Waiting for Columbus Page 4

  “All stories are true, Fuentes.”

  ***

  Columbus is sitting on the end of his bed, rocking, looking directly out the window into a narrow gathering of palm trees. “Fuentes is an idiot,” he says to Consuela as she gathers a pile of laundry and pushes it into a cloth sack. “Are you sure he’s a doctor?”

  “I think he’s under a lot of stress,” she says. She pulls hard on the rope and ties a knot, then tosses the bag into the hallway. “I gather your session was less than satisfactory?”

  “Isn’t this the work of orderlies? Or nursing assistants?”

  “I don’t mind helping out where I can.”

  “Alternate persona, my ass,” he mutters. “Never heard of such a thing. I do know about Vikings, though. Everyone’s heard about Vikings.”

  ***

  Fourteen years before Columbus came to Palos with three ships in the harbor; fourteen years before he was to embark on an incredible, unprecedented, and courageous journey; fourteen years before all of this, he was on the open ocean near Iceland and had a chance meeting that connected the dots-sparked his obsession into a full-fledged fire.

  It’s a shouted conversation above howling wind and rain across the bows of two ships bobbing in the ocean off the coast of Iceland. Three men from three different lands who speak three different languages shout back and forth. The two vessels are loosely lashed together. Crew members from each craft keep a distance with their oars-pushing and giving way in order to maintain a half stability. This is a full-time fight against crashing together. Eight-foot swells don’t help. These rising and falling motions, and the blustering wind, are proving to be great inconveniences to conversation. The man from Britain, called Hardy, barely translates between Columbus and the big Norseman.

  “WHAT’S HE SAYING?” Columbus screams above the wind, frowning.

  All three men are soaked by a wave that sprays a fanned-out sheet of icy water across both vessels.

  Water dripping in rivulets from his nose, Hardy screams: “HE SAYS THERE ARE TALES ABOUT A LAND TO THE WEST.”

  “WEST? WHAT DOES HE MEAN WEST?” Columbus is thinking this is a joke. And then he thinks it could be the break he’s been waiting for, and then he thinks it’s a cruel joke, and then…

  Hardy begins to translate but Columbus stops him. “IS HE SURE THAT HE MEANS WEST? GET HIM TO POINT TOWARD THE WEST.”

  Hardy begins again to translate and Columbus stops him again. “ASK HIM IF HE’D TELL US ONE OF THE TALES ABOUT THIS LAND.”

  Hardy finally delivers his message and the Norseman smiles before he speaks.

  The Briton translates: “HE SAYS THERE’S A LAND BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA. HE SAYS THEY DO NOT GO THERE. BUT THERE ARE TALES OF SUCH A LAND. HE SAYS THEY ARE VERY OLD TALES. HE ALSO SAYS HE IS NOT GOING TO POINT.”

  “WELL ASK HIM HOW LONG IT TOOK THE PEOPLE OF THESE TALES TO SAIL THERE.”

  “HE SAYS DEMONS LIVE THERE.”

  “WHAT?”

  “MONSTERS.”

  “BUT HOW LONG DID IT TAKE TO GET THERE? AND WHERE DID THESE JOURNEYS BEGIN? HOW DID THEY NAVIGATE? BY WHICH STARS?”

  Hardy and the Norseman scream back and forth at each other, the Briton pointing west several times. Finally, the Norseman shakes his head.

  “HE SAYS THEY ARE JUST STORIES. SAGAS. HE SAYS DEMONS LIVE-”

  “BUT HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE TO SAIL THERE?” Columbus says. “ASK HIM AGAIN. HOW FAR?”

  “WHAT?” Hardy screams.

  “LET’S GO INSIDE THE CABIN! LET’S GET OUT OF THIS DAMNED RAIN.” Columbus points toward the door. “ASK HIM OVER.” He points at the cabin and then at the Norseman and back again.

  They both reach out a hand to the Norseman and pull him across. This maneuver is a trick of balance and timing between the rising and falling ocean, and the expanding and contracting gap between boats. A miscalculation could be deadly.

  Columbus marvels at the odd-looking craft with its dragon’s head. It’s the only contact they’ve had since leaving Britain.

  “Land is all around us,” the Norseman says, “to the west and to the east. My people have always known it.” They are huddled in the dim light of the small lower cabin. Chickens cluck in a corner.

