Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting for Columbus

“I can get that out.” Everybody looks at Sonia, a black-haired woman in her mid-twenties. Everybody knows her story. She was raped-can’t stand to be touched by anybody. She looks at Consuela. “What? I can. I can get that stain out. You look funny. What’s the matter with you?”

“What do you mean, I look funny?” Consuela feels her face start to burn. Is she that transparent?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nonsense.”

Sonia turns to James. “Give me that shirt. I’ll get that stain out.” He caws a couple of times but doesn’t move. “Give me your fucking shirt, I said. Now! Don’t touch me but give me your shirt!” James backs up but takes his shirt off and hands it to her, carefully dangling it in front of her.

“Thank you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Consuela can see one of the orderlies-is it Benito?-doing a head count. This is something they do every half hour on field trips. It’s the institute’s standing policy. Here it comes, she thinks.

“I count only twelve.”

“Do it again,” Dr. Balderas says. “Find out who’s missing.”

“Could that be,” Consuela says meekly to Dr. Balderas, pointing out to sea at a small black dot, “someone?”

“It’s Columbus,” Benito says.

“Well, there goes one of our innocents,” Consuela says.

“Fuck.” Dr. Balderas walks slowly toward the water. “How did no one see… Oh, forget it. He probably arranged that little fracas back there.” He sighs heavily. “We’re going to have to get him back. Ideas? Anyone?” The three of them stand at water’s edge, turn to one another with blank faces, and then they watch the small black dot get smaller and smaller.

There is nothing she can do. They’ve alerted the authorities. They’ve called the coast guard. They round up the remaining patients and head back to the institute. On the road, Consuela looks over at Benito, who is driving. He is alert and focused on the road. She leans her head against the window, feels the road’s vibration. She closes her eyes and drifts back to Columbus ’s last story. Was there a clue in that story? It’ll be dark soon and he’s out there in the strait. Was he trying to tell her about this with his last story?

Columbus and Beatriz and the boys, and Juan, have come to a small villa at Santa Isabel, near the Portuguese border. Columbus is sitting with Juan. “Look,” he says, “I’m sitting alone by the sea and crying. I do not know if I have been successful or not. I do not know if I have made my journey to the Indies or to Japan. In my dream, I do not know. I am alone on the beach, by the ocean, and I am crying.”

“Do you have this dream often?” Juan sips his coffee.

Columbus squints at the midmorning horizon. His eyes do not waver from this line.

Columbus does not look at Juan. He watches Diego and Fernando, who are playing on the beach. They’re safe. He and Juan have been sitting at the table since breakfast. Beatriz has just returned from a week in Huelva. She was with her sister, who gave birth to a baby girl, whom they have named Mary. The boys have let Beatriz sleep in. Travel is always an ordeal.

Juan thinks Columbus has the look of someone who has not slept. Heavy darkness under his eyes. He is a man who is driven. Eaten by something on the inside. Or better, the Western Sea draws him, pulls at him. It is as if there is something unseen across the sea pulling him constantly. Even his shoulders are not even-one is higher than the other.

Juan watches Diego down on the beach. The boy is playing a game with the waves as they touch Spain. He lets the waves chase him inland, and then runs hard after them as they wash back out to sea. Fernando is making a castle in the sand.

“Diego is a big boy,” Juan says.

“He just turned twelve.”

“He’s a good size for his age. They both look healthy, happy.” Juan watches Columbus ’s face. There is such a genuine pleasure in his face as he watches his boys. His eyes become soft with love.

“Fernando turns five next week. He’ll be five… he already reads better than his brother.” Columbus drifts. The sound of the ocean becomes obvious. He is adrift once again in the dream remnant that has traveled with him into consciousness.

“What is making you so sad in your dream?” Juan says.

Columbus ’s vision is fixed on the horizon, yet there appears to be no focus.

“Christopher?”

“Hmmm.”

“What is making you so sad in your dream?”

“My life. Life. I don’t know.” He opens his mouth to continue, decides against it, and then brings his eyes to wash over Juan. “It is as if life has a thickness, and in order just to live I must continually push my way through it. It is like water only thicker. Is it so for you, Juan?”

“No, life has no thickness for me.”

“For me, to stand still is to die. I must push forward in a direction or I will die. I do not know why.”

They are quiet. There is only the sound of the sea. Tears form and stream from Columbus ’s eyes. He seems not to notice. He continues his watch on the horizon.

“It is not the sadness of lost love, or of a single death, or of a dozen deaths,” Columbus says. “This is the sadness of something inevitably horrible. Something that has to happen but is too awful to think about.” He picks up his glass, looks at it, and carefully places it back down on the table. “I did this thing. In my dream, I did this horrible thing.”

“What did you do?”

“I ruined something,” he says. “It is the feeling I have.”

“What do you see in your dream?”

“That.” He points. “The sun. I see the sun rise on the Western Sea.”

“So you are on one of the Canary Islands, looking east?”

“No, it does not feel so. Not the Canaries.”

“Well then, you are in the Azores.”

“No, the land behind me is different.”

“You are not in Britain?”

“No, it is hot, Juan. It is hot and very green in the place of my dream. There are palm trees.”

“We have run out of places that we know of where you could sit on a beach and watch the sun rise over the Western Sea.”

“Have we?” Columbus says flatly.

“Are you certain of the direction you face?”

“I have told you. I face the east,” says Columbus, “to see the sun rise over the sea.”

“Not a lake?”

“It is an ocean.” His voice is deep and blunt.

Juan smiles. Picks up his glass. “There’s only one place you could be,” he says.

In the afternoon, Juan goes into town to pick up supplies. Beatriz and Columbus come back onto the patio and sit in the shade offered by half a dozen palm trees. The boys are coloring at the table. Columbus has downed three Heinekens in about half an hour. Beatriz is sipping her wine. The breeze off the ocean is kind and warm.

“There are days,” Columbus says, “when I am tired of the constant pushing, constant struggling. I know I am away too much, Beatriz. I know.”

“Why do you do it?” She is not judging.

“Navigating. Sailing. This is all I know. What else would I do?”

“Your boys need you. I need you. We believe in you. You can do anything.”

“Sailing is in my bones. My blood is home when I am at sea.”

“This is for you, Papa,” Fernando says. He hands his father a picture of a thin blue line between two clumps of green. In the middle of the blue line, there is a ship with enormous sails and a small stick man standing on the deck. Columbus does not need to ask what the picture represents. He knows. He picks the boy up and draws him to his chest. Hugs him. Kisses his cheek.

“Thank you, Fernando,” he whispers. “It’s beautiful.”