Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

Emile sits up in bed. He has a sudden shadow-memory, an image of his ex-wife beside him in the bed. Like when a cat dies and you think you see the cat moving from room to room, or sitting at the door waiting to be let out in the morning. The ghost cat exists only as a hazy afterburn in your retina. But, of course, she is not there. She’s in Guadeloupe with her sister. She’s out of his life. Has taken her leave. Moved on. This half memory is enough to shock him fully awake. It’s eerily quiet, a muffled lull-the street sounds pulled back. Even Paris can be becalmed. Emile listens. The clock in the kitchen has the loudest tick he’s ever heard. Water is running somewhere in the building.

He wishes the man well. He hopes he is able to successfully escape any horrors that chase him in the night. If he is alive. If. He’s been off the grid for a long time.

Consuela searches the words Hafiz, Columbus, fifteenth century, Persian, chess, professor, and teacher. Hafiz because of his knowledge of the poet, his poems, and his comment about reading them in Persian. Columbus and fifteenth century for the obvious reasons. Chess because she suspects he’s very, very good-much better than he pretends. And, finally, teacher and professor because he lectures-he seems like a teacher. It’s a guess, but a guess is all she has. On the thirty-fourth page of her search she finds an oblique reference to Mehmet Nusret, the birth name of Turkish humorist and author Aziz Nesin, who died in 1995. He had apparently championed free speech, especially when it came to the right to openly criticize Islam.

On a whim, she adds this name to a new search, with the words April and March. Columbus came to the institute in April, but nobody knows where he was before that. These are more calculated suppositions. Consuela is sitting at her computer with a glass of chardonnay on the desk beside the screen. After almost two hours, her search is still fruitless. She forgoes the glass and drinks out of the bottle.

Columbus times his journal entries so Consuela is not working when he writes. This morning he finds a corner of the upper deck, far from the small fountain that does not function-spouts no water, only fills with leaves and rainwater. He can imagine what it would have been like, where the water would have flowed-the mist, the spray-what it would have felt like to have the luxury of that mist on a hot day.

Row after row of desks. These desks are tiered. They rise up and away from the center of this picture. The lights are slightly dimmed. There are people-they are probably students. They’re all looking at a focal point at the front of this room. Many of the students are typing into their laptop computers. Most of them have laptops. Many of these students are smiling. A few are laughing. As if the person teaching the class has just said something funny. There is no way to determine what kind of class this is. Most of the students are female.

He pans the front row for clues. All women in the front row. On the far right a young woman is looking down. She’s holding a cell phone in her lap-slightly under her laptop, which sits on the little desk-probably texting someone. Or reading a text message.

Analog to digital. That’s what’s happening in this classroom. A human being-the analog bit-will offer up information and the students will smash it to bits and bytes, ones and zeros. They will do this 350 unique ways. And they will do it almost instantly.

There is a woman in this frozen moment who is not translating the lecturer’s words into digital. She sits mid-row, about four tiers up. She is looking into the center of the picture. If the lecturer is the one holding an imagined camera, she’s looking directly into his, or her, eyes. She has shoulder-length red hair. She’s wearing a navy-blue blouse. Her head is tilted into her hand, her thumb rides her jawline, and two fingers rest on her cheek. Her other hand rests in her lap. Her eyes penetrate. Even in this stopped-time image where nothing moves, her eyes cut through any pretense.

A brunette-haired woman in the front row is taking notes the old-fashioned way, with a pen and paper. Is it that she can’t afford a swanky Macintosh computer? When he surveys the room, the vast majority of little lights in the center of the backs of the screens are apples. Or is it something more romantic with this woman? Perhaps she’s found this method of note taking is the most efficient way for her to learn. Something in him is drawn to this woman who either purposely, or by economic circumstances, rejects the prevalent technology.

In the second tier, a man with dark-rimmed eyeglasses is focused on his computer screen. He could be playing a game or writing a book. He seems far away. Even in this snapshot, there is distance, a disconnection between him and the lecturer.

In the aisle desk, three rows up, a blond-haired woman is crying. Why didn’t he see her before now? He probably went past her ten times in his mind. Her mascara is running down her cheeks. Nobody around her seems to know she is crying. She is not afraid to let the lecturer see her tears. She does not wipe them away because those around her would begin to catch on. Now that he has found her, he can sense her sorrow. The physicality of her pain is so apparent in her eyes, and mouth, and shoulders. Her eyes fluctuate from a fierce don’t you dare pity me to a resigned grief. Her mouth is frozen in a sad, even line. Her shoulders are wilted, careless. Her posture is not beneficial to breathing. Her breathing stays high in her chest, never goes deep. These are silent tears. Is she experienced in crying silently? Why?

How does this picture fit into his life? He can’t recognize anybody. No names come when he goes over this image. He thinks maybe he’s at the middle of it. He’s the teacher, or the lecturer, but what does he know that he could teach?

The table is long and narrow, and made of oak planks. Luis de Santángel sits not at its head but, rather, stranded in the middle, surrounded by councillors. Santángel’s black hair is pulled back neatly behind his ears. His hands are manicured. His clothing is plain. Nothing ornate, though he could easily afford it. His overall appearance is friendly and open but also down to business. He sits with his back to the window. He’s partially silhouetted against the morning sky, which is cloudless and holds the promise of a hot day. Columbus sits directly across from Santángel. At his right hand is his lone companion, his friend, Father Antonio.

Eighteen to two, Columbus thinks. They must believe this meeting is important. Either they believe wholeheartedly in my journey or they are covering all possibilities.

“Drinks?” Santángel says. “Mr. Columbus?”

“No, thank you,” Columbus says, speaking for both himself and Father Antonio.

The men surrounding the queen’s treasurer are all laden with paper. Some have binders; others, piles of paper clipped together. All have cell phones either hanging from their belts or sitting on the table. Santángel opens a small black file folder that sits neatly on the table in front of him, its edges square to the table’s edge. He flips the first page over and leans back in his chair. All side conversations stop.

“Very well, then,” Santángel says. “I first want to congratulate Mr. Columbus on the successful financing of his impending voyage across the Western Sea to Japan and India. This is quite an accomplishment.” Santángel leads the small herd of lawyers and councillors in polite applause. He clears his throat and begins again. “The purpose of this meeting is to determine the compensation Mr. Columbus will receive, if any, from the profits and proceeds of this expedition. We are here today to determine any remuneration for Mr. Columbus and his crews. I expect our negotiations to be somewhat complex but hopefully not too lengthy. Now, as a starting point, I’ve prepared a base-offer sheet.” He turns toward the far end of the table where a diminutive, bald man with dark-rimmed glasses is fidgeting with a brown briefcase. One of the latches is stuck. “John? Could you hand out the sheet? I believe there are enough copies for everybody to have one.”