Emile crawls into bed-places his tea next to his laptop on the bedside table. He knows exactly what he would say to this man. He would tell him that no matter how far he runs, or how much he drinks, or how badly he wants a new beginning, his life is always with him. There is no separation from your own shadow. Emile sniffs, smiles. This is the culmination of his wisdom after two years of therapy.
He imagines this man living alone somewhere in the mountains, perhaps in the Basque region, on the French side, in a small village where he works as a laborer. He disappears into the mountains on weekends-comes back with fish. He is known in the town only as the arrantzale-the fisherman. He will be exhausted from his day, barely able to eat his soup. He will stagger home to his apartment above a wine store, walk through the doorway, and flick on the light. Maybe he will look down at his own shadow, which is sprawled into the hallway, sigh heavily, and reach for the ardo before he closes the door. He will down half the bottle in his first attack. Some of the wine will drip down his chin and he will not care. He wants sleep. He wants dreamless ironclad sleep and then backbreaking labor in the morning. And then more wine, and more dead sleep.
Emile sits up in bed. He has a sudden shadow-memory, an image of his ex-wife beside him in the bed. Like when a cat dies and you think you see the cat moving from room to room, or sitting at the door waiting to be let out in the morning. The ghost cat exists only as a hazy afterburn in your retina. But, of course, she is not there. She’s in Guadeloupe with her sister. She’s out of his life. Has taken her leave. Moved on. This half memory is enough to shock him fully awake. It’s eerily quiet, a muffled lull-the street sounds pulled back. Even Paris can be becalmed. Emile listens. The clock in the kitchen has the loudest tick he’s ever heard. Water is running somewhere in the building.
He wishes the man well. He hopes he is able to successfully escape any horrors that chase him in the night. If he is alive. If. He’s been off the grid for a long time.
***
Consuela searches the words Hafiz, Columbus, fifteenth century, Persian, chess, professor, and teacher. Hafiz because of his knowledge of the poet, his poems, and his comment about reading them in Persian. Columbus and fifteenth century for the obvious reasons. Chess because she suspects he’s very, very good-much better than he pretends. And, finally, teacher and professor because he lectures-he seems like a teacher. It’s a guess, but a guess is all she has. On the thirty-fourth page of her search she finds an oblique reference to Mehmet Nusret, the birth name of Turkish humorist and author Aziz Nesin, who died in 1995. He had apparently championed free speech, especially when it came to the right to openly criticize Islam.
On a whim, she adds this name to a new search, with the words April and March. Columbus came to the institute in April, but nobody knows where he was before that. These are more calculated suppositions. Consuela is sitting at her computer with a glass of chardonnay on the desk beside the screen. After almost two hours, her search is still fruitless. She forgoes the glass and drinks out of the bottle.
***
Columbus times his journal entries so Consuela is not working when he writes. This morning he finds a corner of the upper deck, far from the small fountain that does not function-spouts no water, only fills with leaves and rainwater. He can imagine what it would have been like, where the water would have flowed-the mist, the spray-what it would have felt like to have the luxury of that mist on a hot day.
(v)
Row after row of desks. These desks are tiered. They rise up and away from the center of this picture. The lights are slightly dimmed. There are people-they are probably students. They’re all looking at a focal point at the front of this room. Many of the students are typing into their laptop computers. Most of them have laptops. Many of these students are smiling. A few are laughing. As if the person teaching the class has just said something funny. There is no way to determine what kind of class this is. Most of the students are female.
He pans the front row for clues. All women in the front row. On the far right a young woman is looking down. She’s holding a cell phone in her lap-slightly under her laptop, which sits on the little desk-probably texting someone. Or reading a text message.
Analog to digital. That’s what’s happening in this classroom. A human being-the analog bit-will offer up information and the students will smash it to bits and bytes, ones and zeros. They will do this 350 unique ways. And they will do it almost instantly.
There is a woman in this frozen moment who is not translating the lecturer’s words into digital. She sits mid-row, about four tiers up. She is looking into the center of the picture. If the lecturer is the one holding an imagined camera, she’s looking directly into his, or her, eyes. She has shoulder-length red hair. She’s wearing a navy-blue blouse. Her head is tilted into her hand, her thumb rides her jawline, and two fingers rest on her cheek. Her other hand rests in her lap. Her eyes penetrate. Even in this stopped-time image where nothing moves, her eyes cut through any pretense.
A brunette-haired woman in the front row is taking notes the old-fashioned way, with a pen and paper. Is it that she can’t afford a swanky Macintosh computer? When he surveys the room, the vast majority of little lights in the center of the backs of the screens are apples. Or is it something more romantic with this woman? Perhaps she’s found this method of note taking is the most efficient way for her to learn. Something in him is drawn to this woman who either purposely, or by economic circumstances, rejects the prevalent technology.
In the second tier, a man with dark-rimmed eyeglasses is focused on his computer screen. He could be playing a game or writing a book. He seems far away. Even in this snapshot, there is distance, a disconnection between him and the lecturer.
