Waiting For Columbus (29 page)

Somewhere below is a horse-drawn carriage moving under the canopy of trees. Consuela can hear the steady rhythm of horse hooves hitting the street—a hollow sound that carries.

They sit down to dinner at a long table, staggered with cande-labras, fine china, gleaming silverware. An obscenely massive bouquet of white lilies and gerberas is at mid-table. They all sit west of the flowers, Faith at the head of the table, Rob beside her. Marcello is seated across from Consuela; Donna and Alf Rubinski across from Mary and Gordon Money.

I’m in hell, Consuela is thinking. This is a decent man. He’s bright and not an ass-wipe like my ex, but this is all irrelevant. She compares every man to Columbus—and they do not fare well. She’s head over heels in love with a man who’s locked in a mental asylum and who thinks he’s Christopher Columbus. She can’t shake him. She can’t stop thinking about him. His stories reverberate long after he’s done. His eyes and his voice haunt her on the days she is off work.

I’m screwed, she thinks. I can’t speak or act like I’m in love. Not here. Faith will go berserk. I have to pretend availability. Is this love? Is it love I feel for Columbus? My God, what’s the test for love? A long line of clichés come to mind, things like inability to sleep, to eat, and to focus. Anxiety attacks. Obsession. Fixations. Lust. Desire. Oh, she’s got desire all right.

“I don’t understand a thing about love,” Consuela says.

Everyone at the table stops mid-fork or mid-lifting of wineglasses and looks at her.

Fuck, did I just say that out loud? she thinks. Consuela looks around the table at the stopped people.

“This is the reason we have poetry, and art, and dance,” Marcello says. “The artists help us to understand this mystery, yes?”

“Could you be any more fucking romantic?”

“You don’t like the romance?”

“No, I like the romance just fine.” Faith is staring at her—no glaring—waiting for her to dismiss Marcello because she’s already in love. Faith is waiting to pounce on her because she’s in love with a patient, because she lied about dumping the patient.

Consuela turns to Marcello. She can’t see through all his earnestness, his attempt to save her, his effrontery of charm.

She lowers her voice, leans toward him. “I’m just not as grounded as I … I’m just not open to romance right now.”

“It’s not a test,” Marcello says. “It’s a conversation at dinner.”

“I know. I know it’s not a test. It’s just, I feel I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing. I expect nothing. More wine?” He holds the bottle above her glass, smiles encouragement, and she nods.

Freedom, she thinks. Freedom is so seductive. Take everything off the table. Take agendas, perceived or true, off the table. Take away desire, lust, attraction, even friendship. Strip all that away. Disallow it. Make
it just a conversation between two human beings. What’s left is a potent and dangerous form of seduction. Some part of Consuela wants to know why. Why is there no desire? Why is there no offer of something more?

The people around the table continue talking, eating, drinking. Faith continues to watch with hawk eyes.

“You said something about just coming out of a relationship?” Consuela asks.

“Yes, it was beautiful but only for a very short period of time.” He smiles—more a grimace and a smile together, actually. “Sometimes it is like that, yes? We have been broken apart for a year and three months now.”

But regardless of his charm, and this spacious seduction, Marcello begins to rub her the wrong way. He’s too charming. Too agreeable. Too willing to forgive and understand. There is something unbelievable about him. Consuela would love it if he’d look at her with those puppy-dog eyes of his and tell her that she’s an idiot or that she drinks too much or that she has a potty mouth.

“What happened?”

“She left
me,”
he says with clear emphasis on the “me” that says: it’s unthinkable that anybody would choose to leave somebody as wonderful as him, and also, he does not want to talk about this.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s a painful thing.” Marcello’s eyes fill with tears. He looks away.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Consuela thinks. It’s been over a year.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It must have been a very difficult breakup.”

Before dessert is served, Consuela is in the bathroom. She’s just pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties, and is sitting on the toilet when someone knocks on the door. Maybe they’ll go away if I ignore them, she thinks. The knock comes again, a little louder this time.

“Just a minute,” Consuela says. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Connie, it’s me. Let me in.”

It’s too far to reach the door, so Consuela half walks, her dress around her waist, panties at her knees, to the door and lets Faith in. She sits back down on the toilet. “I’m not done yet, Sis.”

Faith is leaning forward toward the mirror, looking at her hair, her makeup, looking for the darkness under her eyes that seems to get harder and harder to hide. She lights four more candles on another candelabra—squints at the side of her face. “Isn’t he a dream?” She does not look at Consuela.

“Who?” Of course she knows who but wants to irritate her sister.

“Marc,” she says. “Marcello. And I happen to know he’s available.”

“Yes, we had that conversation.”

“And?” She pulls her shoulders up, and one at a time, sniffs her underarms. Reaches for the powder and puffs both her armpits.

“And he’s charming and very agreeable.”

“I knew it. I knew you two would hit it off.”

