Waiting for Columbus

“Very thick,” Pinzon says.

“But everything is fine,” Talavera says. He stands up and walks to the door. “I must empty myself at the rear of your ship, Admiral Columbus.”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“Could you pour just a little more wine?”

“God and his son Jesus Christ will make the winds blow soon,” Varela says.

“God will not abandon us,” Pinzon says.

“The grace of God and all his mercy will end this… interesting calmness.”

“All the saints and His Holiness the Pope have blessed this voyage.”

Talavera comes back in, sits down heavily, and looks at Varela and Pinzon. “Mentiras,” he says.

Pinzon and Varela stand up. Both men place their hands on the hilts of their swords. Columbus leans back and smiles.

“I include myself in that statement,” Talavera says. “Sit down, please. I wish to clear the air of the smell of mierda. There has been a great deal of shit spoken since we sat down.” The two captains sit. “I apologize to you, Don Columbus, and to you, my esteemed fellow captains. But we are in trouble and we have been speaking as if this was not the case.”

Columbus pours another round. The four men drink quietly for a while.

“We could link up the ships by rope and then row.” Varela looks around at the tired eyes of the other captains. He knows how ridiculous this suggestion is. Row toward what, and in what direction, and to what end? On the first day of fog this suggestion would be laughable, but after four days it does not sound so silly. Working at something is better than sitting still in the water.

“Morale might rise a bit if we rowed in a direction, even a few hours a day,” Talavera says. “One thing is certain, we must leave this cabin in agreement and with a plan, or it will be the last meeting we four have.”

“Rowing might work,” Pinzon says, holding his glass out again.

Columbus sits back in his chair and rubs his face. Washes a hand through his hair. His hair is black in his dream, not the white it has been since he was twenty years old.

Varela frowns, picks up the bottle, and empties it into Pinzon’s glass. “If we row, we must appear to be certain of the direction. We must behave as if we know exactly where we are going.”

“ Columbus, you lead this expedition. What do you say?” Talavera leans forward and looks down the table at Columbus who is half hidden in shadow.

“I say we get more wine.” He twists in his chair and pulls open the door. “Bertrand! More wine,” he says loudly. Bertrand leans into the cabin and Columbus whispers into his ear.

“I really don’t think we can drink our way out of this situation,” Talavera says.

Columbus shoots back. “I would not suggest this. I do have a plan, though.” He whispers something else to Bertrand and then turns around.

The three captains sit up, shift in their seats.

“You will hear my plan when Bertrand returns.”

The gentle sound of lapping ocean is disturbed by a knock at the door. Bertrand places three bottles of wine on the table. He leaves for a moment and then returns with two enamel washbasins filled with water, soap, razors, clean towels, and a bundle of clothing.

“I hope you’re not suggesting we kill ourselves here in your cabin.” Talavera smiles. “Because while it seems hopeless, weather is a woman who changes her mind often.”

“Gentlemen,” Columbus says, “the first thing we are all going to do is clean up.”

“Clean up?” Talavera says. “Do you mean to insult us?”

“He does insult us.” Varela half stands, bumps his head on a hanging lamp. “Shit! This is insulting.”

“Sit down, Varela,” Columbus says. “This is no insult. Hear me out.”

Varela sits. The lamp swings back and hits him on the head again. It cuts his forehead in the shape of a small crescent moon. Varela pulls his hand away from his head with blood on his fingers. He shrugs and goes to pour wine into his glass, but the bottle is not yet opened. He is indifferent to the blood dripping from his forehead.

Talavera takes the bottle from him, opens it, and pours wine for everybody. “Very well, Columbus, why is this insult not an insult?”

“What do you usually feel when you shave in the morning?”

The three captains look at one another.

“Well, what do you feel? Varela? Pinzon?” Columbus looks around the table.

“For the past few days we have not been shaving,” says Varela. “We get up now and feel dread.”

“Yes, dread.”

Talavera leans back in his chair. “Do you mean normally, Columbus?”

“Yes, if you were back in Spain, with your woman in bed and the children eating breakfast with their nanny, and then got up to shave.”

Talavera smiles and the two teeth he is missing at the left and front of his mouth take nothing away from the joy of his comprehension. “I feel good. Happy.”

“Do you feel hope?”

“Yes, usually I feel hopeful about the day.”

“My plan is to present the image of absolute hope. Even though we men do not say it, I believe it is impossible to shave in the morning without some hope. If we captains look and behave like we have hope, it will calm the men.”

Silence. They sit thinking about what he has just said.

“There are also fresh clothes here. From now on, we shall all shave in the morning, and I order each man in the fleet to do the same. Today we will look like we have hope. I will shave with you.”

“And tomorrow?” Talavera says.

“Tomorrow, we will shave again. And we will row.”

“In what direction?”

“Whatever direction your ship is facing, Talavera. That is the direction of our rowing.”

“That’s absurd,” Pinzon says. “We can’t see the sun nor can we see the stars nor the moon, and we are to row? We are going to row-”

“You’re right, Pinzon,” Columbus says. “We’ll row in the direction your ship faces in the morning.”

Pinzon closes his mouth.

“And we’ll call our technique for finding directions in fog the Pinzon Maneuver, after Senor Pinzon, my friend and eternally optimistic captain. And yes, Pinzon, this is another random choice.”

Columbus slides one of the basins down the table. “Repeat after me,” he says, “the Pinzon Maneuver. A new system for finding direction. The Pinzon Maneuver.”

The four men perform their shaving, talking quietly about how long each day they will row and speculating on how the crew will react to the odd order about shaving. But for some reason, Columbus cannot shave himself, or does not shave himself. Bertrand enters quietly and begins to shave Columbus. Columbus has an erection that bumps the underside of the table. He acts as if everything is fine but he is wild with lust for this ugly young man. And when the captains are finished, they dress in fresh clothing, call smiles to their faces, and go back to their own ships. Columbus does not get up to see to the departure of the captains. He dismisses Bertrand and sits in agonized misery.

So everybody shaves. The crew grumbles but they shave, and they do feel a bit better regardless of the oppressive sky and fog and calmness of the sea. They row for two hours in the direction Pinzon’s ship is facing. The following day, they perform the same routine. And the following day it is the same thing. And the next day, the grumbling begins and shaving does not feel quite as hopeful anymore. The crews begin to gather in small groups, which fall silent when a captain draws near. There are direct questions about the Pinzon Maneuver. And at midnight, the hooded Bertrand comes to Columbus for the final time.

“You’re dead in the water, Columbus.”

Columbus nods into the empty darkness. “I am hard-pressed to remember blue sky.”

“I will get you out of this if you bed me.”

“How?”