by John Boyne
Deago’s smile fell.
“Still, we could use a clown like you on board to keep the sailors entertained on dark evenings,” he continued. “What say you? Would you care to explore the Indies with us? Do you have the legs and stomach of a seaman?”
For a moment, it seemed as if Deago was considering the offer, perhaps as a way to escape the ministrations of his new wife, but then he shook his head and replied that he did not think a sailor’s life was the one for him. Colón merely shrugged his shoulders, as if he could not quite believe why any young man would pass on such a glorious opportunity, before returning his gaze to the boats.
“Shall we go on board?” he asked, and I followed the captain as he stepped across the gangplank onto the Santa María, the only carrack, or three-masted ship, in the fleet, for both the Niña and the Pinta were caravels, with only two. He looked around, strolling along the deck with his hands on his hips, and breathing in deeply as if he were trying to become one with the woodwork. “What do you think of her?” he asked, and I nodded my head in appreciation.
“Very fine,” I said. “A worthy vessel for your adventures. Will you captain this one or—”
“Yes, this one,” he replied. “The Pinzón brothers will take charge of the other two, under my command, of course. By my reckoning we should arrive in Japan in a little over a month’s time and then I will have proven that there is a faster route for the spice trade.”
“A worthy goal, Señor,” I said.
He reached out and took a handful of the sail in his fist, before pressing his face into the fabric and rubbing the material along his cheek as if it were the nightgown of his lover. “You’ve done a fine job,” he told me. “You worked well with the mast-maker?”
“Yes,” I replied, for I had been in constant communication with the man who’d designed the wooden masts, which were mostly smooth and unornamented, except for one, which had the design of a many-colored snake carved into the wood. My sails had an artistic bent, too, with various intricacies in place around the hems. I had used my needles to inscribe images of other lands into the cloth, places that lived not only in my imagination but, I assumed, in the imaginations of explorers such as Señor Colón.
“Well, it’s fine work, fine work,” he agreed. “And you will come to the palace tomorrow evening for the farewell party?”
“I was honored to have been asked,” I said, for an invitation had come from Queen Isabella herself and I was looking forward to it immensely.
“Good,” he replied, dismissing me and Deago now. “Well, I’ll let you both return to shore, Master Sailmaker,” he said. “I have some more inspections to complete before being satisfied that we are ready to depart.”
Deago and I bowed, making our way back across the gangplank while, in unison, all three ships extended their sails and a great sea of white appeared before us decorated with the scarlet emblems of Castile and Aragon. It was a tremendous sight to behold and it thrilled me to imagine another sailmaker in Japan, a fellow craftsman, examining my work when the ships arrived at their destination.
* * *
• • •
Returning to my workshop, I discovered my son, Rafe, seated in a corner, apparently lost in thought.
“Are you well?” I asked, surprised to see him there, for he preferred to spend his afternoons drawing and playing with his abacus.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he replied. “About someone.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
I nodded, both surprised and pleased that she remained on his mind.
“You haven’t spoken of her in a long time,” I said.
“I’ve been afraid to,” he replied. “When I think of her, I feel very sad. So, more often than not, I try not to think of her at all.”
“It’s natural,” I told him. “You’re growing older. You miss her. A boy needs his mother.”
“Will you tell me what happened to her?”
I sat down next to him. I had been expecting this conversation to take place someday but, nevertheless, felt ill prepared for it.
“What would you like to know?”
“Was your marriage a happy one?”
“Very happy,” I said, nodding my head. “When first we met, there was no hint of romance between us, but we became friendly quite quickly. And, in time, something more blossomed.”
“So she didn’t leave because you did not love her enough?”
“No,” I replied. “I loved her very much, and she knew this.”
“Then why did she go?”
I hesitated for a few moments before replying. “Do you remember her daughter, Beatrisa?” I asked.
“A little,” he said. “She was nice to me, I remember. But she had dark moods.”
“Yes, she was a troubled girl, but she had suffered much ill treatment in her life. Santina took her away to see whether they might be able to find some peace for her tortured mind. They were expected to be gone only for a few months and when they didn’t come back—”
“You didn’t go in search of them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I sighed, for I had asked myself this same question many times. “I wouldn’t have known where to start,” I told him. “And you were still so young that I had to take care of you. Deago is a fine lad, but he is also an idiot. I could not trust him with a jewel as precious as you.”
“You could have brought me with you?”
“And risk harm coming to you? No, my son, I had already wasted many years of my life searching for someone who caused me pain and suspended that odyssey in order to settle down to family life. I couldn’t go on another crusade. Not yet anyway.”
He looked up, apparently intrigued by this story. “And who were you looking for then, Father?” he asked.
“Someone I knew when I was much younger. Someone who hurt me very badly.”
“And you never found him?”
I shook my head. Although I didn’t think of my cousin very often these days, I was sure that our paths would cross again one day.
