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

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emile’s assistant in Lyon calls with two peculiar newspaper stories. A man in Cádiz tried to pay for his meal with some stones wrapped in a piece of leather. The police were called but the man disappeared before they arrived. Emile dismisses this story. The story that catches his ear is buried inside a longer feature on panhandling-the embedded tale is about a man in a café in Jaén who insisted on calling a woman Isabella, even though her name was Lucia. He would not stop talking about the color of the ocean. The funny thing is, she bought him a train ticket to Marbella. That’s what he said he needed. She said he was the most enchanting man she’d ever met.

Emile drives right by Castro del Rio, the land of wine and olive oil. “Can you get me her phone number? Get me this woman’s phone number.” He flips the phone shut.

Emile finds Lucia Vargas’s house in Jaén. He’d called from the road and convinced her to meet with him. He turns onto Calle de Santiago and looks for a place to park. There are cars lining both sides of the street and he can’t see an opening. A brown BMW signals to pull out half a block up and Emile signals his intention to move into this spot. He’s not sure why he bothers signaling-there are no other cars driving on this street. As he’s waiting for the careful BMW, he glances across the road. On the boulevard, there are two men playing a game of boules, and four men sitting at a small table smoking cigars. The men are sitting in wooden chairs and each has a glass of something in front of him. One of the men is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head down and tilted-as if he is listening intently. Emile is pulled toward this scene. He’d like to go over there and sit down, smoke a cigar and share a drink, and listen to their conversation. In his snapshot of this scene he gets the feeling these men are grounded, completely comfortable with who they are and what they’re doing. He thinks he remembers having this comfort in his own skin a long time ago. Perhaps these men smoke cigars and have a drink each day at this time. It is a pleasurable constant. Emile would love to be part of this picture. He backs into the parking space, then watches as a waiter from the café across the street brings over another round of pastis or wine-something in a bottle.

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.”

“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?”

“Yes, I’m not going to sleep with a beautiful woman tonight. Nor am I going to drink three bottles of wine. Nor am I going to sleep in a bed with soft, 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. And I won’t have room service to call for coffee and croissants in the morning.”

Dr. Balderas smiles. He’s amused, not pitying. “What I’m seeing in you-and this is based on my reading of Consuela’s notes and my observations-is that you’re exhibiting a dissociative fugue, or a dissociative identity disorder. Sometimes, when a patient is faced with an overwhelming traumatic situation and there’s no physical escape, the patient will resort to going away in his or her head. You persist in your belief that you are, in fact, the Christopher Columbus. And we’ve got to start trying to find a way to unravel this story you’re telling. At the bottom of your story is the thing that happened-the thing you’re avoiding.” Dr. Balderas gets up and walks over to a cabinet behind Columbus, produces a key from his vest pocket, and opens the cabinet door. He pours two hefty glasses of red wine, hands one to Columbus, who is reclined on a black leather Barcelona daybed. Columbus is stunned. He has to sit up to accept the wine. Dr. Balderas locks his office door.

“Is this legal?”

“I’m the boss. And anyway, I don’t believe you’re dangerous. We wine lovers have to stick together.” The doctor raises his glass. “To getting well,” he says.

“To getting out,” Columbus says.

They drink in silence. Dr. Balderas pours more wine.

“I’m wondering if you’ll answer a question for me.”

“Well, I’m the one on the couch. I rather like this new wine therapy you’ve devised. Fire away.”

“I need you to really think about this before you answer. Okay?”

Columbus nods.

“Do you remember anything? I mean the smallest fragment of a fragment of half an imperfect memory-anything? Any minor detail.”

Columbus closes his eyes. He’d love to answer yes. He tries to stop thinking. Listens. Is there anybody in there screaming to get out? Hello? Hello? But no, he is who he is. Then the face comes. There is a man’s face. A bald man. His voice is soft-spoken. He’s looking down at Columbus -asking if he’s all right.

“Nothing,” he says. “I only have these Columbus memories.”

“What about places? Do you remember the Catedral de Santa María de la Sede in Sevilla? Can you close your eyes and see the orange trees in the courtyard, the stained glass? When were you there last?”

Columbus smiles. “You’ve been reading. That’s a step beyond your predecessor.” He takes a sip of his wine. “And if I lied and said yes, I do remember another life, would I-”

“That would only be a beginning step.”

“Well, what if you’re wrong? And what if I’m perfectly happy being who I am?”

“There is a danger that you are avoiding this event in your past with such fervor that, yes, you could never come out. That’s a real danger. It would mean that you’d never get out of here.”

Dr. Balderas looks evenly at Columbus. There is no panic, no hint of apprehension at the prospect of never getting out.

