she would like to admit. He wished to serve the king and queen and would risk his life to do it. He wished to bring glory to Spain. And he was persistent, bloody dogged, about it.
“The commission at the university has come to a decision,” she says.
“They have no imaginations, no desire to explore. They are dead men with pencils,” Columbus says. “I already know what they-”
“Now hear me well, Columbus. I will personally look at your plan once we take back Granada from these shit- assed godless Moors.”
“My queen, you are wise. You are intelligent. You are powerful and-”
“Oh cut the crap, Columbus. I have sycophants galore. Just open that door and walk down the hallway and I’ll show you a hundred completely useless sycophants. Be patient, Columbus. We will take Granada, and soon. And then, we will see about your ships.”
“But-”
“Patience. Patience, Columbus.”
“You’ll need money after the Granada victory. I can bring the royal treasury riches from the Indies and Marco Polo’s Japan.”
“That’s a promise we will remember, Cristobal.”
“Could you not spare just three ships, most revered servant of God? Even two ships would-”
“Look, Cristobal, I like you. Your enthusiasm is undeniable. You have great charm and you are unequivocally brilliant. But I have to tell you-and I hope you can hear this through the haze of your single-minded passion-get the fuck off my back about these ships.”
“But my queen, I-”
“I’ve had a snootful of you and the new route to the Indies and Japan. I have an entire city filled with Moors that I’ve promised to extricate. I’ve got a holy Inquisition that’s running amok-I have no idea what they’re going to attack next. I started the damned thing, and frankly, they scare the crap out of me. I’ve got Jews spread across my lands who don’t seem too pleased about leaving and aren’t very enthused about converting. I’ve got God’s emissaries from Rome saying converting isn’t going far enough anyway. And I have a treasury that does not runneth over. I have-”
“If I am successful, when I am successful, I will fill the treasury with riches.”
“And to top it off, my tits hurt. They ache. For some reason, I have to cram them into these tight dresses. Gowns, gowns, and more gowns, and they’re all tight little torture suits.”
“My queen, I hear you. I only wish to please God, and to bring honor to Your Majesties.”
“How the hell could you know what it’s like to wear these damned clothes?”
“I… I cannot imagine it, my queen.”
She rises from the throne and shushes by Columbus so she is behind him. Columbus smells her odor and its edgy sexuality stops him. It’s a hot, muggy day to begin with and now this! His head feels light. The smell of this woman, this queen, shakes him.
She walks through an archway at the back of the room. Columbus can hear a door opening and closing. The queen comes back into the room and walks over to him.
“A couple of my girls are coming in here to get you dressed. Then we can talk some more.”
“But I am dressed-”
“Trust me, Columbus.”
In a couple of minutes, two of the queen’s servants enter the room with a blue gown and a corset. The girls shrug, stifle giggles, and go to work on Columbus.
“But this is a dress,” he says. The girls ignore him.
“And you’re going to cram your body into it. So you really understand what I go through to look like this.”
“But-”
“Just do it for your ships.”
Isabella walks across the room and disappears through the doorway.
When the queen comes back, Columbus is on his knees in the blue dress, the corset tight across his chest and midsection.
“That’s better,” she says.
“I can barely… breathe.”
“Fantastic, isn’t it? Welcome to my world, Columbus. Those two girls are my most trusted-they’ll not say anything about this-but there are rumors about you and I. The tabloids say there must be something going on because your scheme is being entertained by the queen. Just rumors, but pile rumor on top of rumor on top of innuendo and I could be in trouble. My husband chases whatever bitch in heat he damned well pleases, but I? I must remain faithful.”
“But it’s not true what they say.” Columbus feels dizzy, can’t get a full breath.
“The truth has little to do with what the tabloids write. They print whatever they want.”
“But you’re the queen! Can’t you just, you know, cause them to disappear?”
“And make myself look guilty?”
“But-”
“You do understand that I have to remain true to the king? That there are spies everywhere? And that there are serious consequences to any infidelity on my part?”
“May I rise, Your Majesty?”
“No, you may most certainly not rise. Stay where you are.”
Columbus can’t feel his lower legs but he remains facing the empty throne.
“My queen, God Almighty would never allow-”
“God Almighty probably started a few of these rumors. Do you catch my drift, Cristobal? God Almighty can see into my heart. He can read my thoughts and most secret desires. Do you hear me, Cristobal?”
Three days later, an envelope arrives by courier, catches up to Columbus in Cordoba. He opens it and finds a pair of black panties. There is no accompanying note. No letter. Nothing to indicate whose panties these might be. Columbus is bemused. He looks around the room-even though he knows he’s alone, he wants to make sure before he lifts the panties to his face and inhales deeply.
Consuela pulls back from Columbus and looks him over. She feels a twinge in her groin. Her head is spinning.
“That was mildly erotic,” she says.
“Not meant to be. It was a lesson in understanding. You’ve been hanging around with doctors too much. Sometimes a thing is just what it is. A lesson is a lesson.”
“Still, it was erotic.”
“You want erotic? The pungent, spicy smell of a woman-that’s erotic,” he says. “All the scents. Feet, underarms, groins. Everything.”
“Yes, I know. I know you enjoy the olfactory.” Consuela is no longer shocked by his sporadic, frank admissions.
Across the room, workmen have finally arrived to fix the broken window, which has been boarded up for two weeks. They hover outside the window, ladders on either side. Place the glass carefully into the frame. Consuela and Columbus sit in the dim light and watch the workmen.
He sits up in bed. It’s not a spasmodic or jerky movement. He is simply, suddenly wide awake. He leans over and throws up into the wastebasket. He slides off the bed onto his knees and continues to vomit. When he is spent, Columbus presses the side of his face into the coolness of the floor and weeps. He pulls his sheet from the bed, curls into a fetal ball, and hopes for sleep without dreams, without nightmares, without armless dolls.
This is the third time in a week he has had this dream. Each time his reaction is more violent. It shakes his body. Impacts physically.
