“It cries.”
“Yes, and then?”
“Then it seeks its mother’s breast.”
“And how does the baby know to do this? How does it know there is nourishment there? How could it possibly know?”
“I-”
“It is unexplainable, is it not?”
“I suppose,” she says quietly. “But this is different. You’re forty years old! You are not a baby!”
“True, but this does not make me immune to mystery.”
“Only idiots and the very superstitious believe the world is flat. The curve of the Earth is easily proved. I could explain such things to a child, a cat, or a dog. It’s determining the actual size that is a problem. And it will always be speculation until someone sails out there and actually has a look-see.”
Dr. Fuentes leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, and cups his chin in his hands. “So what happened? How come you’re here and not at sea? Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“I am not here of my own accord, Doctor. And anyway, why would you want to jump to the end of a story?”
“You have a story?”
“Everybody has a story, Fuentes.”
“You’re telling a story right now?”
“You’re not reading Nurse Consuela’s reports, are you?”
Dr. Fuentes pauses. Makes a few notes in his notebook. “What if I told you I believed the world was flat?” he says without looking up.
“You would confirm my theory about your lack of intelligence. I believe hundreds would concur.”
“I think we’re done for today.”
“Why don’t you read me what you’ve been writing in that little notebook of yours. It must be very insightful and important.”
Dr. Fuentes slaps his notebook shut. Slips his pen into his shirt pocket. Smiles a cool, professional smile in Columbus ’s general direction.
“You don’t want to share your shopping list? Maybe you’re writing a novel. Were you composing a poem? A ghazal perhaps?”
“A ghazal?”
“Yes, an ancient Persian style of poetry. Five, or more, two-line stanzas. Each stanza is a complete thought and unrelated to its neighboring stanzas except by a thin emotional thread. Surely you’ve heard the term before?”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“Except that you are the type of person who demands neatness and logic and a chronological order. You could never write a ghazal except by accident. It was wrong of me to accuse you of writing a ghazal. You’re much too stupid for that. Limericks are more your style.”
“We’re done here.” Dr. Fuentes stands up. “Have a good day, Bolivar.”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Dismiss me with a phony wish, a platitude, and an incorrect moniker. Well done, Fuentes. You must have a lot of friends.”
“We’ll try again next week.”
Columbus ignores him. Focuses on his cuticles. Observes his fingernails. Lets the doctor stand for a long minute. Then he stands up. “I can let myself out,” he says. “Thanks for a lovely chat.”
The dayroom is crowded. It’s been raining for days. The whole institute has a gloomy and claustrophobic feel. Tempers are short. There have been five fights in the last two days, which is unusual. These fights were serious enough for the nurses to call the orderlies to break them up. Pope Cecelia is in isolation for smashing a plate on an orderly’s head. Yesterday Dr. Fuentes slipped and fell, broke his tailbone, is going to be off work for a month, maybe more. He’s managed to reconcile with his wife. A miracle of sorts.
Columbus stays away from these confrontations. He lurks at the edge of things. Consuela finds him in the game room, watching a chess match between Mercedes and Arturo. Mercedes washes her hands after every move on the chessboard. As a result, they are red, chapped, and sore looking. Mercifully, Arturo needs a lot of time to contemplate his moves. Arturo thinks and thinks and ponders, and eventually Mercedes complains. He moves, she moves, and then she gets up and goes off to wash her hands. Arturo damaged his head in a fall. Before he fell, he was a brilliant lawyer-a Crown prosecutor with a reputation for being a pit bull. There are still glimpses of brilliance but these are veiled behind a plodding, lethargic man.
Consuela moves quietly, comes up behind Columbus. “It’s a slow form of insanity,” he says, without looking up.
She’s impressed. But she wonders. Did he see her reflection in a window?
“I can smell you,” he says.
Arturo looks up from the game. Smiles. Consuela blushes. She clears her throat. “Are they any good?”
“Arturo is better than you. But he has much practicing to do before he will give me a game. He would do well to study the Greco Counter Gambit.”
Consuela thinks hard about this. Greco Counter Gambit? She has never lost a game with Columbus. What the hell is he talking about? This doesn’t make any sense. Is this a clue to another life? Did she just get a glimpse?
“Though I doubt Mercedes is smart enough to know it, she has been playing the Italian Quiet Game: E4, E5, then Nf3, Nc6, and finally Bc4, Bc5. You see how white prevents black from advancing in the center?”
“Gambit?”
“Yes, a risky attacking style of opening. It avoids the calculated buildup of classic games.”
Columbus looks up at Consuela’s confused face.
“A gambit is an opening in which something is sacrificed, usually a single pawn, in order to achieve some sort of advantage. Gambits are not normally successful in the highest-ranked games. By the way, thank you for taking such good care of me,” he says, “and good-bye.”
“You’re welcome. I-” She stops. “What do you mean good-bye?”
“You never know. I could die in my sleep. A tree could fall on me. I could choke on my dinner.” He half smiles.
“You’re not planning anything stupid, are you?”
“Define stupid.”
“Suicide is stupid.”
“Suicide is a sin.” Columbus seems appalled at the suggestion.
Consuela takes a deep breath. She looks him over through squinted eyes. “Then you’re going to try and escape again, which for you is only mildly stupid.”
Arturo stands up. “I have to… please excuse me.”
“I’ll watch the board. Not to worry.”
“What are you planning?” Consuela is hissing.
Mercedes arrives back at the table, looks over the board, and makes her move. She gets up and disappears again down the hallway toward the washrooms. She passes Arturo in the entranceway.
Columbus smiles as Arturo sits down. “Six moves, Arturo. It’s over in six moves. Your knight, yes. You’ve got her. If she makes the right moves, it’s checkmate in six. If she’s careless, it may take fewer, but the result will be the same.”
“I see I’m going to have to do some practicing,” Consuela says.
“Aren’t all our games practice games?”