“In my notes,” Dr. Balderas says, “I saw that you believe, and Dr. Fuentes’s notes confirm this, that something horrible is going to happen-a disaster is looming, something you are powerless to stop.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you still feel this way?”

His voice gets very small. “Yes. Something too horrible to even think about.”

Dr. Balderas leans forward, elbows on his desk, one hand cupping his chin. “What if it already happened?” he says.

“What do you mean? I’m worried about the future.”

“What if the something awful already happened and you’re running away, not moving toward?”

“I was going to sea. Three ships in the harbor at Palos. Then I woke up here. I had my ships, supplies, a crew. Everything was ready.”

“You were brought here and the only name on file is Bolivar. You have no idea how you came to be here?”

“Yes. No. Ask Nurse Consuela. She was there when I arrived.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the wine, too. It has been quite a while…” Columbus ’s legs feel wobbly when he goes to stand up; he’s a little unsteady but also determined not to show it.

The next morning, he stops swimming, stands up, and slow-motion walks over to the edge of the pool-looks up at Consuela. She’s been reading Huckleberry Finn. She puts the book down.

“Balderas is the real deal,” he says. “I have a feeling he’s going to solve this, and that’s a bit frightening.”

“Why would that be frightening?”

“If he’s right, there’s something horrifying at the end of this. Anyway, I get the feeling Balderas is the tipping point.”

“Tipping point?”

“When you’ve been pushing on something and it starts to move, and you realize you couldn’t stop it if you wanted.” He smiles and nods to himself. “But there is a moment just before this realization when everything is completely calm.”

Columbus is sitting up in bed as Nurse Tammy slathers shaving cream onto his face, making small foamy circles with her fingertips. Consuela is perched on the windowsill, watching-her head tilted, bemused. Columbus ’s eyes are closed. He’s wearing a black cotton beret pulled to one side. Where he found this beret is a mystery. He seems to have a talent for getting people to do things for him or for convincing people to give him things. Nurse Tammy is meticulous and quick with her shaving. This efficiency pleases Columbus.

“Thank you,” he says. He brushes his hand along his jawline and smiles. “This reminds me of a time when I was staying with Juan at a villa near Montoro. It was midday and we were shaving. It was not nearly as pleasant as this shave, but we had only cold water.”

Nurse Tammy folds the razor into the towel, nods at Consuela, and leaves the room.

Behind the stable, Juan and Columbus stand at a table beneath a generous, spreading elm. Swallows chirp and make their clicking sounds in the upper branches. The sprinklers flicker to life in the lower vineyard and begin to make their rhythmic sputtering-water sound. The sunlight is filtered green through the canopy of leaves.

A pitcher of gin and tonic sits on the table between them. Behind and away from the stable, an arching passageway leads to the courtyard. One of the queen’s friends owns this villa, an eccentric woman who is a bit of a patron of the arts, and in Columbus ’s case, a patron of hopeless causes. Columbus and Juan, by association, are guests. Selena is in the kitchen glancing sporadically, worriedly, through a small, square window at the two men. She can hear only bits and pieces of their conversation. Somewhere inside the main house, somebody is playing one of Bach’s unaccompanied cello suites. It sounds to Columbus like the third suite, the one in C major. It’s happier to the ear than the others. They finish shaving and sit down.

“This came for you yesterday,” Juan says. He slides a brown envelope across the table and leans back to watch.

Columbus places his drink on the table, picks up the envelope, brings it to his nose, and sniffs. He sighs heavily, rips open one end, and peeks inside. Another birthday card with his actual birthday two months past. He does not have to look in order to know it’s signed, “Love, Cassandra,” or “Lovingly, Cassandra,” or some other adoring salutation. How does she find me? he thinks.

“A woman?”

“A mistake,” Columbus says.

“A persistent mistake, it seems.”

“Her birthday greetings come randomly, or so it seems. Never on my actual birthday.”

“Some say nothing is ever random. Everything is dependent on prior events.”

Columbus thinks about this. He wonders about the events that caused his obsession. He thinks about the possible events that might be put into motion from his crossing the Western Sea. “Could you please randomly fill my glass?”

“That would certainly be dependent on your asking me to make it so.”

“Just make it so now, and then be pleasantly unpredictable.”

Juan fills his glass and smiles. “Some women,” he says, “refuse to be gotten rid of.”

They sit in the shade and share two slow pitchers of gin and tonic. At some point in their conversation, the Inquisition is mentioned. This is something neither of them is comfortable speaking about. There are regions of Spain where one not only has to be Catholic but must be the right kind of Catholic. But this villa is a safe haven.

