"Waiting for Columbus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Trofimuk Thomas)CHAPTER THREEAn 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. The man, his assignment, was declared officially suspicious and off the grid in April. Under the circumstances, it’s understandable that one missing person was shunted down the priority list. The likelihood that he is dead is high. The trail went cold. His file was basically forgotten. The report says he had been seen by several unreliable witnesses, and then he was gone. A magic trick. A disappearing act. Spain is a vast country-forty million people. This was just one vanished man inside a chaos of people and landscapes. Cold trails were Emile’s specialty. Hopeless cases were his forte. His ex-wife used to say it was because he could tap into the artistic side of his brain and make oblique connections. Emile pushes his shoulders into the back of the chair and breathes deeply. The wooden chair was a gift from her. She’d found it in an antique shop with a cement Buddha head sitting on it. She was assured by the owner of the shop that the chair was well over a hundred years old and in excellent condition. She probably paid too much but she was in love, and the Buddha head had been there a long time. It had to be good karma to act as a platform for a Buddha, she said-to serve the Buddha in this way. This booga-booga side of his ex-wife was annoying as hell when they were together, but now Emile found he missed her booga-booga: the incense, the strings of tiny brass bells above the bed, soy milk in his Cheerios, the incessantly changing colors on the walls in their bedroom. She had taken most of this away when she left. Though she did leave a small, silver Buddha in the bathroom. And, of course, she’d left the chair. Emile has the luxury of working out of his home, a penthouse in the heart of the Right Bank of Paris, the market district of rue Mont -orgueil. It’s a small flat but it’s rare to find an apartment with a private terrace and a view. From the roof, he can see Montmartre and Sacré-Coeur, and the Museum of Modern Art. He was up for a glass of water, and on his way back to bed decided to check his e-mail. He was expecting the cases to begin arriving again and this mysterious person of interest was the first. Somebody at headquarters in Lyon has attached a brief newspaper story about a baffled stranger in Valdepeñas, south of Madrid -a man asking for directions. Police were called but the man was not found. He’d disappeared. The thing is, he kept asking for directions to different places: Sevilla, Granada, Tarifa, Marbella, and half a dozen other towns, cities, and villages. First he’d ask for food and then directions, always to someplace new. He was very courteous, always grateful. The good people of Valdepeñas were worried about him. Emile makes a little whistling sound. Well, that’s a long shot, he thinks. But at least it’s a place to start. Two years of being away, two years of therapy, and now he’s thrown right back into the mix. Emile scrolls to the top of the file. Who the hell is this guy? Sometimes the map will not do. The map will never be the territory. One must get out in the field in order to understand. While Emile can make telephone calls and send e-mails and look at maps from the comfort of his flat, it’s not the same as going out into the world and having a look-see. He’s never found anyone by just looking at a map. He’ll rent a car in Madrid, interview the people who may have seen this man, and follow any leads. Soon he’ll be working the same hours he was logging before the incident. Admittedly, he was one of the busier agents. He was always trying to find someone. Even when he wasn’t on the job, he drifted easily to the missing people to whom he was assigned. He’d been away from work for a long time, and now the cases had already started arriving and his bosses in Lyon would be relying on his unique talents. Yes, he was going to get busy again. “If I leave you clues, could you find me?” his wife had asked him before it went to pieces. “I want to be one of the people you find.” Emile smiles. She does not. Emile was baffled. What the hell did she want from me? he thinks. She’d complained that he obsessed over his work. “These people you’re assigned to find-you make it so personal.” “Focus. I focus,” Emile says to himself, trying to shake away the cobwebs of his past. He takes his laptop to the roof terrace with a thermos of coffee. He places the computer on the small wooden table and pours coffee into his mug. He turns the knob on the little propane heater. It clicks to life with a small flicker, then slowly, as Emile turns it on high, the flame glows a bright hissing orange. He finds comfort in this sound. He does not open