by Mary Morris
He stands in the dust and heat before the black iron door. He knocks but hears nothing. He knocks again and at last there is the shuffling of feet. The large door is opened and a small friar in a brown cassock, so thick for such a hot day, stands before him, bowing. Luis is about to speak but there is no need. The friar knows who he is. They have been expecting him. Without a word the friar steps aside. Luis follows him into the sudden coolness of the monastery. At first Luis can see nothing. For weeks his eyes have gazed into the glare of the sun. Here it is all shadows.
As his eyes adjust, he sees that he’s come into a courtyard with twelve small doors. These are the rooms of the friars, one for each of the apostles. Without a word the friar leads Luis into a room where he is shown a place to relieve himself and to bathe his hands, his face, and his feet. He is given a cloth with which to dry. When he comes out into the small anteroom a hunk of crusty bread, a plate of cheese, and some fig jam await him along with a bladder of cold water and a goblet of sweet red wine. Mercifully there is no ham that he would have to force himself to swallow. He drinks the water, and then the wine. He eats voraciously until his hands are sticky with jam. Then he rinses his hands again.
Before the friar leads him upstairs, Luis stops in the chapel where he kneels before the Virgin of the Miracles and says his prayers to himself in Hebrew. When he rises, he follows the friar up a flight of stone stairs into a room in which several men sit around a long, dark wooden table and chairs. Despite the stifling heat the men wear high white collars and wool capes. As Luis steps forward, they gaze at this slightly built man, wearing only trousers and a soiled linen tunic. The room is large and filled with light and air. Its windows are flung open and a warm breeze blows through. Luis breathes in the brine of the sea.
As Luis de Torres approaches the table, a pale-skinned man with a shock of white hair and pale eyes rises to greet him. In front of him is a long tube of rolled parchment. Though he is not a friar, the man is dressed in a friar’s robes. For an instant Luis takes him for a ghost, but the explorer is not surprised to see him. Christopher Columbus has received a message that a speaker of Hebrew would be asking to board his ships. Columbus does not look at Luis. He pays no attention to his soiled tunic, his knapsack, or the blisters that ooze on his arms and neck.
The Admiral of the Ocean Sea motions for Luis de Torres to sit down. “I am in need of a translator,” Columbus says. “Someone who can speak the language of your dark race.” Luis is surprised by his high-pitched voice. It is as if he is listening to a boy, not someone his own age. Columbus explains that when they reach the Orient, they will meet the Jewish traders—those who travel the silk route, importing slave girls and eunuchs, furs and swords, and bringing back cinnamon, musk, and camphor. The ones known as the Radanites, meaning “those who know the way.”
“It is my intention,” Columbus explains, “to find the sea route to the East. We will trade with your people in the goods I will require.”
“I am a speaker of Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, Spanish, Latin, and Portuguese,” Luis tells the young explorer. Columbus nods as he unrolls the parchment. It is large and covers the long, wooden table. Luis can barely hide his excitement as Columbus lays before him the portolan map that he has drawn.
“I have spent years thinking about this journey,” Columbus tells him as he shows Luis his vision of the world. Columbus has read the journals of Marco Polo and studied the Book of the Splendor. He learned that Sardinia is known for its curative fountains, but if a rogue drinks from one he will go blind. In Cathay werewolves sacrifice humans and worship Mars. The tribes of Gelonne make saddles from the flesh of their enemies and an African tribe pledges friendship through the drinking of blood. The one-eyed Arismapes live in mountains inhabited by griffins. And in Lower Scitie the women go to war and the men do housework.
From all that he read Columbus drew this map, which he displays before Luis de Torres. He intends to use it to chart his journey. Luis leans closer for a better look. The map consists of two seemingly unrelated maps. To the far left is a map of the world surrounded by nine circles. The first seven are the spheres of the moon, Mercury, Venus, the sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. The eighth circle bears the signs of the Zodiac. The ninth sphere is empty.
To the right is the known world of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. If he squints, for his eyes still burn from his walk to La Rábida, he can see that the map is cluttered with tiny drawings of towns. From the towns, minarets, ramparts, turrets, and churches with crosses, medieval towers, ancient domes rise with no particular rhyme or reason. There are churches in Madagascar, minarets in France. Over Africa the Portuguese flag flies and ostrich feathers grace the Sahara; ivory and civet from Senegambia, pepper from Guinea, parrots from Benin. In West Africa two black archers fill the void. Far to the north is Frixlandia.
