Waiting for Columbus Read online

  The orderlies dreaded going into this cell. Room. They dreaded going into this room. Dr. Fuentes insists his staff call the cells rooms. They’re far more like cells than rooms, but the doctor is the boss. Patient 9214 was crafty and fast. Further, he hadn’t weakened. At least, not physically. When they had to get in to clean or check on Columbus, Consuela would dope him up on as much diazepam as she could safely administer. Even then, while slower, he was still dangerous. He was always good for one crazy lunge or kick. There were times, in the weeks following his arrival, when Consuela had to swallow fear as she looked at him; she had to will herself to be calm, to breathe with long, even inhalations. She remembers being scared silly.

  Up until a few weeks ago, Consuela did not go into his room unless she was with an orderly. Those first few days, when he was restrained, she was fine being alone in the room. But after the restraints came off, he was unpredictably violent. He’d been incoherent, with occasional bouts of lucidity and a lot of gibberish. Even now he still strikes out with a righteous violence, and his resolve to escape is emphatic. Columbus wants to go to sea. This is clear from his babble. Apparently something horrible will happen out there. Something only he can stop. There are days when Consuela wonders if she should just tell him how the real Christopher Columbus has already made the journey to the New World -that it’s all been discovered. And it wasn’t exactly India or Japan. It was more, a dangerous wasteland filled with risk-not exactly profitable. Not much gold. Some interesting birds. A lot of land for the taking. The real Christopher Columbus has been to the New World and returned. But she thinks that telling this story would be mean. This man does no harm by believing himself to be Christopher Columbus.

  For the remainder of April and all of May, Columbus is a testing ground for antipsychotic drug regimens. Near the end of May, Dr. Fuentes announces his engagement to the nurse who was very likely in his office that April day. Sergio, one of the better orderlies, dies in a climbing accident in the mountains at the beginning of June. And Consuela carries on as usual. She continues to date but finds most men uninteresting after a few hours of telling lies over dinner. Once the thin veneer of genuinely interesting wears off, Consuela escapes into drinking too much wine, which eventually leads to her saying something true-usually brutal and true. And, confronted by blunt truth, most men run screaming from the room. Second dates for Consuela were rare.

  ***

  June 25 is Consuela’s birthday. When she arrives at work, she looks through the barred hatch at the man who has only a number in her world, though he does have a name for himself. Officially she refers to this man as patient 9214. Unofficially he is, of course, Christopher Columbus.

  Consuela stops in front of the door to patient 855’s room in D wing. Inside is the pope-at least, a patient who thinks she’s the pope. Rather optimistic to think there could actually be a female pope in the first place, and of course, she is not the pope.

  Regardless of the odds against there ever being a female pope, Consuela likes this one. Pope Cecelia the First. There is a regal gentleness about her. Consuela likes chatting with her, is always blessed by her, and certainly does not mind kissing her ring every time she enters or leaves the room. She’s not sure if this is what happens with the real pope. Do people kiss his ring? Is kissing somebody’s ring the highest form of respect?

  Consuela opens the door. “Good morning, Your Holiness.”

  “Oh, good morning, dear. Bless you. Bless you.”

  The pope is wearing two housecoats and an ornate purple smoking jacket. She smiles her gap-toothed smile at Consuela. Ashen skin, sandy-gray hair. She stretches out her hand and Consuela recognizes her cue.

  She takes her leave of the pope and checks again on Columbus.

  He’s sleeping soundly. The light in the room is faint but she can see a few strands of gray hair across his pillow. Consuela pushes the viewing portal door shut and turns around. She shakes her head, partly with pity and partly with admiration at his dogged, undaunted determination. In his almost lucid moments, he has never wavered from his story. He is Christopher Columbus, and his mission in life is to venture out onto the Western Sea, straight across the dark ocean, until he finds a route to the East Indies and China. He is going to find a new way to acquire the much-needed spices from the East. Even inside his drug-induced state, his babbling confirms this obsession.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For Consuela, mornings at the Sevilla Institute for the Mentally Ill are divided by routine, peaceful and usually uneventful. She arrives early, makes coffee, and moves gently into her day. She checks on seventeen patients, makes notes on anything unusual, and then has time to herself.

