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

CHAPTER TWO

For Consuela, mornings at the Sevilla Institute for the Mentally Ill are divided by routine, peaceful and usually uneventful. She arrives early, makes coffee, and moves gently into her day. She checks on seventeen patients, makes notes on anything unusual, and then has time to herself.

Two days after her birthday, Consuela is a couple of hours into her shift when Columbus stands up and looks directly into the two-way mirror, behind which Consuela is slumped with her morning coffee, her legs over the arm of the chair. She’d been thinking about a man she slept with a few weeks back-the first in more than a year. She’d been imagining him and actually feeling quite aroused. His name was Antonio and he was certainly not a keeper. But as a physical distraction, he was exquisite. He was a generous lover, thought about her pleasure, liked to kiss. Consuela had an hour to herself every morning, in between her various duties at the hospital. This morning, she wants to meander with Antonio. Just a little reverie. Just a little drift into recent memory. The door is locked. All is well and quiet. She just needed to focus. But Columbus looks directly at her-looks straight into the mirror. “I know you’re there, Consuela,” he says, smiling, his eyes flashing with clarity.

She drops her coffee mug on the floor. It shatters-hot coffee splashes up her legs.

“Jesus!” Relax, she tells herself, he can’t actually see you. But it’s unnerving.

He clears his throat. Swallows. “It’s time, Nurse Consuela, that I told you about how I got my ships. It wasn’t easy, you know. I want to tell you the one true and only, emphatically accurate, and undeniably authentic story of how Christopher Columbus”-he smiles a little boy’s smile, innocent and playful-“that’s me, got his ships and set to sea.”

She has no idea about the true identity of this man. But what if we are what we believe ourselves to be? Consuela has no doubt about his belief that he is, in fact, Christopher Columbus. That’s the easy part.

Everybody knows Columbus had three ships. A couple of days after Columbus announces his intention to tell her his story, Consuela gets the twelve-ship dream, a story that is more of a delusion built into a forgery of a dream. Dr. Fuentes, who seems distracted, verging on disinterested, has directed her to listen carefully to everything Columbus says and to make notes. This is what she does.

“I had a dream,” Columbus says. His back is to her. He’s picking at a scab of lifted paint on the windowsill-flicking at the jagged, pale-green edge. Thick woolen socks on his feet and a housecoat that is never done up constitute his only clothing. Consuela glances at this patient who is so uninterested in wearing anything but socks and a robe. She has adjusted to his oddly timed erections, which she gets to see quite often. She has become used to his body-the parts that, as a psychiatric nurse, she would not normally see. Columbus ’s erections have become common in her work world. She was fascinated, in the beginning, to have these semi-regular glimpses into the workings of male genitalia. It was a rare morning that Columbus did not wake up with an erection. He seemed to be unaffected by these pointed morning intrusions. He just carried on. She did not find this to be erotic. It wasn’t sexual. She did not think for a second that she was the inspiration. But there was something intimate and vulnerable about his semi-nakedness-beyond the obvious. Compared to the nurses she worked with, Consuela hadn’t had much experience with men, even though she had been married once, when she was seventeen. Not a sound decision on her part. She married as a way to get out into the world, away from home. And Rolf could dance like an angel. Dancing with Rolf, for Consuela, was like flying. But the man was not yet a man-completely jealous, macho stupid, controlling, and nowhere near to understanding himself. Emotionally retarded. Intellectually banal. He was a bodyguard for one of the ministers in the government. She couldn’t figure out why a minister of Health and Consumption would need a bodyguard, but she never asked the question out loud. Rolf was probably a very good bodyguard. He was self-important but serious about his duties. Eventually he found a woman even less evolved than himself, and one day Consuela came home from the university, put her books on the kitchen table, and knew he was gone. She didn’t even bother with the faintly hopeful “Hello” or “Anybody home?” or “Honey, I’m home.” Nothing had changed physically in their apartment-Rolf took nothing with him except for his clothes and all the money from their bank account. Even though Consuela knew it was for the best, she still grieved. She vowed to live in darkness until she felt better, and used an entire roll of Rolf’s duct tape on the light switches so she was forced to live up to her vow. Her illogical sadness lasted three weeks, two cases of wine, three bags of oranges, and forty candles. And at the end of her grieving, she only remembered that Rolf was a very good dancer, a good kisser, and always smelled good.

“I had a dream,” Columbus says again, a little louder this time.

“Really! A dream! Fascinating!” Consuela is changing his sheets. She had no idea he was at the edge of a story.

