Waiting for Columbus

by Thomas Trofimuk

  The stars-focus on the stars. There’s nothing you can do about this blackness but the stars are a different matter. “Hercules, Virgo, Leo, Libra,” you say out loud. “Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Cancer, Draco.”

  You’re treading water now. Not swimming very much. Just floating. Moving with the current. A few sidestrokes, then treading water. Moving as little as possible to stay afloat. You remember a story your grandmother told you. About the constellations. Once upon a time, a long time ago, it began. Somewhere in the Basque region, two thieves robbed a man of two of his oxen. The man was angry about this and sent his servant, his maid, and his dog out to chase the thieves. Not much time had passed before the impatient man also went out to look. As punishment for his impatience, everyone in the story, including the man, is taken up into the sky. The first two stars in the cup of the dipper are the oxen, the other two stars are the two thieves; the handle of the dipper is comprised of the servant, the maid, and the master, who is the final star. The dog is the faint star, Alcor.

  “Where is Alcor?” Can you remember your grandmother’s face, her name? All you can recall is the scent of cloves.

  How could you forget your grandmother’s name? But you know a woman named Rashmi. A Hindu name. A name that means “ray of sunlight.” And you know the name Nusret. Nusret means “dangerous bear.”

  Why would you know the meanings of these names?

  You’re looking up at a panoply of stars. You’re adrift in the ocean. Adrift with no boat. Nothing between you and the color black. But is black a color or is it merely the absence of light? You had a black crayon when you were little. It was with other colored crayons. Therefore, black must be a color. Who is Nusret? Panoply is a funny word. Where did you find that word? One of your daughters? Do you have daughters? Not sons? And what about your wife? Look at the orgasm of stars. Can you find a star to guide you home, Columbus?

  “Who said that?” These words are swallowed by the ocean.

  Do you seriously think fish can talk? Maybe that petrel you saw earlier? But the bird is gone now. You’re adrift in your own head. And this blackness is impossible. This is like falling. Flying. The only sounds you have are your own breathing and the sound of your own body in water. Each small movement marked by its own unique sound.

  Save your strength. You’re going to have to save yourself tonight. You’ll have to start to move in the right direction. You know how to navigate by the stars. Right? You’re on the doorstep to the Mediterranean. Your latitude is going to be about the same wherever you are. You know the Atlantic flows into the Mediterranean and at some point, if you manage to stay afloat, stay awake, not get eaten by something, you’re going to flow through the Strait of Gibraltar. Dead reckoning yourself is not possible. You have no compass. If you stop, if you stay right here, the current will carry you into the Mediterranean. Perhaps. You could stop swimming. Stay here. Drift. Stay right here.

  Stay here, you said. Wait here. I’ll catch the guy. You shouted this over your shoulder, you did not even say good-bye. How could you? You were running after a thief. The guy snatched Rashmi’s bag. Rashmi’s bag. Her journal. Her beautiful poems. A journal filled with her poems. Money and passports, too, but her poems. Her poems about the rain, and the trees, and her children. Who were you talking to? Who did you want to wait? Catch what guy?

  Rashmi. Rashmi and the girls. They’re waiting there on the platform.

  What was that? Something touched your leg again.

  You had to get Rashmi’s bag back. Those poems. You could only think about the loss of those poems. Rashmi was no good with a fountain pen, but she insisted on always using one. There were blobs of ink throughout her journal, but even these, somehow, she made beautiful. I have to slow down with these pens, she said. I am not so tempted to edit before I write. I must give myself permission to write badly. It is a messy joy.

  Do you remember her eyes? Of course you do. They were blue. The color of the Mediterranean at 11 A.M. in mid-July. And her smile? The way the lines formed at the edge of her mouth when she smiled-more pronounced on the left than the right. And the freckles on her cheeks and the tops of her shoulders?

  Chloe had her mother’s smile. Jane smiled with her eyes the best. They looked frightened when you ran off after Rashmi’s bag. It’s not as if you were being the hero. You loved Rashmi’s poems. That’s all. You loved her poems. You couldn’t know the future. Nobody can know the future.