  Two days after her birthday, Consuela is a couple of hours into her shift when Columbus stands up and looks directly into the two-way mirror, behind which Consuela is slumped with her morning coffee, her legs over the arm of the chair. She’d been thinking about a man she slept with a few weeks back-the first in more than a year. She’d been imagining him and actually feeling quite aroused. His name was Antonio and he was certainly not a keeper. But as a physical distraction, he was exquisite. He was a generous lover, thought about her pleasure, liked to kiss. Consuela had an hour to herself every morning, in between her various duties at the hospital. This morning, she wants to meander with Antonio. Just a little reverie. Just a little drift into recent memory. The door is locked. All is well and quiet. She just needed to focus. But Columbus looks directly at her-looks straight into the mirror. “I know you’re there, Consuela,” he says, smiling, his eyes flashing with clarity.

  She drops her coffee mug on the floor. It shatters-hot coffee splashes up her legs.

  “Jesus!” Relax, she tells herself, he can’t actually see you. But it’s unnerving.

  He clears his throat. Swallows. “It’s time, Nurse Consuela, that I told you about how I got my ships. It wasn’t easy, you know. I want to tell you the one true and only, emphatically accurate, and undeniably authentic story of how Christopher Columbus”-he smiles a little boy’s smile, innocent and playful-“that’s me, got his ships and set to sea.”

  She has no idea about the true identity of this man. But what if we are what we believe ourselves to be? Consuela has no doubt about his belief that he is, in fact, Christopher Columbus. That’s the easy part.

  ***

  Everybody knows Columbus had three ships. A couple of days after Columbus announces his intention to tell her his story, Consuela gets the twelve-ship dream, a story that is more of a delusion built into a forgery of a dream. Dr. Fuentes, who seems distracted, verging on disinterested, has directed her to listen carefully to everything Columbus says and to make notes. This is what she does.

  “I had a dream,” Columbus says. His back is to her. He’s picking at a scab of lifted paint on the windowsill-flicking at the jagged, pale-green edge. Thick woolen socks on his feet and a housecoat that is never done up constitute his only clothing. Consuela glances at this patient who is so uninterested in wearing anything but socks and a robe. She has adjusted to his oddly timed erections, which she gets to see quite often. She has become used to his body-the parts that, as a psychiatric nurse, she would not normally see. Columbus ’s erections have become common in her work world. She was fascinated, in the beginning, to have these semi-regular glimpses into the workings of male genitalia. It was a rare morning that Columbus did not wake up with an erection. He seemed to be unaffected by these pointed morning intrusions. He just carried on. She did not find this to be erotic. It wasn’t sexual. She did not think for a second that she was the inspiration. But there was something intimate and vulnerable about his semi-nakedness-beyond the obvious. Compared to the nurses she worked with, Consuela hadn’t had much experience with men, even though she had been married once, when she was seventeen. Not a sound decision on her part. She married as a way to get out into the world, away from home. And Rolf could dance like an angel. Dancing with Rolf, for Consuela, was like flying. But the man was not yet a man-completely jealou
s, macho stupid, controlling, and nowhere near to understanding himself. Emotionally retarded. Intellectually banal. He was a bodyguard for one of the ministers in the government. She couldn’t figure out why a minister of Health and Consumption would need a bodyguard, but she never asked the question out loud. Rolf was probably a very good bodyguard. He was self-important but serious about his duties. Eventually he found a woman even less evolved than himself, and one day Consuela came home from the university, put her books on the kitchen table, and knew he was gone. She didn’t even bother with the faintly hopeful “Hello” or “Anybody home?” or “Honey, I’m home.” Nothing had changed physically in their apartment-Rolf took nothing with him except for his clothes and all the money from their bank account. Even though Consuela knew it was for the best, she still grieved. She vowed to live in darkness until she felt better, and used an entire roll of Rolf’s duct tape on the light switches so she was forced to live up to her vow. Her illogical sadness lasted three weeks, two cases of wine, three bags of oranges, and forty candles. And at the end of her grieving, she only remembered that Rolf was a very good dancer, a good kisser, and always smelled good.