the computer. He drifts to the suspicious man in Madrid. Emile does not think he is dead. If he is as hot as the two alerts suggest, this man is likely holed up somewhere licking his wounds like a big cat or a bear. He’s found a cave. Maybe he’s damaged in some way and he needs to stay off the grid-he’s going to wait it out. Emile can relate to this-he understands this. He’s had experience with holing up. He worries, though, that this guy is just an innocent who needs help. Emile has read and reread the interviews with the witnesses, looking for that snippet of information that will point in the right direction. One of these witnesses says the man he saw was Chinese, or Japanese, or Korean. Another witness swears she saw him crying, sobbing uncontrollably. Another says he was Arabic-looking, he was holding some sort of bag under his arm, and he was most certainly not weeping. He’s gone over the file a dozen times. He knows everything there is to know. If there’s an oblique connection to be made, he’s not seeing it. There is one thing he knows about this man that was not written in the file: not one of the witnesses reacted out of fear. They all seemed to be concerned about his well-being. This man may be suspicious but he is not frightening. Emile will begin in Madrid. Then he’ll go to Valdepeñas and talk to the people who fed and gave directions to the apparently lost man. The likelihood this is the same guy is remote but it’s all he’s got. Emile closes his eyes to the gray city. The hazy sky. The diffused lights. He can feel warmth from the heater on his cheeks. In two hours he’ll be on the train to Madrid. “Oh, there’s land out there all right. I know there’s landfall out there in the Western Sea.” He’s pacing Dr. Fuentes’s office. Back and forth, frenetic energy barely contained. Dr. Fuentes motions for him to come and sit. An open-handed gesture toward the offered seat, which is a low, flat-armed, dark-brown leather chair directly across from the chair-and-a-half monster in which the doctor sits. Columbus sits, interlaces his fingers, and looks up at the doctor. “What happened to you?” the doctor says. “Do you know why you’re here? Do you have any idea, Bolivar?” He scribbles in his notebook. His therapy consists of long conversations and interactions in which he uses the patient’s first name, his real name. No assumed names, ever. He has never called Columbus by his assumed name. “Bolivar?” Columbus is smiling, playing with the doctor. “Yes. You are Bolivar.” “How can I be this Bolivar when my name is Columbus?” Fuentes’s voice becomes a silken rope. “I’ve told you this before, but repetition is fine. We think something happened to you and the defensive part of you has conceived this alternate persona.” “You think this Bolivar is inside me?” “Yes, that’s our theory.” “A theory?” “Yes, we don’t know for sure.” “How long have I been here? And all you have is a theory? Should I look for a new doctor? Someone more competent?” “Three other doctors have consulted on your case, Bolivar. All we have are theories right now.” Columbus has his hands clasped tightly. Everything in him wants to punch Dr. Fuentes in the face. “And?” “And they concur-” “They “They all “Nonsense. I am only me. Have been only me since I got here, and before this I was also me. For instance, I was Christopher Columbus in the spring of seventy-eight when we came across Vikings. You see, I, Cristóbal Colón, had the most extraordinary meeting with a Norseman. He was a big man and we had an amazing conversation… I found out a few things about the world that are not taught in the universities… Things that would astound even you, Fuentes, Mr. Smarty-pants.” “The fact you seem annoyed-your anger-is an indication that there’s some truth in what I’m saying.” “You’ll have to try your first-year psychology tricks on somebody else, Fuentes. I’m not buying it.” “And the fact you are just now changing the subject is also indicative. I want to talk about your disorder and you change the subject to Vikings. You want to tell stories about Vikings. You’re avoiding the subject by telling made-up stories.” “All stories are true, Fuentes.” Columbus is sitting on the end of his bed, rocking, looking directly out the window into a narrow gathering of palm trees. “Fuentes is an idiot,” he says to Consuela as she gathers a pile of laundry and pushes it into a cloth sack. “Are you sure he’s a doctor?” “I think he’s under a lot of stress,” she says. She pulls hard on the rope and ties a knot, then tosses the bag into the hallway. “I gather your session was less than satisfactory?” “Isn’t this the work of orderlies? Or nursing assistants?” “I don’t mind helping out where I can.” “Alternate persona, my ass,” he mutters. “Never heard of such a thing. I do