Waiting For Columbus (26 page)

“It’s like this,” Isabella says. “To begin this, with even a single passionate, deep, lusty hot kiss, is death—very unpleasant death.” She stops walking. But at the same time, I want him. How do I hold him without holding him? And is this fair? She walks the streets of Sevilla, cloaked in dark robes, a hood pulled across her face, talking—muttering—to herself.
Her guards are on the perimeter, moving tree to tree, building to building, street corner to street corner, like a pack of constant wolves.

She tries again, imagining him standing in front of her. “Okay, it’s like this.” She pauses at the edge of an orange grove. Inhales the rich nascent blossom scent. Looks at the hazy moon, stuck in the branches of trees. “This would be a death sentence for us both. It is dangerous to even think about this joining—perhaps more dangerous than setting sail into an unknown ocean.” This is ridiculous. She would have to be completely alone with Columbus to have this conversation, and that will not happen—not if she wants to live. There will be no trysts. No surrender to lust. She moves toward Gabriel, her chief of staff and head of security. He is, for Isabella, so profoundly nondescript that he is the perfect bodyguard. She smiles. Even among these trees, he blends in.

“We will visit Mr. Columbus,” she says to Gabriel, “and we will discuss his proposed voyage. Set up a meeting.”

“Is that the best course? Will this not instill hope for a hopeless proposal?” Gabriel has been her constant companion, bodyguard, and unfettered confidant for more than ten years. These are the kinds of questions she expects from him. But today she’s just irritated. Gabriel has shoulder-length hair that has always been, in all of Isabella’s memory, in a neat ponytail. It makes him look more severe than he really is.

“Just set up the meeting. I can handle Mr. Columbus and his obsession with sailing away in the name of Spain. Make it for tomorrow.”

Noon the next day, they are seated in a small chamber inside the Catedral de Santa María de la Sede. Candelabras surround them. A blurry haze of colored light in a high stained-glass window. The light in the room flickers, bends, and sways across the walls.

“Tell me again about your proposed voyage, Mr. Columbus. We need convincing before we consent to this idea.”

“I am not sure I understand your question, Your Majesty.”

“I mean, tell me, what’s it like at sea? We want to understand the attraction—the motivation.”

Isabella is elevated; her chair on a small platform, a long red curtain puddles the floor behind her. Columbus sits in a lower chair directly in front of her. He looks tired, disheveled, Isabella thinks. His shoulders are more rounded, if that’s even possible. She makes a mental note to tell Gabriel to give Columbus enough money to buy some new clothes. “Convince me.”

“At sea, the ocean is an undulating, constantly changing force. Our ships, at full sail, penetrate the ocean, move through the waves with a rhythmic, plunging energy. And yet we are but a tickle on the skin, a brush of a finger along the lower back … of the ocean.”

Breathe, Isabella, she tells herself. Breathe.

“And it must be something,” she says, “to stand beneath the masts as they thrust into the sky. The power of your ship’s mast must be something to behold.”

Columbus has no idea how to respond to this, so he bows his head. When he looks up, he can see Isabella’s face is flushed.

“It is hot today, Your Majesty. I appreciate you seeing me.”

“Do you ever worry about being swallowed?”

“Pardon me, Your Majesty?”

“Swallowed. Your ships, mast and all—swallowed by the ocean, being sucked down into the water, being lost. Swallowed until the very tip of your mast sinks into the ocean?”

“I … I try not to think of such things.” He thinks about kissing her, about spending entire lifetimes in the nape of her neck, the arch of her back, the edges of her armpits, a single nipple. He thinks about her lips, an eternity of kisses, about being consumed by her, about making love until the word lovemaking folds in on itself a hundred thousand times.

“You must love the ocean,” Isabella says.

Columbus looks into her eyes and they capture him again. How
can eyes be such a deep blue? Something in him begins to rip. “More than the ocean knows,” he says.

“And you want to sail this particular ocean, why?” Her voice is stern, commanding.

“This ocean is a mystery, challenging and tempting—shrouded in questions. From what I have seen, it is more beautiful than any other ocean I could imagine. It becomes more beautiful because it is withheld—forbidden and untouched.”

“Can you imagine what it would be like, Mr. Columbus? I mean, to sail this particular ocean.”

“Oh yes, I can imagine this ocean. Is it your wish, Your Majesty, that I sail this ocean?”

“Were it that simple,” she whispers. She stands—moves toward him, brushes by his chair, her gown touching his clothing, slipping across his exposed forearm. The smell, her smell, lingers.

“We’re done for today, Mr. Columbus. I’ll let you know.”

