Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

“In retrospect, it was not wise. But I was angry. And it was only the truth.”

“I hope if you ever get a chance to pitch your idea to Ferdinand, that you apply a little more tact.”

Diego is sleeping, and while Columbus was tempted to sleep as well, there was something in him that would not stop. He was too wound up. Columbus was relieved to learn that they were, in fact, in Spain.

“King John does not joke around. If he sent men after you, you’d do well to align yourself with a different king or queen. What did you say?”

“He’s an imbecile. I told him he was an imbecile. Sometimes these things just come out, especially when I am faced with an enormous stupidity.”

“Kings and queens are rarely wise-they’re certainly not born with any special degree of intelligence. Decisions are thrust upon them, and if they have good advisers, they sometimes make good choices. But it is even more difficult to rule if your main concern is hanging on to an empire to rule. The people tend to get lost along the way.”

“Three months! They had enough information to make a decision in a week, a few days. But they took three months! What in hell were they doing all that time? I offered them a direct route to the kingdom of the khan. A direct route to Marco Polo’s Asia.”

“They were waiting for news of the African route to the East Indies.”

“Yes, I know. Many have attempted-”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Dias is back. He found a way around the southern point of Africa.”

“Dias made it?” Columbus ’s face goes white. He hears the fire in the corner. He knows a fire like this ought to take the chill from the room, but he is cold to the bone. The light from the fire flickers in the wine. Dias found a new route to the Indies and made it back. Dias made it.

Father Antonio waits until the stone of this news has had time to sink to the bottom of whatever water exists inside Columbus. He does not mind the silence-respects the enormity of such news to a navigator, especially to one who wishes to cross an uncharted ocean.

Columbus begins to embrace all the doubts that have been lurking in the shadows of his hope.

“There is no question about this?”

“None.”

“I was plan B, then. Never seriously considered.” Columbus drifts into the realization he’d only been humored for the past months.

“It seems that way.”

“Have you more of this wine?”

Father Antonio pours-fills his glass.

“Getting stupid with wine will not make Dias go away. Nor will it buttress your belief in the western route. Nor will it get you an audience with the Catholic kings. And it will only temporarily make you feel better.”

“I am told it is very difficult to meet with the king and queen. It may be years before I can plead my case. So I’ll take feeling better temporarily. Tonight, temporary is plenty.”

“And tomorrow morning?”

“I am only here, right now. Tomorrow morning is not important. I am alive and my son is safe. This wine is excellent.”

“Then let me offer a small lecture, just in case you decide to press ahead with your scheme. Ferdinand and Isabella need money. They’re spread thin with the war against the Moors in Granada, and problems with infrastructure, and pressure to get rid of the Jews. Even Portugal is saber rattling, poking around for a fight. So money is the key. If you can promise money, with only a small amount to fund your venture up front, you’ll get your ships.”

“I definitely need more wine.”

“I know that nothing I say will cure what ails you. But proving the Portuguese wrong, making the western route a reality-bringing home gold and riches-this will gall King John more than anything else you could do. But you are right. This sort of talk is for tomorrow. Sailing off the edge of the world is a morning conversation.” He smiles and the missing teeth on the upper left side of his mouth become obvious.

Columbus sighs. “Tonight, my fine little monk, I do not wish to be cheered, or hopeful, or happy. I am disheartened and this is not a crime. I am without hope-also not a crime. And thanks to you, I am safe. I only wish to be lost in this wine, warmed by this fire… and then sleep. Tomorrow, tomorrow will take care of itself.”

“Okay, okay, wallow in self-pity tonight, but take this little bit of information to bed with you, Mr. Columbus.” The monk stands up, tosses another hunk of wood onto the fire. “I can get you an audience with the queen. Next week.” Father Antonio gently pulls the door shut behind him. Just before the door clicks, he adds: “Close your mouth, Mr. Columbus, or the flies will get in. Sleep well.”

In the morning, Diego has already eaten breakfast and is playing in the courtyard with an orange cat when Columbus lifts his sorry head from the pillow.

“Coffee,” he says in the dining hall. He feels sick to his stomach-does not know for sure if the coffee will stay down but he’s willing to try. It’s more for the comfort, the normalcy of drinking coffee in the morning. He hopes the routine will dispel the pain in his head. He takes his mug, sits in the shade of an enormous oak, and watches Diego.

Father Antonio sits down behind him. “This came for you this morning,” he says, handing Columbus an envelope. “It’s scented.”

Columbus sniffs at the envelope. Sickeningly sweet and pungent. He places it beside him on the ground and closes his eyes. “Just kill me,” Columbus says.

Father Antonio hands him a mug. “Drink this. All of it.”

“What?”

“Just do it. It’s a sort of whiskey mixed with cream and sugar. You won’t exactly be out of pain, but you won’t care.”

Columbus drinks the thick liquid and almost immediately no longer feels nauseous. Eventually he rips open the envelope. It’s a rhyming birthday card but it’s not his birthday. It won’t be his birthday for months. It’s signed, “Love, Cassandra.”

“Good news I hope,” the father says.

“Birthday greetings but it’s not my birthday.”

“So good wishes but at the wrong time.”

“How long have I been here?”

“You and Diego arrived last night. You were well-met.” The father smiles, pours more of the creamy liquid into Columbus ’s mug.

“How is it that I got mail when just last night I could not have told you where I was?”

Consuela wakes up with a start and in a sweat. She was dreaming about fishing. She and Columbus were fishing somewhere in the mountains. There were several bottles of wine cooling in the stream. The air was fresh and exquisite. She remembers breathing deeply and drawing great pleasure from the scents of pine, the forest bottom, the water, and the alpine flowers, which seemed to be everywhere she looked.

He said he loved fishing-how many days ago was that? But the subject of fishing has never come up again. At the time, she’d thought, well, sure, you go to sea and there are fish in the ocean. Good that you like fishing. Better that you like eating fish. But this fishing in her dream, in a stream with a long pole and a snaky line, is something quite different than she imagined.

“It’s like throwing,” Columbus had said in her dream. He was wearing hip waders, a khaki shirt, and a duckbill hat, and smiling. His hair looked healthy-was pulled back into that ridiculous ponytail he likes. His eyes were penetrating, alive. He was beaming.

She was naked. Completely naked, standing in the cold water up to her crotch, her feet grounded in the sand beneath the stones. But her nakedness seemed ordinary. He barely looked at her. It was as if she was always naked. She did not feel the cold. The water sporadically splashed her hips and belly. Eventually she got the hang of it, managed to cast the line along the surface of the water to where she wanted it to go, and caught several fish. In the dream, Consuela enjoyed standing in the water with the mountain peaks in the distance, fingers of white down the slopes, the pines enclosing the stream, the sun on her skin, the sunlight splicing, glancing off the water and sparkling in her eyes.