know about Vikings, though. Everyone’s heard about Vikings.” Fourteen years It’s a shouted conversation above howling wind and rain across the bows of two ships bobbing in the ocean off the coast of Iceland. Three men from three different lands who speak three different languages shout back and forth. The two vessels are loosely lashed together. Crew members from each craft keep a distance with their oars-pushing and giving way in order to maintain a half stability. This is a full-time fight against crashing together. Eight-foot swells don’t help. These rising and falling motions, and the blustering wind, are proving to be great inconveniences to conversation. The man from Britain, called Hardy, barely translates between Columbus and the big Norseman. “WHAT’S HE SAYING?” Columbus screams above the wind, frowning. All three men are soaked by a wave that sprays a fanned-out sheet of icy water across both vessels. Water dripping in rivulets from his nose, Hardy screams: “HE SAYS THERE ARE TALES ABOUT A LAND TO THE WEST.” “WEST? WHAT DOES HE MEAN WEST?” Columbus is thinking this is a joke. And then he thinks it could be the break he’s been waiting for, and then he thinks it’s a cruel joke, and then… Hardy begins to translate but Columbus stops him. “IS HE SURE THAT HE MEANS WEST? GET HIM TO POINT TOWARD THE WEST.” Hardy begins again to translate and Columbus stops him again. “ASK HIM IF HE’D TELL US ONE OF THE TALES ABOUT THIS LAND.” Hardy finally delivers his message and the Norseman smiles before he speaks. The Briton translates: “HE SAYS THERE’S A LAND BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA. HE SAYS THEY DO NOT GO THERE. BUT THERE ARE TALES OF SUCH A LAND. HE SAYS THEY ARE VERY OLD TALES. HE ALSO SAYS HE IS NOT GOING TO POINT.” “WELL ASK HIM HOW LONG IT TOOK THE PEOPLE OF THESE TALES TO SAIL THERE.” “HE SAYS DEMONS LIVE THERE.” “WHAT?” “MONSTERS.” “BUT HOW LONG DID IT TAKE TO GET THERE? AND WHERE DID THESE JOURNEYS BEGIN? HOW DID THEY NAVIGATE? BY WHICH STARS?” Hardy and the Norseman scream back and forth at each other, the Briton pointing west several times. Finally, the Norseman shakes his head. “HE SAYS THEY ARE JUST STORIES. SAGAS. HE SAYS DEMONS LIVE-” “BUT HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE TO SAIL THERE?” Columbus says. “ASK HIM AGAIN. HOW FAR?” “WHAT?” Hardy screams. “LET’S GO INSIDE THE CABIN! LET’S GET OUT OF THIS DAMNED RAIN.” Columbus points toward the door. “ASK HIM OVER.” He points at the cabin and then at the Norseman and back again. They both reach out a hand to the Norseman and pull him across. This maneuver is a trick of balance and timing between the rising and falling ocean, and the expanding and contracting gap between boats. A miscalculation could be deadly. Columbus marvels at the odd-looking craft with its dragon’s head. It’s the only contact they’ve had since leaving Britain. “Land is all around us,” the Norseman says, “to the west and to the east. My people have always known it.” They are huddled in the dim light of the small lower cabin. Chickens cluck in a corner. “What do you mean?” Columbus says. “What do you mean there is land all around?” “In every direction. My people believe there is land in all the directions. To the north and the south, east and west.” “Do your sagas mention the distance to the west?” “This I do not know: it’s not far.” “But how far? In days?” “Not many.” The Norseman looks evenly into Columbus ’s eyes. He smiles again. “From Iceland, to Greenland, and then to Vineland.” “ Vineland?” “That’s what the sagas call it.” “What’s it like there?” “I cannot say. I have not been there.” “What do your sagas say it is like?” “It’s nice,” he says. “Nice?” “Beautiful. Green. And much rock.” “So the land to the west is beautiful?” “The sagas say so, yes.” “And how far are these lands?” “The sagas also say do not go there. There is only death there.” “What?” “Why are you so interested in this place? Why do you ask so many questions about the sagas? How is it that you are in these waters?” A creaking sound whines through the small cabin. Steam rises from a stove in the corner. The stench of sweat and smell of wet fur blurs the air. “We’re not so interested. Not really. Uninterested is more like it. How’s your fishing been going? As for us being here, we are… what’s the word? We are sailing out of Britain but we have made a diversion. A deviation. A digression in order to see what is there.” A voice from above shouts that they should move away from each other because the swells are growing. One of the crew hands the Norseman a steaming drink. Columbus looks at him carefully. He’s a big man. So big that he looks down on both Hardy and Columbus. Light-brown stringy hair. Eyes far apart and with the color of fair weather in them-an azure color they have not witnessed for a week. “So you’re saying your people have already been to the new lands across this sea?” The Norseman grins. His smile is generous and kind. There is almost pity hidden in this man’s face. “It’s a harsh land filled with demons. Horrible rocks and twisted trees. Twenty-five ships set out and only fourteen arrived. Many of our people were killed. We will not try to make a home there again.” Columbus tries to focus. