Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

“I’m… I’m having a problem with this latch. Just a minute.”

“As I was saying, Mr. Columbus, this negotiation, while complex in nature…”

This guy loves the sound of his own voice, Columbus thinks. I’d love a cup of coffee. Better, an espresso. I bet they’d get me one if I asked.

“John? How are we doing?”

“I’ve almost got it.” John’s got a knife wedged in the lock, and he’s prying it back and forth.

“Perhaps,” says Santángel, “we should take a break until we can solve the briefcase problem.” He smiles, more a twinge.

“A question, Señor Santángel,” Columbus says softly.

“Yes, Mr. Columbus.”

“I’d love an espresso.”

“Emilio,” Santángel snaps. “An espresso for Mr. Columbus.” One of the crowd of lawyers stands and moves toward the door. “And I’ll have one, too.”

Now the other lawyers start offering orders.

“I’d like a café solo.”

“I’ll have a double espresso with a wedge of lemon.”

“Do you have decaf?”

“Could I get a latte, extra hot?”

“I’ll have a café con leche.”

“I got it.” It’s John with the briefcase. “It’s open. I got the briefcase open.” He’s smiling and holding his left hand, which is bleeding. “I need a bandage.” John sits down. A woman in a gray dress pulls her briefcase onto the table, snaps it open, and produces a bandage, which she passes down the table toward John, who looks pale, exhausted.

“I have kids,” the gray woman says.

Columbus looks at his fingernails, gazes out the window. He actually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s going on around him. He knows the outcome of this meeting already. Getting to that outcome is a series of formalities. He’s a sailor now. He’s no longer interested in negotiating anything but oceans.

The deal is done, he thinks. I’ve got my ships. Just when I thought it was truly hopeless, funding for three ships and provisions and a crew appears. Why? Doesn’t matter. I’m going. I’m off to make a brand-new route. There is no question that there is something out there. Look at these idiots with their cell phones and mounds of paper. Look how they jump when I ask for espresso. They’ve bought the dream. They want, desperately, what I’ve put on the table.

Santángel’s base offer is passed around. Everyone has a copy. A cream-colored cover with a few attached pages sits unopened in front of Columbus. Father Antonio’s copy also sits on the table exactly where it was placed.

The coffee arrives. Cups are handed around. Columbus is served first, his espresso, in a blue demitasse, is placed in front of him. He silently acknowledges the excellent crema but other than this, ignores the coffee.

“So if we can begin again. Can I get everyone to sit? Now, as I was saying, we are here today to…”

Columbus pulls out a briefcase, lays it flat on the table, covering Santángel’s offer as if it is insignificant. Santángel stops talking. Columbus clicks open each catch and removes a single sheet of paper. He passes it to Santángel. “Here are my requirements. Father Antonio will hear any comments, but this list of demands is firm and final. There will be no negotiation. I’m going fishing for a few days.”

Columbus stands and nods to the gaggle of gape-mouthed lawyers. Then bows deeply toward a tapestry at the far end of the room. “Your Majesty,” he says softly. Father Antonio remains seated as Columbus walks across the room and pushes open the far doors. He stops in the archway. “My associate, Father Antonio, will take you up on that drink now,” Columbus says. The doors groan shut and he’s gone.

Two hours later, they are alone in the room. The councillors have been dismissed and Father Antonio has been escorted back to his monastery. The father followed Columbus ’s instructions to the letter. He listened. Engaged in no negotiations. Then listened some more.

“Admiral of all the Seas. Is he insane? This is impossible! I mean, Your Majesty, I like him but these demands are outrageous!” Santángel speaks toward the tapestry. “And he wants a percentage of all the profits from any route he finds. And he wants-”

“Give it to him,” Isabella says as she steps around the edge of the screen. She’d like to use her fingernails to claw the goddamned dress she’s wearing off her body. She can barely get a full breath from morning to sunset. She swishes over to the window and looks out across the dusty landscape. Would she still be able to see him? Fishing? Who goes fishing at a time like this? Isabella giggles. Of course, Columbus would go fishing at a time like this. He loves fishing.

“But he wants-”

“Give it to him.”

“Forgive me, my queen, but this is too much.”

“Just give him what he wants. We’ll figure out how to make good on the promise once he returns, if he returns.” If… yes… there is a possibility he will not make it back. Anything can happen at sea. And if he returns, we will keep our distance from him. We will not visit or encourage him in any way.

Santángel smiles. “A dangerous game.”

“My game.”

“But-”

“Enough! Go. Arrange to give him everything he requires. Go!”

When Columbus looked at the tapestry and bowed, Isabella had to cover her mouth with her hand. She gasped and then wept quietly. Her yearning surprised her. She felt overwhelmed by it-caught off guard. She thought she might faint. She stood with wobbly knees and tears flowing, and watched him walk out of the meeting.

I want him, Isabella thinks. But to want him is to court death, tempt fate. So he must go. I must give my heart respite. Put Columbus, and myself, out of danger.

But it would be nice to see him, perhaps one more time before he sails. Just one more time. Nothing will happen. I just want to see him. To have a simple conversation. Nothing more.

“I’m done,” she says. “I can’t listen to any more stories. I need a break.” Her voice is a frayed rope. Her fingers intertwined and squeezed white. Dr. Balderas walks across his office, two glasses in his hands-the ice tinkling. “Drink this,” he says. He sits in a low, leather armchair across from her, places his drink on the arm, elbows on his knees, and leans forward. He recognizes fatigue-has seen it in himself, in his wife, when they were dealing with their teenagers. The dark circles under her eyes, a slumped weariness to her posture. There is no doubt in his mind that Consuela is exhausted.

“I can’t make you do this. You’ve already gone above and beyond your duty here. I know you’re tired.” Dr. Balderas takes a drink. Wonders how he’d react to his own pitch.

If you only knew what I’m feeling, she thinks. You’d yank this patient out of my care in a second. All I have to do is tell you, and no more stories. No more Columbus. Just say the words, Consuela. I’m in love with Columbus . Go on, say it.

Consuela teeters. The right thing to do is to walk away from Columbus. This is her opportunity.

“Look, whatever happened to him, these stories seem to be moving toward where we’ve been hoping he’d go. He wants to finish his story. I think it’s important that he finishes it.”

“Can’t he tell you, or some other nurse?”

“I’ve tried to get him to go there, but I really think it has to be you.”

“Why me? What if it doesn’t end?” Her voice is filled with a desperate frailty.

“The very first report I read from you, about Columbus ’s stories, you said Columbus said he was going to tell you the story of how he, Christopher Columbus, got his ships-the true story.”

“Yes, I remember.”