  Dark now. The stars brilliant and too many above you. You keep pulling at the current, which pulls you left. Is that east? Is that current pulling you toward the Mediterranean? You swim ahead and slightly right because there is land in front of you as well as behind. Morocco? Are you thinking about Morocco? Yes, the north coast of Africa. That would be a feat, wouldn’t it? Rashmi was wearing black pumps. Ridiculous for travel. But she would not wear anything else with her dress. You loved her feet. Not a fetish or anything. She had narrow, long feet. You remember trying to buy her hiking boots. Store after store. You eventually had to go online and order custom-made boots from Germany. They asked for the periphery of her feet, traced on two sheets of paper, which you faxed to Germany. The boots arrived a month later, a perfect fit. You could not bring yourself to throw the tracings away. Felt foolish about it. You hid Rashmi’s feet in a book about Michelangelo. There was an elongated elegance in these simple outlines of her feet, an odd perfection.

  You must be hallucinating a wife and a family. And the smiles of these women-Rashmi and the girls. The train station and the man’s back running through the crowd. Glimpses of his back woven into the throng on the sidewalk. And you, catching up slowly. Gaining ground on the bag with no thought of what you’ll do if you do catch him. First, catch the bugger. That’s all you can think. Catch the bugger. You were indignant, angry.

  Chloe is eleven. She’s taller than her sister even though she is two years younger. She has an incredible memory-near photographic. She can read a book and know its contents. She leaves her shoes right in the middle of the back entrance, any entranceway, and you’re always tripping over them. Chloe plays the cello.

  Jane can’t remember her phone number half the time but God she can dance. She’s an artistically precocious thirteen-year-old. You remember asking her, when she was four, to dance a baby sparrow. Dance the sparrow, you said. What she did-her small birdlike movements ending with folded wings-moved you to tears. She goes to an art school in… you’re not sure where… in the city in which you live. Inside this hallucination. Ah, parents always believe their children are talented beyond belief. When others who have no vested interest come and draw your attention to your child’s talent, then perhaps it is something.

  You don’t know what to do about your ring-the one on your ring finger-why don’t you call it a wedding ring? Because you never married Beatriz. The ring almost came off again. You’re afraid to take it off and try it on a different finger, in case you drop it. There is no drop. There is only sinking. You roll over onto your back, face up to the heavens. Your arms are numb. You’re having a hard time feeling your fingers. They tingle. You have to keep working. Keep moving so you warm up. Roll over, you idiot. Start swimming again. Swim or die. You’re hypothermic.

  You count to one hundred. Rest for fifty. Swim another hundred. A steady sidestroke brings your arms back into focus. They hurt. At least you can feel them again. You continue to pull yourself through the water toward morning.

  It was March, you were at El Pozo del Tío Raimundo station. Not yet the ides of March. They were waiting for you. Two blocks away, the guy looked over his shoulder again, saw you gaining on him, and dropped Rashmi’s bag. Completely out of breath, you picked up the bag and heard the storm. Was that thunder? But the sky is completely clear. There’s blue sky from horizon to horizon.

  Their faces begin to fade. Rashmi’s face, Chloe’s face, Jane’s face-her bangs need trimming-become unfocused, withdrawn. Who are these people inside your reverie? Perhaps you are wounded. Maybe you and old Tristan h
ave something in common. You walked back to the train station and found them, didn’t you? You came around that last corner and found them. Emergency crews had not yet arrived. There were no ambulances. Not yet. It was eerily quiet. Oh, there were sounds, it was just that it was quieter than one would expect.

  Close your eyes. It makes no difference whether they are open or closed. The stars are not changing tonight. You’re not guiding yourself anywhere by starlight. This plan of finding your bearings by the stars was a bit thin on detail. As it turns out, it was just stupid. In the morning, if you don’t drift off into hypothermia, or sleep, or both, you’ll know the directions because the sun rises in the north. The sun rises in the north? That’s not right. You know this. You know where the sun rises. The sun rises in the east, sets in the south. Chloe stands on the left, then Jane and then Rashmi. Or was Rashmi in the middle? Rashmi looks a little shell-shocked. Somebody lifted her bag-grabbed it off her arm and bolted. The girls aren’t exactly sure what happened yet. The sun is low and behind them. It’s early. Stay here. I’ll be right back, you shout over your shoulder. You do not kiss them. You do not hug them. You’re going to get Rashmi’s bag back. Her poems inside the black notebook. Friends, who really did not understand her, had given her a pink notebook with substandard paper. Rashmi had tried to use it but the paper did not work well with her fountain pen. She went back to her Paris notebooks, which arrived three at a time every few months from France -simple, sturdy booklets, with Swedish paper.

