"Waiting for Columbus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Trofimuk Thomas)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Columbus is playing with his thumbs. He’s sitting on the patio in a chair experimenting-attempting an illusion in which it seems that he is pulling his thumb apart. He twists his head sideways, tries to see the trick from the viewpoint of where his audience might see it. Consuela finds him before the end of her shift. “You have to see this,” he says. “It’s a parlor trick. Something my dad used to do.”

“The senior Columbus?”

“He used to scare us kids. Watch,” he says. He grasps his thumb in his fist and then appears to pull it in two.

“Impressive.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

“What do you think?”

“I think a parlor trick as stupid as this can be a useful metaphor.”

“Metaphor?”

“Yes. The girl is a gazelle when she runs, instead of, she runs like a gazelle.”

“I know what a metaphor is. Why are you telling me-”

“Because failure is never easy,” he says.

These failures, in particular, sit ugly in Columbus ’s stomach. He walks away from his second audience at the commission’s chamber at the university knowing that even if he’d told them all he knew they still would have said no. Columbus knew it was a tough sell. He never expected them to jump up and down with excitement, shouting their approval at the prospect of his adventure. His goal was not to win his ships, not right away. It was to move some of them from a hard position to a more moderate one. This is the failure Columbus has a difficult time swallowing; he’s not sure he moved anyone.

If he’d told them about Iceland and the Norseman, and what those sailors said they saw twenty-one days out into the ocean, they might have considered his journey. That might have moved a few. The problem was withholding what needed to be withheld while revealing the right amount. Reveal the one wrong thing and he could become just another dead heretic, a potential special guest of the Inquisition. It seemed that offending behavior could come and go out of fashion with this holy tribunal. One week, converting to Christianity was fine; the next, it wasn’t good enough. One week, the official map of the known world was sacrosanct, not to be tinkered with, church doctrine. The next week, new ideas about the unknown world were entertained. It was difficult to stand on this shifting sand dune.

The first commission said his idea had merit. It was a bold scheme. A new sea route to the Indies and Japan, and especially one forged by Spain, was a grand idea. Going all the way around Africa was a long and expensive and dangerous journey. And it had only been done once, allegedly. But it wasn’t possible to sail across the Western Sea without dying of starvation or thirst. The second commission agreed with the first, in its own unique way. The bottom line: the world was too big, the ocean too wide, the ships too small to carry enough provisions.

“With respect, Your Honor,” Columbus says, “you have no clear evidence the world is that big.”

“Nor do you have any evidence that it’s any smaller. We do have science. Our country’s best minds.” Las Palos stands up. He’s a narrow man, with a large, humped nose and a full head of black hair that falls to his shoulders. “All these men”-he motions with his hand to a group of men sitting in the back row-“all these men, say you are wrong, that the Earth is vast. That the Western Sea cannot be crossed successfully. That you will only kill yourself and those who are foolish enough to sail with you.”

“I bow to these learned men. They have resources and knowledge of which I can only dream. But I have a question.”

“I think we’re done, Mr. Columbus.”

“Just one small question?”

Las Palos turns toward the back row. Raises his eyebrows.

“All right, but our minds are settled.”

“For the best minds of our time-because your intelligence is so dazzling-exactly how big is the Earth?”

Four men lean their heads together into a huddle. One man does not move but, rather, looks bemused.

After five minutes, Las Palos is obviously agitated. After ten minutes, he stands. “It is not our position to prove the size of the Earth, Mr. Columbus. It is, however, required that you prove your case to us. And we have doubts.” Las Palos pauses. A large man at the end of the back row clears his throat. Las Palos stops, turns toward the man, and nods. The man stands. He looks down at the papers in his hands. Then looks directly at Columbus. “Well, we do not know exactly how vast the planet is, but we believe it is larger than your, ah… estimate.”

“I want to suggest that one sure way to find out exactly how big the Earth is, is to sail out there and have a look. Somebody has to go out there and witness the ocean. Make notes on distance. Sometimes theories, fascinating as they may be, need to be proven. I am willing to-”

“Your price is too high,” Las Palos says. “You will have our official answer in a few days but I can almost guarantee the outcome. I can only speak for myself, but what you are proposing is, well, quite impossible.”

“With respect, how will you know for sure? Will you let Portugal discover new routes? Britain? France?”

“Enough.”

“Will we beg foreign powers for the charts? Is that what you envision for Spain? Is that your grand plan?”

“Enough!”

Newspaper stories of this audience, Columbus ’s second, report that as Columbus was leaving the commission chamber he turned and challenged anyone in the room to stand an egg on its end, on a marble tabletop.

