something.

“Booked a flight?” Pressberg said, concerned with where his money was quite literally flying off to. “A flight to where?”

“You never heard of it,” Tito said. In twelve years of business, Pressberg had never refused to write a blank check for the director. Still, every time the funny little pervert tried to take more money from Roland, he wanted to snap his wallet shut and then bust Tito in the nose.

Tito must have sensed his agitation, because he added: “But this place is
bellissimo
and worth taking the flight. Caribbean Island. Pure and untouched by the cinema…and the fucking tourists. A dream location…and very cheap.”

“Caribbean? I thought you said that this asshole actually filmed in the Amazon.” Pressberg motioned at the projector to indicate that he meant the director of
Cannibal Fury Atrocity
(a direct translation from the original Italian title).

“Why shoot in Amazon when you can have palm trees with your jungle? Plus I no get eaten by fucking tiger or gorilla or some such shit,” Tito said and smiled. The long slit of a grin exposed the dead teeth at the back of his mouth. “Plus there are primitives all over. The Amazon has no monopoly on savages.”

“Fine, whatever. Bring it in fast and under budget. Don’t let these Italians beat you to the punch with one more film than they already have. I’m sure those Guinea bastards have made three movies during the course of this conversation.”

Pressberg put up a finger to signal that his terms were not yet finished. “Take the money, but promise me one thing.”

“Anything for you, maestro.”

“Promise that I never have to sit down and watch the fucking thing.”

Roland Pressberg made a theatrical gesture, wiping his palms on his chest and washing his hands of this whole damn thing. He was Pontius Pilate with a checkbook.

“That’s a promise, you big baby.” The two men clapped hands. Tito was slick with sweat and nicotine stains.

As much as it pained him, they shook on it.

Chapter 2

Jacque Fuller
Screenplay

Umberto poked Jacque in the ribs with a strong, bronze finger and told him to get the blonde girl’s attention. Jacque finished scribbling down the sentence he was working on before speaking to her.

“Pardon me,” he said. He had to yell slightly to make himself heard over the plane’s engine. “Umberto would like to ask you a question.”

“Yes,” she said, looking up and folding her glamour magazine against her lap. On the cover was Bo Derek’s smiling face. Jacque had read that Bo was following up
10
with a Tarzan picture. That was probably not a great idea.

Umberto reached across Jacque and offered the woman a pocket mirror with three perfectly sculpted lines of powder across it.

“No thank you,” she said, smiling wide. It was obvious that she was not looking to make a bad first impression.

With looks like hers, bad first impressions were practically impossible. She had the dimpled face of the all-American girl-next-door combined with the milk chocolate complexion of an African goddess. The blonde hair was from a bottle, but somehow it suited her.

She was still smiling as Umberto pushed the mirror closer. She was being too polite. This wasn’t going to be a long shoot, but Jacque guessed by looking at her that she was a people-pleaser.

Umberto began speaking in Italian. The girl looked at him, puzzled, and then back down at the mirror which was still extended. The Italian’s hands were shaking. Jacque decided to intervene before Umberto spilled the powder all over his lap.

“He says that it’s not cocaine,” Jacque said to the girl. “He’s crushed up some downers and thought they might help you get some sleep on the flight.’

“Could you tell him that it’s alright? Tell him that I’m fine,” the girl said and pressed Umberto’s manicured hand, and the mirror, away.

Jacque told him and Umberto shrugged. The bodybuilder-turned-actor mumbled some things in Italian that Jacque thought it was best not to translate for the girl. The massive golden-haired Italian turned to the seat behind him and offered Daria, the makeup girl, a line before taking two big snorts and cleaning off the pocket mirror himself.

After five minutes, he was snoring, and Jacque couldn’t decide which state of consciousness made the minor Italian movie star less appealing.

“What are you writing?” the blonde asked him. She was very pretty and only spoke English. Considering what he knew (that this was a Tito Bronze production and the fact that Jacque had never seen her before) he concluded that she was, in all likelihood, an American porno star.