  “I had a dream,” Columbus says again, a little louder this time.

  “Really! A dream! Fascinating!” Consuela is changing his sheets. She had no idea he was at the edge of a story.

  Columbus smiles. “Your humor, this sarcasm of yours, becomes more and more appealing to me. I love it. In fact, your smart-assery is so witty I’m stunned into silence by its brilliance. How could I possibly carry on? I would rather have one of Nurse Felicia’s enemas, with all its implicit unpleasantness, than go on with this conversation.”

  She stops with a pillowcase halfway snuggled onto his pillow, looks at him with clean eyes. She quickly finishes his bed, tucking and folding back the angles with the same care she gives her own bed. He does not turn around. Remains propped sideways in the window, seated on the sill. She does not want to appear eager. It’s raining. A drizzle at best, but steady since 5 A.M. Consuela knows this because she starts work at 4:45 A.M. “Okay. Okay,” she says. “Tell me about your dream.”

  The gray invades the room. The rain light seems almost a physical presence as he begins to speak, his words cutting through the gloom-his word pictures carving space.

  ***

  “Perhaps,” he says, “it begins with fourteen ships embedded in a dream of a dream, tucked away inside yet another dream… And at the bottom of this illusory funnel is a glorious beginning… Imagine Columbus arrived. Imagine him in his polished breastplate, about to step onto the beach of Japan or India after many days at sea. After all the doubting and lying and cajoling, he and his men are finally in the land of Marco Polo. They did it by sailing straight across the Western Sea. Can you imagine that?”

  ***

  Columbus thinks he remembers it. Thousands of cheering people, brushed clean by unreality. Everyone smelled good. There was no reeking, fetid human stench. No rotting meat. No toilet water in the streets. No boatloads of expulsed Jews in the harbor. No inquisitors lurking in the backstreets. No disease. No. This was a brilliant parting. The air was filled with flower petals. Colorful banners snapping in the breeze. The thousands were waving and shouting their good wishes. Even the king and queen were there, nodding their approval, watching with the same hopeful eyes as everyone else. Then fourteen ships put out to sea. Fourteen ships unfurled their sails and moved out of the harbor.

  At some point near the beginning of their journey, after a particularly severe storm, two ships turned back. They had developed problems, either with the ships or with the hearts of the men who sailed them. So now, many days across the Western Sea, only twelve ships are anchored off the coast of first land. Many days? That’s the best he can do! Many days! Many days could mean anything. A hundred? Two hundred? Twenty-one? Forty? What? This lack of detail in his dream vexes. He keeps turning the dream over and repeating the loss of the two ships, and the arrival of the twelve at this place, wherever that is. No matter how many times he flips it over it always comes out as “many days across the Western Sea.”

  They smelled it first. At dusk a warm breeze arched over them from the west. The cool underbelly scent of plants and trees wafted out to greet them, to draw them closer. Fragrances most of the men had never experienced. The scent is green and luxuriant. And there were birds. Multicolored birds circling their ships and landing in the masts. Birds with secrets, he remembers thinking.

  Some of the men argued as to which one of them spotted land first. There was a substantial financial reward for being the one who first brought the news of land. In the end, the captain of the lead ship takes credit, takes the reward because he believed he was the first to see the hazy outline of land. Yes, yes, yes, the boy, Alphonso, called out that land was there, but nobody could see! They all looked and there was nothing-just the gray cloud, swirling mist, nothing! It was the captain who said “There” and pointed at it. The boy saw nothing!