“A thousand silver pesos to anybody who can do this thing,” he said. “Just take an egg and stand it on its end. It’s a simple thing.”

Eggs were sent for and four men attempted to make the egg stand on its end. Then two more tried to no avail. Columbus watched dispassionately. Las Palos had already disappeared into the back sanctums of the university.

“Impossible,” the men of the commission finally declared. “An egg can’t be balanced on one end-not on a flat surface. Utterly impossible!”

When Columbus took the egg, smashed one end-not hard enough to make it run-and stood it on the table, only Luis de Santángel, the queen’s treasurer, could be heard laughing hysterically in a sea of stunned silence.

Columbus had made an ally.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Cecelia says. “You are smiling, but there is sorrow in you as wide and deep as an ocean.”

“Well, I am here, in this so-called hospital of innocents, against my will,” Columbus says as he sits down. “Why would I be happy? How could I be happy?”

“No, no, no. It’s much bigger than that, Mr. Columbus.” She pats his hand. “This is loss, and guilt, and too much to bear.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have me at a loss. I don’t know what to say.”

“In time you’ll know,” she says. “There’s no rush. In the meantime, we can chat.” Cecelia hands him a cup of tea. “It’s green tea. It’s good for you.”

Columbus thinks about politely declining. He doesn’t drink tea. But with Cecelia it seems as if he should. Steam rises from the cup in minuscule swirls. Its scent is so singular-simple. He sips the tea and, surprisingly, finds it to his liking. This is not a complex flavor.

They are at a table in the dayroom-near the windows-Cecelia in her robes on one side, and Columbus, wearing only a pair of socks and an open housecoat, on the other. This is the first time they’ve communicated beyond casual nods in passing. Columbus has a few more sips of the green tea and is about to comment-to supply mindless dialogue-something about how he is pleasantly surprised at the taste of this tea. But he doesn’t. He turns inward against his impulse to fill the void of silence with his self-manufactured nonsense.

When the bird hits the window it shocks them. A loud, muffled bang, they turn, see nothing, both know immediately it was a bird.

“A sparrow?” Cecelia says. “Oh my dear God.”

“We need to see-maybe we can do something.”

“The doors are locked. We can’t get out.” She’s distraught. Her hand shakes as she points at the locked door.

“This is a rescue mission-a special circumstance.” Columbus stands. One of the new orderlies, a pimply-faced young man named Sylvester, follows him to the door. Columbus tries it and indeed it is locked. He yanks on it again, testing the veracity of the lock. He yanks on it again, harder this time.

“The courtyard is closed for the day,” the orderly says, stepping between Columbus and the door.

“Open it. A bird has hit the window-might be hurt, suffering.” Columbus looks around the room. They’re alone. A minor miracle in this institute. The fact it’s bingo night could account for the scarcity of inmates.

“The hours are there.” Sylvester points to a small square of white paper mounted on the wall. “The courtyard is closed. It’s late. I’m sure this bird is fine.”

Columbus leans in close. The orderly places his hand on his walkie-talkie, puffs up his chest, draws sternness to his face.

Columbus whispers, “By the time you get even remotely close to calling for help, I could do great damage to you, my friend. Now just open the door.”

Sylvester looks hard at Columbus, weighing his words, measuring height, weight, physical condition. He hesitates. Columbus lurches forward and head butts the orderly-a hard, ugly thumping sound. Sylvester goes down. There are far too many keys on his ring for a quick exit, so Columbus hands the key ring to Cecelia and starts to look around for something he can use to force the door open. Something that could be used as a makeshift pry bar. Many of the candidates are screwed to the floor. Cecelia chooses a key with assuredness. “This one,” she says and Columbus turns around. “Is he hurt?” she adds, pointing at Sylvester.

“He’ll have a lump.” Columbus pushes the key into the lock and turns it. The door opens smoothly and quietly. Son of a bitch, he thinks.

Outside they find the bird, a sparrow. Its neck is broken. Its body still warm. They bury the bird quickly, carefully, under a rosebush and Columbus defers to Her Holiness the Pope for a prayer. Cecelia turns to Columbus with tears in her eyes, at a loss. The only thing he can think of is the first verse from the hymn “Silent Night.” He recites it with apologies to the bird but it seems wholly appropriate. It seems correct that this bird should have these words. “Silent night,” he begins, “holy night…” He and the pope stand in the garden above the small mound, with a growing indigo sky above. “Sleep in heavenly peace,” Columbus says. “Sleep in heavenly peace.”

