Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

“This fog, this becalmed death, this sitting dead in the water while food and water run down, this calm that numbs all hope, this-”

“-Enough. I admit we are in a little trouble. But we are only twenty-six days out. How do I know you have the power to save us from this?”

“You will have to act on your faith, your intuition, trust.”

Columbus turns away from the young man. With both hands firmly grasping the railing, he looks into the thick, black night. “No,” he says, “I will not.”

At noon of the next day there is only a white, even light all around them. Sunlight is brightly diffused. They cannot tell where the sun is, exactly. Crewmen begin to grumble out loud. Columbus stays in his cabin all day. He studies the charts and drinks. At sunset he walks the deck speaking to his crew. He tells them not to worry. “I have seen worse off the coast of Britain. There will be wind tomorrow,” he says. “This won’t last.” The men are silent in the face of his buoyancy.

That night, Bertrand continues his pursuit. “You are famous for your faith in the unbelievable, Columbus. Is my offer too much of a push for that faith?”

They are near Columbus ’s cabin, sometime after midnight. The watch has just changed. It is another dead, black night.

“I have faith in things that have small slivers caught up in reality.”

“If you bed me,” Bertrand says, “not only will I get you out of this fog but I will find the land you seek.”

“What?”

“I know exactly where the land is.”

“How could you? Nobody has ever been there before.”

“Has nobody ever been there before?”

Columbus peers into the shadow where Bertrand’s face is hidden. This boy could not possibly know how to find land, he thinks. He is bluffing. It is a bluff I would dearly love to call. How I would like to bed him if only he were a woman. Even with his scarred face and whispered voice, there is something irresistible. If only he were female. I have never had such feelings of lust, passion.

“Are we going to your cabin, Columbus?” Bertrand says.

God don’t let me say yes. I want to say yes, but I can’t. I yearn to say yes and take this young man to bed and see what happens with the weather and landfall.

“No, not for all the riches that Marco Polo spoke of,” Columbus says.

The next morning there is blue sky above the ship. Fresh air descends and there is muffled cheering from the decks of the other ships. Columbus is woken up by the cheers and celebratory shouting on his own ship. But as he rushes out on deck the cheers turn to cries of anguish and outrage as the blue sky is eradicated by a fog even thicker than before.

“It must be breaking up,” Columbus says. “You there. Climb up the rigging and see if the ceiling has lifted. Keep a watch up top and let me know if there’s any change.” A sailor drops a coil of rope and begins to climb up through the fog. When those on deck lose sight of him, they know the fog is not breaking up. Columbus turns and silently retreats to his cabin.

Consuela leans forward and tries not to smile. “This story, in which you found a man to be beautiful, horrifies you?”

“I am never attracted to one of my crew in a sexual way. How can this be, when I have had such affairs with Beatriz and Selena, and so many others? And then this young man comes along and I am suddenly attracted? How can this be?”

“You’ve had a rough few weeks. Relax.”

“Oh, it doesn’t end there.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes, there’s more.”

The four captains meet at noon on Columbus ’s ship. Talavera, Varela, and Pinzon all take the wine Columbus offers them, make their perfunctory offering to Jesus and God and the king and queen, and then drink in silence. Varela and Pinzon both choose to sit at the head of the table, Talavera doesn’t care, and Columbus invites them to gather at one end.

“Things go well on my ship,” Talavera says. “The men are happy in their work and do not concern themselves with the weather.” After a few minutes, he adds: “Admittedly, the weather is odd, but nothing to fear. Everything is fine.”

He’s grown a full mustache and beard since they left port. Varela and Pinzon have three or four days of beard growth. Columbus himself has not shaved for six days. All have dark shadows under their eyes and their clothing is unkempt. Varela and Pinzon nod their heads. In reality, they are just barely able to keep their crews from turning on them. The only thing that saves them all is the utter hopelessness of the situation regardless of who is in command.

“There is no fear on my ship,” Varela says. “We will wait it out. I’ve been in much worse situations off the coast of Africa.”

“Everything is fine on my ship as well. We are eager to move on to the new discoveries,” Pinzon says, holding his glass out for more wine. He’s a small weasel-like man with a long nose and throaty voice.

“I have never witnessed the calm seas such as these,” Talavera says. “It is very interesting.”

“This fog is thick as shit,” Varela says.

“Very thick,” Pinzon says.

“But everything is fine,” Talavera says. He stands up and walks to the door. “I must empty myself at the rear of your ship, Admiral Columbus.”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Could you pour just a little more wine?”

“God and his son Jesus Christ will make the winds blow soon,” Varela says.

“God will not abandon us,” Pinzon says.

“The grace of God and all his mercy will end this… interesting calmness.”

“All the saints and His Holiness the Pope have blessed this voyage.”

Talavera comes back in, sits down heavily, and looks at Varela and Pinzon. “Mentiras,” he says.

Pinzon and Varela stand up. Both men place their hands on the hilts of their swords. Columbus leans back and smiles.

“I include myself in that statement,” Talavera says. “Sit down, please. I wish to clear the air of the smell of mierda . There has been a great deal of shit spoken since we sat down.” The two captains sit. “I apologize to you, Don Columbus, and to you, my esteemed fellow captains. But we are in trouble and we have been speaking as if this was not the case.”

Columbus pours another round. The four men drink quietly for a while.

“We could link up the ships by rope and then row.” Varela looks around at the tired eyes of the other captains. He knows how ridiculous this suggestion is. Row toward what, and in what direction, and to what end? On the first day of fog this suggestion would be laughable, but after four days it does not sound so silly. Working at something is better than sitting still in the water.

“Morale might rise a bit if we rowed in a direction, even a few hours a day,” Talavera says. “One thing is certain, we must leave this cabin in agreement and with a plan, or it will be the last meeting we four have.”

“Rowing might work,” Pinzon says, holding his glass out again.

Columbus sits back in his chair and rubs his face. Washes a hand through his hair. His hair is black in his dream, not the white it has been since he was twenty years old.

Varela frowns, picks up the bottle, and empties it into Pinzon’s glass. “If we row, we must appear to be certain of the direction. We must behave as if we know exactly where we are going.”

“ Columbus, you lead this expedition. What do you say?” Talavera leans forward and looks down the table at Columbus who is half hidden in shadow.

“I say we get more wine.” He twists in his chair and pulls open the door. “Bertrand! More wine,” he says loudly. Bertrand leans into the cabin and Columbus whispers into his ear.