“You didn’t…you didn’t kill her, did you?” asked my son.
“Who?” I asked.
“My mother.”
My mouth fell open in surprise. “Of course not!” I cried. “How could you even think such a thing?”
“There are rumors that you have the blood of many people on your hands.”
“The blood of some, yes,” I admitted. “We live in a violent world and there are people who would still be alive today had our paths not crossed. Some I regret, some I don’t. But this was all a long time ago and, I promise, I would have cut my hand off before I used it to injure your mother. You must believe me when I tell you that I loved her very much.”
He stood up, walking toward the door, apparently unsatisfied by my answers, and I suspected that this was a conversation we would return to again before he grew much older.
“Maybe when I’m a man I can go in search of her,” he said, and I nodded.
“Maybe,” I said. “But that time has not come just yet.”
He smiled, considering this, and stepped out the door, looking left and right to see where his adventures might take him next.
* * *
• • •
The following evening, at the palace, I found myself in conversation once again with Captain Colón when an elderly priest named Father Rodríguez hobbled toward us wearing an expression that combined determination and fury. He was at least sixty years of age, with a crooked nose and a handful of long white hairs on his head that he dragged from one ear to the other in order to give the illusion of youth.
“You are the captain that is setting sail tomorrow?” he asked, pointing a gnarly finger at Colón, who smiled and bowed deeply at the waist.
“I am,” he replied. “Cristóbal Colón.”
“And who are you?” he asked, turning to me.
“Nobody,” I said.
“Nobody is nobody. You must be somebody.”
“The sailmaker, nothing more.”
“Then you’re the one responsible for sending this man and the men who sail with him to their deaths?” he asked.
“I don’t see how that follows,” I replied. “I’ve been making sails for many years and my work is of the highest quality. They will guide them safely in all weathers. I would stake my life on it.”
“You make your way toward the Indies, is that right?” asked the priest, dismissing this as he turned back to Colón, who nodded. “But you are sailing westward?”
“Yes. To discover a faster route.”
“But, my ignorant friend, the world is flat,” insisted the priest. “It is a disc, nothing more. When you reach the end, you will simply fall off into the great abyss.” He leaned forward, looking around and lowering his voice as if this were too great a secret to be shared with others. “There be dragons there,” he said. “And they will swallow you whole.”
“Those myths have been debunked,” said Colón, laughing and shaking his head. “The world is neither a disc nor a flat surface. Nor is it held in the arms of Atlas or upon the back of a turtle. Consider, Reverend Father, when you observe a ship sailing into the distance. It disappears bit by bit as it reaches the horizon, does it not? That is because the Earth is spherical.”
“If you believe that, then you are a fool and a heretic,” said Father Rodríguez.
“I may be a fool,” replied Colón, his expression becoming grim. “But I would have thought that a priest would know better than to refer to any man as a heretic in these dark times. Such words can lead an innocent soul to the burning palisade.”
The priest waved his hands in the air, turning back to me in the hope that I might take his side, although in truth I had no firm convictions on the subject. I had certainly grown up assuming that the world was flat, but in recent times I had begun to doubt whether this was the case. And what Colón had said made a certain amount of sense.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Will you be going on this voyage, too?”
“No,” I said. “I remain here to continue my work. There are many more ships departing Huelva than Señor Colón’s and they all need sails.”
“Good. Then you will not fall off the edge of the world.”
“I feel like I already have. Several times, in fact. But not this time, no. And not in the Niña, the Pinta or the Santa María.”
A messenger interrupted our conversation, whispering something in Colón’s ear, and he nodded quickly and put his glass down.
“Their Majesties are in the state room and have summoned me,” he said. He turned to walk away, then seemed to think better of it and looked back. “Master Sailmaker,” he said, “would you care to meet them?”
“The King and Queen?” I said, opening my eyes wide. “I would be honored. Would I be permitted an audience?”
“Of course. King Ferdinand is particularly interested in the design of the ships. Come with me,” he said. “He will be pleased to make your acquaintance.”
I said goodbye to the priest, who seemed annoyed not to have been invited to join us, too. Even as we walked away in the direction of two enormous gilded doors, I heard him cry out in our wake:
“It’s flat, you mark my words! And you shall fall off and be devoured by dragons! I promise it!”
VATICAN CITY
A.D. 1512
JUST BEFORE THE GREAT DOORS OPENED, my patron turned to me, placed a hand upon my shoulder and looked me directly in the eye. I looked into his pale and drawn face, the creases on his skin pockmarked with fragments of paint and plaster, and wondered how a man so devoted to his work could remain on his feet for so long every day.
“Remember,” he whispered. “Do not speak until he addresses you. Do not interrupt him. Do not contradict him. Do nothing at all, in fact, unless he asks it of you. Pretend that you do not exist, that you are nothing more than the shadow of my shadow.”