They go back inside and Sylvester is still out cold on the floor. They reattach the keys to the orderly’s belt. Columbus hustles into the adjoining lounge and brings back a pillow, which he slides under Sylvester’s head. Columbus and the pope look at each other. Cecelia is smiling, a vulnerable, grateful, and astounded smile.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’re the pope. You ought to be able to attend to sparrows whenever they fall. It was an honor and my pleasure.”

“Good night, my dear.”

“Sleep well, Your Holiness.”

The next morning, Columbus looks at Consuela with a glint in his eye. He watches her as she approaches his table at breakfast with more interest than usual. He studies her gait.

“ Columbus persists,” he says. “He’ll do almost anything to get his ships.”

“Good morning to you, too,” she says.

“You look quite beautiful today… I mean you always look good, but I noticed that today-”

“Thank you, Mr. Columbus. I get it.” She takes a deep breath. “So what would you do to get your ships?”

As usual, Columbus kneels before the queen. She keeps him kneeling for all of their audiences while she either sits or swishes around the room. She likes to watch him from behind. To leave him there faced away from her voice. That way, anyone who entered unexpectedly would see nothing was going on. And truthfully, nothing was happening between them, at least on a physical level.

She also liked to sit in front of him, on the throne, her legs pulled up and apart. Her feet flat on the seat of the chair. A pose that without her flowing dresses would not have been appropriate. She did it to tease. She did it to titillate. She did it to move him off course from his obsession. To see if she could shake him.

Isabella sits before him. Considers how she should begin. She is not calm. This audience, which has been arranged by her treasurer, Luis de Santángel, is an inconvenience to her. But she likes this Columbus, more than she would like to admit. He wished to serve the king and queen and would risk his life to do it. He wished to bring glory to Spain. And he was persistent, bloody dogged, about it.

“The commission at the university has come to a decision,” she says.

“They have no imaginations, no desire to explore. They are dead men with pencils,” Columbus says. “I already know what they-”

“Now hear me well, Columbus. I will personally look at your plan once we take back Granada from these shit-assed godless Moors.”

“My queen, you are wise. You are intelligent. You are powerful and-”

“Oh cut the crap, Columbus. I have sycophants galore. Just open that door and walk down the hallway and I’ll show you a hundred completely useless sycophants. Be patient, Columbus. We will take Granada, and soon. And then, we will see about your ships.”

“But-”

“Patience. Patience, Columbus.”

“You’ll need money after the Granada victory. I can bring the royal treasury riches from the Indies and Marco Polo’s Japan.”

“That’s a promise we will remember, Cristóbal.”

“Could you not spare just three ships, most revered servant of God? Even two ships would-”

“Look, Cristóbal, I like you. Your enthusiasm is undeniable. You have great charm and you are unequivocally brilliant. But I have to tell you-and I hope you can hear this through the haze of your single-minded passion-get the fuck off my back about these ships.”

“But my queen, I-”

“I’ve had a snootful of you and the new route to the Indies and Japan. I have an entire city filled with Moors that I’ve promised to extricate. I’ve got a holy Inquisition that’s running amok-I have no idea what they’re going to attack next. I started the damned thing, and frankly, they scare the crap out of me. I’ve got Jews spread across my lands who don’t seem too pleased about leaving and aren’t very enthused about converting. I’ve got God’s emissaries from Rome saying converting isn’t going far enough anyway. And I have a treasury that does not runneth over. I have-”

“If I am successful, when I am successful, I will fill the treasury with riches.”

“And to top it off, my tits hurt. They ache. For some reason, I have to cram them into these tight dresses. Gowns, gowns, and more gowns, and they’re all tight little torture suits.”

“My queen, I hear you. I only wish to please God, and to bring honor to Your Majesties.”

“How the hell could you know what it’s like to wear these damned clothes?”

“I… I cannot imagine it, my queen.”

She rises from the throne and shushes by Columbus so she is behind him. Columbus smells her odor and its edgy sexuality stops him. It’s a hot, muggy day to begin with and now this! His head feels light. The smell of this woman, this queen, shakes him.

She walks through an archway at the back of the room. Columbus can hear a door opening and closing. The queen comes back into the room and walks over to him.

“A couple of my girls are coming in here to get you dressed. Then we can talk some more.”

“But I am dressed-”

“Trust me, Columbus.”

In a couple of minutes, two of the queen’s servants enter the room with a blue gown and a corset. The girls shrug, stifle giggles, and go to work on Columbus.

“But this is a dress,” he says. The girls ignore him.

“And you’re going to cram your body into it. So you really understand what I go through to look like this.”

“But-”

“Just do it for your ships.”

Isabella walks across the room and disappears through the doorway.