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe and think of something to say. Go slow. “Why not go back? I mean to these new lands.” “These lands are not new. Our sagas date back five times a hundred years. There is nothing new about these lands.” The Norseman stands. The ship rolls to the port side and the sailors adjust their stance. They recognize the danger in that sudden shift and begin to move to the upper deck. The Norseman waits for the right moment and then jumps to his ship where three of his fellow sailors stop his momentum. He disappears belowdecks. His crewmen unfasten mooring lines and the two ships begin to drift apart. The vessels are thirty feet apart when the Norseman reappears from below. He tosses a leather bundle across the gap and the Briton catches it. They wave to each other. “Watch out for the Skraelings!” the Norseman shouts. “What did he say? Sky rings?” Columbus looks to Hardy but Hardy only shrugs. In the cabin, Columbus opens the bundle. Inside are three stones. “What the hell?” he says. “Rocks,” Hardy says. “Worthless rocks.” “This I can see.” Columbus spreads the leather wrapping flat on the table. Burned into the other side of this piece of leather is a very basic chart: Britain, Iceland, Greenland, and then jagged inlets and a large, triangular landmass on the other side of the ocean with the name Vinilanda Insula across it. The sound of the ocean, water lapping the ship, creaking sounds. In the corner, chickens scratch at the wooden decking, looking for something left behind. “Does this look like Japan to you?” Columbus looks up from the map and finds Hardy’s eyes. “I think this looks like Japan.” Hardy glares at him. “How the fuck would I know? You’re not going to trust a Viking, are you? Are you daft, man? They’re a bunch of godless, filthy buggers. You’ll be sailing to your death if you give any weight to that chart. They kill and eat their own children is what I heard.” Columbus just smiles and nods. “How is it that you were able to speak his language?” “I’ve always had a gift with the languages,” Hardy says. “All I’ve got to do is hear it spoken. It doesn’t take much before I start to understand.” “There were days when I could not bear humanity. Days when I was disgusted. Days when I’d seen too much death, too much cruelty, violence, and despair,” he says. “All this, added to the search for funding and support for my voyage across the Western Sea, was a heavy load.” “I can’t imagine,” Consuela says, encouraging. Columbus takes a bite of his ham sandwich, followed by gulping half a glass of milk. Then another bite of his sandwich. “We all need sanctuaries, Consuela-places where we can feel safe.” When Columbus needed to escape his own mind and heart, he would go to Salvos’s bar, a hidden enclave two blocks off the river in Valdepeñas. Few people knew about it. It was widely rumored to exist. One would only wind up at this bar if somebody on the inside brought you. It’s an exclusive, unknown, run-down haven. Salvos is a pig of a man. He’s fat like a stuffed sausage and leers at most women, but he serves decent food and cheap drinks. He runs a couple of girls in one of the upstairs rooms. Both of these women know better than to approach Columbus, who has never taken advantage of their offers. The best thing about Salvos’s bar is that it’s a relatively safe place in which to speak. Salvos may be an ugly man, but he edits his clientele carefully. There are no ears from the Holy Brotherhood. No ears from the Inquisition. No clergy. It’s not a perfect system, but after any given night, what was said at Salvos’s place was swept up in the morning, carried across the threshold, and thrown into the Jabalón River. Also, this bar is, compared to most bars along the river, well ventilated. “Hola, Columbus,” Salvos says. “How many days does it take to sail to Japan?” He smiles. All his smiles are a variant of lecherous. Usually Columbus feels soiled after just looking at him. Mercifully, his service is not great, and his one waitress, Sophia, takes on most of the bar. “Ya, good one, Salvos. It gets funnier each time. Today it’s hilarious.” “What?” “Hilarious. It’s a word that means… really funny-mirthful.” “I know what hilarious means. Why is it hilarious today?” Salvos finishes pouring the wine. He leans toward