Waiting For Columbus (23 page)

The first commission said his idea had merit. It was a bold scheme. A new sea route to the Indies and Japan, and especially one forged by Spain, was a grand idea. Going all the way around Africa was a long and expensive and dangerous journey. And it had only been done once, allegedly. But it wasn’t possible to sail across the Western Sea without dying of starvation or thirst. The second commission agreed with the first,
in its own unique way. The bottom line: the world was too big, the ocean too wide, the ships too small to carry enough provisions.

“With respect, Your Honor,” Columbus says, “you have no clear evidence the world is that big.”

“Nor do you have any evidence that it’s any smaller. We do have science. Our country’s best minds.” Las Palos stands up. He’s a narrow man, with a large, humped nose and a full head of black hair that falls to his shoulders. “All these men”—he motions with his hand to a group of men sitting in the back row—“all these men, say you are wrong, that the Earth is vast. That the Western Sea cannot be crossed successfully. That you will only kill yourself and those who are foolish enough to sail with you.”

“I bow to these learned men. They have resources and knowledge of which I can only dream. But I have a question.”

“I think we’re done, Mr. Columbus.”

“Just one small question?”

Las Palos turns toward the back row. Raises his eyebrows.

“All right, but our minds are settled.”

“For the best minds of our time—because your intelligence is so dazzling—exactly how big is the Earth?”

Four men lean their heads together into a huddle. One man does not move but, rather, looks bemused.

After five minutes, Las Palos is obviously agitated. After ten minutes, he stands. “It is not our position to prove the size of the Earth, Mr. Columbus. It is, however, required that you prove your case to us. And we have doubts.” Las Palos pauses. A large man at the end of the back row clears his throat. Las Palos stops, turns toward the man, and nods. The man stands. He looks down at the papers in his hands. Then looks directly at Columbus. “Well, we do not know exactly how vast the planet is, but we believe it is larger than your, ah … estimate.”

“I want to suggest that one sure way to find out exactly how big the Earth is, is to sail out there and have a look. Somebody has to go out
there and witness the ocean. Make notes on distance. Sometimes theories, fascinating as they may be, need to be proven. I am willing to—”

“Your price is too high,” Las Palos says. “You will have our official answer in a few days but I can almost guarantee the outcome. I can only speak for myself, but what you are proposing is, well, quite impossible.”

“With respect, how will you know for sure? Will you let Portugal discover new routes? Britain? France?”

“Enough.”

“Will we beg foreign powers for the charts? Is that what you envision for Spain? Is that your grand plan?”

“Enough!”

Newspaper stories of this audience, Columbus’s second, report that as Columbus was leaving the commission chamber he turned and challenged anyone in the room to stand an egg on its end, on a marble tabletop.

“A thousand silver pesos to anybody who can do this thing,” he said. “Just take an egg and stand it on its end. It’s a simple thing.”

Eggs were sent for and four men attempted to make the egg stand on its end. Then two more tried to no avail. Columbus watched dispassionately. Las Palos had already disappeared into the back sanctums of the university.

“Impossible,” the men of the commission finally declared. “An egg can’t be balanced on one end—not on a flat surface. Utterly impossible!”

When Columbus took the egg, smashed one end—not hard enough to make it run—and stood it on the table, only Luis de Santángel, the queen’s treasurer, could be heard laughing hysterically in a sea of stunned silence.

Columbus had made an ally.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Cecelia says. “You are smiling, but there is sorrow in you as wide and deep as an ocean.”

“Well, I am here, in this so-called hospital of innocents, against my will,” Columbus says as he sits down. “Why would I be happy? How could I be happy?”

“No, no, no. It’s much bigger than that, Mr. Columbus.” She pats his hand. “This is loss, and guilt, and too much to bear.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have me at a loss. I don’t know what to say.”

“In time you’ll know,” she says. “There’s no rush. In the meantime, we can chat.” Cecelia hands him a cup of tea. “It’s green tea. It’s good for you.”

Columbus thinks about politely declining. He doesn’t drink tea. But with Cecelia it seems as if he should. Steam rises from the cup in minuscule swirls. Its scent is so singular—simple. He sips the tea and, surprisingly, finds it to his liking. This is not a complex flavor.

They are at a table in the dayroom—near the windows—Cecelia in her robes on one side, and Columbus, wearing only a pair of socks and an open housecoat, on the other. This is the first time they’ve communicated beyond casual nods in passing. Columbus has a few more sips of the green tea and is about to comment—to supply mindless dialogue—something about how he is pleasantly surprised at the taste of this tea. But he doesn’t. He turns inward against his impulse to fill the void of silence with his self-manufactured nonsense.