Columbus smiles. “Your humor, this sarcasm of yours, becomes more and more appealing to me. I love it. In fact, your smart-assery is so witty I’m stunned into silence by its brilliance. How could I possibly carry on? I would rather have one of Nurse Felicia’s enemas, with all its implicit unpleasantness, than go on with this conversation.”

She stops with a pillowcase halfway snuggled onto his pillow, looks at him with clean eyes. She quickly finishes his bed, tucking and folding back the angles with the same care she gives her own bed. He does not turn around. Remains propped sideways in the window, seated on the sill. She does not want to appear eager. It’s raining. A drizzle at best, but steady since 5 A.M. Consuela knows this because she starts work at 4:45 A.M. “Okay. Okay,” she says. “Tell me about your dream.”

The gray invades the room. The rain light seems almost a physical presence as he begins to speak, his words cutting through the gloom-his word pictures carving space.

“Perhaps,” he says, “it begins with fourteen ships embedded in a dream of a dream, tucked away inside yet another dream… And at the bottom of this illusory funnel is a glorious beginning… Imagine Columbus arrived. Imagine him in his polished breastplate, about to step onto the beach of Japan or India after many days at sea. After all the doubting and lying and cajoling, he and his men are finally in the land of Marco Polo. They did it by sailing straight across the Western Sea. Can you imagine that?”

Columbus thinks he remembers it. Thousands of cheering people, brushed clean by unreality. Everyone smelled good. There was no reeking, fetid human stench. No rotting meat. No toilet water in the streets. No boatloads of expulsed Jews in the harbor. No inquisitors lurking in the backstreets. No disease. No. This was a brilliant parting. The air was filled with flower petals. Colorful banners snapping in the breeze. The thousands were waving and shouting their good wishes. Even the king and queen were there, nodding their approval, watching with the same hopeful eyes as everyone else. Then fourteen ships put out to sea. Fourteen ships unfurled their sails and moved out of the harbor.

At some point near the beginning of their journey, after a particularly severe storm, two ships turned back. They had developed problems, either with the ships or with the hearts of the men who sailed them. So now, many days across the Western Sea, only twelve ships are anchored off the coast of first land. Many days? That’s the best he can do! Many days! Many days could mean anything. A hundred? Two hundred? Twenty-one? Forty? What? This lack of detail in his dream vexes. He keeps turning the dream over and repeating the loss of the two ships, and the arrival of the twelve at this place, wherever that is. No matter how many times he flips it over it always comes out as “many days across the Western Sea.”

They smelled it first. At dusk a warm breeze arched over them from the west. The cool underbelly scent of plants and trees wafted out to greet them, to draw them closer. Fragrances most of the men had never experienced. The scent is green and luxuriant. And there were birds. Multicolored birds circling their ships and landing in the masts. Birds with secrets, he remembers thinking.

Some of the men argued as to which one of them spotted land first. There was a substantial financial reward for being the one who first brought the news of land. In the end, the captain of the lead ship takes credit, takes the reward because he believed he was the first to see the hazy outline of land. Yes, yes, yes, the boy, Alphonso, called out that land was there, but nobody could see! They all looked and there was nothing-just the gray cloud, swirling mist, nothing! It was the captain who said “There” and pointed at it. The boy saw nothing!

The crewmen all knew it wasn’t him. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is they have arrived after a long journey many thought would end in starvation and death. Despite the naysayers and the many meetings and persuasions and backroom deals in Spain, they have finally arrived. Their spirits are high because there are going to be rewards for taking this risk. No one is thinking about history or legacy-they are motivated by something more basic. Fame and title, and the immediate: riches. Nobody knows how much gold and silver there will be. Nobody knows if the current owners of gold and silver value it as much as these hungry men do.

Darkness falls and a thick mist eddies around the ships, but every now and then they can see the tops of trees teasing in the dim light.

In the lead ship, a ship called the Isabella, there is a man writing in his journal. He is writing about how many days they had been at sea. “We have been at sea for,” he writes, but the pen stops and the ink blotches the paper. He tries it again. “We have been at sea for…”

But surely this is important, he thinks. We’ve been at sea for how many days? Why don’t I know! How can I not know? I am the captain of this venture!

“Boy,” he snaps. The captain’s boy, Alphonso, approaches the desk. He has been in the corner polishing the breastplate Columbus will wear in the morning when he steps ashore in India, or Japan, or wherever this place is.

“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.”