Columbus as he passes the drink but he does not let go of the glass. They are stuck like two planets revolving around this glass of wine. “Seriously, how does it go, my friend?” Columbus is surprised that Salvos’s breath is not foul. He’s not sure what this is about-this suddenly serious and concerned Salvos. So he is honest. He’s got nothing to lose, especially in the safety of this temenos. “I have high hopes for Spain,” he says. “But it is difficult… sometimes I… I’m daunted.” Salvos considers this, releases the glass of wine, and whispers, This stops Columbus. He did not expect Latin from this man. This blessing from such an unlikely source moves him. It props up his hope. He nods his thanks at Salvos. Indeed, he won’t let the bastards grind him down. Salvos grunts and moves to the end of the bar. Columbus watches in the mirror over the bar as the doorman opens the door the distance of two hands, enough for Salvos to see who is there. Having seen, Salvos shakes his head. The doorman closes the door and delivers the bad news to the man on the outside. Perhaps he advises the bar is full, or that it’s a private party. There are three booths at the back wall. Columbus likes the booths because he can spread out his charts and notebooks. There’s breathing room, elbow room, and they’ve got the best light. The candelabras are not bright but they hang low over the wooden tables. He’s just about to sit down when someone bumps into him, causing him to almost spill his wine. When he turns around he’s irritated. He is also instantly embroiled in a conflict of some kind. He appears to be in the middle of a standoff. “She’s a stinkin’ Jew and I won’t drink with Jews.” The man is massive, has a tattoo of a black skull across the top of his left hand, and spits when he talks. His hair is black, thick, and greasy. His tunic is filthy. Columbus can smell him from across the room. But regardless of the man’s odor and apparently foul disposition, Columbus reminds himself it’s just not a smart thing to confront large men with tattoos of black skulls on their hands, no matter how right you are about any given issue. This he has learned. Not much else, but this he knows for certain. The tattooed man looks down on a smaller man who stands in front of a woman. This big man has three friends behind him-hands on hilts. The tattooed man is the biggest of the lot, but the others are also undeniably large. The woman has her back to the wall and has been pushed there by a table-she can’t move. She’s bleeding from her lip and there’s a redness across her cheek, below her right eye. She does not wipe the blood. She is resolute and unflinching. “Juan?” Columbus says. “How are you, my friend?” Juan smiles. “Couldn’t be better. Just in the middle of something right now.” “I see,” Columbus says. He glances over at the four big men. He steps forward to the point where the man will have to step back in order to draw his sword if that’s the way this is going to play out. “What’s this about?” Columbus says. “She’s a stinkin’ Jew bitch.” The man spits out the word “bitch.” Columbus glances over his shoulder at Juan. “Brevior saltare cum de-formibus viris est vita, my friend,” he says. “Huh?” the big man says. “He said, life is too short to dance with ugly men.” Juan also steps forward, joins Columbus in crowding the giant. The tattooed man backs up a step, then another. Juan and Columbus take two steps forward. The big man’s three friends spread out. “Now why would you say such a thing?” “Well, you are ugly as sin,” Columbus says. “Surely you know this.” He appears to have no idea how to respond to this. Looks confused. “Look, this is not your concern. It’s about her. I want this fuckin’ Jew out of my sight. She’s a filthy whore. I will not drink with stinkin’ Jews. She and her kind bring disease, they bring the Black Death.” “You could leave,” Juan offers. “You defend this Jew? Why? She is no better than disease-infested cow shit.” “It’s not so much that I love Jews, but rather that I despise those who hate for no reason.” Tattoo man’s hand twitches slightly-a tell. Columbus can see Mr. Tattoo is about to draw his sword. He’s going to make that cross-body movement and draw his blade. This is when Columbus draws his own blade, an Italian-made dagesse. It’s a short blade and he does it quickly. The blade is at the tattooed man’s thick neck before his own sword is half drawn. Columbus is fascinated by the intense throbbing under the skin where the tip of his sword presses into tattoo man’s neck. “Stop,” Columbus says. “Enough. I just wanted a glass of wine, not a minor war.” All eyes are on Columbus. “Who are you?” the tattooed man says through clenched teeth. He moves his eyes toward Columbus -but moves nothing else. “I’m the guy holding a blade