Waiting For Columbus (25 page)

Lucia is tall and blond. Her front teeth have a pronounced gap. Her smile, Emile notices immediately, is self-conscious. She smiled as he introduced himself, but then turned her face slightly sideways. She and Emile stand on the front step of her house, on the outskirts of Jaén. She’s wearing a black, wraparound sweater that reaches mid-thigh. The sound of children playing comes from inside.

“He called you Isabella, this man?”

“Yes, I told my sister, she’s a reporter at the newspaper. He was looking for enough money for a train ticket. He insisted on calling me Isabella. I don’t mind … My mother was named Isabella.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Is he dangerous?”

“No, not as far as I know.”

“I didn’t think so. He was charming, not at all frightening. He talked about his ships. He has three ships, docked somewhere down south, I think.”

This stops Emile. Three ships? The guy owns three ships and has no money? Three ships and he’s scrounging his way through southern Spain? And why would he be going to Morocco? He makes a mental note to get his assistant to check on any active cells in Morocco. But if he was really involved in a terrorist cell, he would not have mentioned Morocco. That can’t be where he’s headed. There’s something else going on.

Lucia continues. “He looked at me the way my husband looked at me for the first six months after we were married.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, my husband stopped looking at me that way. We’re still married but it’s different now. I miss that look.”

Emile smiles. He wonders if Lucia still looks at her husband the same way she did before they were married. “I’m sorry about your husband,” he says, “but I meant the man who called you Isabella.”

“Yes, of course you did. I’m sorry. He said he needed to get to Marbella, on the coast. But he had no money. He said he would arrange to pay me back but I don’t really care about that.”

“Where was it that this conversation took place?”

Lucia points down the street. “The café on the corner. The Velema.”

“By the men playing boules and smoking cigars?”

“Yes,” she smiles. “The neighborhood elders. They were there that day. They’re in the park almost every day.”

“Mom. Mary won’t share the crayons.” It’s a girl’s voice from inside.

Lucia pokes her head back into the house. “Solve the problem, Felipa. You’re a smart girl. Find the middle ground.”

Lucia turns to Emile. “I am neither stupid nor naïve, Mr. Germain. He seemed a bit desperate, sad, lost. He said he needed to get to Marbella. I was able to help.”

“Emile, please. Call me Emile. I hope I haven’t insinuated that you were stupid. I do not think you’re stupid. Not in the least. I’m just trying to find this man.”

“I love my sister, but this newspaper story. I think it painted me as a bit of a kook.”

“From what I’ve seen and heard, this was only an act of kindness.”

Lucia blushes and smiles her awkward, turned-aside smile.

“Now, is there anything else—anything that we haven’t covered, or that wasn’t in the newspaper story—that you can remember about your conversation? No matter how small or seemingly insignificant.”

“I can’t think of anything, Mister, um, Emile.” She reaches behind her and places her hand on the doorknob.

He hands her his card. “If you remember anything, my cell-phone number is on the bottom.”

Emile is on the street, his car keys in hand, standing at his car door, when Lucia bounds down the step. “Hey, Mr. Germain! Emile! He did say something before he left. At the train station. I thought he was just being funny. I hadn’t thought of it until now.” Lucia wraps her sweater back around, then places both hands on the railing of the iron gate. The sweater unravels again, revealing a white camisole and panties. She does not bother to cover up. “He kissed my hand and said, ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Is that important?”

Dr. Balderas, hoping to impress the institute’s board of directors, takes an active interest in Columbus’s case, and more. He schedules twice-weekly sessions with Columbus and insists on a lucid patient, drops all medication. Columbus goes through withdrawal. Elsewhere in the institute, the acting director releases a bevy of patients back into the general public, saving money and lessening workloads.

He’s a short man. Balding with grace. A kind and concerned face
that immediately puts Columbus on edge. It’s a forgiving face that makes Columbus want to open up and talk honestly. He seems to genuinely care about his patients. Dr. Balderas has a soft voice—there are no downward inflections, and there is no condescension. It’s a voice that says: I’m not your doctor; we’re just a couple of guys having a chat about things.

“Hello, Bolivar. My name is—”

“I know who you are, Dr. Balderas. My name is Columbus. Christopher Columbus.” Columbus is not sure why, but this doctor frightens him a little. His attitude, a sort of let’s-get-down-to-business aplomb, for some reason is troubling.

“Okay, Mr. Columbus. I’ve taken over your case from Dr. Fuentes. I’ve read over his notes.” He pauses. “I have some preliminary questions. Will you answer some questions for me? I’d like to get more familiar with your case.”

“Sure, why not. Fire away.” This guy seems about 3,000 percent more competent than Fuentes, Columbus thinks. Again, an illogical, prickling fear rises in Columbus. A small part of him wants to run out of the office.