In the aisle desk, three rows up, a blond-haired woman is crying. Why didn’t he see her before now? He probably went past her ten times in his mind. Her mascara is running down her cheeks. Nobody around her seems to know she is crying. She is not afraid to let the lecturer see her tears. She does not wipe them away because those around her would begin to catch on. Now that he has found her, he can sense her sorrow. The physicality of her pain is so apparent in her eyes, and mouth, and shoulders. Her eyes fluctuate from a fierce don’t you dare pity me to a resigned grief. Her mouth is frozen in a sad, even line. Her shoulders are wilted, careless. Her posture is not beneficial to breathing. Her breathing stays high in her chest, never goes deep. These are silent tears. Is she experienced in crying silently? Why?
How does this picture fit into his life? He can’t recognize anybody. No names come when he goes over this image. He thinks maybe he’s at the middle of it. He’s the teacher, or the lecturer, but what does he know that he could teach?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The table is long and narrow, and made of oak planks. Luis de Santángel sits not at its head but, rather, stranded in the middle, surrounded by councillors. Santángel’s black hair is pulled back neatly behind his ears. His hands are manicured. His clothing is plain. Nothing ornate, though he could easily afford it. His overall appearance is friendly and open but also down to business. He sits with his back to the window. He’s partially silhouetted against the morning sky, which is cloudless and holds the promise of a hot day. Columbus sits directly across from Santángel. At his right hand is his lone companion, his friend, Father Antonio.
Eighteen to two, Columbus thinks. They must believe this meeting is important. Either they believe wholeheartedly in my journey or they are covering all possibilities.
“Drinks?” Santángel says. “Mr. Columbus?”
“No, thank you,” Columbus says, speaking for both himself and Father Antonio.
The men surrounding the queen’s treasurer are all laden with paper. Some have binders; others, piles of paper clipped together. All have cell phones either hanging from their belts or sitting on the table. Santángel opens a small black file folder that sits neatly on the table in front of him, its edges square to the table’s edge. He flips the first page over an
d leans back in his chair. All side conversations stop.
“Very well, then,” Santángel says. “I first want to congratulate Mr. Columbus on the successful financing of his impending voyage across the Western Sea to Japan and India. This is quite an accomplishment.” Santángel leads the small herd of lawyers and councillors in polite applause. He clears his throat and begins again. “The purpose of this meeting is to determine the compensation Mr. Columbus will receive, if any, from the profits and proceeds of this expedition. We are here today to determine any remuneration for Mr. Columbus and his crews. I expect our negotiations to be somewhat complex but hopefully not too lengthy. Now, as a starting point, I’ve prepared a base-offer sheet.” He turns toward the far end of the table where a diminutive, bald man with dark-rimmed glasses is fidgeting with a brown briefcase. One of the latches is stuck. “John? Could you hand out the sheet? I believe there are enough copies for everybody to have one.”
“I’m… I’m having a problem with this latch. Just a minute.”
“As I was saying, Mr. Columbus, this negotiation, while complex in nature…”
This guy loves the sound of his own voice, Columbus thinks. I’d love a cup of coffee. Better, an espresso. I bet they’d get me one if I asked.
“John? How are we doing?”
“I’ve almost got it.” John’s got a knife wedged in the lock, and he’s prying it back and forth.
“Perhaps,” says Santángel, “we should take a break until we can solve the briefcase problem.” He smiles, more a twinge.
“A question, Señor Santángel,” Columbus says softly.
“Yes, Mr. Columbus.”
“I’d love an espresso.”
“Emilio,” Santángel snaps. “An espresso for Mr. Columbus.” One of the crowd of lawyers stands and moves toward the door. “And I’ll have one, too.”
Now the other lawyers start offering orders.
“I’d like a café solo.”
“I’ll have a double espresso with a wedge of lemon.”
“Do you have decaf?”
“Could I get a latte, extra hot?”
“I’ll have a café con leche.”
“I got it.” It’s John with the briefcase. “It’s open. I got the briefcase open.” He’s smiling and holding his left hand, which is bleeding. “I need a bandage.” John sits down. A woman in a gray dress pulls her briefcase onto the table, snaps it open, and produces a bandage, which she passes down the table toward John, who looks pale, exhausted.
“I have kids,” the gray woman says.
Columbus looks at his fingernails, gazes out the window. He actually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s going on around him. He knows the outcome of this meeting already. Getting to that outcome is a series of formalities. He’s a sailor now. He’s no longer interested in negotiating anything but oceans.
The deal is done, he thinks. I’ve got my ships. Just when I thought it was truly hopeless, funding for three ships and provisions and a crew appears. Why? Doesn’t matter. I’m going. I’m off to make a brand-new route. There is no question that there is something out there. Look at these idiots with their cell phones and mounds of paper. Look how they jump when I ask for espresso. They’ve bought the dream. They want, desperately, what I’ve put on the table.
Santángel’s base offer is passed around. Everyone has a copy. A cream-colored cover with a few attached pages sits unopened in front of Columbus. Father Antonio’s copy also sits on the table exactly where it was placed.
