Later that day, she walks along the edge of the pool. He’s swimming, a seemingly effortless sidestroke through the water almost silently. The evolution of his initially rather noisy swimming to this almost-silent-in-the-water stroke has been a slow but steady journey. It’s not something he was trying to achieve but something he noticed happening as he tried to make his movements more efficient. She is reading out loud from a small book of ghazals. Reading a stanza, then walking a few steps, reading another-keeping up with him as he swims and listens. She reads, walks, reads, walks. After a while it is difficult to determine if she is matching his pace, or he, hers.
“Into the mirror of my cup the reflection of your glorious face fell. And from the gentle laughter of love, into a drunken state of longing I fell.”
She walks a few steps, and then: “Struck with wonder by the beauty of the picture that within my cup I beheld. The picture of this world of illusion from the reflection of my mind fell.”
He pulls himself out of the pool after just under an hour, sits on the rough stone edge, and looks up at her. “Why did you choose this particular style of poetry?”
“You don’t like these? These are in translation. They were written by a poet named-”
“Hafiz. I know who wrote the poems. That’s not what I asked.”
The edge to his voice, the clipped tone, takes her off guard. She cannot, will not say that this book of poems is one of her favorites-that it is a book her father gave to her mother. This book is one of her few treasures. These poems move through her as an old lover would; they know where to touch, and when, and sometimes they surprise. “I found the book in a used-book shop,” she says. “Ghazals are Persian. They-”
“I know what a ghazal is. Why did you choose Hafiz?”
“I don’t know. I thought you might enjoy it. They’re odd poems. At first glance, they don’t make sense.”
“These are poems of longing! Of love. Of illicit, impossible love.”
“You seem agitated.” Oh God, that’s jargon, she thinks. It’s stupid and lazy of me. He’s angry. He’s really angry. But this may be a weak spot in Columbus ’s defenses, a way in. She can’t remember him this angry, this quickly. The question is why. Why is he so angry about some poetry by a dead Persian poet named Hafiz?
He is angry, he realizes. To hear this poetry reminds him, in a new way, that he is trapped in this place. The truth of this poetry, the power, is too much.
He swallows. Breathes. “No, no, I enjoyed your reading of Hafiz.”
“I just thought they were beautiful. That’s why I picked this book. Perhaps I should have chosen something else… a novel-”
“Hafiz was a good choice.” He stops in the narrow hallway that leads up to ground level from the pool. I never did find the steam room, he thinks. He motions with his hand that she should go first through the doorway. As she passes, he whispers, “You ought to hear them in Persian.”
Columbus looks around the cafeteria but this is not what he sees. He is no longer at the institute. His pen begins to move on a new page in his notebook.
This picture could be in any cafe in any city in the world. There’s a thirty-something brunette sitting in front of a chessboard across from an empty chair, and he begins to imagine a story for her. She’s been studying the board, her narrow chin in her hand, her head leaned slightly to the side. The gray, even light in this cafe softens the contours of her face. It gives a kind, tender feel to this place. But she’s not interested in the facets of light. She’s looking at the chessboard. Perhaps she’s waiting for an opponent to come back from the washroom. Perhaps she’s just interested in the final positioning of an abandoned game-divining the stories of kings and queens, knights and soldiers. This is a woman who wears scarves, winter, spring, and fall-and quite often in the summer. She is a woman who appears to take great care when it comes to her shoes. They are always high-heeled, and they consistently straddle the line between elegant and fashionable. This is the same woman who wears amazing leather boots that hug her calves with such perfect clarity-boots that persuade her legs to become beautiful and curvaceous.
He knows this woman but does not recognize her.
These imagined stories always start with questions and more questions, which eventually lead to suppositions. Abstractions. Oblique theories. Why does she come to this cafe alone on a Saturday morning? Does she have a family at home? Is this negotiated alone time? There is an “away-ness” about her that speaks of an older place of origin. Was she born in a small town in France? Or Nebraska? A village in Ireland? To be able to say you are from the Basque region of Spain would be very romantic. Perhaps her name is Mary Francis and she was born in Trois- Rivieres, halfway between Montreal and Quebec City, in Canada. Maybe her name is Mary and she comes from Hope, British Columbia. Of course, there’s no way to know anything about her origins because nothing ever moves in these images.
It’s easy to imagine she has no immediate family, not here anyway. Her narrative is there in her eyes, which flash with a hazel rawness and lust for life. Maybe she loved someone she was not supposed to love, and this chasm, this crack in her life, is her best story. Does she choose to be alone now? Is she alone? Does she tell her story? Does she whisper this narrative to a lover in a burgundy bedroom at 3 A.M.?
If this picture could move, there might be a younger woman sitting across from the first woman now. When she arrives, the first woman stands; they hug and kiss each other’s cheeks. This kissing of cheeks is not obligatory; it is a loving ritual between them. The young woman has short but careless blond hair and wears the tortoiseshell, thick-rimmed glasses that represent the trend of the day. She is tapping her foot with nervous energy. She wears runners with red laces.
There are more questions now, about the first woman, who today is wearing a chestnut-colored scarf… and additional questions about this new blond woman with reckless hair. This “away” woman and the younger woman seem genuinely pleased, comfortable in each other’s company. It is as if they are mother and daughter. But they cannot be related by blood. The color of their eyes, the line of their jaws, their hair-all these things speak to the lack of blood between them. These women are not playing chess. They are only talking and having coffee.
He would bet that they are more than friends. But all of this is a fabrication-everything but the clear and vivid picture of the first woman sitting silently, motionless, in front of a chessboard across from an empty chair. Everything else is a lie.
CHAPTER TEN
At 3:30 A.M., Columbus and two others break a window and manage to bash out a section of wire mesh with a chair. Five security guards arrive moments later, before any of them have jumped into the courtyard, and the guards quietly take them back to their rooms. In the morning, Consuela and all the other staff are asked to produce their keys. The three somehow got out of their rooms without breaking anything. All keys are accounted for. So how did they get out? Dr. Balderas, the acting director, is put in charge of the investigation. Security is tightened on the three would-be escapees. Meds are upped. Rooms are searched. Nothing is found. A thong is found in Columbus ’s room-tucked in the bottom of a drawer. Consuela has no idea how Columbus would have wound up with a pair of women’s underwear. She tells the orderly to just put them back where he found them. Three weeks pass before Consuela is able to have a chat with Columbus. For two weeks, he’s an isolated, drooling idiot-doped up on sertraline and kept away from the other patients. It takes another week for the drugs to clear his system.
She finds him in the upper courtyard, sitting in the sun, his eyes closed, an orderly thirty feet away, leaning against the main building, watching. Another orderly is sitting in one of the three stairways reading. She’s not sure if he’s taking a break or if they’re that worried about Columbus. She looks at her patient. He’s got sunglasses propped on his face-not exactly square but they do offer a scratched, half protection. The institute offers all its patients utilitarian sunglasses-signs them out to whoever wants a pair. Insists they be returned intact.
