Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

“And, when he arrived, he asked you about the ships-ships in a harbor-and what happened?”

“You read my reports.” She makes a small, impressed smile.

“Carefully-some more than once.”

“Well, that’s certainly more than your predecessor.”

“Look, he’s not taking you to sea. I believe it will end when he gets his ships… but you’ve been there from the start. He started it with you. He believes he has to end it with you.”

“But-”

“Just let him finish it.”

On Saturday, Columbus asks her if she likes to hike. He has no idea Dr. Balderas has planned a little trip to the beach for Monday. Columbus doesn’t know that the doctor has already made his list of safe patients and is visiting with his mother who is in a seniors’ home in Córdoba.

“Do you backpack?” Columbus says, and Consuela is not sure what to make of the question.

“Backpack?” she says. “You mean carry your tent, bedding, and food into the wilderness?”

“That’s it,” he says. “Away from it all. No distractions. No work. No meetings. Nothing but nature and working the legs. The mountains are best because of the elevations. You get the vistas. Vistas are the payoff.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

He smiles, clears his throat. “Because…”

Because they left Beatriz and the boys in the village. Columbus and Juan have come to the mountain regions between Spain and France to fish for trout. They move up through pine forests, looking for the tiny hut where they will spend the night. Columbus leads, even though Juan has been there many times before. The deer trail they were following has disappeared, and Columbus stops at the edge of a cliff with a mountain vista. He removes his cap and drinks from the large, leather water sack. The view is of blue mountain ranges against mountain ranges, fading rows of peaks against darkening indigo sky.

“We’ll have to make a fire and stay here tonight,” Juan says. “It’s three leagues to the hut and getting too dark.”

“By my calculations, it should be just over there.” Columbus points into the forest with no hesitation.

“Actually, it’s there, at the base of that mountain.” He points across the valley in front of them.

“Are you sure, Juan?”

“Yes, Cristóbal, my friend, I have been there many times.”

“Someone has made an incorrect calculation then?”

Juan looks at Columbus. A pathetic man, standing there with cap in hand, tousled white hair. The past ten years of intense dreaming have come with a price, Juan thinks, and Columbus has paid with part of his sanity. Nurturing a dream requires a great deal of energy, and this is a big dream. He might be losing his mind. But Juan knows what Columbus has gone through. The trials and arguments at the university. His dealings with the king and queen. The years of waiting. The years of not knowing. The years of doubt massing up like storm clouds.

“A wrong turn,” Juan says.

“I do not make wrong turns,” Columbus snaps.

“A faulty map then.”

“An error in the map? Yes, this is a possibility.”

“Yes,” Juan says, “but look. Look where you’ve brought us. I have never seen such a view.”

Columbus turns and smiles. This is true, he thinks. I have discovered a new view. It is my destiny. And it is my destiny to claim the entirety of this magnificent view in the name of God and Their Glorious Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. For Spain.

Then he says out loud: “I claim all this land, all the trees, the animals, the birds and fish and gold and gems and peoples in the name of God and Their Glorious Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.” He kneels and crosses himself. “And for my beautiful Beatriz, who very much wanted to come fishing but stayed in the village. And of course, for both my sons, Diego and Fernando, may they be safe and grow into decent and brave men.”

“Cristóbal, my friend. I do not think the king and queen of France would appreciate you claiming part of their country for Spain, no matter how perfect a view it is that you’ve discovered.” Juan can see that this spot is a well-used campsite. There is a fire pit surrounded by stones beside a large boulder. Somehow, Columbus does not see this.

“Is it not my destiny to discover?”

“Ah, but this land is already discovered. Beyond these cliffs is France.”

“But this view?”

“A view is a view,” Juan says. “This is a magnificent view but it is-” He stops. He does not want to deflate this man who stands before him. That is not the role of a friend, he thinks. Is he loopy or is he pulling my limb? Surely he knows we are on the border between Spain and France. Ahh, it doesn’t matter. It does not matter if Columbus wishes to claim this small section of France.

“We should make a fire before it is too late. We do not want to wander these cliffs looking for wood in the dark.” Juan kicks at the ground in order to begin to create a fire pit. He does it away from the established pit. He snaps off the first dry bough he finds, tucks it under his arm, and continues to search.

When there are sparks twisting into the sky and a steady heat coming from the fire, Juan turns and looks at Columbus. He has been standing with his back to the forest, seeming to watch the light in the western sky move toward indigo.

“Columbus,” Juan says, “I’ve got the fire going. Come and sit down.”

“It’s going to happen,” Columbus whispers.

“What?” Juan says, poking at the fire, making adjustments.

“The journey across the Western Sea. It’s going to happen.”

“I have always known it. And listen, I have some news. My meeting with the Rubensteins went very well. They’re in.”

“That is good news. Any idea how much?”

“Enough for one ship, fully outfitted. But there is a condition.”

“A condition?”

“They want transport to the Canaries.”

“For how many?”

“Twenty. Maybe more.”

Columbus leans in and pokes the fire with a short stick. Sparks lift into darkness.

“I have been thinking about this journey all day. There is too much to gain and too little risk for this not to happen. I play the role of the little risk…” He stops, pauses, and then shouts: “Nothing but the sea.” The echo from across the valley is strong and spooky. It hangs in a circle above their camp. The echo drains into the night and Columbus makes the silence wait before he shouts again: “NO THING.” And it comes back as “O-ING, O-ING, o-ing, ing, ing.” Columbus turns his back to the vastness of the valley. He sits down next to Juan and observes the fire. Looks up at Juan. Nods his head.

“Sure, why not. Let’s transport the Jews.”

“I’ll let them know when we get back.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, tell me about your life, Juan.”

“But have you heard from the queen? Is there word?”

“No, no, not about me. Not about ocean journeys. You. I want to hear about you.”

“There are no events in my life when it is compared to yours. I do not meet with kings and queens and noblemen. I do not speak with physicians and philosophers, and I do not read the latest charts.”

“Just people,” Columbus says, smiling. “Just things.”

Juan talks about his painting. He speaks about the mixtures of colors, the brushes, the textures of the walls. Then there are the canvas paintings, the portraits and crude landscapes.

“The problem with the portraits is the skin. To mix the correct skin tone is half the battle,” he says. “And then I often wish to paint not what I see but what it is I feel.”

“Is it not the job of the artist to paint what he sees?” Columbus says.