Waiting for Columbus Page 9

  “Why are we leaving, Papa? Did we do something wrong?” Diego is six years old. He has been quiet most of the night and now, as he begins to get hungry, he also begins to hunger for information.

  “No, I said some things to the king and the king didn’t like what I said. That’s all. That’s why we’re leaving.”

  A long pause. The boy is tired, has been traveling at a severe adult pace along the dusty roads all night. It’s finally morning. Traveling at night is dangerous-insanity, some would say. Wild animals and desperate, vicious people lurked at the edges of highways at night. These two had little choice and they were lucky. They met no one, heard a rustling in the bushes twice but that was all.

  “What did you say to the king, Papa?”

  “Some things about taking chances. Some things about taking risks if you ever want to achieve greatness. Some things about guts. And I guess the king took the things I said to heart.”

  “Who were those men with swords?”

  “They were some of the king’s friends.”

  “Did they want to hurt us?”

  “They were angry. They wanted a map created by a man named Toscanelli.”

  “Did they find it?”

  “Actually, they did not find the map they sought. They did find a map, but not the one they were seeking. They couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “What was so great about the map?”

  “Well, Toscanelli felt we could get to the Indies by sailing west to an island called Antilla, and then beyond to the Indies and Japan. He figured Antilla was a halfway point toward the Indies. Well, he put Antilla on a map, and a little bit more.”

  “I’m tired, Papa.”

  They come over a rise in the road and see the lights of a small village. Several shops, a stable, and farther down the street, an inn. As they approach the town, Columbus can see several young men leaning against the front wall of the first shop, talking.

  “Look, Diego, someone here can tell us where we are. Someone there can tell us if we are yet in Spain.”

  Father and son walk inside-side-glance the leaning boys.

  “Hello,” a woman says. “How are you today?” She stands behind the counter smiling at them benignly. She has long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that reaches down the middle of her back to just above her buttocks.

  Columbus bows to her. “My lady,” he says, “we have just come from Portuguese territory and I was wondering if in fact we had crossed over into Spain.”

  “Huh?”

  He then tries the same question in Spanish with the same result. He attempts the question in English, then French, then Portuguese again. She seems to be permanently confused, addled beyond hope.

  “Is this Spain?”

  “ Spain?”

  “Yes, I need to know if this is Spain?”

  “ Spain is a good country, yes?” She smiles kindly.

  How can this woman not be aware of where she is?

  Columbus places his hand on the hilt of his sword. Grips it firmly. Visualizes this woman’s discombobulated head rolling on the clean floor, dumb smile fully intact. But then realizes she may be muddled in her head. This may not be her fault. But then why was she in this position of responsibility?

  “Come, Diego, we’re going.”

  Diego has picked up a chocolate bar.

  “Put that down. It’s bad for you.”

  “But, Papa-”

  “I said no.”

  The boys outside are gone, which makes Columbus twitchy. Where are they? He and Diego move swiftly through what Columbus hopes is the village of Palos. They try to stay in the light, avoid the back alleys. They do not encounter another soul. This, too, worries Columbus. Finally they walk slowly up a long hill to what Columbus hopes is the Franciscan monastery at La Rábida. There is no sign. There were no signs. Nothing that indicated a location. Columbus is beginning to think he’s in a bad dream. Apart from the fact that it looks like every monastery he’s ever seen-stone walls around an enclosed inner courtyard, the thick wooden door-he’s nowhere near certain this actually is a monastery. He is tired beyond tired, paranoid, and scared. He knocks on the door, then turns around to see if anybody has followed. He knocks again. He’s not thinking straight-and the boy cannot be expected to go any farther. Either they are in Spain and safe, or he will beg sanctuary at this monastery.

