Waiting For Columbus (32 page)

Columbus times his journal entries so Consuela is not working when he writes. This morning he finds a corner of the upper deck, far from the small fountain that does not function—spouts no water, only fills with leaves and rainwater. He can imagine what it would have been like, where the water would have flowed—the mist, the spray—what it would have felt like to have the luxury of that mist on a hot day.

Row after row of desks. These desks are tiered. They rise up and away from the center of this picture. The lights are slightly dimmed. There are people—they are probably students. They’re all looking at a focal point at the front of this room. Many of the students are typing into their laptop computers. Most of them have laptops. Many of these students are smiling. A few are laughing. As if the person teaching the class has just said something funny. There is no way to determine what kind of class this is. Most of the students are female
.

He pans the front row for clues. All women in the front row. On the far right a young woman is looking down. She’s holding a cell phone in her lap—slightly under her laptop, which sits on the little desk—probably texting someone. Or reading a text message
.

Analog to digital. That’s what’s happening in this classroom. A human being—the analog bit—will offer up information and the students will smash it to bits and bytes, ones and zeros. They will do this 350 unique ways. And they will do it almost instantly
.

There is a woman in this frozen moment who is not translating the lecturer’s words into digital. She sits mid-row, about four tiers up. She is looking into the center of the picture. If the lecturer is the one holding an imagined camera, she’s looking directly into his, or her, eyes. She has shoulder-length red hair. She’s wearing a navy-blue blouse. Her head is tilted into her hand, her thumb rides her jawline, and two fingers rest on her cheek. Her other hand rests in her
lap. Her eyes penetrate. Even in this stopped-time image where nothing moves, her eyes cut through any pretense
.

A brunette-haired woman in the front row is taking notes the old-fashioned way, with a pen and paper. Is it that she can’t afford a swanky Macintosh computer? When he surveys the room, the vast majority of little lights in the center of the backs of the screens are apples. Or is it something more romantic with this woman? Perhaps she’s found this method of note taking is the most efficient way for her to learn. Something in him is drawn to this woman who either purposely, or by economic circumstances, rejects the prevalent technology
.

In the second tier, a man with dark-rimmed eyeglasses is focused on his computer screen. He could be playing a game or writing a book. He seems far away. Even in this snapshot, there is distance, a disconnection between him and the lecturer
.

In the aisle desk, three rows up, a blond-haired woman is crying. Why didn’t he see her before now? He probably went past her ten times in his mind. Her mascara is running down her cheeks. Nobody around her seems to know she is crying. She is not afraid to let the lecturer see her tears. She does not wipe them away because those around her would begin to catch on. Now that he has found her, he can sense her sorrow. The physicality of her pain is so apparent in her eyes, and mouth, and shoulders. Her eyes fluctuate from a fierce don’t you dare pity me to a resigned grief. Her mouth is frozen in a sad, even line. Her shoulders are wilted, careless. Her posture is not beneficial to breathing. Her breathing stays high in her chest, never goes deep. These are silent tears. Is she experienced in crying silently? Why?

How does this picture fit into his life? He can’t recognize anybody. No names come when he goes over this image. He thinks maybe he’s at the middle of it. He’s the teacher, or the lecturer, but what does he know that he could teach?

The table is long and narrow, and made of oak planks. Luis de Santángel
sits not at its head but, rather, stranded in the middle, surrounded by councillors. Santángel’s black hair is pulled back neatly behind his ears. His hands are manicured. His clothing is plain. Nothing ornate, though he could easily afford it. His overall appearance is friendly and open but also down to business. He sits with his back to the window. He’s partially silhouetted against the morning sky, which is cloudless and holds the promise of a hot day. Columbus sits directly across from Santángel. At his right hand is his lone companion, his friend, Father Antonio.

Eighteen to two, Columbus thinks. They must believe this meeting is important. Either they believe wholeheartedly in my journey or they are covering all possibilities.

“Drinks?” Santángel says. “Mr. Columbus?”

“No, thank you,” Columbus says, speaking for both himself and Father Antonio.

The men surrounding the queen’s treasurer are all laden with paper. Some have binders; others, piles of paper clipped together. All have cell phones either hanging from their belts or sitting on the table. Santángel
opens a small black file folder that sits neatly on the table in front of him, its edges square to the table’s edge. He flips the first page over and leans back in his chair. All side conversations stop.

“Very well, then,” Santángel says. “I first want to congratulate Mr. Columbus on the successful financing of his impending voyage across the Western Sea to Japan and India. This is quite an accomplishment.” Santángel leads the small herd of lawyers and councillors in polite applause. He clears his throat and begins again. “The purpose of this meeting is to determine the compensation Mr. Columbus will receive, if any, from the profits and proceeds of this expedition. We are here today to determine any remuneration for Mr. Columbus and his crews. I expect our negotiations to be somewhat complex but hopefully not too lengthy. Now, as a starting point, I’ve prepared a base-offer sheet.” He turns toward the far end of the table where a diminutive, bald man with dark-rimmed glasses is fidgeting with a brown briefcase. One of the latches is stuck. “John? Could you hand out the sheet? I believe there are enough copies for everybody to have one.”