When the bird hits the window it shocks them. A loud, muffled bang, they turn, see nothing, both know immediately it was a bird.

“A sparrow?” Cecelia says. “Oh my dear God.”

“We need to see—maybe we can do something.”

“The doors are locked. We can’t get out.” She’s distraught. Her hand shakes as she points at the locked door.

“This is a rescue mission—a special circumstance.” Columbus stands. One of the new orderlies, a pimply-faced young man named Sylvester, follows him to the door. Columbus tries it and indeed it is
locked. He yanks on it again, testing the veracity of the lock. He yanks on it again, harder this time.

“The courtyard is closed for the day,” the orderly says, stepping between Columbus and the door.

“Open it. A bird has hit the window—might be hurt, suffering.” Columbus looks around the room. They’re alone. A minor miracle in this institute. The fact it’s bingo night could account for the scarcity of inmates.

“The hours are there.” Sylvester points to a small square of white paper mounted on the wall. “The courtyard is closed. It’s late. I’m sure this bird is fine.”

Columbus leans in close. The orderly places his hand on his walkie-talkie, puffs up his chest, draws sternness to his face.

Columbus whispers, “By the time you get even remotely close to calling for help, I could do great damage to you, my friend. Now just open the door.”

Sylvester looks hard at Columbus, weighing his words, measuring height, weight, physical condition. He hesitates. Columbus lurches forward and head butts the orderly—a hard, ugly thumping sound. Sylvester goes down. There are far too many keys on his ring for a quick exit, so Columbus hands the key ring to Cecelia and starts to look around for something he can use to force the door open. Something that could be used as a makeshift pry bar. Many of the candidates are screwed to the floor. Cecelia chooses a key with assuredness. “This one,” she says and Columbus turns around. “Is he hurt?” she adds, pointing at Sylvester.

“He’ll have a lump.” Columbus pushes the key into the lock and turns it. The door opens smoothly and quietly. Son of a bitch, he thinks.

Outside they find the bird, a sparrow. Its neck is broken. Its body still warm. They bury the bird quickly, carefully, under a rosebush and Columbus defers to Her Holiness the Pope for a prayer. Cecelia turns to Columbus with tears in her eyes, at a loss. The only thing he can think
of is the first verse from the hymn “Silent Night.” He recites it with apologies to the bird but it seems wholly appropriate. It seems correct that this bird should have these words. “Silent night,” he begins, “holy night …” He and the pope stand in the garden above the small mound, with a growing indigo sky above. “Sleep in heavenly peace,” Columbus says. “Sleep in heavenly peace.”

They go back inside and Sylvester is still out cold on the floor. They reattach the keys to the orderly’s belt. Columbus hustles into the adjoining lounge and brings back a pillow, which he slides under Sylvester’s head. Columbus and the pope look at each other. Cecelia is smiling, a vulnerable, grateful, and astounded smile.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’re the pope. You ought to be able to attend to sparrows whenever they fall. It was an honor and my pleasure.”

“Good night, my dear.”

“Sleep well, Your Holiness.”

The next morning, Columbus looks at Consuela with a glint in his eye. He watches her as she approaches his table at breakfast with more interest than usual. He studies her gait.

“Columbus persists,” he says. “He’ll do almost anything to get his ships.”

“Good morning to you, too,” she says.

“You look quite beautiful today … I mean you always look good, but I noticed that today—”

“Thank you, Mr. Columbus. I get it.” She takes a deep breath. “So what
would
you do to get your ships?”

As usual, Columbus kneels before the queen. She keeps him kneeling for all of their audiences while she either sits or swishes around the
room. She likes to watch him from behind. To leave him there faced away from her voice. That way, anyone who entered unexpectedly would see nothing was going on. And truthfully, nothing was happening between them, at least on a physical level.

She also liked to sit in front of him, on the throne, her legs pulled up and apart. Her feet flat on the seat of the chair. A pose that without her flowing dresses would not have been appropriate. She did it to tease. She did it to titillate. She did it to move him off course from his obsession. To see if she could shake him.

Isabella sits before him. Considers how she should begin. She is not calm. This audience, which has been arranged by her treasurer, Luis de Santángel, is an inconvenience to her. But she likes this Columbus, more than she would like to admit. He wished to serve the king and queen and would risk his life to do it. He wished to bring glory to Spain. And he was persistent, bloody dogged, about it.