Waiting For Columbus (14 page)

Consuela stands up. The thing is, she was trying not to be too cheery. She is aware that this is an institution.

“Sit,” he says. “I’m grumpy. I’m sorry.”

Consuela sits down but she’s bristling, hesitant.

“There was a morning—in my memory—when I was very happy.”

“Oh really. What was her name?” She takes a sip of coffee.

He looks at her with a pitying, downward glance. “I was with my son.”

Well, she thinks, at least my feet are getting clean from sticking them in my mouth so often this morning.

Morning does not come quickly when one is looking for it. It becomes a lugubrious, lumbering animal that moves only when it wishes. Yet mornings are inevitable. This one had sifted in through thick clouds on a blanket of fear. Columbus only hopes that they have successfully crossed the border from Portugal into Spain. He and his son, Diego, have been alternating between walking and running all night, and now they arrive inside a thick fog.

I think we’re safe now, Columbus is thinking. I think we’re across the border. We should stop at an inn and ask just to make sure. If I were at sea, I would know exactly where I was. If I could have seen the stars last night, I would have been able to tell when we crossed over.

“Why are we leaving, Papa? Did we do something wrong?” Diego is six years old. He has been quiet most of the night and now, as he begins to get hungry, he also begins to hunger for information.

“No, I said some things to the king and the king didn’t like what I said. That’s all. That’s why we’re leaving.”

A long pause. The boy is tired, has been traveling at a severe adult pace along the dusty roads all night. It’s finally morning. Traveling at night is dangerous—insanity, some would say. Wild animals and desperate, vicious people lurked at the edges of highways at night. These two had little choice and they were lucky. They met no one, heard a rustling in the bushes twice but that was all.

“What did you say to the king, Papa?”

“Some things about taking chances. Some things about taking risks if you ever want to achieve greatness. Some things about guts. And I guess the king took the things I said to heart.”

“Who were those men with swords?”

“They were some of the king’s friends.”

“Did they want to hurt us?”

“They were angry. They wanted a map created by a man named Toscanelli.”

“Did they find it?”

“Actually, they did not find the map they sought. They did find a map, but not the one they were seeking. They couldn’t tell the difference.”

“What was so great about the map?”

“Well, Toscanelli felt we could get to the Indies by sailing west to an island called Antilla, and then beyond to the Indies and Japan. He figured Antilla was a halfway point toward the Indies. Well, he put Antilla on a map, and a little bit more.”

“I’m tired, Papa.”

They come over a rise in the road and see the lights of a small village. Several shops, a stable, and farther down the street, an inn. As they
approach the town, Columbus can see several young men leaning against the front wall of the first shop, talking.

“Look, Diego, someone here can tell us where we are. Someone there can tell us if we are yet in Spain.”

Father and son walk inside—side-glance the leaning boys.

“Hello,” a woman says. “How are you today?” She stands behind the counter smiling at them benignly. She has long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that reaches down the middle of her back to just above her buttocks.

Columbus bows to her. “My lady,” he says, “we have just come from Portuguese territory and I was wondering if in fact we had crossed over into Spain.”

“Huh?”

He then tries the same question in Spanish with the same result. He attempts the question in English, then French, then Portuguese again. She seems to be permanently confused, addled beyond hope.

“Is this Spain?”

“Spain?”

“Yes, I need to know if this is Spain?”

“Spain is a good country, yes?” She smiles kindly.

How can this woman not be aware of where she is?

Columbus places his hand on the hilt of his sword. Grips it firmly. Visualizes this woman’s discombobulated head rolling on the clean floor, dumb smile fully intact. But then realizes she may be muddled in her head. This may not be her fault. But then why was she in this position of responsibility?

“Come, Diego, we’re going.”

Diego has picked up a chocolate bar.

“Put that down. It’s bad for you.”

“But, Papa—”

“I said no.”

The boys outside are gone, which makes Columbus twitchy. Where
are they? He and Diego move swiftly through what Columbus hopes is the village of Palos. They try to stay in the light, avoid the back alleys. They do not encounter another soul. This, too, worries Columbus. Finally they walk slowly up a long hill to what Columbus hopes is the Franciscan monastery at La Rábida. There is no sign. There were no signs. Nothing that indicated a location. Columbus is beginning to think he’s in a bad dream. Apart from the fact that it looks like every monastery he’s ever seen—stone walls around an enclosed inner courtyard, the thick wooden door—he’s nowhere near certain this actually is a monastery. He is tired beyond tired, paranoid, and scared. He knocks on the door, then turns around to see if anybody has followed. He knocks again. He’s not thinking straight—and the boy cannot be expected to go any farther. Either they are in Spain and safe, or he will beg sanctuary at this monastery.