  “What do you mean?” Columbus says. “What do you mean there is land all around?”

  “In every direction. My people believe there is land in all the directions. To the north and the south, east and west.”

  “Do your sagas mention the distance to the west?”

  “This I do not know: it’s not far.”

  “But how far? In days?”

  “Not many.” The Norseman looks evenly into Columbus ’s eyes. He smiles again. “From Iceland, to Greenland, and then to Vineland.”

  “ Vineland?”

  “That’s what the sagas call it.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “I cannot say. I have not been there.”

  “What do your sagas say it is like?”

  “It’s nice,” he says.

  “Nice?”

  “Beautiful. Green. And much rock.”

  “So the land to the west is beautiful?”

  “The sagas say so, yes.”

  “And how far are these lands?”

  “The sagas also say do not go there. There is only death there.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you so interested in this place? Why do you ask so many questions about the sagas? How is it that you are in these waters?”

  A creaking sound whines through the small cabin. Steam rises from a stove in the corner. The stench of sweat and smell of wet fur blurs the air.

  “We’re not so interested. Not really. Uninterested is more like it. How’s your fishing been going? As for us being here, we are… what’s the word? We are sailing out of Britain but we have made a diversion. A deviation. A digression in order to see what is there.”

  A voice from above shouts that they should move away from each other because the swells are growing.

  One of the crew hands the Norseman a steaming drink. Columbus looks at him carefully. He’s a big man. So big that he looks down on both Hardy and Columbus. Light-brown stringy hair. Eyes far apart and with the color of fair weather in them-an azure color they have not witnessed for a week.

  “So you’re saying your people have already been to the new lands across this sea?”

  The Norseman grins. His smile is generous and kind. There is almost pity hidden in this man’s face. “It’s a harsh land filled with demons. Horrible rocks and twisted trees. Twenty-five ships set out and only fourteen arrived. Many of our people were killed. We will not try to make a home there again.”

  Columbus tries to focus. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe and think of something to say. Go slow. “Why not go back? I mean to these new lands.”

  “These lands are not new. Our sagas date back five times a hundred years. There is nothing new about these lands.” The Norseman stands.

  The ship rolls to the port side and the sailors adjust their stance. They recognize the danger in that sudden shift and begin to move to the upper deck.

  The Norseman waits for the right moment and then jumps to his ship where three of his fellow sailors stop his momentum. He disappears belowdecks. His crewmen unfasten mooring lines and the two ships begin to drift apart.

  The vessels are thirty feet apart when the Norseman reappears from below. He tosses a leather bundle across the gap and the Briton catches it.

  They wave to each other. “Watch out for the Skraelings!” the Norseman shouts.

  “What did he say? Sky rings?” Columbus looks to Hardy but Hardy only shrugs.

  In the cabin, Columbus opens the bundle. Inside are three stones.

  “What the hell?” he says.

  “Rocks,” Hardy says. “Worthless rocks.”

  “This I can see.” Columbus spreads the leather wrapping flat on the table. Burned into the other side of this piece of leather is a very basic chart: Britain, Iceland, G
reenland, and then jagged inlets and a large, triangular landmass on the other side of the ocean with the name Vinilanda Insula across it.

  The sound of the ocean, water lapping the ship, creaking sounds. In the corner, chickens scratch at the wooden decking, looking for something left behind.

  “Does this look like Japan to you?” Columbus looks up from the map and finds Hardy’s eyes. “I think this looks like Japan.”

  Hardy glares at him. “How the fuck would I know? You’re not going to trust a Viking, are you? Are you daft, man? They’re a bunch of godless, filthy buggers. You’ll be sailing to your death if you give any weight to that chart. They kill and eat their own children is what I heard.”

  Columbus just smiles and nods. “How is it that you were able to speak his language?”

  “I’ve always had a gift with the languages,” Hardy says. “All I’ve got to do is hear it spoken. It doesn’t take much before I start to understand.”

  ***

  “There were days when I could not bear humanity. Days when I was disgusted. Days when I’d seen too much death, too much cruelty, violence, and despair,” he says. “All this, added to the search for funding and support for my voyage across the Western Sea, was a heavy load.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Consuela says, encouraging.

