Waiting For Columbus (39 page)

“I apologize for the wait.”

No reason is forthcoming—just the apology. Emile describes what he knows of the stranger and Father Michael nods.

“He slept for almost two days when he arrived,” Father Michael says. “Father Bolivar nursed him, took care of him. He didn’t speak for a week.”

“Would it be okay if I talked to Father Bolivar?” Emile is trying hard to contain his excitement.

“Unfortunately, Father Bolivar is in the north, on a silent retreat. He cannot be reached.”

“Can I ask what happened to this man?”

“He was with us three weeks.”

“And then?”

“And then Father Bolivar called in a favor with a chief of police in Sevilla. It was obvious this man needed more than what we could provide.” Father Michael sighs, shakes his head. “He became violent. In the end, he could not be controlled. Father Bolivar is not a young man. La Policia came and took him to an institute in Sevilla. They were discreet about where this man had been.”

“Can you provide me with a telephone number for the institution in Sevilla?”

“I have it here. I’ve taken the liberty of getting my assistant to look up the name of the director for you. It’s a Dr. Fuentes you’ll want to speak with.” The father hands Emile a piece of paper and stands up. “You must understand that he was quite violent and became more so when he found out we were sending him to Sevilla. I think he felt betrayed by Father Bolivar.”

“Thank you, Father. I … I am curious about one thing.”

“He believes he’s Christopher Columbus. It’s no game. He’s slipped out of this reality and there was no bringing him back. We tried, but …”

Emile is dialing the institute in Sevilla even before he gets to his car. He asks for the doctor and is told the director will be right with him.

“Hello, this is Dr. Balderas.”

“Oh, I was looking for a Dr. Fuentes.”

“Yes, Dr. Fuentes is no longer here. Can I help you with something?”

“Well,” Emile says, “I like people who get to the point, so here goes. I’m an investigator with Interpol. My name is Emile Germain. I’m wondering if you’ve got a guy there who believes he’s Christopher Columbus?”

“You’re either a psychic or we’re about to have a long conversation,” Dr. Balderas says.

“Can I take that as a yes?”

“Yes, but we also have a Pablo Picasso, a Tom Cruise, and a Don Quixote. We used to have a pope.”

“But you have a Columbus,” Emile says.

“We have a Christopher Columbus, yes—a man we’ve not been able to identify.”

“He’s got to be my man.” Emile is amazed. He had almost convinced himself that his man would have been at the institution and then released, and the game would carry on. But it seems the chase is over. How long has he been on his trail? Months. It’s been months. He’s had other cases in the interim, but this man kept rising to the surface. He kept pulling Emile back to Spain.

His impulse is to call her with this news. For the three years they were together, whenever Emile successfully solved a case—the subject was found alive—he and his wife would do the recovery dance: they would have a drink together, sometimes hundreds of kilometers apart, and they would toast over the phone. Or if they were physically together, they would go out for dinner, and at some point in the evening, they would dance—in a restaurant or café, beside the car with the radio turned up and door open, or at home in the kitchen. Emile’s first thought when he hung up the phone was:
recovery dance
. But it’s doubtful she would want to hear his voice.

He finishes his morning swim and rolls himself onto the edge of the
pool. It is the morning of the feast of Saint Agnes. “Shakespeare’s undiscovered country,” Columbus says, “is something I know about. It is a concept I understand. Nobody has been dead and come back to tell us what it’s like to be dead.
Undiscovered
is an appropriate designation. All we have is speculation, rumor, hope, and, of course, what the church tells us. The church is so certain.” He slips back into the water, ducks his body under the surface, comes up sleek and dripping. “I am not so certain, but in a sense, given the prevailing superstitions and old wives’ tales at the time, I was about to tempt death with my proposed journey. But just discovering new lands is nothing. You have to come back and prove it, loudly.” He looks over at Consuela, who is leaning forward in her chair. Looks at her sideways—cocks his head. “You look lost,” he says.

“Well, given that Shakespeare was born nearly sixty years after Columbus died, I’m curious about how you know about his work.”