Luis points and Columbus explains that Frixlandia is a land of ice and snow with high mountains and inhospitable terrain where six months out of the year the inhabitants dwell in mud hovels and live on frozen fish. Farther to the right are the fabled Isles of the Seven Cities whose shores, sailors claim, are made of pure gold. Below the Isles of the Seven Cities there is nothing but the open sea. Pointing to the empty space on the map, Columbus tells Luis, “This is the Unknown World into which we will sail.” And with that Luis understands that he has been hired for the voyage.
Then Columbus points to a tiny island off the coast of Asia. It is surrounded by rocks and seems to be at the very end of the world. Luis has to bend forward to see it more clearly and he reads the name of this island that Columbus has written in his own hand. He has called it Paradise. This journey is to take them to heaven. As Luis de Torres gazes at the map, it occurs to him that he may be sailing off with a madman.
Still the next day Luis rises before daybreak and kneels in front of the friars of the Rabida Monastery. He kisses the holy cross and becomes a Christian for the second time. He agrees to banish the dead laws of Moses from his spirit and not to consort with any who ascribes to the false doctrines of Mahamet. He swears his allegiance to the King and Queen of Spain and Jesus Christ and promises to help in the conversion of any heretics or pagans they meet along the way.
On the third day of August three ships sail out of Palos. Luis de Torres is on the Santa María with the Admiral of the Ocean Sea who now refers to himself as “Don.” They head across the Atlantic, into the great unknown, believing they will come to a land of spices and gold that no white man has ever seen.
CHAPTER FOUR
COLIBRI CANYON—1992
It is a day of hot dry winds and tumbleweeds. The kind when poisonous creatures abound. Rattlesnakes coil on footpaths and scorpions hide in shadows of the woodpile. Black widows spin their webs while dung beetles cart turds away. The hideous twisted cacti burst into giant scarlet flowers and for the time being Miguel can forgive them their ugliness. For the past five days the heat has been almost a hundred, too hot for this time of year, and Miguel is afraid that his thin tires will explode on the asphalt. The car is a hand-me-down from his father, an old Chevy Impala, and still has the souped-up wheels and the flames painted on the hood. A classic, his father would call it. A wreck, Miguel would reply. Still, he’s never felt ashamed of it before. But now he does.
As he drives down the highway south from Entrada, dogs that are mostly wolves cross the road. Mexican grays have mated with these wild dogs, producing the feral mutts that he and his friends take turns firing potshots at on dull summer evenings, but the dogs are swift and rarely struck. This is the closest Miguel has ever come to blood sport. He drives quickly with his windows down. A rosary, green sponge dice, and a pair of his baby shoes dangle from the rearview mirror. His father insists on keeping the baby shoes and after all it’s his car. Perhaps he should have taken them down, but Miguel, like his father, is superstitious. Besides if you advertise for a babysitter in Entrada, this is what you’ll get.
He’s showered and changed into a clean white T-shirt and jeans,
but already he is sweating through. He wonders what kind of impression he will make on Mrs. Rothstein. In his mind he rehearses what he’ll say to her. He can be a good babysitter. He is patient. He is an amateur astronomer and he spends hours watching the night sky. He’s pretty sure he can convince her that he’s sixteen and about to be a junior, not a sophomore. He looks older than his years. He will tell her that he plans to save his money for an even stronger telescope and, of course, for college. These are things that he assumes a rich white lady who lives out in Colibri Canyon will want to hear.
In fact he gives most of his money to his mother because his father is never going to make a killing on his airbrushed bike helmets. Miguel is fairly certain that he’ll never get a store-bought telescope, let alone get out of that trailer. The only way he can go to college will be on a full scholarship, the way his aunt Elena did, but she was “exceptional.” (That’s what his father always says. She was exceptional.) So that probably won’t happen. In fact Miguel is fairly sure that he’ll never amount to much, but he’d like to help his mother out if he can. And he can use some cash if he ever wants to take a girl to the movies and out for an orange slushie—though he hasn’t done so yet.
In the distance over the Sangres he sees the rain. Long, gray streaks running down from the clouds. But it is moving away, not toward him. At least he hopes it is. He doesn’t want to get caught out in Colibri Canyon in a flash flood, or even a heavy rain. He doesn’t have four-wheel drive and he remembers when he used to go out there and work with his father how thick the mud can be. But from the clouds and the wind it seems to be moving away, not toward Santa Fe. Forked lightning illumines the horizon off to his right. It is that unpredictable time of year.