  Columbus takes a bite of his ham sandwich, followed by gulping half a glass of milk. Then another bite of his sandwich. “We all need sanctuaries, Consuela-places where we can feel safe.”

  ***

  When Columbus needed to escape his own mind and heart, he would go to Salvos’s bar, a hidden enclave two blocks off the river in Valdepeñas. Few people knew about it. It was widely rumored to exist. One would only wind up at this bar if somebody on the inside brought you. It’s an exclusive, unknown, run-down haven.

  Salvos is a pig of a man. He’s fat like a stuffed sausage and leers at most women, but he serves decent food and cheap drinks. He runs a couple of girls in one of the upstairs rooms. Both of these women know better than to approach Columbus, who has never taken advantage of their offers. The best thing about Salvos’s bar is that it’s a relatively safe place in which to speak. Salvos may be an ugly man, but he edits his clientele carefully. There are no ears from the Holy Brotherhood. No ears from the Inquisition. No clergy. It’s not a perfect system, but after any given night, what was said at Salvos’s place was swept up in the morning, carried across the threshold, and thrown into the Jabalón River. Also, this bar is, compared to most bars along the river, well ventilated.

  “Hola, Columbus,” Salvos says. “How many days does it take to sail to Japan?” He smiles. All his smiles are a variant of lecherous. Usually Columbus feels soiled after just looking at him. Mercifully, his service is not great, and his one waitress, Sophia, takes on most of the bar.

  “Ya, good one, Salvos. It gets funnier each time. Today it’s hilarious.”

  “What?”

  “Hilarious. It’s a word that means… really funny-mirthful.”

  “I know what hilarious means. Why is it hilarious today?” Salvos finishes pouring the wine. He leans toward Columbus as he passes the drink but he does not let go of the glass. They are stuck like two planets revolving around this glass of wine. “Seriously, how does it go, my friend?” Columbus is surprised that Salvos’s breath is not foul. He’s not sure what this is about-this suddenly serious and concerned Salvos. So he is honest. He’s got nothing to lose, especially in the safety of this temenos. “I have high hopes for Spain,” he says. “But it is difficult… sometimes I… I’m daunted.”

  Salvos considers this, releases the glass of wine, and whispers, “Noli nothis permittere te terere, my friend.”

  This stops Columbus. He did not expect Latin from this man. This blessing from such an unlikely source moves him. It props up his hope. He nods his thanks at Salvos. Indeed, he won’t let the bastards grind him down. Salvos grunts and moves to the end of the bar. Columbus watches in the mirror over the bar as the doorman opens the door the distance of two hands, enough for Salvos to see who is there. Having seen, Salvos shakes his head. The doorman closes the door and delivers the bad news to the man on the outside. Perhaps he advises the bar is full, or that it’s a private party.

  There are three booths at the back wall. Columbus likes the booths because he can spread out his charts and notebooks. There’s breathing room, elbow room, and they’ve got the best light. The candelabras are not bright but they hang low over the wooden tables.

  He’s just about to sit down when someone bumps into him, causing him to almost spill his wine. When he turns around he’s irritated. He is also instantly embroiled in a conflict of some kind. He appears to be in the middle of a standoff.

  “She’s a stinkin’ Jew and I won’t drink with Jews.” The man is massive, has a tattoo of a black skull across the top of his left hand, and spits when he talks. His hair is black, thick, and greasy. His tunic is filthy. Columbus can smell him from across the room. But regardless of the man’s odor and apparently foul disposition, Columbus reminds himself it’s just not a smart thing to confront large men with tattoos of black skulls on their hands, no matter how right you are about any given issue. This he has learned. Not much else, but this he knows for certain. The tattooed man looks down on a smaller man who stands in front of a woman. This big man has three friends behind him-hands on hilts. The tattooed man is the biggest of the lot, but the others are also undeniably large. The woman has her back to the wall and has been pushed there by a table-she can’t move. She’s bleeding from her lip and there’s a redness across her cheek, below her right eye. She does not wipe the blood. She is resolute and unflinching.

  “Juan?” Columbus says. “How are you, my friend?”

  Juan smiles. “Couldn’t be better. Just in the middle of something right now.”

