Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

Columbus stifles a laugh. Places his hand across his mouth to hide his grin. Tries to pull his face down into an even expression.

“Oh, laugh, Mr. Columbus. It’s funny, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. It is funny.”

The king walks toward one of the windows and looks into the courtyard. Two chambermaids stand in the enclave talking. He stands watching them for some time. Silence lulls the room. Columbus wonders what it is the king is looking at. He seems fixated.

“What is it that they require?” Ferdinand says, turning around and picking up a stick. He cracks the small formation of colored balls by poking a white ball at his end with the stick. The balls scatter across the smooth surface and he stands back amazed. He’s thrilled every time by this small explosion of color.

“Well, I am merely your humble servant, but I think they want to be close to power, close to greatness, close to God.” Columbus sinks the six ball into the far corner and draws the white ball back so it lines up with the seven. “They hope your greatness will rub off on them.” He drops the seven and leaves himself set up for the three ball, a table-length, along-the-cushion shot. “It is well understood, if you have the ear of the king, even for a short time, you have power,” he says. He puts too much English on the three and it ricochets to mid-table.

“Are you speaking of our courtiers? The army of bastard sycophants who surround and annoy me?”

“Was that not the question, Your Majesty?”

“No, but regardless, your answer was an insightful one. I was referring to those enigmatic creatures who haunt me-women. What is it they require from us? That was my question, and I suspect you will have no easy answer to this. What is it that women want from us, Mr. Columbus?”

The king lines up the eleven ball and cracks the white ball with just enough bottom to send it flying off the table and through a window. They hear it clacking across the courtyard. The king picks a new white ball from a golden bowl on the window ledge and hands it to Columbus.

Columbus wonders if he should try to lose. He is playing the king, after all. It wouldn’t do to severely beat the king at a game he loves. He places the ball on the table and then proceeds to clear the table, knocking the eight ball into the side on a double bank to win.

“Thank you for the game, Your Majesty. I was lucky to win.”

“No. You played well. You deserved to win. Another game?”

The king smiles as he places the colored balls into a tight formation. Columbus is disarmed. He feels closer than ever to winning the king’s favor for his proposition. Here he is, a lowly navigator, not even Spanish, playing pool with the king. Riding beautiful horses with the king through the streets of Córdoba. He is inside the highest inner circle. He is dizzy with how close he stands to the power. He must certainly let the king win the next game. All the games that follow, in fact, he should lose as skillfully and subtly as possible.

“Women,” the king says as he hands the stick to Columbus, “confuse and confound me. Yet they are ridiculous, necessary mysteries.” He picks a white ball from the bowl and heaves it through the open window. They hear three clicks and a splash.

Columbus breaks the formation on the table. “There is a problem with the queen?” Three solid-colored balls disappear. His next shot should be the two ball, a solid, in the far right corner. But he picks a striped ball and lines it up.

“You wouldn’t purposely try to lose because I am the king, would you, Mr. Columbus?”

“In all honesty, Your Majesty, I should like very much to ask a question.”

“In all honesty, proceed.”

“Should I try to lose, Your Majesty? Would that be a good idea?”

“Well, you’re a wise and intelligent man, Mr. Columbus.” He leans back against a pillar. Smiles. “We had a very enjoyable day together, didn’t we?”

“It was a glorious day.” Columbus stands up straight and looks at the king. A gangly, slouching young man with deep-blue eyes. If he were not the king, Columbus would not trust him. Come to think of it, just because he is a king was no reason to trust him. Deceitful, cruel, and vicious were words frequently attributed to this king, and even the queen. Too much leisure time, Columbus thinks. But this king has been nothing but honest, forthright, and kind to him.

Do I lose, or do I play the game the best I can? Do my ships teeter in the balance on this decision? How important is it to me that I win?

Columbus walks around the table. Observes the obvious two-ball shot, then sees a three-ball combination that would drop the four ball. A difficult combination shot. The formation of the three balls appeals to Columbus. He thinks about the similar star formation; three stars slashed across the sky like a belt. He chooses this shot. He chooses to try and win, regardless of any consequences. Decides he must be Christopher Columbus whether it hurts his dream or not. He bets on this king’s honor and drops the four ball gently and exactly.

“An excellent shot,” Ferdinand says and claps Columbus on the shoulder.

Columbus wins seven more games. The king doesn’t even come close to winning a game. He misses shots completely, shoots the wrong color, and sinks the eight ball twice. They stop and Ferdinand calls for wine.

They do not feel the direct heat of the day inside the stone building, but the air is blistering and still. Long streams of sunlight from high, narrow fenestrations slash through hanging dust in the room. The king walks the entire long room away from the pool table to an elevated throne, pulls his robes aside, and sits. Three servants bring wine to the king and then deliver a goblet to Columbus. The wine is red and slightly chilled.

“Leave,” the king says to the servants, who bow out the door and shut it behind them.

“Have you had sufficient time to ponder my riddle, Mr. Columbus?” The king must speak loudly in order to assure that Columbus hears him at the far end of the room.

“The problem with women in general or the queen specifically, Your Majesty?”

“Come down here, Mr. Columbus. So we can talk.”

Columbus walks toward the throne. Stands before the elevated king and is reminded of his place. He bows his head.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I have no answers to the riddle of women.” He thinks of the simple connection he has with Selena, the more complex but enjoyable time he spends with Beatriz. And then he thinks about the queen. His relationship with the queen has become impossibly complex and dangerous. It would be prudent to ignore any feelings or thoughts he held for Isabella. Isabella was the queen. She was the queen. This man’s wife.

Ferdinand’s face transforms into something awful. As if painful memories have suddenly risen to the surface of churning water. Hopeless despair. He covers his face with his hands. “Women, Mr. Columbus, women. There are times, in the middle of the night, in complete darkness, when they weep. I cannot understand why they weep and yet I am held at fault for their weeping. They cannot, or will not, say exactly what my fault is, yet at these times they wish to be held by me and told that everything is well and good. But I do not believe this to be true. So they wish me to form lies in order to comfort them and when I say to them, in order to be truthful and clear, ‘You wish for me to lie to you?’ they weep with more water from their eyes than I have ever seen. And these tears, also, are my doing. Does this make sense to you?”

“Are you speaking of the queen, Your Majesty?”

“The queen? No. The queen does not weep. She has never wept. She is the strongest woman I know. The queen and I have no connubial battle. We have no troubles. She chases the Jews from our lands. She chases the Moors from our lands. She and her bloody Inquisition chase heretics from our lands. She chases people we simply don’t like from our lands. And I? I chase women. A simple and elegant arrangement, don’t you think, Mr. Columbus?”