When the queen comes back, Columbus is on his knees in the blue dress, the corset tight across his chest and midsection.

“That’s better,” she says.

“I can barely… breathe.”

“Fantastic, isn’t it? Welcome to my world, Columbus. Those two girls are my most trusted-they’ll not say anything about this-but there are rumors about you and I. The tabloids say there must be something going on because your scheme is being entertained by the queen. Just rumors, but pile rumor on top of rumor on top of innuendo and I could be in trouble. My husband chases whatever bitch in heat he damned well pleases, but I? I must remain faithful.”

“But it’s not true what they say.” Columbus feels dizzy, can’t get a full breath.

“The truth has little to do with what the tabloids write. They print whatever they want.”

“But you’re the queen! Can’t you just, you know, cause them to disappear?”

“And make myself look guilty?”

“But-”

“You do understand that I have to remain true to the king? That there are spies everywhere? And that there are serious consequences to any infidelity on my part?”

“May I rise, Your Majesty?”

“No, you may most certainly not rise. Stay where you are.”

Columbus can’t feel his lower legs but he remains facing the empty throne.

“My queen, God Almighty would never allow-”

“God Almighty probably started a few of these rumors. Do you catch my drift, Cristóbal? God Almighty can see into my heart. He can read my thoughts and most secret desires. Do you hear me, Cristóbal?”

Three days later, an envelope arrives by courier, catches up to Columbus in Córdoba. He opens it and finds a pair of black panties. There is no accompanying note. No letter. Nothing to indicate whose panties these might be. Columbus is bemused. He looks around the room-even though he knows he’s alone, he wants to make sure before he lifts the panties to his face and inhales deeply.

Consuela pulls back from Columbus and looks him over. She feels a twinge in her groin. Her head is spinning.

“That was mildly erotic,” she says.

“Not meant to be. It was a lesson in understanding. You’ve been hanging around with doctors too much. Sometimes a thing is just what it is. A lesson is a lesson.”

“Still, it was erotic.”

“You want erotic? The pungent, spicy smell of a woman-that’s erotic,” he says. “All the scents. Feet, underarms, groins. Everything.”

“Yes, I know. I know you enjoy the olfactory.” Consuela is no longer shocked by his sporadic, frank admissions.

Across the room, workmen have finally arrived to fix the broken window, which has been boarded up for two weeks. They hover outside the window, ladders on either side. Place the glass carefully into the frame. Consuela and Columbus sit in the dim light and watch the workmen.

He sits up in bed. It’s not a spasmodic or jerky movement. He is simply, suddenly wide awake. He leans over and throws up into the wastebasket. He slides off the bed onto his knees and continues to vomit. When he is spent, Columbus presses the side of his face into the coolness of the floor and weeps. He pulls his sheet from the bed, curls into a fetal ball, and hopes for sleep without dreams, without nightmares, without armless dolls.

This is the third time in a week he has had this dream. Each time his reaction is more violent. It shakes his body. Impacts physically.

In the morning, he seeks out Pope Cecelia, finds her in the day-room watching the birds in the oak tree outside the south window. She’s wearing just one robe today, looks almost normal. Beside her on the table are a blue tin cup and a wooden spatula. Columbus looks at the cup and the spatula, decides not to ask, sits down, kisses her ring, and begins to unfold the details of his dream.

“Why would a doll speak?” Cecelia says. “Why would you have that expectation? Dolls don’t speak. They don’t talk.”

“I don’t know. I just know these dolls can talk-they can speak but they don’t.”

“And they’re armless?”

“All of them.”

“How many dolls are there in this dream-”

“Nightmare. Hundreds. There are hundreds of silent dolls.”

“And what do you do in this dream-nightmare?”

“I try to wake them up. I have the knowledge that they can speak, but they won’t speak.”

She draws her body away from the direction of the tree and the sparrows and the window, toward him. “What do you think it means?” She rotates the tin cup on the table, so the handle is facing her, then, takes a sip of tea.

“Old woman, I don’t have a clue. All I know is I am horrified. Last night I was sick. I woke up and I was physically sick. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay awake for the rest of my life.”

He observes her face. It’s kind. Wrinkled and weathered, but lacking the stray hairs that accompany so many older women’s faces. Her skin is pale and apart from the wrinkles, smooth. Her eyes are faded pale blue, as if they became tired of their own color, or simply faded with age.

“Oh my dear boy,” she says. She reaches out and touches his hand, hopes to bring him back from wherever it is he’s going. “It’s all right to not know. Perhaps you’re not ready to know. Dreams are never obvious. They are never what they seem. You’re just not ready.”