to your neck. I like Jews, and I’m rather fond of filthy whores. Tell your friends to get out.” “But-” “Now. Just do it.” He presses the point. Columbus doesn’t know much about swords, but any idiot could see this man’s weapon was way too long to be effective in close spaces. The tattooed man nods, delicately, toward his companions and they start to pick up their coats and bags-one guy pounds his drink down first. Salvos appears in the archway, slightly out of breath, a short thrusting sword in hand. The ring of a sword being drawn is a sound that cuts through any din. It’s not something he would ever miss. “Everything okay, my friend?” “Has this guy paid yet? And those?” Columbus motions with his chin in their general direction. “Yes,” Salvos says. He looks them over with a scowl. “They’re leaving. Those three first.” The crowd parts as the men make their way to the door. Columbus looks over at the woman who seems a bit shell-shocked. “What’s your name?” “Selena,” she says. There is vulnerability in her eyes but they are also ferocious. Columbus thinks he can smell vanilla. He turns his attention to the tattooed man. “Good-bye.” The big man backs away until Salvos grabs his shoulder and roughly guides him to the door. Columbus looks at Juan and Selena. “Join me for a drink,” he says. Up close, Columbus finds Selena to be stunningly beautiful. “Do you always draw such a crowd when you come into bars?” he says. Selena blushes. “Not usually. Do you always show off like that, with your knowledge of Latin?” Her eyes are downcast. But then she looks up with an even, self-assured strength. “I did not wish to have sex with him. Then my face accidentally ran into his fist, twice, and then… well, you know the rest. Thank you, by the way, for what you did. I’m in your debt.” “It’s nothing. You’re probably not even a Jew, are you?” She touches the gash on her right cheekbone. It’s stopped bleeding. She winces. “It was never about being a Jew or not being a Jew. He was only rejected and stupid.” Selena wears a long, maroon-colored skirt gathered above her waist, a blouse with tight sleeves, and no corset binds her bosom. This woman, Columbus finds out later, is a chambermaid. She’s gorgeous-apart from her injury, her skin is smooth, flawless, and her hair is an exotic tawny mane-yet she seems to have no awareness of her beauty, which only makes her more beautiful in his eyes. This is a woman with whom he would dearly love to dance-because life is also too short to dance with ugly women. Selena and Juan move toward Columbus ’s table and Selena trips, lurches forward-falls hard. Both men can hear the dull thud of her body hitting the floor. “Fuck,” she grunts. “These goddamned shoes.” She pulls herself up before Columbus can even start to think about moving to help her. Her top is covered with sawdust. Sprays of undone, sandy hair cover half her face, which is bleeding again. Still, Columbus finds himself completely enchanted by her-he feels a little light-headed. Salvos appears with a jug of wine and places it in the middle of the table. “The good stuff,” he says, smiling. He turns to leave and adds: “You drink on the house tonight.” They sit down and Juan pours wine all around. “The big one,” he says, “was a soldier. Not a particularly well-trained soldier but the marking on his hand is indicative of a regiment from near here.” “You’re very good with your sword, sir,” Selena says. “Please, call me Columbus. And I’m no swordsman. I’m a navigator, a sailor. I have no idea how to fight. I barely know how to hold a sword.” “But-” “Sometimes,” Columbus says, “one only needs to be quick.” “Surely you don’t think all women need saving? That we’re basically helpless, frail little creatures, and-” She stops, shocked at the intensity of her reaction. Her questioning mind flits to her ex-husband. Was that who Rolf was? Did Rolf save her? Or try to save her? Columbus smiles. It’s a warm gesture-even-tempered and innocent. Not condescending. “But Selena did need saving. It was not a nice bar. Sometimes it takes the threat of violence to stop a greater violence.” Consuela is immediately embarrassed. This is her patient. It’s just a story. She’s overreacting. “I do not think you need saving, Consuela,” he says. “But I would not hesitate if you were in trouble.” “I… Listen, I’m sorry. I… Of course, Selena needed some help. It was a good story. I’m curious, though. Exactly how many women does Columbus… do you, get to bed in this tale?” “Some other time,” he says. “We shall have to talk about passion and love, love and passion. With some women, I shared passion; others, I loved. One mustn’t confuse the two.” Later, at home, Consuela picks up her phone book and looks under |
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