“Will we beg foreign powers for the charts? Is that what you envision for Spain? Is that your grand plan?”
“Enough!”
Newspaper stories of this audience, Columbus ’s second, report that as Columbus was leaving the commission chamber he turned and challenged anyone in the room to stand an egg on its end, on a marble tabletop.
“A thousand silver pesos to anybody who can do this thing,” he said. “Just take an egg and stand it on its end. It’s a simple thing.”
Eggs were sent for and four men attempted to make the egg stand on its end. Then two more tried to no avail. Columbus watched dispassionately. Las Palos had already disappeared into the back sanctums of the university.
“Impossible,” the men of the commission finally declared. “An egg can’t be balanced on one end-not on a flat surface. Utterly impossible!”
When Columbus took the egg, smashed one end-not hard enough to make it run-and stood it on the table, only Luis de Santangel, the queen’s treasurer, could be heard laughing hysterically in a sea of stunned silence.
Columbus had made an ally.
“Oh, my dear boy,” Cecelia says. “You are smiling, but there is sorrow in you as wide and deep as an ocean.”
“Well, I am here, in this so-called hospital of innocents, against my will,” Columbus says as he sits down. “Why would I be happy? How could I be happy?”
“No, no, no. It’s much bigger than that, Mr. Columbus.” She pats his hand. “This is loss, and guilt, and too much to bear.”
“Well, I’m afraid you have me at a loss. I don’t know what to say.”
“In time you’ll know,” she says. “There’s no rush. In the meantime, we can chat.” Cecelia hands him a cup of tea. “It’s green tea. It’s good for you.”
Columbus thinks about politely declining. He doesn’t drink tea. But with Cecelia it seems as if he should. Steam rises from the cup in minuscule swirls. Its scent is so singular-simple. He sips the tea and, surprisingly, finds it to his liking. This is not a complex flavor.
They are at a table in the dayroom-near the windows-Cecelia in her robes on one side, and Columbus, wearing only a pair of socks and an open housecoat, on the other. This is the first time they’ve communicated beyond casual nods in passing. Columbus has a few more sips of the green tea and is about to comment-to supply mindless dialogue-something about how he is pleasantly surprised at the taste of this tea. But he doesn’t. He turns inward against his impulse to fill the void of silence with his self-manufactured nonsense.
When the bird hits the window it shocks them. A loud, muffled bang, they turn, see nothing, both know immediately it was a bird.
“A sparrow?” Cecelia says. “Oh my dear God.”
“We need to see-maybe we can do something.”
“The doors are locked. We can’t get out.” She’s distraught. Her hand shakes as she points at the locked door.
“This is a rescue mission-a special circumstance.” Columbus stands. One of the new orderlies, a pimply-faced young man named Sylvester, follows him to the door. Columbus tries it and indeed it is locked. He yanks on it again, testing the veracity of the lock. He yanks on it again, harder this time.
“The courtyard is closed for the day,” the orderly says, stepping between Columbus and the door.
“Open it. A bird has hit the window-might be hurt, suffering.” Columbus looks around the room. They’re alone. A minor miracle in this institute. The fact it’s bingo night could account for the scarcity of inmates.
“The hours are there.” Sylvester points to a small square of white paper mounted on the wall. “The courtyard is closed. It’s late. I’m sure this bird is fine.”
Columbus leans in close. The orderly places his hand on his walkie-talkie, puffs up his chest, draws sternness to his face.
Columbus whispers, “By the time you get even remotely close to calling for help, I could do great damage to you, my friend. Now just open the door.”
Sylvester looks hard at Columbus, weighing his words, measuring height, weight, physical condition. He hesitates. Columbus lurches forward and head butts the orderly-a hard, ugly thumping sound. Sylvester goes down. There are far too many keys on his ring for a quick exit, so Columbus hands the key ring to Cecelia and starts to look around for something he can use to force the door open. Something that could be used as a makeshift pry bar. Many of the candidates are screwed to the floor. Cecelia chooses a key with assuredness. “This one,” she says and Columbus turns around. “Is he hurt?” she adds, pointing at Sylvester.
“He’ll have a lump.” Columbus pushes the key into the lock and turns it. The door opens smoothly and quietly. Son of a bitch, he thinks.
Outside they find the bird, a sparrow. Its neck is broken. Its body still warm. They bury the bird quickly, carefully, under a rosebush and Columbus defers to Her Holiness the Pope for a prayer. Cecelia turns to Columbus with tears in her eyes, at a loss. The only thing he can think of is the first verse from the hymn “Silent Night.” He recites it with apologies to the bird but it seems wholly appropriate. It seems correct that this bird should have these words. “Silent night,” he begins, “holy night…” He and the pope stand in the garden above the small mound, with a growing indigo sky above. “Sleep in heavenly peace,” Columbus says. “Sleep in heavenly peace.”
They go back inside and Sylvester is still out cold on the floor. They reattach the keys to the orderly’s belt. Columbus hustles into the adjoining lounge and brings back a pillow, which he slides under Sylvester’s head. Columbus and the pope look at each other. Cecelia is smiling, a vulnerable, grateful, and astounded smile.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re the pope. You ought to be able to attend to sparrows whenever they fall. It was an honor and my pleasure.”
“Good night, my dear.”
“Sleep well, Your Holiness.”
The next morning, Columbus looks at Consuela with a glint in his eye. He watches her as she approaches his table at breakfast with more interest than usual. He studies her gait.
“ Columbus persists,” he says. “He’ll do almost anything to get his ships.”
“Good morning to you, too,” she says.
“You look quite beautiful today… I mean you always look good, but I noticed that today-”
“Thank you, Mr. Columbus. I get it.” She takes a deep breath. “So what
As usual, Columbus kneels before the queen. She keeps him kneeling for all of their audiences while she either sits or swishes around the room. She likes to watch him from behind. To leave him there faced away from her voice. That way, anyone who entered unexpectedly would see nothing was going on. And truthfully, nothing was happening between them, at least on a physical level.
She also liked to sit in front of him, on the throne, her legs pulled up and apart. Her feet flat on the seat of the chair. A pose that without her flowing dresses would not have been appropriate. She did it to tease. She did it to titillate. She did it to move him off course from his obsession. To see if she could shake him.
Isabella sits before him. Considers how she should begin. She is not calm. This audience, which has been arranged by her treasurer, Luis de Santangel, is an inconvenience to her. But she likes this Columbus, more than