Dr. Balderas flips through some pages and picks up a pencil. “Okay, these are some fairly standard questions. The first question is about memory. Do you ever have memories come back to you all of a sudden, in a flood or like flashbacks?”

“That’s a definite yes.” Columbus tries to smile. “All the time.”

“Are there large parts of your childhood after age five that you can’t remember?”

“I don’t actually remember any of my childhood. Can’t recall a damned thing.”

“Okay. What about your handwriting. Have you ever noticed that your handwriting changes drastically or sometimes you don’t recognize it?”

“They don’t let us have pens here, Doc. We have to sign them out.
Which is ironic. Thing is, my handwriting is pretty consistent. Haven’t noticed any changes. It’s sloppy. So sometimes I don’t recognize what I’ve written.”

“You’ve been writing?”

“I mean generally.”

“Generally, as in, since you got here? I’d be interested in looking at some of your writing, Mr. Columbus.”

“There is no writing.” Columbus tries to keep his voice even, unaffected, but he can hear the edge in it. Thinks: Damnit, he’s going to want to see my snapshots, my pictures with no meaning, the word pictures where nothing moves.

Dr. Balderas backs off. “Anytime you’d like to share your writing, my door is open. I have just a couple more questions. Do you ever have long periods when you feel unreal, as if in a dream, or as if you’re really not there?”

Christ, that’s my life, he thinks. I feel like I’m going to wake up one morning and I’ll be at sea, on my way—and this nuthouse, a very vivid and very bad dream. “No,” Columbus says. “I’m fairly grounded in reality. That is, when I’m not medicated. Then things are hazy, unreal.”

“Ah, yes, I should have added, drugs or alcohol don’t count.”

“Do you have any booze in here? Because I could use a drink about now.”

“What do you drink?”

“Wine. The Scottish beverage. More wine.”

The doctor smiles. “I love wine. It would be nice to get out of here so you could have a drink whenever you want, wouldn’t it?”

Be careful, Columbus tells himself. He’s dangling the carrot. Trying to get you to expose your queen. “Is that a possibility?”

“Anything is possible, Mr. Columbus.” Dr. Balderas pushes on. “What about voices? Do you hear voices talking to you or talking inside your head?”

“You mean my conscience?”

“No, I mean real voices. Different voices.”

“There’s nobody in here but me. This is what I’ve been saying all along.”

“Okay, almost done. Do you ever feel like there’s another person or a group of people inside you?”

Columbus thinks about this. Sometimes he feels like there’s a whole life, most of which he’s unaware of, inside him. A life he can’t touch. There have been days, and weeks, when he wondered, doubted, lost faith in himself. “No,” Columbus says.

“Is there another person or more than one person inside you who has a name?”

“I said no.”

Dr. Balderas looks hard at his patient. Okay. Enough, he thinks. Stay with me. Stay with me.

“I understand you play chess, Mr. Columbus.”

“Not very well. I enjoy the game, though. Mostly I like to watch.”

Dr. José Balderas has played chess all his life. He is good enough to have played in a few minor tournaments. He went to Las Palmas in 1996, watched Kasparov take the championship—studied Kasparov’s match against Karpov for months afterward. He’d missed his son’s birthday while in Las Palmas.

Dr. Balderas flips his palm open in the direction of the chessboard set up between two armchairs in the corner of his office. It’s been a long time since he’s had real competition. It’s doubtful, but perhaps Columbus can actually play.

It’s a plain sandalwood board with comfortable black and white marble pieces. The doctor opens and a couple of moves later, Columbus sacrifices one of his pawns in the center of the board. In another fourteen moves the game is over.

Dr. Balderas studies the board for several minutes and then, astounded, tips over his king.

“The Budapest Gambit? At least a variation on it.”

“Something I’ve been working on.”

“I was not expecting a gambit.” Dr. Balderas is stunned. This loss takes him completely off guard. “Shall we play again?”

“I’m all out of tricks, Doctor. Perhaps another day.”

Columbus leaves the doctor at the chessboard, going over his moves, making notes on what happened. It’s the first time he’s lost a match in five years. After an hour, Dr. Balderas is certain of only one thing: it wasn’t a simple gambit. There were brilliant complexities at work, and Columbus’s skill as a chess player was certainly not a onetime trick.

Consuela fills her mug with coffee from the steel silo in the cafeteria. She walks with Columbus through an archway. “Columbus has charmed his way into the pants or skirts of every woman he’s met so far. Why not Isabella?”

“Because it’s forbidden,” he says and then stops walking, turns, and looks at her. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to. But he needs something from her, too. He needs her to be queen, not lover.”

They take their coffee outside.

“Is that the only thing stopping him from—”

“If they become lovers, everything changes. Maybe she doesn’t want him to traipse off across the Western Sea. And if they get caught, I can’t imagine.”