***
The next morning, Columbus looks at Consuela with a glint in his eye. He watches her as she approaches his table at breakfast with more interest than usual. He studies her gait.
“ Columbus persists,” he says. “He’ll do almost anything to get his ships.”
“Good morning to you, too,” she says.
“You look quite beautiful today… I mean you always look good, but I noticed that today-”
“Thank you, Mr. Columbus. I get it.” She takes a deep breath. “So what would you do to get your ships?”
***
As usual, Columbus kneels before the queen. She keeps him kneeling for all of their audiences while she either sits or swishes around the room. She likes to watch him from behind. To leave him there faced away from her voice. That way, anyone who entered unexpectedly would see nothing was going on. And truthfully, nothing was happening between them, at least on a physical level.
She also liked to sit in front of him, on the throne, her legs pulled up and apart. Her feet flat on the seat of the chair. A pose that without her flowing dresses would not have been appropriate. She did it to tease. She did it to titillate. She did it to move him off course from his obsession. To see if she could shake him.
Isabella sits before him. Considers how she should begin. She is not calm. This audience, which has been arranged by her treasurer, Luis de Santángel, is an inconvenience to her. But she likes this Columbus, more than she would like to admit. He wished to serve the king and queen and would risk his life to do it. He wished to bring glory to Spain. And he was persistent, bloody dogged, about it.
“The commission at the university has come to a decision,” she says.
“They have no imaginations, no desire to explore. They are dead men with pencils,” Columbus says. “I already know what they-”
“Now hear me well, Columbus. I will personally look at your plan once we take back Granada from these shit-assed godless Moors.”
“My queen, you are wise. You are intelligent. You are powerful and-”
“Oh cut the crap, Columbus. I have sycophants galore. Just open that door and walk down the hallway and I’ll show you a hundred completely useless sycophants. Be patient, Columbus. We will take Granada, and soon. And then, we will see about your ships.”
“But-”
“Patience. Patience, Columbus.”
“You’ll need money after the Granada victory. I can bring the royal treasury riches from the Indies and Marco Polo’s Japan.”
“That’s a promise we will remember, Cristóbal.”
“Could you not spare just three ships, most revered servant of God? Even two ships would-”
“Look, Cristóbal, I like you. Your enthusiasm is undeniable. You have great charm and you are unequivocally brilliant. But I have to tell you-and I hope you can hear this through the haze of your single-minded passion-get the fuck off my back about these ships.”
“But my queen, I-”
“I’ve had a snootful of you and the new route to the Indies and Japan. I have an entire city filled with Moors that I’ve promised to extricate. I’ve got a holy Inquisition that’s running amok-I have no idea what they’re going to attack next. I started the damned thing, and frankly, they scare the crap out of me. I’ve got Jews spread across my lands who don’t seem too pleased about leaving and aren’t very enthused about converting. I’ve got God’s emissaries from Rome saying converting isn’t going far enough anyway. And I have a treasury that does not runneth over. I have-”
“If I am successful, when I am successful, I will fill the treasury with riches.”
“And to top it off, my tits hurt. They ache. For some reason, I have to cram them into these tight dresses. Gowns, gowns, and more gowns, and they’re all tight little torture suits.”
“My queen, I hear you. I only wish to please God, and to bring honor to Your Majesties.”
“How the hell could you know what it’s like to wear these damned clothes?”
“I… I cannot imagine it, my queen.”
She rises from the throne and shushes by Columbus so she is behind him. Columbus smells her odor and its edgy sexuality stops him. It’s a hot, muggy day to begin with and now this! His head feels light. The smell of this woman, this queen, shakes him.
She walks through an archway at the back of the room. Columbus can hear a door opening and closing. The queen comes back into the room and walks over to him.
“A couple of my girls are coming in here to get you dressed. Then we can talk some more.”
“But I am dressed-”
“Trust me, Columbus.”
In a couple of minutes, two of the queen’s servants enter the room with a blue gown and a corset. The girls shrug, stifle giggles, and go to work on Columbus.
“But this is a dress,” he says. The girls ignore him.
“And you’re going to cram your body into it. So you really understand what I go through to look like this.”
“But-”
“Just do it for your ships.”
Isabella walks across the room and disappears through the doorway.
When the queen comes back, Columbus is on his knees in the blue dress, the corset tight across his chest and midsection.
“That’s better,” she says.
“I can barely… breathe.”