When he turns around, she’s gone. The room is empty. Gabriel meets him in the outer chamber and gives him the address of a tailor. “It’s been arranged,” he says. “Get some new clothes.”

Outside, Columbus is dizzy in the midday heat. He cannot determine if this light-headedness is from the heat or the conversation, which had its own intensity. He cannot find his car. In fact, there are so many cars in the parking lot, that after an hour of searching, he stops for lunch. Columbus cannot help but pitch the Western Sea expedition to his waitress. His steak is, of course, heavily spiced. “What would we do without spice,” he says to the hesitantly interested waitress who is too old for pigtails but regardless wears her hair this way. “But it’s not so easy to get your hands on spice. It’s a difficult journey to the East. Dangerous and inconsistent. A new, secure route would be a blessing, would it not?”

“Ya, I guess,” she says.

“Straight across the ocean and back with mountains of gold and spice.”

“Okay.”

Even though she seemed disinterested, Columbus finds this woman’s phone number on the back of the bill.

He locates his car almost immediately. It is, in fact, in front of the restaurant. He removes the parking ticket from the windshield and throws it in the backseat with the others. He’s off through the streets of Sevilla, and soon he’s in the countryside. He’s staying in a borrowed villa on the outskirts of town, which according to his sense of direction is just around the corner. He sees a sign for Almensilla, passes it, and is soon on a dirt road completely surrounded by olive trees. He doesn’t remember this particular road but his villa has to be around here somewhere. He has no idea where Almensilla is but enjoys the name, says it out loud several times as he continues to push generally southward.

Several hours later, after many left turns and too many right turns, after thinking that he was finally traveling north toward Sevilla and his bed, Columbus decides that the city must be just over the next rise. At the apex of the current stretch of road, he pulls over and gets out. The blue-gray ocean stretches along the horizon. Cracked yellow clouds. The sun will be setting soon. He pops the trunk open, pries the lid off the wooden case, and withdraws a bottle of wine. He walks to the front of his car and leans on the hood, looks wistfully across the lowlands and out to sea. Definitely not Sevilla, he thinks, pulling the cork out of the bottle, but beautiful nonetheless.

Consuela sits on her small balcony, overlooking the sluggish Rio Guadalquivir. A pot of mint tea is sitting on the table, steeping. The birds are so loud that she is beginning to find them annoying. They chatter at four in the morning and don’t stop. Back and forth making
nests and mating, eating, and singing—always with the songs! She’d love two minutes of silence. Faith called an hour ago. When Consuela hung up she wanted a drink, but there was nothing in the house.

Mint tea will have to do for now. She’s not sure if Faith is convinced about Columbus—though, for the past hour she called him Bolivar, not Columbus. This name shift felt like a betrayal to her.

“It’s strictly professional, Sis. Nothing happened. It was all me. I know it’s wrong. Trust me. Nothing happened, and nothing is going to happen.”

“But you sounded so in love. You can’t have anything to do with this man.”

“I’ve moved away from that ward.”

“You’re in a position of power. It’s not only ethically wrong; it’s legally wrong. You could go to prison.”

“I can’t imagine what the Inquisition would do.”

“The what?”

“A board of inquiry, you know?”

It goes like this for an hour. They circle the issue, plow through it. Poke it, dismiss it, and circle around again. Until, finally, Consuela has had enough.

“I have to go,” she says. “I’ve got a date tonight.” A beautiful fabrication that ends things neatly.

“A date?”

“Yes, I may be old, but I’m not dead, Faith.”

“Anybody I know?”

“God, let me get through the first date before you disapprove, okay?”

Silence hangs between them, thick and awkward.

“Look, his name is Bart,” Consuela says finally. “He’s an accountant.”

“I’m just curious, Con. Nothing more.”

Faith pauses. She wants to ask more questions but refrains. Her voice is pinched when she finally says, “Have fun. Talk to you soon. Love you, Connie.”

Consuela pours the tea but it’s tepid. She decides to go out for a drink. She’d love to find a bar that offered the discriminating protection Salvos’s place gave to Columbus. But he was telling a story. It was just a story. Places like that don’t really exist.

“You are suffering from something we big-brained doctors call a dissociative break. These things can manifest when some sort of painful event or loss occurs, and the patient doesn’t want to face the pain. I know this sounds like a bunch of bullshit jargon meant to impress, not communicate. The plain version goes something like this: you’re avoiding something and it’s our job to try and find out what that is. When this dissociation is extreme, and in your case, I believe it is, the emergence of alter personalities can occur. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”