glass of wine, and disappears into the bathroom. There are no bubbles in the tub. The water is steaming hot and clear. Three more candles in a high windowsill dance the light and shadow through the water and across the walls.
“What’s that scent?” he says. “It’s nice.”
“Lavender.”
Columbus sits on the toilet seat and looks at Selena. Blond strands scattered across half her face, which she does not bother to push aside. He notices the scar along the top of her cheekbone, traces the pale line of it with his finger.
“The bar?” he says.
“Yes.”
Everything is softened by the candlelight. She makes a harbor of her legs-at one end, her feet, and at the other, the sandy-brown triangle of her pubis. Her arms ride the edges of the tub. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
She looks directly at him-finds his eyes. “Tell me,” she says, serious and intense.
He had not expected her to want him to clarify his question. It is one thing to be romantic, to say romantic things, but quite another to be called into account for what you say. He thought the question explained itself. Her response knocks him slightly off balance. “I’ll be right back,” he says. When he reappears, Columbus moves the candelabra to a chair beside the tub, drops his clothing, and slips in behind her, so she is between his legs. Her hair smells like vanilla.
“You, my dear woman, are like these poems of love, and desire, and longing, and wine. These are the poems of Hafiz. They dare to speak to unspeakable beauty or desire.” And so he begins to read her Hafiz’s ghazals, his voice softly filling the small bathroom. Selena sips her wine and listens. Sometimes she is lost in the words; other times, the words lose her. When she leans out of the tub to retrieve the wine bottle, Columbus stops reading. She fills her glass, leans back, and takes a sip. “Proceed,” she says, and he does.
Eventually they are tired. The wine is gone. The hot water has worked its magic. They make love by spooning. She draws his hand around her body to the soft nest between her breasts and he kisses the back of her neck. Then the wine and the country air, the hot bath, the cool sheets, and the down quilt work together to lull them to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Columbus is playing with his thumbs. He’s sitting on the patio in a chair experimenting-attempting an illusion in which it seems that he is pulling his thumb apart. He twists his head sideways, tries to see the trick from the viewpoint of where his audience might see it. Consuela finds him before the end of her shift. “You have to see this,” he says. “It’s a parlor trick. Something my dad used to do.”
“The senior Columbus?”
“He used to scare us kids. Watch,” he says. He grasps his thumb in his fist and then appears to pull it in two.
“Impressive.”
“Was that sarcasm?”
“What do you think?”
“I think a parlor trick as stupid as this can be a useful metaphor.”
“Metaphor?”
“Yes. The girl is a gazelle when she runs, instead of, she runs like a gazelle.”
“I know what a metaphor is. Why are you telling me-”
“Because failure is never easy,” he says.
These failures, in particular, sit ugly in Columbus ’s stomach. He walks away from his second audience at the commission’s chamber at the university knowing that even if he’d told them all he knew they still would have said no. Columbus knew it was a tough sell. He never expected them to jump up and down with excitement, shouting their approval at the prospect of his adventure. His goal was not to win his ships, not right away. It was to move some of them from a hard position to a more moderate one. This is the failure Columbus has a difficult time swallowing; he’s not sure he moved anyone.
If he’d told them about Iceland and the Norseman, and what those sailors said they saw twenty-one days out into the ocean, they might have considered his journey. That might have moved a few. The problem was withholding what needed to be withheld while revealing the right amount. Reveal the one wrong thing and he could become just another dead heretic, a potential
The first commission said his idea had merit. It was a bold scheme. A new sea route to the Indies and Japan, and especially one forged by Spain, was a grand idea. Going all the way around Africa was a long and expensive and dangerous journey. And it had only been done once, allegedly. But it wasn’t possible to sail across the Western Sea without dying of starvation or thirst. The second commission agreed with the first, in its own unique way. The bottom line: the world was too big, the ocean too wide, the ships too small to carry enough provisions.
“With respect, Your Honor,” Columbus says, “you have no clear evidence the world is that big.”
“Nor do you have any evidence that it’s any smaller. We do have science. Our country’s best minds.” Las Palos stands up. He’s a narrow man, with a large, humped nose and a full head of black hair that falls to his shoulders. “All these men”-he motions with his hand to a group of men sitting in the back row-“all these men, say you are wrong, that the Earth is vast. That the Western Sea cannot be crossed successfully. That you will only kill yourself and those who are foolish enough to sail with you.”
“I bow to these learned men. They have resources and knowledge of which I can only dream. But I have a question.”
“I think we’re done, Mr. Columbus.”
“Just one small question?”
Las Palos turns toward the back row. Raises his eyebrows.
“All right, but our minds are settled.”
“For the best minds of our time-because your intelligence is so dazzling-exactly how big is the Earth?”
Four men lean their heads together into a huddle. One man does not move but, rather, looks bemused.
After five minutes, Las Palos is obviously agitated. After ten minutes, he stands. “It is not our position to prove the size of the Earth, Mr. Columbus. It is, however, required that you prove your case to us. And we have doubts.” Las Palos pauses. A large man at the end of the back row clears his throat. Las Palos stops, turns toward the man, and nods. The man stands. He looks down at the papers in his hands. Then looks directly at Columbus. “Well, we do not know exactly how vast the planet is, but we believe it is larger than your, ah… estimate.”
“I want to suggest that one sure way to find out exactly how big the Earth is, is to sail out there and have a look. Somebody has to go out there and witness the ocean. Make notes on distance. Sometimes theories, fascinating as they may be, need to be proven. I am willing to-”
“Your price is too high,” Las Palos says. “You will have our official answer in a few days but I can almost guarantee the outcome. I can only speak for myself, but what you are proposing is, well, quite impossible.”
“With respect, how will you know for sure? Will you let Portugal discover new routes? Britain? France?”
“Enough.”