“Fantastic, isn’t it? Welcome to my world, Columbus. Those two girls are my most trusted-they’ll not say anything about this-but there are rumors about you and I. The tabloids say there must be something going on because your scheme is being entertained by the queen. Just rumors, but pile rumor on top of rumor on top of innuendo and I could be in trouble. My husband chases whatever bitch in heat he damned well pleases, but I? I must remain faithful.”
“But it’s not true what they say.” Columbus feels dizzy, can’t get a full breath.
“The truth has little to do with what the tabloids write. They print whatever they want.”
“But you’re the queen! Can’t you just, you know, cause them to disappear?”
“And make myself look guilty?”
“But-”
“You do understand that I have to remain true to the king? That there are spies everywhere? And that there are serious consequences to any infidelity on my part?”
“May I rise, Your Majesty?”
“No, you may most certainly not rise. Stay where you are.”
Columbus can’t feel his lower legs but he remains facing the empty throne.
“My queen, God Almighty would never allow-”
“God Almighty probably started a few of these rumors. Do you catch my drift, Cristóbal? God Almighty can see into my heart. He can read my thoughts and most secret desires. Do you hear me, Cristóbal?”
Three days later, an envelope arrives by courier, catches up to Columbus in Córdoba. He opens it and finds a pair of black panties. There is no accompanying note. No letter. Nothing to indicate whose panties these might be. Columbus is bemused. He looks around the room-even though he knows he’s alone, he wants to make sure before he lifts the panties to his face and inhales deeply.
***
Consuela pulls back from Columbus and looks him over. She feels a twinge in her groin. Her head is spinning.
“That was mildly erotic,” she says.
“Not meant to be. It was a lesson in understanding. You’ve been hanging around with doctors too much. Sometimes a thing is just what it is. A lesson is a lesson.”
“Still, it was erotic.”
“You want erotic? The pungent, spicy smell of a woman-that’s erotic,” he says. “All the scents. Feet, underarms, groins. Everything.”
“Yes, I know. I know you enjoy the olfactory.” Consuela is no longer shocked by his sporadic, frank admissions.
Across the room, workmen have finally arrived to fix the broken window, which has been boarded up for two weeks. They hover outside the window, ladders on either side. Place the glass carefully into the frame. Consuela and Columb
us sit in the dim light and watch the workmen.
***
He sits up in bed. It’s not a spasmodic or jerky movement. He is simply, suddenly wide awake. He leans over and throws up into the wastebasket. He slides off the bed onto his knees and continues to vomit. When he is spent, Columbus presses the side of his face into the coolness of the floor and weeps. He pulls his sheet from the bed, curls into a fetal ball, and hopes for sleep without dreams, without nightmares, without armless dolls.
This is the third time in a week he has had this dream. Each time his reaction is more violent. It shakes his body. Impacts physically.
In the morning, he seeks out Pope Cecelia, finds her in the day-room watching the birds in the oak tree outside the south window. She’s wearing just one robe today, looks almost normal. Beside her on the table are a blue tin cup and a wooden spatula. Columbus looks at the cup and the spatula, decides not to ask, sits down, kisses her ring, and begins to unfold the details of his dream.
“Why would a doll speak?” Cecelia says. “Why would you have that expectation? Dolls don’t speak. They don’t talk.”
“I don’t know. I just know these dolls can talk-they can speak but they don’t.”
“And they’re armless?”
“All of them.”
“How many dolls are there in this dream-”
“Nightmare. Hundreds. There are hundreds of silent dolls.”
“And what do you do in this dream-nightmare?”
“I try to wake them up. I have the knowledge that they can speak, but they won’t speak.”
She draws her body away from the direction of the tree and the sparrows and the window, toward him. “What do you think it means?” She rotates the tin cup on the table, so the handle is facing her, then, takes a sip of tea.
“Old woman, I don’t have a clue. All I know is I am horrified. Last night I was sick. I woke up and I was physically sick. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay awake for the rest of my life.”
He observes her face. It’s kind. Wrinkled and weathered, but lacking the stray hairs that accompany so many older women’s faces. Her skin is pale and apart from the wrinkles, smooth. Her eyes are faded pale blue, as if they became tired of their own color, or simply faded with age.
“Oh my dear boy,” she says. She reaches out and touches his hand, hopes to bring him back from wherever it is he’s going. “It’s all right to not know. Perhaps you’re not ready to know. Dreams are never obvious. They are never what they seem. You’re just not ready.”
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 i
nsignificant.”
“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.”
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