  Father Antonio de Marchena opens the door. By necessity, this is a slow and hesitant movement. The father has a friendly, welcoming face. He is not an old man but is accustomed to being around older men, and so his body language is mismatched to his age: he moves a bit slower than he needs to and squints when he doesn’t really need to squint. His physical health is fine, and his eyes are perfect. One could not say the father is fat, but he is certainly well fed, and there is, of course, a vineyard attached to the monastery.

  ***

  “You what?” Father Antonio says, smiling.

  They have been sampling the wine, an amber-colored white with an earthy, nutty flavor, served slightly chilled with cheese and bread on the side. The monks have been producing the Condado Pálido wine for as long as the oldest of them remembers.

  “In retrospect, it was not wise. But I was angry. And it was only the truth.”

  “I hope if you ever get a chance to pitch your idea to Ferdinand, that you apply a little more tact.”

  Diego is sleeping, and while Columbus was tempted to sleep as well, there was something in him that would not stop. He was too wound up. Columbus was relieved to learn that they were, in fact, in Spain.

  “King John does not joke around. If he sent men after you, you’d do well to align yourself with a different king or queen. What did you say?”

  “He’s an imbecile. I told him he was an imbecile. Sometimes these things just come out, especially when I am faced with an enormous stupidity.”

  “Kings and queens are rarely wise-they’re certainly not born with any special degree of intelligence. Decisions are thrust upon them, and if they have good advisers, they sometimes make good choices. But it is even more difficult to rule if your main concern is hanging on to an empire to rule. The people tend to get lost along the way.”

  “Three months! They had enough information to make a decision in a week, a few days. But they took three months! What in hell were they doing all that time? I offered them a direct route to the kingdom of the khan. A direct route to Marco Polo’s Asia.”

  “They were waiting for news of the African route to the East Indies.”

  “Yes, I know. Many have attempted-”

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “Dias is back. He found a way around the southern point of Africa.”

  “Dias made it?” Columbus ’s face goes white. He hears the fire in the corner. He knows a fire like this ought to take the chill from the room, but he is cold to the bone. The light from the fire flickers in the wine. Dias found a new route to the Indies and made it back. Dias made it.

  Father Antonio waits until the stone of this news has had time to sink to the bottom of whatever water exists inside Columbus. He does not mind the silence-respects the enormity of such news to a navigator, especially to one who wishes to cross an uncharted ocean.

  Columbus begins to embrace all the doubts that have been lurking in the shadows of his hope.

  “There is no question about this?”

  “None.”

  “I was plan B, then. Never seriously considered.” Columbus drifts into the realization he’d only been humored for the past months.

  “It seems that way.”

  “Have you more of this wine?”

  Father Antonio pours-fills his glass.

  “Getting stupid with wine will not make Dias go away. Nor will it buttress your belief in the western route. Nor will it get you an audience with the Catholic kings. And it will only temporarily make you feel better.”

  “I am told it is very difficult to meet with the king and queen. I
t may be years before I can plead my case. So I’ll take feeling better temporarily. Tonight, temporary is plenty.”

  “And tomorrow morning?”

  “I am only here, right now. Tomorrow morning is not important. I am alive and my son is safe. This wine is excellent.”

  “Then let me offer a small lecture, just in case you decide to press ahead with your scheme. Ferdinand and Isabella need money. They’re spread thin with the war against the Moors in Granada, and problems with infrastructure, and pressure to get rid of the Jews. Even Portugal is saber rattling, poking around for a fight. So money is the key. If you can promise money, with only a small amount to fund your venture up front, you’ll get your ships.”

  “I definitely need more wine.”

  “I know that nothing I say will cure what ails you. But proving the Portuguese wrong, making the western route a reality-bringing home gold and riches-this will gall King John more than anything else you could do. But you are right. This sort of talk is for tomorrow. Sailing off the edge of the world is a morning conversation.” He smiles and the missing teeth on the upper left side of his mouth become obvious.

  Columbus sighs. “Tonight, my fine little monk, I do not wish to be cheered, or hopeful, or happy. I am disheartened and this is not a crime. I am without hope-also not a crime. And thanks to you, I am safe. I only wish to be lost in this wine, warmed by this fire… and then sleep. Tomorrow, tomorrow will take care of itself.”