  “I see,” Columbus says. He glances over at the four big men. He steps forward to the point where the man will have to step back in order to draw his sword if that’s the way this is going to play out.

  “What’s this about?” Columbus says.

  “She’s a stinkin’ Jew bitch.” The man spits out the word “bitch.”

  Columbus glances over his shoulder at Juan. “Brevior saltare cum de-formibus viris est vita, my friend,” he says.

  “Huh?” the big man says.

  “He said, life is too short to dance with ugly men.” Juan also steps forward, joins Columbus in crowding the giant. The tattooed man backs up a step, then another. Juan and Columbus take two steps forward. The big man’s three friends spread out.

  “Now why would you say such a thing?”

  “Well, you are ugly as sin,” Columbus says. “Surely you know this.”

  He appears to have no idea how to respond to this. Looks confused. “Look, this is not your concern. It’s about her. I want this fuckin’ Jew out of my sight. She’s a filthy whore. I will not drink with stinkin’ Jews. She and her kind bring disease, they bring the Black Death.”

  “You could leave,” Juan offers.

  “You defend this Jew? Why? She is no better than disease-infested cow shit.”

  “It’s not so much that I love Jews, but rather that I despise those who hate for no reason.”

  Tattoo man’s hand twitches slightly-a tell. Columbus can see Mr. Tattoo is about to draw his sword. He’s going to make that cross-body movement and draw his blade. This is when Columbus draws his own blade, an Italian-made dagesse. It’s a short blade and he does it quickly. The blade is at the tattooed man’s thick neck before his own sword is half drawn. Columbus is fascinated by the intense throbbing under the skin where the tip of his sword presses into tattoo man’s neck.

  “Stop,” Columbus says. “Enough. I just wanted a glass of wine, not a minor war.” All eyes are on Columbus.

  “Who are you?” the tattooed man says through clenched teeth. He moves his eyes toward Columbus -but moves nothing else.

  “I’m the guy holding a blade to your neck. I like Jews, and I�
�m rather fond of filthy whores. Tell your friends to get out.”

  “But-”

  “Now. Just do it.” He presses the point.

  Columbus doesn’t know much about swords, but any idiot could see this man’s weapon was way too long to be effective in close spaces. The tattooed man nods, delicately, toward his companions and they start to pick up their coats and bags-one guy pounds his drink down first.

  Salvos appears in the archway, slightly out of breath, a short thrusting sword in hand. The ring of a sword being drawn is a sound that cuts through any din. It’s not something he would ever miss. “Everything okay, my friend?”

  “Has this guy paid yet? And those?” Columbus motions with his chin in their general direction.

  “Yes,” Salvos says. He looks them over with a scowl.

  “They’re leaving. Those three first.” The crowd parts as the men make their way to the door. Columbus looks over at the woman who seems a bit shell-shocked. “What’s your name?”

  “Selena,” she says. There is vulnerability in her eyes but they are also ferocious. Columbus thinks he can smell vanilla.

  He turns his attention to the tattooed man. “Good-bye.” The big man backs away until Salvos grabs his shoulder and roughly guides him to the door.

  Columbus looks at Juan and Selena. “Join me for a drink,” he says.

  Up close, Columbus finds Selena to be stunningly beautiful. “Do you always draw such a crowd when you come into bars?” he says.

  Selena blushes. “Not usually. Do you always show off like that, with your knowledge of Latin?” Her eyes are downcast. But then she looks up with an even, self-assured strength. “I did not wish to have sex with him. Then my face accidentally ran into his fist, twice, and then… well, you know the rest. Thank you, by the way, for what you did. I’m in your debt.”

  “It’s nothing. You’re probably not even a Jew, are you?”

  She touches the gash on her right cheekbone. It’s stopped bleeding. She winces. “It was never about being a Jew or not being a Jew. He was only rejected and stupid.” Selena wears a long, maroon-colored skirt gathered above her waist, a blouse with tight sleeves, and no corset binds her bosom. This woman, Columbus finds out later, is a chambermaid. She’s gorgeous-apart from her injury, her skin is smooth, flawless, and her hair is an exotic tawny mane-yet she seems to have no awareness of her beauty, which only makes her more beautiful in his eyes. This is a woman with whom he would dearly love to dance-because life is also too short to dance with ugly women.