  Moonrise. Stars pull back. Give the moon room. Perhaps when you are dying, you are able to hallucinate the truth. You wish Rashmi was your wife, and Chloe and Jane your daughters. What a beautiful dream you’re having. You’d better keep swimming. Keep moving. There is Chloe playing her cello at Christmas. She’s playing “Silent Night.” Rashmi is humming along beside you. She can’t carry a tune, but she always tries. The acoustics in this room are phenomenal. A small echo adds body to the sound-forgives any imperfections. There’s a tree in the corner, a fir that brushes the ceiling. And there is Rashmi smiling. Her smile shatters you. The way she looks at you can only be described as loving. There is nothing else in that look, just that she loves you. Chloe and Jane are fussing with the tree, hanging the last of the ornaments. They’re dressed up. Chloe in a burgundy velvet gown that dips to her knees. She’s not wearing jeans, which is a minor miracle. Jane is wearing a simple black dress far too old for her age. You don’t want them to grow up too fast. She looks to be eighteen. Your own tears surprise you. You’re not sure what they’re attached to. You know for sure that tears are a completely useless addition to the ocean. Just keep going. A few more strokes and then you can rest for a while. Let the melody to “Silent Night” find you again. See Chloe’s dark hair-pulled back into a ponytail, a utilitarian gesture. Her hair has always been beautiful but she doesn’t care. Her lack of caring translates into a cool panache. Her friends follow her lead when it comes to dressing, and again, she doesn’t care or notice. It’s a hell of a thing to have daughters. You are surrounded by these women. You wish this was your reality, this beautiful dream. You could love these young women and Rashmi. Perhaps you already love these women. What’s the test for love? Is there a litmus test? Go back to the girls standing in front of the tree. They’re putting the last of the ornaments on, hanging them on their preferred branches. The light patterns on the wall are a lush combination of shadow and color. Do you remember snow? Was there snow this Christmas? Turn around and look out the window. Why can’t you turn around? You’re afraid if you turn away from your girls, they’ll be gone when you turn back. You want to keep them in sight. You’re going to stay right there inside that moment. You will not run away. You will not turn away. Stay here. Wait here. You are well past tired. You want to sleep. Something pokes you in the ribs-a softness that intrudes but does not seem threatening. You hear the clicking laughter of a dolphin, several dolphins. What is a group of dolphins? A herd? A flock? A pack? The dolphins want me to be awake, you think. That’s funny. If I stay awake, I can stay afloat. If I can stay afloat, perhaps I will live. What does it matter? Falling through water is not so bad.

  ***

  You’re not sure if your arms are moving. You don’t know if your ring is still on your finger. You have no idea. You haven’t had any feeling in your fingers for quite a while. You’re breathing. That’s good. You know you’re breathing. Each breath is a raspy hiss. Somebody is telling you to be quiet. Shhhh, they whisper. Shhhhhh. And you want to be quiet. You want to be quiet more than anything. Shhhh. You hear waves. The sound of waves arriving somewhere. You can’t feel… anything. A group of dolphins is a pod. All is calm, all is bright. All is calm, all is bright.

  ***

  She doesn’t know whether to read it or not. It feels like an invasion of privacy. This journal was not meant for her. He’d have told her about it. It was tucked under his pillow. The orderly who changed his bedding brought it to her. Consuela flips through the journal quickly, not landing on anything specific. This isn’t reading, she thinks, it’s looking. There are more than a dozen entries. She decides she has to read this journal, and if they find Columbus, she will slip this booklet back where it was found. She wants in, goddamnit. She deserves to be included. She flips the journal open at random and begins to read.