“With so many conditions attached, Master, perhaps I should leave you to go in alone,” I suggested. “After all, I was not invited and he has never laid eyes upon me. He may not welcome a stranger being so presumptuous as to enter his presence without permission.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, smiling a little. “But I prefer to bring someone with me for such meetings. It helps if there is a witness to any conversations that might afterward be…how shall I put this? Forgotten. Or misremembered.”
I nodded and tried to keep my anxiety under control as four members of the new Swiss militia that had been created by the Pope a few years earlier stepped away from the doors and we walked into the receiving chamber. I expected a great crowd of priests and bishops to be gathered in entourage, but no, to my surprise, the only people waiting for us were the Holy Father himself, Pope Julius II, and a handsome young priest who stood in attendance upon him.
Michelangelo and I bowed deeply, and the artist stepped forward, kneeling before the Pope and kissing the ring of the fisherman on his right hand. I followed suit and the old man placed his palms atop my head, muttering something incoherent, a blessing of sorts I supposed, before I made my way to the corner of the room, determined to follow my master’s instructions and remain silent until I was addressed.
“My friend,” said the Pope, addressing Michelangelo, and sounding anything but friendly. “We are happy with you and we are unhappy with you. Twin emotions that cause discord in our mind.”
“Please, Holy Father,” replied Michelangelo, spreading his arms wide in an act of subordination. “In what way have I distressed you? Allow me to rectify the situation before I die of unhappiness.”
“We visited the Chapel yesterday,” replied the Pope, “and looked up toward the paintings that you have created upon the walls and ceilings. They are very fine and gave us much pleasure.”
“Thank you, Holy Father.”
“It has been almost a year since we last visited, of course, and there is no question that you have accomplished much in that time.”
“With the grace of God, yes.”
“And lying on your back every day. This cannot have been easy. It is the work of whores, no?”
He spat out a laugh and I raised an eyebrow in surprise, for I had not expected a man of divine grace to speak in such earthy terms.
“Actually, Holy Father, I work standing up. Although yes, my neck has, on occasion, suffered unhappy agonies.”
He rotated his head a little, the better to demonstrate the injury, but His Holiness waved away his complaints as if a mortal man’s discomfort were of no consequence to him. “We all suffer,” he intoned. “But we will receive our bounty in due course when we are granted eternal reward in our Father’s kingdom. And the more suffering we endure in this world, the greater the reward shall be in that one.”
“Speaking of rewards,” began Michelangelo, and, sensing that he was about to be asked for money, the Pope turned to look in my direction before summoning the priest over and whispering something in his ear. The younger man looked across at me with a contemptuous expression on his face before speaking in a surprisingly loud voice, as if I were hard of hearing.
“The Holy Father should like to know the identity of the man you have brought into his sacred presence, uninvited.”
“One of my assistants, Your Holiness,” replied Michelangelo, introducing me then by name, and I bowed again, wondering whether I should say something now or remain silent.
“And what has been your role in this project?” asked Pope Julius.
“Each morning, I prepare the plaster for the frescos, Holy Father,” I replied. “A certain mixture that prevents mold from forming on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”
“You are an artist, too?”
“I have tried to be, yes,” I told him. “I had a workshop of my own in Florence. It was there that I first met the Master and was fortunate enough to be invited to accompany him to Rome.”
“The Master,” he said, shaking his head and looking displeased by the honorific. “There is only one master, young man, and He does not reside in this temporal world.”
“Of course, Holy Father,” I said, lowering my eyes. When I dared to look up again, I studied him more closely as I waited to see whether our dialogue had come to an end or whether he was going to chastise me further. He was very old, one of the oldest men I had ever encountered. At seventy years of age, his eyes were sunken into the back of his head and the papal robes hung off his frame loosely, suggesting a thin man beneath the mantle, unlike his predecessor Pius, who had been fat, or the Borgia pope, who had been so obese that he was known as the Great Whale of Rome by those who did not value their lives. He wore a long white beard and the skin on his hands, when I kissed them, had been paper thin, the blue veins almost breaking through their tender surface. I suspected that it would not be long before the Lord called him to his own reward, and perhaps he sensed this himself, for his next complaint related to the subject of his own mortality.
“We are unhappy, so-called Master,” he continued, looking back at Michelangelo, “with the condition of our tomb.”
“Your tomb, Holy Father?”
“We visited it this morning and it is far from ready. How many years has it been since we commissioned it?”
“Eight years!” said the priest, shouting again. “The Holy Father gave instructions for the completion of the tomb in 1504. That’s eight years ago, Artist, and still it is not finished!”
“Of course, it has been an ongoing project and—”
“It was supposed to be ready by 1510!” roared the priest.
“And fortunately, the Holy Father has not required its services,” I said, ignoring the directive I had been given earlier, and Michelangelo turned, offering me a look that was difficult to interpret. “His Holiness appears in great health,” I continued, growing a little flustered now. “And, with the grace of God, he will surely remain on his throne for many years to come.”