Waiting For Columbus (4 page)

“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.

Bartholomew pours the wine and raises his glass. “Well, to the new route and the man who found it.”

“To those who unwaveringly believed and followed,” Columbus says. “And to God who blesses us at every turn. And to the king and queen of Spain.”

They down their wine. Bartholomew pours again.

“To the man who first spotted landfall after our long journey.”

“To me, again,” Columbus says. “It was I who pointed to land. I did the pointing. You have to point or it doesn’t count.”

“Wouldn’t actually
seeing
land be as important?”

“And how do you signify to those around you that you have seen? You point! I pointed.”

Columbus spends the rest of the evening alone in his quarters reading over his journal entries, which turn out to be a long, run-together diatribe on everything from the weather to women and the colors of clouds. It’s undated, unnumbered, and holds no clues as to how long it took them to arrive.

In the morning the mist burns off quickly, and they can see they
are very close to a spectacular city nestled between two mountains. What fortune to have anchored so close to a city! The dock is lined with thousands of people. Red and silver and gold banners fly from the domes and spirals.

Columbus stands on the deck and looks across the harbor. There is a small boat in the water waiting for him. Bartholomew is on board. They are flying the Spanish flag. They also have red banners. The sun is shining. The sun is very bright. It hits the water and splashes in his eyes. He raises a hand as a shield.

On the dock, Columbus prepares to walk on a carpet of red flower petals toward his destiny. This is the moment he has been moving toward his entire life. There at the end of the square is the emperor, or the king, of this place. Red flower petals seem to fall from the sky. Columbus is presented with gold and silver, frankincense and myrrh. Then he is bowing a greeting to the emperor. “Your Majesty,” he says. “It’s very bright here. The sun is very bright. In fact, it’s almost too bright.” Yet I’m cold, he thinks. The breeze is chill. You would think with all this blasted sun that it would be warmer. It’s so bright. But it’s cold. I’m cold …

“Columbus!”

He hears a frantic voice. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Columbus! Christopher, wake up!”

“Wake up?”

“Yes, wake up!”

Columbus sits up in the bed and looks around the room. The sun is streaming through open windows. He is naked on top of the blankets and he has goose bumps on his arms. The sun has not yet warmed the night chill out of the morning. Through the window is a view of the ocean, but Columbus can’t see anything except that it is very bright. Beatriz is frowning at him from across the room. It takes a few minutes for him to see colors. Her robe is wrapped tightly around her body—a pink, protective armor. Her arms are folded across her chest.

“You were dreaming—speaking in your sleep,” she says.

“Mmmmm,” he grunts.

“You were dreaming about her again, weren’t you?” Her words are pinpricks.

There is no right answer to a question like this from Beatriz. Columbus has been down this road many times. He could explain it was just a dream and the things that happen in dreams cannot be controlled, but he’s not sure that’s true. Even though he was not dreaming of any women, he’s inclined to try and rationalize dreams in general. By saying our dreams cannot be controlled, however, he is also saying that he is guilty of dreaming about the woman in question. He could just deny it—speak the truth. But then she will likely not believe him.

Beatriz stands up, lets her armor fall aside. She turns her back to him and fills her glass with water. “You were crying out her name.”

“I was? Why would I be calling out the name of someone I was not dreaming of? What name did I call out?”

“You said, ‘Your Majesty.’”

Relief. “Yes, yes, of course, because I was dreaming the end of the journey across the Western Sea. And there was a
majesty
there to greet me—a man, a king of some kind.”

“A man?” she says with a mocking edge to her voice. “You want me to believe you were dreaming of a man?”

“Yes. He was smiling and there were thousands cheering. I led twelve ships, in my dream, across the ocean, and it seems I did it with very little hardship. Bartholomew was there and—” Columbus stops. She doesn’t need to know everything. She doesn’t need to know he could not remember, or did not know, how long it took to sail across the ocean. She’s liable to ask if he continues his report.

Beatriz is not yet smiling but her face has softened. She has not wrapped herself back up. It’s okay for Columbus to see her body now. It’s okay to open herself to him, a little. She moves a candelabra from a shelf to the table across the room. The candles are not lit. There’s no
need for candles as the room is awash with sunlight. Her robe feathers as she moves. She shows him her body in this movement. Columbus relaxes a bit. After all, this was just a dream. How can he be held accountable for his dreams? One cannot control one’s dreams.

“And in this dream, you made it back in one piece?”

Columbus tenses. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe. There are times when it is all right to lie, he thinks. In this dream he remembers having no hope of being able to return. No idea of how far. No idea of how many days. Nobody on the bloody ship knew how long it had taken them to get across the Western Sea. He thinks there are times when God, being a man and also a god, will understand that a lie is sometimes required. God will draw upon all He knows of men and women and instantly forgive certain small untruths, even infidelities.

Beatriz turns toward him, finds his face. “Columbus? You made it back, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “Piece of cake.”

Consuela stands up. Looks at him. Flatlines her voice. “You dreamed about Columbus having a dream?”

“Yes, I dreamed
I
was having a dream.”

She sighs. “And Beatriz is …?”

“Ah, yes. A delicate flower. The most amazing green eyes! She was my woman. She bore me a son.”

“Your woman, not your wife?”

“What is it with women and marriage? You think all your problems will be solved and your life complete if only you can marry. Isn’t that a bit delusional?”

“So you did not marry Beatriz.”

“We exchanged vows. We exchanged rings.”

“But you did not marry her.”

“No. It’s complicated.”

This perks Consuela’s ears. A woman and a child. This is a first. A woman, according to Dr. Fuentes, could be at the heart of his illness.

“But you loved her.”

“Of course I loved her. Don’t be so stupid. She was my woman.”

“What happened to her?”

“Beatriz? Nothing happened to her. She’s in Barcelona. She works as a barista. She doesn’t have to. She has a stipend. It was arranged.”

“I notice she doesn’t visit very often. She doesn’t visit at all.”

“Ah, yes, well, that can be explained by reminding you of the unique vagaries of all women. While I love Beatriz to this day, she was not my only love. No offense to you, Nurse Consuela, but this ability to love more than one woman is one of the traits of men that is not appreciated by most women.”

“You fooled around on her.”

He’s not sure how to answer her. He does not have the language to speak his heart about Beatriz.

“I’m not judging,” Consuela says. “I’m just interested.”

Columbus leans forward. Hands on his chin, elbows on his knees. He seems on the verge of saying something but then pulls back—just closes his eyes and sighs. “Look, there were days when I was daunted. I was depressed about this journey. I would wake up in the morning in a new town and yes, there were, sometimes, distractions.” He sighs. “Look, this is a brutal, ugly time. The Inquisition is running around accusing and burning people and saving us from ourselves. People are scared … I was scared most of the time.”

An Interpol
yellow notice
flashes on his screen and Emile Germain
can’t recall what the hell the yellow alert means—not exactly.

It’s been a while. He has to look it up. Emile pulls a white binder from the shelf beside his desk and flips to the section that deals with alerts. Yellow, he recalls with the help of the binder, is to assist in locating missing persons, often minors, or to identify people who are unable to identify themselves. His computer beeps. A blue notice pops up attached to the same file. He scans down the open page to blue: to collect additional information about a person’s identity, location, or illegal activities in relation to a criminal matter.

Merde!
Two alerts on one man. They have no idea if he’s a threat. There was no color code for a person of interest, but Emile could read between the lines: Interpol wanted this guy found.