  “Okay, okay, wallow in self-pity tonight, but take this little bit of information to bed with you, Mr. Columbus.” The monk stands up, tosses another hunk of wood onto the fire. “I can get you an audience with the queen. Next week.” Father Antonio gently pulls the door shut behind him. Just before the door clicks, he adds: “Close your mouth, Mr. Columbus, or the flies will get in. Sleep well.”

  ***

  In the morning, Diego has already eaten breakfast and is playing in the courtyard with an orange cat when Columbus lifts his sorry head from the pillow.

  “Coffee,” he says in the dining hall. He feels sick to his stomach-does not know for sure if the coffee will stay down but he’s willing to try. It’s more for the comfort, the normalcy of drinking coffee in the morning. He hopes the routine will dispel the pain in his head. He takes his mug, sits in the shade of an enormous oak, and watches Diego.

  Father Antonio sits down behind him. “This came for you this morning,” he says, handing Columbus an envelope. “It’s scented.”

  Columbus sniffs at the envelope. Sickeningly sweet and pungent. He places it beside him on the ground and closes his eyes. “Just kill me,” Columbus says.

  Father Antonio hands him a mug. “Drink this. All of it.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. It’s a sort of whiskey mixed with cream and sugar. You won’t exactly be out of pain, but you won’t care.”

  Columbus drinks the thick liquid and almost immediately no longer feels nauseous. Eventually he rips open the envelope. It’s a rhyming birthday card but it’s not his birthday. It won’t be his birthday for months. It’s signed, “Love, Cassandra.”

  “Good news I hope,” the father says.

  “Birthday greetings but it’s not my birthday.”

  “So good wishes but at the wrong time.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You and Diego arrived last night. You were well-met.” The father smiles, pours more of the creamy liquid into Columbus ’s mug.

  “How is it that I got mail when just last night I could not have told you where I was?”

  ***

  Consuela wakes up with a start and in a sweat. She was dreaming about fishing. She and Columbus were fishing somewhere in the mountains. There were several bottles of wine cooling in the stream. The air was fresh and exquisite. She remembers breathing deeply and drawing great pleasure from the scents of pine, the forest bottom, the water, and the alpine flowers, which seemed to be everywhere she looked.

  He said he loved fishing-how many days ago was that? But the subject of fishing has never come up again. At the time, she’d thought, well, sure, you go to sea and there are fish in the ocean. Good that you like fishing. Better that you like eating fish. But this fishing in her dream, in a stream with a long pole and a snaky line, is something quite different than she imagined.

  “It’s like throwing,” Columbus had said in her dream. He was wearing hip waders, a khaki shirt, and a duckbill hat, and smiling. His hair looked healthy-was pulled back into that ridiculous ponytail he likes. His eyes were penetrating, alive. He was beaming.

  She was naked. Completely naked, standing in the cold water up to her crotch, her feet grounded in the sand beneath the stones. But her nakedness seemed ordinary. He barely looked at her. It was as if she was always naked. She did not feel the cold. The water sporadically splashed her hips and belly. Eventually she got the hang of it, managed to cast the line along the surface of the water to where she wanted it to go, and caught several fish. In the dream, Consuela enjoyed standing in the water with the mountain peaks in the distance, fingers of white down the slopes, the pines enclosing the stream, the sun on her skin, the sunlight splicing, glancing off the water and sparkling in her eyes.

  Then they were eating the fish out of a frying pan, over a fire. The fish were fried in butter-he throws crushed pepper and salt on top. He moves the fish around the pan with a stick. She and Columbus eat the fish and drink the wine. It’s white wine in the stream. Three bottles of a sturdy pinot grigio. They drink from the bottle. The wine bursts with flavor-pear and hints of apple. It is so cold it hurts her teeth. She does not dress herself. It was not an option. Nor does Columbus notice she is without clothing. It does not seem to matter.