He turns off the highway onto Colibri Canyon Road. It’s a dirt road the way most roads are out here. One that twists and turns. He has an address though he knows it won’t do much good. She’s just told him to drive until he crosses two arroyos and a stone bridge, then look for a one-story white adobe about a mile and a half in. That is pretty much how you find places around here. The addresses are on the mailboxes but the mailboxes aren’t always near the houses. You are just supposed to know where people live. This tends to keep strangers from your door.
As he makes his way along the road, his car bounces in the ruts. The road is lined in piñon, juniper, and sage, and the air smells of fresh pine. Miguel comes to the first arroyo. It’s dry but there’s a sign that warns “If There’s Water, Turn Around. Don’t Drown.” He knows this is serious. Just last year a boy he went to school with was carried away in his father’s gardening truck. He doesn’t like to come down these canyon roads in the spring without four-wheel drive.
As he crosses the second arroyo, Miguel wonders if Mrs. Rothstein will hire him. It seems as if she already has, but he is sure she’ll change her mind once she sees him. He wouldn’t hire someone who drives a beat-up lowrider with a wolf and flames airbrushed on it. But this car is all he has for now. Maybe she’ll let him drive hers. He bets she has a Porsche or a BMW. He’ll drive it all over town. He is hoping for a convertible. He’ll take it for a spin, maybe all the way to Entrada. He tries to imagine the look on his friends’ faces when he shows up in a fancy car.
Miguel pulls into the dusty drive in front of what seems to be a small adobe house. But in Colibri Canyon looks can be deceiving. The canyon is named for the many emerald and ruby-throated hummingbirds that flit among the cactus blooms, plunging their beaks into the flowers. There are also snakes, ready to inject their venom. Sometimes people get lost on these canyon roads, wandering out into the desert. A few years ago a toddler slipped out of his yard and was eaten by coyotes. Or maybe wild dogs. It is hard to tell. It is said that wolves have returned to the hills. Or, if you believe the natives, wolf spirits.
But the people who live out here come mostly from Texas or California. They never think much about such things. They are people with money. People with alarm systems and fancy cars and designer dogs. People who feel safe within their adobe walls and behind their automatic garage doors. Across the road he notices the work truck and men who appear to be drilling a well. They glance his way and he gives a wave. They wave back. It is what strangers do around here.
He slams the car door and walks up the path. But before he can knock, the door opens and Rachel Rothstein holds out her hand. “I heard you drive up. You always hear people drive up on this road.” It seems like an odd thing to do but he shakes her hand. Her long red fingernails press into his palm. “So you’re Manuel?” He nods, not bothering to correct her. He will next time.
He expected a thin blond woman. He has no idea why he thought she’d be that way. Maybe because he imagines most white women who have money and hire babysitters will be tiny with eating disorders and watery blue eyes, but she isn’t. Rachel Rothstein is a fleshy woman with large hips and breasts. She has such dark hair and eyes that if he’d seen her in Entrada when she was posting her ad, he would have taken her for Hispanic. Maybe even someone related to him. Except that she is wearing black tights and high leather boots and a pale green blouse with a green cardigan sweater. Her dark hair is wrapped in a tight bun on the top of her head. No one in Entrada de Luna dresses like this. Not during the day. Maybe for a fiesta. But not at four o’clock in the afternoon in your own house. He wonders if she dressed up for him.
Despite how stylishly she is dressed, behind her he sees piles of Legos, trucks, train cars, stuffed animals, and plastic pistols and swords tossed all over the living-room floor. And he sees the huge picture window with a vista that looks out to the mountains and notices that the house has wings that jut out on either side. He is right. Looks are deceiving. Mrs. Rothstein pulls the door back to let Miguel in. But he has barely stepped inside when he is ambushed. A small boy, wearing a mask and cape and carrying a laser gun, latches on to his legs and tries to drag him to the floor. “I got you,” the boy says.
Miguel raises his arms in surrender. “I come in peace,” he says.
The boy eases his grip. “I’m Captain Chaos.”
Miguel extends a hand. “I’m Captain Kirk. What is your mission?”