The coffee arrives. Cups are handed around. Columbus is served first, his espresso, in a blue demitasse, is placed in front of him. He silently acknowledges the excellent crema but other than this, ignores the coffee.
“So if we can begin again. Can I get everyone to sit? Now, as I was saying, we are here today to…”
Columbus pulls out a briefcase, lays it flat on the table, covering Santángel’s offer as if it is insignificant. Santángel stops talking. Columbus clicks open each catch and removes a single sheet of paper. He passes it to Santángel. “Here are my requirements. Father Antonio will hear any comments, but this list of demands is firm and final. There will be no negotiation. I’m going fishing for a few days.”
Columbus stands and nods to the gaggle of gape-mouthed lawyers. Then bows deeply toward a tapestry at the far end of the room. “Your Majesty,” he says softly. Father Antonio remains seated as Columbus walks across the room and pushes open the far doors. He stops in the archway. “My associate, Father Antonio, will take you up on that drink now,” Columbus says. The doors groan shut and he’s gone.
***
Two hours later, they are alone in the room. The councillors have been dismissed and Father Antonio has been escorted back to his monastery. The father followed Columbus ’s instructions to the letter. He listened. Engaged in no negotiations. Then listened some more.
“Admiral of all the Seas. Is he insane? This is impossible! I mean, Your Majesty, I like him but these demands are outrageous!” Santángel speaks toward the tapestry. “And he wants a percentage of all the profits from any route he finds. And he wants-”
“Give it to him,” Isabella says as she steps around the edge of the screen. She’d like to use her fingernails to claw the goddamned dress she’s wearing off her body. She can barely get a full breath from morning to sunset. She swishes over to the window and looks out across the dusty landscape. Would she still be able to see him? Fishing? Who goes fishing at a time like this? Isabella giggles. Of course, Columbus would go fishing at a time like this. He loves fishing.
“But he wants-”
“Give it to him.”
“Forgive me, my queen, but this is too much.”
“Just give him what he wants. We’ll figure out how to make good on the promise once he returns, if he returns.” If… yes… there is a possibility he will not make it back. Anything can happen at sea. And if he returns, we will keep our distance from him. We will not visit or encourage him in any way.
Santángel smiles. “A dangerous game.”
“My game.”
“But-”
“Enough! Go. Arrange to give him everything he requires. Go!”
***
When Columbus looked at the tapestry and bowed, Isabella had to cover her mouth with her hand. She gasped and then wept quietly. Her yearning surprised her. She felt overwhelmed by it-caught off guard. She thought she might faint. She stood with wobbly knees and tears flowing, and watched him walk out of the meeting.
I want him, Isabella thinks. But to want him is to court death, tempt fate. So he must go. I must give my heart respite. Put Columbus, and myself, out of danger.
But it would be nice to see him, perhaps one more time before he sails. Just one more time. Nothing will happen. I just want to see him. To have a simple conversation. Nothing more.
***
“I’m done,” she says. “I can’t listen to any more stories. I need a break.” Her voice is a frayed rope. Her fingers intertwined and squeezed white. Dr. Balderas walks across his office, two glasses in his hands-the ice tinkling. “Drink this,” he says. He sits in a low, leather armchair across from her, places his drink on the arm, elbows on his knees, and leans forward. He recognizes fatigue-has seen it in himself, in his wife, when they were dealing with their teenagers. The dark circles under her eyes, a slumped weariness to her posture. There is no doubt in his mind that Consuela is exhausted.
“I can’t make you do this. You’ve already gone above and beyond your duty here. I know you’re tired.” Dr. Balderas takes a drink. Wonders how he’d react to his own pitch.
If you only knew what I’m feeling, she thinks. You’d yank this patient out of my care in a second. All I have to do is tell you, and no more stories. No more Columbus. Just say the words, Consuela. I’m in love with Columbus. Go on, say it.
Consuela teeters. The right thing to do is to walk away from Columbus. This is her opportunity.
“Look, whatever happened to him, these storie
s seem to be moving toward where we’ve been hoping he’d go. He wants to finish his story. I think it’s important that he finishes it.”
“Can’t he tell you, or some other nurse?”
“I’ve tried to get him to go there, but I really think it has to be you.”
“Why me? What if it doesn’t end?” Her voice is filled with a desperate frailty.
“The very first report I read from you, about Columbus ’s stories, you said Columbus said he was going to tell you the story of how he, Christopher Columbus, got his ships-the true story.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And, when he arrived, he asked you about the ships-ships in a harbor-and what happened?”
“You read my reports.” She makes a small, impressed smile.
“Carefully-some more than once.”
“Well, that’s certainly more than your predecessor.”
“Look, he’s not taking you to sea. I believe it will end when he gets his ships… but you’ve been there from the start. He started it with you. He believes he has to end it with you.”
“But-”
“Just let him finish it.”
***
On Saturday, Columbus asks her if she likes to hike. He has no idea Dr. Balderas has planned a little trip to the beach for Monday. Columbus doesn’t know that the doctor has already made his list of safe patients and is visiting with his mother who is in a seniors’ home in Córdoba.
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