Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

“I really don’t think we can drink our way out of this situation,” Talavera says.

Columbus shoots back. “I would not suggest this. I do have a plan, though.” He whispers something else to Bertrand and then turns around.

The three captains sit up, shift in their seats.

“You will hear my plan when Bertrand returns.”

The gentle sound of lapping ocean is disturbed by a knock at the door. Bertrand places three bottles of wine on the table. He leaves for a moment and then returns with two enamel washbasins filled with water, soap, razors, clean towels, and a bundle of clothing.

“I hope you’re not suggesting we kill ourselves here in your cabin.” Talavera smiles. “Because while it seems hopeless, weather is a woman who changes her mind often.”

“Gentlemen,” Columbus says, “the first thing we are all going to do is clean up.”

“Clean up?” Talavera says. “Do you mean to insult us?”

“He does insult us.” Varela half stands, bumps his head on a hanging lamp. “Shit! This is insulting.”

“Sit down, Varela,” Columbus says. “This is no insult. Hear me out.”

Varela sits. The lamp swings back and hits him on the head again. It cuts his forehead in the shape of a small crescent moon. Varela pulls his hand away from his head with blood on his fingers. He shrugs and goes to pour wine into his glass, but the bottle is not yet opened. He is indifferent to the blood dripping from his forehead.

Talavera takes the bottle from him, opens it, and pours wine for everybody. “Very well, Columbus, why is this insult not an insult?”

“What do you usually feel when you shave in the morning?”

The three captains look at one another.

“Well, what do you feel? Varela? Pinzon?” Columbus looks around the table.

“For the past few days we have not been shaving,” says Varela. “We get up now and feel dread.”

“Yes, dread.”

Talavera leans back in his chair. “Do you mean normally, Columbus?”

“Yes, if you were back in Spain, with your woman in bed and the children eating breakfast with their nanny, and then got up to shave.”

Talavera smiles and the two teeth he is missing at the left and front of his mouth take nothing away from the joy of his comprehension. “I feel good. Happy.”

“Do you feel hope?”

“Yes, usually I feel hopeful about the day.”

“My plan is to present the image of absolute hope. Even though we men do not say it, I believe it is impossible to shave in the morning without some hope. If we captains look and behave like we have hope, it will calm the men.”

Silence. They sit thinking about what he has just said.

“There are also fresh clothes here. From now on, we shall all shave in the morning, and I order each man in the fleet to do the same. Today we will look like we have hope. I will shave with you.”

“And tomorrow?” Talavera says.

“Tomorrow, we will shave again. And we will row.”

“In what direction?”

“Whatever direction your ship is facing, Talavera. That is the direction of our rowing.”

“That’s absurd,” Pinzon says. “We can’t see the sun nor can we see the stars nor the moon, and we are to row? We are going to row-”

“You’re right, Pinzon,” Columbus says. “We’ll row in the direction your ship faces in the morning.”

Pinzon closes his mouth.

“And we’ll call our technique for finding directions in fog the Pinzon Maneuver, after Señor Pinzon, my friend and eternally optimistic captain. And yes, Pinzon, this is another random choice.”

Columbus slides one of the basins down the table. “Repeat after me,” he says, “the Pinzon Maneuver. A new system for finding direction. The Pinzon Maneuver.”

The four men perform their shaving, talking quietly about how long each day they will row and speculating on how the crew will react to the odd order about shaving. But for some reason, Columbus cannot shave himself, or does not shave himself. Bertrand enters quietly and begins to shave Columbus. Columbus has an erection that bumps the underside of the table. He acts as if everything is fine but he is wild with lust for this ugly young man. And when the captains are finished, they dress in fresh clothing, call smiles to their faces, and go back to their own ships. Columbus does not get up to see to the departure of the captains. He dismisses Bertrand and sits in agonized misery.

So everybody shaves. The crew grumbles but they shave, and they do feel a bit better regardless of the oppressive sky and fog and calmness of the sea. They row for two hours in the direction Pinzon’s ship is facing. The following day, they perform the same routine. And the following day it is the same thing. And the next day, the grumbling begins and shaving does not feel quite as hopeful anymore. The crews begin to gather in small groups, which fall silent when a captain draws near. There are direct questions about the Pinzon Maneuver. And at midnight, the hooded Bertrand comes to Columbus for the final time.

“You’re dead in the water, Columbus.”

Columbus nods into the empty darkness. “I am hard-pressed to remember blue sky.”

“I will get you out of this if you bed me.”

“How?”

“Faith, Columbus, have faith.”

“How is it that you have this supposed power to save us?”

“Faith, Cristóbal, my friend.”

“You are the devil!” He crosses himself and backs away.

“Oh don’t be such a child. You know better than that. Satan is back running the Inquisition. Running Rome. Selling passage to heaven and pocketing the money.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who can save you. Someone who can get you wind and sky. Who can find your new land. Who can do all these things if you simply take me to bed.”

“No. I can’t.”

“How badly do you want to find the new land, Don Cristóbal? Why don’t you give in to your gut and your heart, and your desire, and forget your brain?”

Columbus turns away, looks out at the nothingness. “Certainly, yes, somehow I am attracted to you in a different way than friendship. Different than comradeship. It is a strange thing that I cannot understand. It is an evil thing.”

“Why do you say evil? Does it feel evil? Is not an urge an urge?”

“It goes against God’s will.”

“Didn’t Jesus say we should love one another?”

“Not like this.”

“Bed me, Columbus.”

“There are those on board who would report this to the Inquisition.”

“Not if we’re alone behind a locked door.” Bertrand takes Columbus ’s hand and leads him slowly to his cabin.

“That’s not such a bad dream,” Consuela says. “A tad embarrassing, I suppose, but it’s just a story, yes?” Consuela smiles.

Columbus sighs heavily. “I am a navigator, a pretty good navigator… and in this nightmare, I am useless. How is this a good story?”

“Does it matter how you get there?”

“Yes, of course it does. Do you not know me by now? The journey is everything! The way one does something is everything.”

“By the way, your last escapade through the window, your journey toward freedom, your attempted escape-how in the hell did you get out of your room?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“The end result is the same.”

“But the journey is the thing. The beauty is in the way a thing is done.”

“That, Nurse Consuela, is a beautiful thought.”

“But you’re still not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope.”

“What were you thinking, anyway? You know how tight security is around here.”

“There’s nothing for me here. I’m not sick. I’m not delusional. I’m Columbus. I’m happy being Columbus.”