“I never said—”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I can tell.”

Consuela wipes. Her smell—a sweet, strong, sexual scent—takes her to Columbus.

“Would you risk your deepest dream on a game? You have dreams, don’t you, Consuela?”

“Yes, of course I have dreams. I want to be a mother someday, though I’m in no panic about this. I’d like to get married again, more carefully this time. And I want to see Tibet.”

They are sitting on a bench, in a long hallway of arches. Columbus has his back against the stone wall. The day is stranded inside a pewter sky, but it’s warm, and not yet raining. They face a small courtyard with a tiled fountain in its center. An eight-point-star-shaped fountain with only a trickle of water. The tiles are in disrepair but it is easy to imagine
that they were beautiful once. There must be ten shades of blue in that bottom row, Consuela thinks.

“So if I said to you that I will guarantee a healthy baby and a loving husband but only if you can roll a seven or an eleven on these dice, would you?”

“Maybe.”

“What if I said this was your only chance? Make the roll and it happens—but anything other than a seven or an eleven and it’s over. You won’t have a baby. You won’t marry. You won’t visit Tibet. Ever.”

“Those are not good odds,” she says. “I’d have to be pretty desperate.”

They clomp into the fortress courtyard. The coolness of the enclosure hits like a wave as they ride from the pounding, exposed heat, into the stone fortress. The temperature difference under the entranceway arches is palpable and welcome. They dismount the horses, toss their reins, and storm up through the stone corridors to the poolroom. Royal hangers-on, courtiers, petitioners, lobbyists appear and bow and lurk in the shadows. They seem to spring up like colorful weeds who wish they were flowers. An infestation of seedy color wherever the king and queen travel. Ferdinand opens the door and motions for them to use it. Nine men bow and mumble “As you wish” and other agreements as they leave. When they are alone, Ferdinand turns to the door and screams, “Sycophant pigs! Flattering parasites!
¡Manájate!”

Columbus stifles a laugh. Places his hand across his mouth to hide his grin. Tries to pull his face down into an even expression.

“Oh, laugh, Mr. Columbus. It’s funny, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. It is funny.”

The king walks toward one of the windows and looks into the courtyard. Two chambermaids stand in the enclave talking. He stands
watching them for some time. Silence lulls the room. Columbus wonders what it is the king is looking at. He seems fixated.

“What is it that they require?” Ferdinand says, turning around and picking up a stick. He cracks the small formation of colored balls by poking a white ball at his end with the stick. The balls scatter across the smooth surface and he stands back amazed. He’s thrilled every time by this small explosion of color.

“Well, I am merely your humble servant, but I think they want to be close to power, close to greatness, close to God.” Columbus sinks the six ball into the far corner and draws the white ball back so it lines up with the seven. “They hope your greatness will rub off on them.” He drops the seven and leaves himself set up for the three ball, a table-length, along-the-cushion shot. “It is well understood, if you have the ear of the king, even for a short time, you have power,” he says. He puts too much English on the three and it ricochets to mid-table.

“Are you speaking of our courtiers? The army of bastard sycophants who surround and annoy me?”

“Was that not the question, Your Majesty?”

“No, but regardless, your answer was an insightful one. I was referring to those enigmatic creatures who haunt me—women. What is it they require from us? That was my question, and I suspect you will have no easy answer to this. What is it that women want from us, Mr. Columbus?”

The king lines up the eleven ball and cracks the white ball with just enough bottom to send it flying off the table and through a window. They hear it clacking across the courtyard. The king picks a new white ball from a golden bowl on the window ledge and hands it to Columbus.

Columbus wonders if he should try to lose. He is playing the king, after all. It wouldn’t do to severely beat the king at a game he loves. He places the ball on the table and then proceeds to clear the table, knocking the eight ball into the side on a double bank to win.

“Thank you for the game, Your Majesty. I was lucky to win.”

“No. You played well. You deserved to win. Another game?”

The king smiles as he places the colored balls into a tight formation. Columbus is disarmed. He feels closer than ever to winning the king’s favor for his proposition. Here he is, a lowly navigator, not even Spanish, playing pool with the king. Riding beautiful horses with the king through the streets of Córdoba. He is inside the highest inner circle. He is dizzy with how close he stands to the power. He must certainly let the king win the next game. All the games that follow, in fact, he should lose as skillfully and subtly as possible.

“Women,” the king says as he hands the stick to Columbus, “confuse and confound me. Yet they are ridiculous, necessary mysteries.” He picks a white ball from the bowl and heaves it through the open window. They hear three clicks and a splash.

Columbus breaks the formation on the table. “There is a problem with the queen?” Three solid-colored balls disappear. His next shot should be the two ball, a solid, in the far right corner. But he picks a striped ball and lines it up.

“You wouldn’t purposely try to lose because I am the king, would you, Mr. Columbus?”