That seems to stump the boy. As he eyes Miguel, Mrs. Rothstein smiles. “Why do you want a job?” she asks.
Miguel looks at her oddly. What a stupid question. Why does anyone want a job? Because they need money, because their deadbeat father rarely comes around, but perhaps this woman does not understand that concept. “I’m working on a science project and I need to buy a telescope,” he tells her.
“A telescope.” She mulls over the word, and then smiles again. “This is Davie.” She slips the mask off the little boy and a pair of deep blue eyes stare up at him. “And please call me Rachel.” Miguel nods, biting his tongue. He’s never called anyone more than five years older than himself anything other than Mr. or Mrs. or doctor or professor. Or officer on the occasions when he’s had dealings with the police. He knows he’ll never call her by her first name. “That’s interesting,” she says as she leads him into the kitchen. “Do you want to be an astronomer?”
Miguel shrugs as he follows her. He hasn’t really thought that far ahead yet. “I just like to look at the stars,” he replies. He follows her through the obstacle course that is the living room where an older boy with reddish hair and pale skin sits, glued to the TV. “That’s Jeremy. Jeremy, say hello.”
The boy waves a “hi” without looking up. A huge brown dog is flopped down beside him, which Miguel mistakes for a pillow until it wags its tail. “That’s Baxter. Mostly he just sleeps.” As Davie plunks himself down beside his brother, Jeremy gives him a pinch on the arm that Miguel catches a glimpse of. Tears in his eyes, Davie slides away, rubbing his arm.
Mrs. Rothstein doesn’t seem to notice or, if she does, decides not to do anything about it. Perhaps she’s already given up on some things. Miguel isn’t sure as he traipses after her down a narrow corridor lined with huge windows that look out on to the desert. He is surprised that the house, w
hich appears small and simple on the outside, seems to grow larger and more convoluted as he goes along. Indeed it is a veritable maze, perhaps good for extended games of hide-and-seek. Or just to get lost in.
In the kitchen buckets of water are lined up on the floor. Some of the water has sloshed onto the tiles. “Be careful,” Mrs. Rothstein warns. “Don’t slip.” Miguel wonders if they have a leak. She points to the dishes in the sink. “They’re working on the well across the way. That’s why I can’t do dishes. We haven’t been able to take a bath for two days. We can barely flush…” Her hands flutter in the air. “Never mind. This just isn’t, you know, normal.” Looking around, Miguel wonders what normal is.
She begins opening cupboards. “Davie likes sweet snacks like ginger cookies or Froot Loops. But no dairy for Davie. Absolutely none. He has this condition. It’s not pleasant. Just remember Davie, no dairy. That’s how we remember it. Now Jeremy—” She hears them shouting in the other room. “Boys, cut that out.” She turns back to Miguel. “Jeremy likes cheese and crackers. If Davie has a sweet, he has to have juice. But not Jeremy, if he has a sweet, he must have milk. Can you remember that?”
Miguel isn’t sure he can remember any of this, but she goes on. “Jeremy can’t handle double sweets. They get him all agitated. He shouldn’t really have much sweets at all, but it’s not worth the trouble arguing with him.”
She opens a door that he assumes leads to a closet, but instead he finds himself staring into an enormous pantry that is stocked as well as the grocery store in Entrada de la Luna. Shelves teem with peanut butter, gingersnaps, boxes of cereal and granola, energy bars and Pop-Tarts. Tins of sardines, tuna fish, smoked oysters; jars of olives, pickles, catsup, mustard. Every possible variety of Annie’s Shells—white cheddar, regular cheddar, Parmesan, dinosaurs, alphabets, the moon and stars. But with a label that reads in big red letters: “For Jeremy only.” Mrs. Rothstein is prepared for an invasion. “You’ll find most of what you want in here. You should help yourself too.” Mrs. Rothstein continues, “Once a week or so you can take them out for pizza but soy cheese for Davie. Or you can order one but usually by the time they deliver here it’s cold. Davie needs a nap just half an hour or so after school. And Jeremy, he needs quiet time. I’ll be here some days but mostly I’ll be working in my studio. I’m a sculptor.” With a flick of her hand she points toward the back wall beyond which he assumes is her studio, but he can’t see it. “I’ll leave you the numbers. Either my husband or I will be home before six. Can you come three afternoons a week and sometimes on the weekend? I’ll pay you ten dollars an hour. And your car? Is it safe?”