“Look,” Juan says, “this darkness is something human beings cannot escape. It is our nature. We wallow in it. And at the same time, it seems almost sanctioned by the church. Abel and Cain. Cain slew Abel. And ever since Adam’s son killed his brother, mankind has been killing and slaughtering and mutilating. Adam and Eve march out of the garden and their prodigy start the killing.”

Columbus leans back in his chair. He’s grappling with his faith today. He looked into the mirror as he was performing his morning ablutions and saw a godless man. It wasn’t a frightening image, but he recognized the godlessness in himself. On days like this, he fumbles his faith. Drops it, picks it up, and drops it again. His faith is a slippery trout and he is squeezing too tightly. If God is the river, he thinks, in which my faith swims, this morning, I prefer to turn my back on that water. I’ll take the trees and the mountains and all the gray clouds, instead.

He looks down at a small, black, lightning strike of a cat. It appears and disappears so suddenly.

“And let me tell you,” Juan continues, “I have seen much of this world and hope to see a lot more. I do not mind that people are different-that they believe different things. I don’t care. Jews, Muslims, Vikings, Marco Polo’s Buddhists, witches, or pagans-I don’t care. Muslims love their children the same as Christians and Jews.”

Columbus pets the cat, which has hopped into his lap, kneaded, and curled up. “Once we start believing in things,” he says, “we’re at war against those who don’t believe in the same things.”

“But this religion seems to hate people, even the people it’s supposed to serve. Next they’ll be making us grow beards because Moses had a beard, and Jesus and God had beards, and then sending groups of Inquisition cowards to make sure our beards are the right length. Punishable by death, of course.”

Columbus smiles. This is exactly the kind of conversation that could get them in trouble. But Juan is not done yet.

“Should we not be free to choose our path to God, or to choose no path at all? When you have to use violence, intimidation, and fear to impose your religion, you will never succeed. It should be called the imposition, not the Inquisition.”

“What would you suggest? To hold no beliefs?”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know but I would like to try.”

Juan unconsciously nods his head.

“Well, to not believing, then,” Columbus says, raising and tilting his glass slightly toward Juan.

“To uncluttered minds and hearts,” Juan says, taking a drink.

Columbus knows this way of viewing the world is not popular with the Inquisition. His fear is that one night he’ll drink too much, speak his mind, and the wrong people will be at the table. He thinks about his sons and Beatriz. He worries about their safety.

What if the Inquisition turns on him? What if he’s suddenly found to be a Jew, or his desire to sail the Western Sea is considered heretical? He is not a Jew, and he simply wants to see what’s out there, but what if? Or what if his ideas about the physical world, its size and scope, conflict with the prevailing wind out of Rome? What if he’s tortured into confessing something idiotic?

Columbus has a well-stocked cupboard of fear.

This morning, he opened his door and the news on the street was that thirty Jews had been killed in a small town in Italy -burned to death by a mob. And four women drowned, allegedly witches, after being tortured into a confession. Sign of the times. Brutal, senseless, filled with fear and ultimately stupid.

“It would be my wish to sail toward whatever is out there with an open mind and heart,” Columbus says.

“Ah yes, your voyage.” Juan fills their glasses and looks hard at Columbus. “Look, I’ve read the reports. May I be truthful?”

“As a baby’s behind.”

How is a baby’s bottom truthful? Juan wonders. Doesn’t matter. “You don’t stand a chance of pulling this off. Unless you know a lot more than you’re saying, you’d have to be an idiot to go to sea and expect to reach the Indies, or China, except in a foundering ship filled with dead men. Not to mention the fact you’ll be adrift in a rowboat-set there by your mutinous, starving crew.”

Columbus looks across the table at Juan and smiles, then nods his head. Here is a worthy challenge. If he can convince this man, he can convince anybody.

“You can’t carry enough water, or food, for this voyage,” Juan adds. “Maybe on a ship five times bigger, but first, you would have to build such a ship, hmm?”

“Faith against doubt. Hope against hopelessness.”

“That’s not a very convincing argument. I mean, if that’s it, it’s no wonder you’ve not lined up any ships.”

“Juan, you could be right. Those at the commission are probably right. Most of my calculations are grossly underestimated when it comes to the size of the Earth. But if this is true, then could you tell me, please, how big the Earth is?”

“Well, I don’t know. The commission did not know. How the fuck would I know? But I’m not proposing to sail halfway around the damned thing.” Juan leans back and lights up a beedi. The heady scent spreads like incense in the dead air.