  The crewmen all knew it wasn’t him. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is they have arrived after a long journey many thought would end in starvation and death. Despite the naysayers and the many meetings and persuasions and backroom deals in Spain, they have finally arrived. Their spirits are high because there are going to be rewards for taking this risk. No one is thinking about history or legacy-they are motivated by something more basic. Fame and title, and the immediate: riches. Nobody knows how much gold and silver there will be. Nobody knows if the current owners of gold and silver value it as much as these hungry men do.

  Darkness falls and a thick mist eddies around the ships, but every now and then they can see the tops of trees teasing in the dim light.

  In the lead ship, a ship called the Isabella, there is a man writing in his journal. He is writing about how many days they had been at sea. “We have been at sea for,” he writes, but the pen stops and the ink blotches the paper. He tries it again. “We have been at sea for…”

  But surely this is important, he thinks. We’ve been at sea for how many days? Why don’t I know! How can I not know? I am the captain of this venture!

  “Boy,” he snaps. The captain’s boy, Alphonso, approaches the desk. He has been in the corner polishing the breastplate Columbus will wear in the morning when he steps ashore in India, or Japan, or wherever this place is.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy says slowly.

  “I have a question for you. It is a question to which you should have an answer.”

  “I will do my best, my captain.” Alphonso is not afraid of Columbus but he is aware of his volatile temperament. The captain sounds grumpy right now so caution is warranted.

  “How many days have we been at sea?”

  Alphonso knows this number. Every one of the crew knows the number. It is the most important number they have. It is more important than birthdays or years of age. But because it is so important, Alphonso thinks Columbus is testing him-testing his intelligence. It’s a trick question and so requires a careful answer. “We have been at sea since we left from port,” he says, smiling.

  Columbus sighs. “Yes, that is true. And that translates to how many days, exactly?”

  “As many days as it took us to make this glorious journey,” Alphonso says. Columbus frowns. Alphonso notices this shift, so he decides to lay on the God-and-country routine in order to protect himself. “This journey that was inspired by God and completed in God’s name and was performed in the name of our king and queen.” He’s more than a little wary now. Columbus is glaring at him.

  Columbus sighs more heavily. “Yes, yes, yes. God, God, and more God. King and queen. Queens and kings. But how many days, exactly? The number. The number, Alphonso!”

  “Ten?” he says timidly.

  “Do you know how to count?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  They both turn to look toward the door as they hear steps down the inner corridor. Someone knocks heavily. Three quick, light knocks followed by a clunk. />
  “Come in, Bartholomew,” Columbus says.

  The door creaks open and Bartholomew enters. He is smiling, beaming with joy. One would be hard-pressed to see any resemblance in these brothers. Bartholomew is wider in his face with a thick, black beard, and his eyes are dark and set farther apart than Columbus ’s. His voice booms, where his brother’s voice commands. “In the morning you will finish what you started,” Bartholomew says. “Those dullards in the universities will shake their heads in wonder and awe. They will have to bow down to you, Christopher! You will be more famous than kings and queens. In the morning we will meet with the rulers of India or of Japan, and we will let them know that Spain is open for business from across the ocean!”

  He produces a bottle of wine from his robes and holds it up. “I think we deserve a drink, my brother. It’s been a long, hard journey. I have been saving this.”

  “Alphonso,” Columbus says. “Glasses.” Alphonso makes his escape toward the cabinet in which glasses are kept. “Nothing is finished, my brother, until we get back to Spain and prove we’ve been here. By the way, Bartholomew, what is the official count on the number of days we have been at sea?”

  “The official count? There is no official count. That would mean there is also an unofficial count. There is only one count and you know-Are you all right? Are you feeling ill?”

  “A little weary, perhaps.”

  An uncomfortable silence grows between them. Columbus dearly wants someone to tell him the number of days they’ve been at sea, and Bartholomew wonders about his brother’s mental well-being. Alphonso-who doesn’t want any more trick questions-avoids eye contact and goes back to his polishing.