Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

Columbus does not answer.

“What troubles you, sir? Are you pondering your ships or do you, too, contemplate the quandary of women? Or are you ill?”

“Acquiring the ships is often on my mind, Your Majesty.”

“And what does the queen say?”

“She says wait until the fall of Granada.”

“Well, that’s what you should do then. When we walk the courtyards of the Alhambra, you’ll have your ships. And while we wait for the queen to reclaim Granada, we shall play much pool and do much riding. For you are also a mystery, Mr. Columbus. You wish to sail off into the unknown. Possibly to your death. To introduce Christianity to Japan and the Indies. To bring honor and wealth to Spain. This wealth part is the portion of your proposal that most interests the queen and me. We believe you are either very brave or very stupid-or absolutely crazy. But regardless of all these things, you are inspired. Yes. Mostly, I think, you are inspired. Come, let’s play more pool.” He grabs the wine bottle and his glass in one hand, and Columbus ’s sleeve in the other. Pulls the baffled navigator the length of the room.

“I tell you what, Mr. Columbus. Since you are a good friend of Spain, I will make you a proposition.” He gathers the balls from the pockets around the table. “I’ll play you one game for your ships.”

Columbus turns toward the King, shocked by the realization that this may be it. He’s shocked by the whimsical, careless nature of this offer. “What?”

“I’ll play you for your ships. Win the next game and three caravels are yours. Provisions included. You’ll have to find men dumb enough to follow you.”

Columbus is stunned. For ten years he had been incubating the dream, cajoling the doubters, fighting his own doubts. For ten years he had been envisioning a world that was smaller than commonly held beliefs. A world that could be traversed with a journey by sea to the west. The university commission did not believe it could be done. But they did not know all he knew. The Lord Himself could speak before the commission and they would not believe. “Look, fellows,” the Lord would say, “I think perhaps there is a chance some of your calculations are off. I ought to know. From where I sit I can pretty well see, well, everything.” But if He did not have the proper upbringing or education, the commission would deny, deny, deny. They make decisions based on the applicant’s social standing or nobility, and not on truth. Bureaucratic bastards. And now, here, before Columbus the king offers to fulfill his dream, not based in a belief of that vision but, rather, on a game of angles. It was too much.

“I am sorry, sire, but I cannot.”

“Why, Mr. Columbus, have you lost your faith for this adventure?”

“No, Your Majesty. I… I need someone to believe in me enough to take a chance. It would not be moral to leave it to a game of angles and colorful balls.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“I’m a navigator, not a pool player.”

“Do you not believe in this dream of yours enough to take a chance?”

“You ask too much, sire.”

“Perhaps you do, too.”

Columbus sits beside a small statue of the Virgin Mary. He feels sick to his stomach. Crosses his arms. Closes his eyes. Drinks slowly from his goblet. Am I willing to risk all on a game? Is it a risk? The king plays badly. The king is not good with these angles. Perhaps if I am asking others to take a risk on me, I should be willing to take a risk also.

The king walks to a window, his hands clasped behind his back, and observes the courtyard.

“Fine,” Columbus says. “One game for the ships.”

“Well spoken, Mr. Columbus.”

Columbus breaks but no balls go down. It’s the only chance he gets. Ferdinand clears the table in a stellar display of deceitfulness. With each ball the king sinks, Columbus ’s spirits sag a little bit more. At the end of it, he cannot face the king.

“Well done, Your Majesty,” Columbus says. “I’m ruined.”

Ferdinand smiles kindly. Turns a compassionate face to the navigator. “No,” he says, “you are not ruined. Neither is your idea of sailing west. If you had won, I would have personally seen to your ships, somehow. But the queen always has the final say in matters of the sea. In fact, she has the final say in matters of war, roads, religion. Almost everything.”

“There’s still a chance then?”

“Oh, Mr. Columbus, you’ve only proven your desire, your commitment, and your determination. These things, I will communicate to the queen.”

Columbus bows his head, then very quietly says, “Thank you. Thank you.” And then he looks up at the king, who is eyeing the pool table. “But you do not want me to explain to you why I know this journey is possible?”

“Yes, yes, yes… I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“This new route could be very lucrative for Spain -”

“Yes, yes… money is good.”

“And of course I will carry God and Christianity to Japan and India -”

“Well, that’s fine. That’s a fine thing to do. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear that their own system of beliefs, whatever it may be, is… well… wrong.”

“And I will claim whatever land I might discover for Spain.”

“Hmmm… expansion is good, I suppose… Yes. Very good. Quite convincing. Yes.”

“And I will-”

“ Columbus! Enough! I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to buy a few thousand shares of Columbus Sails West Incorporated… see where it takes me.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Ferdinand touches Columbus ’s shoulder and the navigator looks up into the king’s dark eyes. “Another game, my friend?” the king says.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I have lost the stomach for pool today. I think I have to lie down.”

“Tomorrow then, Columbus. I’ll send up one of my special chambermaids. She’ll make sure you have a good sleep.” He turns, draws open double doors, finds a small crowd of courtiers in the hallway. “Tomorrow, Mr. Columbus!” he shouts. “Out of the way, you bloodsucking sycophants!” And they mutter after him down the hallway.

Emile, to his surprise, has managed to keep a few friends in the company. He calls one of his Spanish contacts when he arrives in Marbella -finds out that there is a concierge who will work for Interpol-for a price. “He’s very reliable,” the agent says. “I helped him with a family matter a few years ago.” Emile finds the hotel and checks in. It’s too much money, but it’s the hotel where his contact works. His room faces the Mediterranean. The balcony looks out over the tops of palm trees. From the hotel lounge a walkway leads onto the beach. It’s clear and windy-a good steady breeze coming from the east. Emile finds the concierge and convinces him to ask around about a confused man. Emile emphasizes the fact this man will likely appear baffled-he might not know who he is or where he’s going.

“I think he thinks he’s Christopher Columbus,” Emile says. “A theory. This is only a theory,” he adds. He’d not spoken these words out loud before, but all the pieces added up to this simple statement. The three ships down south. Isabella. Your Majesty. The concierge gives him an eyebrow-raised, skeptical stare. Emile makes his face go hard, stone-cold, and flat. The concierge sighs and nods. Of course, there was much that did not add up. Morocco didn’t make sense for a man who might think he’s Christopher Columbus. And this man’s sense of direction seems to be absent. One would think that Columbus would always know where he was. Ah, it’s just a theory, Emile reminds himself.

For three days, Emile bides his time. He walks around his room naked-wearing a towel occasionally-and semi-drunk, quite drunk occasionally. He watches television and orders room service. He curses the stupidity of television, turns it off, and drifts into the minefield of memories involving his ex-wife. Conversations about his work that turned into three-day blowouts about how obsessed he was, how he was never home, how he was distracted by his work when he was home. But she would have loved this room, this view, being in a fine hotel on the ocean. He’s finding it more difficult to recall why they actually fell apart. There had to be more to it than his obsessions. But there wasn’t really a defining moment. He’d been tracking someone in Berlin, and when he came home hardly anything remained in the apartment. It was an equitable splitting up of belongings. She’d been fair. Emile didn’t bring a lot of material possessions into their life. She’d taken what had been hers, and not much was left at the end of that process. He sits up in bed, pours another whiskey, and turns the television back on.