Columbus shrugs. “I’m not dead, as you can see. But this is a minor detail of time. What does it matter? The story, Consuela. The story is the thing!”

“It would help the credibility of this story.”

“Credibility? You want credibility?”

“Yes. If you keep getting things wrong, how am I to come along?”

“Well, it was some gigantic-brained scientist or philosopher who said, or postulated, that time was fluid—forward, backward, past and future: all the same thing. Not my idea.”

Consuela thinks about the complete disregard for time and the bevy of anachronistic artifacts in Columbus’s stories. She thinks about the possibility that he won’t come out of this—that he’ll stay locked in this cage as Columbus. It frightens her. Because if he stays there, as Columbus, in that world of kings and queens and inquisitors, she won’t know what to do with her feelings. And if he comes out and they manage to unravel the mystery? She doesn’t want to think about that, either.

“Forget it, Columbus. Doesn’t matter.”

“Trust the tale not the teller. Remember who I am.”

The next morning at the pool, Consuela makes a silent deal with herself. She has to tell him about Cecelia. He has to find out from her. Mercifully, he tends to keep to himself and Cecelia was not an everyday occurrence in his life. She has been struggling with how exactly to tell him. But he’s got to know. “Look, there’s something I have to tell you and there’s no easy way.”

“This sounds serious. Are you all right?”

Consuela takes a big breath. “Cecelia passed away, Columbus. I know you two were friends. I’m sorry.”

He sits up on the edge of the pool, slips his feet into the water, keeps his back to Consuela. “When?”

“While you were lost inside yourself—about a month ago.”

“Goddamnit.”

“I’m really—”

“Goddamnit. I never … I never kissed them good-bye.”

“Them?” she says. She wonders what in the hell he’s talking about.

“Her. I mean her. I never said good-bye.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not now.” He slips into the water and starts a slow front crawl toward the far end of the pool, performs an efficient turnaround, and moves toward and past Consuela. He swims for another hour. Gets out of the water, exhausted and silent and dripping. Goes to his room, shuts the door to the world.

Columbus grieves Cecelia with an irrational intensity. There are no more stories. He’ll chat briefly about the weather. He’ll grumble about the food. He rejects Consuela’s company and so she is relegated to watching him from a safe distance as he comes to terms with this death. When he does let Consuela near, it doesn’t go well.

“I was not there, and then she died,” he says. “I should have been there for her.”

“You swam the Strait of Gibraltar and almost died—”

“I should have been there for her. Nobody should die alone. Nobody!” Columbus picks up a chair and shatters the nearest window. The chair leg gets stuck in the wire mesh and is left hanging. Columbus storms toward his room. Kicks over a wooden table with a half-finished puzzle of a running horse. Two indignant patients barely escape the table as it slams to the floor. They stand there with puzzle pieces in their hands watching Columbus disappear. He slams a door that is always left open and is off down the hallway.

“Let him go,” Consuela says to the orderlies. “It’s my fault. Just let him go.”

Columbus sits in the corner of the dayroom, staring out the window, sunglasses on his face, rocking back and forth.

Consuela has had enough. She pulls a chair next to his and sits down. “It’s not your fault,” she says.

“I wasn’t there for them,” he says. “I left them alone and went off into the world chasing a dream.”

“What?”

“A salmon moving upstream. There were poems. I was chasing poetry against the current.”

“What are you—”

“People everywhere. And I am running away from them. I’m running hard and then there is thunder. A storm is coming. A big red storm.” He does not stop rocking, nor does he acknowledge her. He mutters and rocks. Consuela pulls her chair away and attends to her other duties.

In the lineup for breakfast, Neil, who has some derivation of Tourette’s syndrome, taps Columbus on the shoulder, asks him something or says something, and Columbus turns on him, pushes hard. Neil goes flying into the containers—rashers of bacon, and steel containers of scrambled eggs, and stacks of lightly buttered toast. Orderlies descend on Columbus and he’s escorted back to his room. “Buttfucker! Ass-wipe!” Neil shouts at the retreating figure of Columbus between two orderlies. “Fucking pig!”