“The thing is, nobody knows for sure. This voyage to the Indies will not be executed with the use of intelligence, mathematics, or maps. It will be made by failing to understand what goes through the mind and heart of a man standing alone on a beach looking out to sea.”

“Look, have you actually read any of the reports? While nobody is sure, they are fairly certain it is an immense distance to India and Japan across the Western Sea. The guys that made these reports are not dull. These are the best minds of our time. This is not based in superstition. It has to do with the curve of the Earth. This is science. And please don’t tell me the planet could be shaped like a pear.”

“Here’s what I know, Juan. There’s something out there. I do not know if it is Japan or the Indies. But I do know there is something out there and it is entirely reachable by sea.”

“A new land?”

“That is possible. An island, or a group of islands, between here and Japan. A group of outer islands before Japan. I don’t know.”

“How is it that you know this?”

“I had a conversation with a Norseman.”

“A what?”

“A Norseman, off the coast of Britain. He spoke of writings that mention a land out west that his people have seen. And I overheard a couple of sailors talking about finding a small man in a death boat twenty-one days west of the Canary Islands.” Columbus does not mention that the Norseman said his people had been there. Nor does he bring up the fact the Norseman said there were demons there.

“A Viking? Don’t they do horrible things to their children?”

“Have you ever seen a Viking do something horrible to a child? Jesus, where do these rumors come from?”

“You talked to a Norseman and you overheard a conversation. Well, that changes everything. A couple of rumors about land being there really sways me to your side. I’m sold. You’re not an idiot after all.”

“Juan, I want to tell you something that will not sway you in the least.” Columbus takes a drink. “I am no longer trying to convince you. I simply wish to tell someone what I am feeling. You are not my family but I trust you by your actions.” Columbus clears his throat, pours more gin and tonic into a sweating glass, and takes a huge swig. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No. I believe we make our own lives.”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is I can feel a shift. The weight is shifting toward this journey of mine, and I don’t know if I could stop it if I tried. It’s almost as if I am irrelevant. It’s like this huge rock I’ve been pushing against has started to fall over. And now, it is not so easy to stop. It’s going to fall. And when it finally hits the ground, anything that happens to be in the way of the rock will be squashed.”

“You’re right about it not being much of an argument.”

“Regardless. I want you to watch. Because it’s going to happen. And when it does, I’m going to need someone, a clear thinker, to observe and record with cold eyes-eyes that question. For that reason, for your steady dubious nature, I’d like you on the voyage.”

“You what?”

“I want you to come.”

“You want me to die with you when we run out of water and food and hope? I’m honored, touched.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Columbus speaks slowly. His voice becomes throaty, seems to slip down an octave.

Juan looks at him hard-sees the steady belief Columbus has in his own words written in his narrow, stern face. He concedes this belief. Columbus, at the very least, believes he will succeed.

“Don’t answer right away.”

Juan was not expecting an invitation. “I won’t take your invitation lightly, my friend. Now let me tell you about Selena, who is crazy about you, by the way.”

“Is she really?” Columbus says.

Both men turn at the sound of pots clanging onto a stone floor somewhere inside the main house.

She’s running toward the picture-taker. This girl, who is four years old but looks to be six. People are always mistaking her for a six-year-old. This early burst of height is something she gets from her mother. I have no names, no understanding of relationships-just this half knowing.

This tall, four-year-old girl is running toward the picture-taker. This picture captures her, one foot off the ground, in mid-stride. There is glee in her smile and in her eyes. She is loved. She knows she is loved. Her arms are outstretched-she is coming for a hug. I have no memory of this girl. This little girl does not register as a part of my life. She has no name. There is no relationship.

This picture is within mountains. There are mountains heaved up and gray in the background. Mountains tall enough to have snow in the upper reaches. In the foreground is a silky green lake. There are flowers on the ground, along the path where this girl is running, and deciduous trees and shrubs.

She has sun-bleached blond hair that hangs to her shoulders. In this picture her hair is flying behind and to the left. Her face is focused, eyes directly on the photographer, and she is happy. He can see this girl is happy. Perhaps she likes the color pink. Her shirt is pink and she is wearing pink leggings. A jean skirt with beads around the waist. Her boots are utilitarian, useful, brown leather. A yellow teddy bear is just visible, sitting upright in the tall grass behind her. Behind the yellow bear is a circle of stones enclosing four pinecones, a hawk’s feather, a clump of lichens, and pine bark. This girl has worked quietly all morning, gathering the elements of this circle. It has a name. She builds these organic circles everywhere. They’re called something. I can’t remember what they’re called.

I can imagine the low rumble of a train across the lake. The train moving large along the lip, at the edge of the water-going somewhere.