“I’m … I’m having a problem with this latch. Just a minute.”

“As I was saying, Mr. Columbus, this negotiation, while complex in nature …”

This guy loves the sound of his own voice, Columbus thinks. I’d love a cup of coffee. Better, an espresso. I bet they’d get me one if I asked.

“John? How are we doing?”

“I’ve almost got it.” John’s got a knife wedged in the lock, and he’s prying it back and forth.

“Perhaps,” says Santángel, “we should take a break until we can solve the briefcase problem.” He smiles, more a twinge.

“A question, Señor Santángel,” Columbus says softly.

“Yes, Mr. Columbus.”

“I’d love an espresso.”

“Emilio,” Santángel snaps. “An espresso for Mr. Columbus.” One of
the crowd of lawyers stands and moves toward the door. “And I’ll have one, too.”

Now the other lawyers start offering orders.

“I’d like a café solo.”

“I’ll have a double espresso with a wedge of lemon.”

“Do you have decaf?”

“Could I get a latte, extra hot?”

“I’ll have a café con leche.”

“I got it.” It’s John with the briefcase. “It’s open. I got the briefcase open.” He’s smiling and holding his left hand, which is bleeding. “I need a bandage.” John sits down. A woman in a gray dress pulls her briefcase onto the table, snaps it open, and produces a bandage, which she passes down the table toward John, who looks pale, exhausted.

“I have kids,” the gray woman says.

Columbus looks at his fingernails, gazes out the window. He actually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s going on around him. He knows the outcome of this meeting already. Getting to that outcome is a series of formalities. He’s a sailor now. He’s no longer interested in negotiating anything but oceans.

The deal is done, he thinks. I’ve got my ships. Just when I thought it was truly hopeless, funding for three ships and provisions and a crew appears. Why? Doesn’t matter. I’m going. I’m off to make a brand-new route. There is no question that there is something out there. Look at these idiots with their cell phones and mounds of paper. Look how they jump when I ask for espresso. They’ve bought the dream. They want, desperately, what I’ve put on the table.

Santángel’s base offer is passed around. Everyone has a copy. A cream-colored cover with a few attached pages sits unopened in front of Columbus. Father Antonio’s copy also sits on the table exactly where it was placed.

The coffee arrives. Cups are handed around. Columbus is served first, his espresso, in a blue demitasse, is placed in front of him. He
silently acknowledges the excellent
crema
but other than this, ignores the coffee.

“So if we can begin again. Can I get everyone to sit? Now, as I was saying, we are here today to …”

Columbus pulls out a briefcase, lays it flat on the table, covering Santángel’s offer as if it is insignificant. Santángel stops talking. Columbus clicks open each catch and removes a single sheet of paper. He passes it to Santángel. “Here are my requirements. Father Antonio will hear any comments, but this list of demands is firm and final. There will be no negotiation. I’m going fishing for a few days.”

Columbus stands and nods to the gaggle of gape-mouthed lawyers. Then bows deeply toward a tapestry at the far end of the room. “Your Majesty,” he says softly. Father Antonio remains seated as Columbus walks across the room and pushes open the far doors. He stops in the archway. “My associate, Father Antonio, will take you up on that drink now,” Columbus says. The doors groan shut and he’s gone.

Two hours later, they are alone in the room. The councillors have been dismissed and Father Antonio has been escorted back to his monastery. The father followed Columbus’s instructions to the letter. He listened. Engaged in no negotiations. Then listened some more.

“Admiral of all the Seas. Is he insane? This is impossible! I mean, Your Majesty, I like him but these demands are outrageous!” Santángel speaks toward the tapestry. “And he wants a percentage of all the profits from any route he finds. And he wants—”

“Give it to him,” Isabella says as she steps around the edge of the screen. She’d like to use her fingernails to claw the goddamned dress she’s wearing off her body. She can barely get a full breath from morning to sunset. She swishes over to the window and looks out across the dusty landscape. Would she still be able to see him? Fishing? Who goes
fishing at a time like this? Isabella giggles. Of course, Columbus would go fishing at a time like this. He loves fishing.

“But he wants—”

“Give it to him.”

“Forgive me, my queen, but this is too much.”

“Just give him what he wants. We’ll figure out how to make good on the promise once he returns, if he returns.” If … yes … there is a possibility he will not make it back. Anything can happen at sea. And if he returns, we will keep our distance from him. We will not visit or encourage him in any way.

Santángel smiles. “A dangerous game.”

“My game.”

“But—”

“Enough! Go. Arrange to give him everything he requires. Go!”