  (vi)

  The girl is stopped in midair, on her way to landing in the pool. The water sparkles beneath her feet. The sky is brilliant blue-dazzling, unadulterated. Scant seconds before this frozen image, there would have been the sound of slapping feet on the wet pool deck. She has such a joyous expression on her face. She is thrilled to be jumping into this water. This girl wears her hair in pigtails. Even though there is joy on her face, something in her eyes says she’s not 100 percent sure about hitting the water. This apprehension is not enough to make her pause. She smiles and trusts it’ll be all right, and jumps anyway.

  This picture, obviously captured by someone standing in the pool, also catches an older, taller girl, standing on the pool deck waiting. She stands on the pale-green tile beside a wooden deck chair. The girl is wearing a one-piece pink swimsuit and she entertains no uneasiness. She will jump a bit higher and will land farther out into the water than her sister. Towels piled on the chair back. Perhaps she was supposed to be jumping along with the jumping girl, but no, she wants all the picture-taker’s attention. She waits to say, Hey, look at me. Slap, slap, slap, slap, and she will be airborne above the water, landing gleefully with a splash, hoping the lifeguard doesn’t bust her for running on the deck. Hoping whoever is there watching, sees her jump. There are a few other people reclined in deck chairs along the pool’s edge. He can tell by the way they lounge, they are very relaxed, and it is very likely a hot day. He knows these girls. He knows their hearts. He knows them at a level beyond knowing. But he cannot say their names. No matter how much he wants the scene to move beyond frozen, it will not budge. One girl hangs in mid-flight, her face happy and innocent, and the other girl waits on the deck-waits for her turn to show how well she can jump and how big a splash she can make. The sun is hot. The sky is clear. But there is no splash landing. No laughing-giggling-coming-up-for-air. No screaming: Let’s do it again! Let’s do it again! Nothing moves.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They find him on the north coast of Morocco. He washes up on a beach near the village of Tétouan. The ocean deposits him on the sand and the waves push him up and roll him over a couple of times before leaving him alone. Alerts had been sent to all the hotels and resorts along the coast. A group of children finds him. One of the children, a girl named Aabida, points into the ocean and shouts: “Dolpheen! Dolpheen!”

  “Eskoot, Aabida,” a boy says. “Shut up.”

  Columbus hears seagulls. Can’t open his eyes. Thinks perhaps those voices are angels speaking the language of angels. He’s in heaven. The air is warm. The light is bright. Angels with the voices of children.

  ***

  There is a strange sort of sacredness, a h
oliness reserved for the presumed crazy. Columbus is not just another Spanish national on Moroccan soil. He’s a pitiful crazy person in trouble. His country becomes irrelevant except this is where he must be returned. Columbus is unconscious but stable when the medics arrive. He is transported to Ceuta, the Spanish enclave on the northeastern tip of Morocco, and then by boat to Algeciras. He is back in Sevilla the next day.

  Two days later he opens his eyes and sees he is back at the institute in Sevilla. He sees Tammy first. She smiles at him and he starts to scream. He’s horrified. He lived through the Strait of Gibraltar, through the memory of his dreamed daughters and his perhaps wife, for what? To arrive back where he started? To go through so much and not move? Tammy takes it personally, goes on stress leave, doesn’t come back for a week. Columbus is restrained and eventually sedated. The alprazolam takes him halfway back to his pleasant adrift-at-sea dream. He recalls the hazy faces of his dreamed family. Rashmi, Chloe, and Jane. He drifts back to this life with three women, life with his three girls.

  Dr. Balderas told Consuela to go home on the morning of the third day. She’d been reading Malory’s version of the King Arthur story to Columbus. In the hallway, she sighed and paused, recognized how tired she was, and went home.

  Dr. Balderas, who has been reviewing Columbus ’s chart, glances over the lip of the clipboard at his patient. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

  Columbus could give a flying fuck. He just wants to drift in the almost memory of what is, perhaps, his life.

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “Yesh,” Columbus says. His mouth is not responding. It won’t form words quickly enough. Won’t follow his thoughts.