  When Consuela wakes up, it’s her nakedness in his eyes that is distressing. At the bottom of her discomfort is the realization that in this dream of fishing in the mountains with Columbus, she was happy. This happiness, despite her vulnerability. She can’t remember the last time she felt so happy.

  ***

  Columbus is lying facedown on the massage table. His snoring thunders like an ugly rasping storm as Tammy massages his back and upper shoulders. She’s been working on him for half an hour. He’s been asleep for ten minutes. He moaned with pleasure for the first twenty.

  Somewhere down the hall of D wing a telephone is ringing. There is no machine attached to this phone and it’s not forwarded to reception, so it rings for a good long time. Each ring has a cutting edge to it. This is no twitter. There are sharp-toned bells in this phone. Finally the caller gives up.

  ***

  “It’s for you,” Beatriz says. “It’s a woman.” She swishes quickly from the room and Columbus calls after her.

  “What’s for me?”

  “That thing there,” she says, her voice a cold echo down the stone hallway. “There’s a voice in it asking for you. You should pick it up and speak to it.”

  He picks it up and brings it close to his mouth.

  Hesitantly. “Hello?”

  “ Columbus, it’s me.”

  He looks around the room. Stone walls, simple wooden furniture, a tapestry, and four candles on a simple table.

  “Hello?” he says.

  “It’s Isabella, Chris.”

  He thinks he should stand, or bow, or something. Realizes he’s already standing and does not really know what he would bow to. Finally he takes off his hat.

  “Your Majesty,” he says.

  “Look, just listen. I have to meet you. The deal is going to fall through.”

  “What?” He cannot hear the specific words she speaks. He only hears the loveliness of her voice. An excitement overwhelms him. Her voice is a hymn. I must be dreaming, he thinks. This cannot be real. The queen is in Barcelona. Either I am dreaming or I am mad.

  “Chris,” she screams. “Do you hear me? The deal is going down in flames. Las Palos has the king’s ear and he says you can’t make it. The king is listening. You have to get your skinny little ass to court and
fight for your ships.”

  “I think I am having a dream,” he says. “But it’s the middle of the morning. I am awake, yet-”

  “No, it’s me, Isabella. Do you hear me? Las Palos says the world is bigger than you say it is. He says you’re way off in your calculations. You have to tell the king what you told me. You have to show him the things you showed me. I’ve set up an appointment for you-”

  “You are in my dream. I can hear you but I cannot see you. You sound far away but still wonderful. I can see your face only if I close my eyes.”

  “You stupid ass, get your head out of the clouds.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, my queen. I will get my head out of the clouds.”

  Then faintly: “Scribe! We’re going to have to write him. This isn’t going to work. Our Columbus is apparently incoherent. Get me a courier for this letter. Hurry up!”

  “What? No. A courier, not a courtier.”

  Columbus puts the thing down and wanders out into the garden. A most interesting experience, he thinks. I am hearing the queen’s voice in my head. Perhaps I have gone mad. Perhaps tonight I will bark at the moon, renounce my faith in God, and be burned painfully and efficiently by the bloody Inquisition.

  ***

  Beatriz comes to get him in the map room. He is there with his bottle of wine every afternoon, studying the charts. Sometimes he is quiet and solemn. Other times he rages in the small room, paces frantically.

  “They’re stuck in their minds! They still think Jerusalem is the center of the world. And regardless of the facts, they do not budge. They do not perform geography. They create statements of Christian dogma. Their orbis terrarum, their mappae mundi are more philosophical statements than maps. The church knows nothing about mapmaking!”

  Beatriz approaches from behind and starts to massage his shoulders.

  She begins to take the tension from him with strong, loving hands. Then quietly, he says, “If Jesus had lived in the Canary Islands I would have already been across the Western Sea to the Indies and back again. Stupid ignorant bastards.”