Father Antonio de Marchena opens the door. By necessity, this is a slow and hesitant movement. The father has a friendly, welcoming face. He is not an old man but is accustomed to being around older men, and so his body language is mismatched to his age: he moves a bit slower than he needs to and squints when he doesn’t really need to squint. His physical health is fine, and his eyes are perfect. One could not say the father is fat, but he is certainly well fed, and there is, of course, a vineyard attached to the monastery.

“You what?” Father Antonio says, smiling.

They have been sampling the wine, an amber-colored white with an earthy, nutty flavor, served slightly chilled with cheese and bread on the side. The monks have been producing the Condado Pálido wine for as long as the oldest of them remembers.

“In retrospect, it was not wise. But I was angry. And it was only the truth.”

“I hope if you ever get a chance to pitch your idea to Ferdinand, that you apply a little more tact.”

Diego is sleeping, and while Columbus was tempted to sleep as well, there was something in him that would not stop. He was too wound up. Columbus was relieved to learn that they were, in fact, in Spain.

“King John does not joke around. If he sent men after you, you’d do well to align yourself with a different king or queen. What did you say?”

“He’s an imbecile. I told him he was an imbecile. Sometimes these things just come out, especially when I am faced with an enormous stupidity.”

“Kings and queens are rarely wise—they’re certainly not born with any special degree of intelligence. Decisions are thrust upon them, and if they have good advisers, they sometimes make good choices. But it is even more difficult to rule if your main concern is hanging on to an empire to rule. The people tend to get lost along the way.”

“Three months! They had enough information to make a decision in a week, a few days. But they took three months! What in hell were they doing all that time? I offered them a direct route to the kingdom of the khan. A direct route to Marco Polo’s Asia.”

“They were waiting for news of the African route to the East Indies.”

“Yes, I know. Many have attempted—”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Dias is back. He found a way around the southern point of Africa.”

“Dias made it?” Columbus’s face goes white. He hears the fire in the corner. He knows a fire like this ought to take the chill from the room, but he is cold to the bone. The light from the fire flickers in the wine. Dias found a new route to the Indies and made it back. Dias made it.

Father Antonio waits until the stone of this news has had time to
sink to the bottom of whatever water exists inside Columbus. He does not mind the silence—respects the enormity of such news to a navigator, especially to one who wishes to cross an uncharted ocean.

Columbus begins to embrace all the doubts that have been lurking in the shadows of his hope.

“There is no question about this?”

“None.”

“I was plan B, then. Never seriously considered.” Columbus drifts into the realization he’d only been humored for the past months.

“It seems that way.”

“Have you more of this wine?”

Father Antonio pours—fills his glass.

“Getting stupid with wine will not make Dias go away. Nor will it buttress your belief in the western route. Nor will it get you an audience with the Catholic kings. And it will only temporarily make you feel better.”

“I am told it is very difficult to meet with the king and queen. It may be years before I can plead my case. So I’ll take feeling better temporarily. Tonight,
temporary
is plenty.”

“And tomorrow morning?”

“I am only here, right now. Tomorrow morning is not important. I am alive and my son is safe. This wine is excellent.”

“Then let me offer a small lecture, just in case you decide to press ahead with your scheme. Ferdinand and Isabella need money. They’re spread thin with the war against the Moors in Granada, and problems with infrastructure, and pressure to get rid of the Jews. Even Portugal is saber rattling, poking around for a fight. So money is the key. If you can promise money, with only a small amount to fund your venture up front, you’ll get your ships.”

“I definitely need more wine.”

“I know that nothing I say will cure what ails you. But proving the Portuguese wrong, making the western route a reality—bringing home
gold and riches—this will gall King John more than anything else you could do. But you are right. This sort of talk is for tomorrow. Sailing off the edge of the world is a morning conversation.” He smiles and the missing teeth on the upper left side of his mouth become obvious.

Columbus sighs. “Tonight, my fine little monk, I do not wish to be cheered, or hopeful, or happy. I am disheartened and this is not a crime. I am without hope—also not a crime. And thanks to you, I am safe. I only wish to be lost in this wine, warmed by this fire … and then sleep. Tomorrow, tomorrow will take care of itself.”

“Okay, okay, wallow in self-pity tonight, but take this little bit of information to bed with you, Mr. Columbus.” The monk stands up, tosses another hunk of wood onto the fire. “I can get you an audience with the queen. Next week.” Father Antonio gently pulls the door shut behind him. Just before the door clicks, he adds: “Close your mouth, Mr. Columbus, or the flies will get in. Sleep well.”

In the morning, Diego has already eaten breakfast and is playing in the courtyard with an orange cat when Columbus lifts his sorry head from the pillow.

“Coffee,” he says in the dining hall. He feels sick to his stomach—does not know for sure if the coffee will stay down but he’s willing to try. It’s more for the comfort, the normalcy of drinking coffee in the morning. He hopes the routine will dispel the pain in his head. He takes his mug, sits in the shade of an enormous oak, and watches Diego.