In the morning, he seeks out Pope Cecelia, finds her in the day-room watching the birds in the oak tree outside the south window. She’s wearing just one robe today, looks almost normal. Beside her on the table are a blue tin cup and a wooden spatula. Columbus looks at the cup and the spatula, decides not to ask, sits down, kisses her ring, and begins to unfold the details of his dream.
“Why would a doll speak?” Cecelia says. “Why would you have that expectation? Dolls don’t speak. They don’t talk.”
“I don’t know. I just know these dolls can talk-they can speak but they don’t.”
“And they’re armless?”
“All of them.”
“How many dolls are there in this dream-”
“Nightmare. Hundreds. There are hundreds of silent dolls.”
“And what do you do in this dream-nightmare?”
“I try to wake them up. I have the knowledge that they can speak, but they won’t speak.”
She draws her body away from the direction of the tree and the sparrows and the window, toward him. “What do you think it means?” She rotates the tin cup on the table, so the handle is facing her, then, takes a sip of tea.
“Old woman, I don’t have a clue. All I know is I am horrified. Last night I was sick. I woke up and I was physically sick. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay awake for the rest of my life.”
He observes her face. It’s kind. Wrinkled and weathered, but lacking the stray hairs that accompany so many older women’s faces. Her skin is pale and apart from the wrinkles, smooth. Her eyes are faded pale blue, as if they became tired of their own color, or simply faded with age.
“Oh my dear boy,” she says. She reaches out and touches his hand, hopes to bring him back from wherever it is he’s going. “It’s all right to not know. Perhaps you’re not ready to know. Dreams are never obvious. They are never what they seem. You’re just not ready.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emile’s assistant in Lyon calls with two peculiar newspaper stories. A man in Cadiz tried to pay for his meal with some stones wrapped in a piece of leather. The police were called but the man disappeared before they arrived. Emile dismisses this story. The story that catches his ear is buried inside a longer feature on panhandling- the embedded tale is about a man in a cafe in Jaen who insisted on calling a woman Isabella, even though her name was Lucia. He would not stop talking about the color of the ocean. The funny thing is, she bought him a train ticket to Marbella. That’s what he said he needed. She said he was the most enchanting man she’d ever met.
Emile drives right by Castro del Rio, the land of wine and olive oil. “Can you get me her phone number? Get me this woman’s phone number.” He flips the phone shut.
Emile finds Lucia Vargas’s house in Jaen. He’d called from the road and convinced her to meet with him. He turns onto Calle de Santiago and looks for a place to park. There are cars lining both sides of the street and he can’t see an opening. A brown BMW signals to pull out half a block up and Emile signals his intention to move into this spot. He’s not sure why he bothers signaling-there are no other cars driving on this street. As he’s waiting for the careful BMW, he glances across the road. On the boulevard, there are two men playing a game of boules, and four men sitting at a small table smoking cigars. The men are sitting in wooden chairs and each has a glass of something in front of him. One of the men is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head down and tilted-as if he is listening intently. Emile is pulled toward this scene. He’d like to go over there and sit down, smoke a cigar and share a drink, and listen to their conversation. In his snapshot of this scene he gets the feeling these men are grounded, completely comfortable with who they are and what they’re doing. He thinks he remembers having this comfort in his own skin a long time ago. Perhaps these men smoke cigars and have a drink each day at this time. It is a pleasurable constant. Emile would love to be part of this picture. He backs into the parking space, then watches as a waiter from the cafe across the street brings over another round of pastis or wine-something in a bottle.
Lucia is tall and blond. Her front teeth have a pronounced gap. Her smile, Emile notices immediately, is self- conscious. She smiled as he introduced himself, but then turned her face slightly sideways. She and Emile stand on the front step of her house, on the outskirts of Jaen. She’s wearing a black, wraparound sweater that reaches mid- thigh. The sound of children playing comes from inside.
“He called you Isabella, this man?”
“Yes, I told my sister, she’s a reporter at the newspaper. He was looking for enough money for a train ticket. He insisted on calling me Isabella. I don’t mind… My mother was named Isabella.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Is he dangerous?”
“No, not as far as I know.”
“I didn’t think so. He was charming, not at all frightening. He talked about his ships. He has three ships, docked somewhere down south, I think.”
This stops Emile. Three ships? The guy owns three ships and has no money? Three ships and he’s scrounging his way through southern Spain? And why would he be going to Morocco? He makes a mental note to get his assistant to check on any active cells in Morocco. But if he was really involved in a terrorist cell, he would not have mentioned Morocco. That can’t be where he’s headed. There’s something else going on.
Lucia continues. “He looked at me the way my husband looked at me for the first six months after we were married.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, my husband stopped looking at me that way. We’re still married but it’s different now. I miss that look.”
Emile smiles. He wonders if Lucia still looks at her husband the same way she did before they were married. “I’m sorry about your husband,” he says, “but I meant the man who called you Isabella.”
“Yes, of course you did. I’m sorry. He said he needed to get to Marbella, on the coast. But he had no money. He said he would arrange to pay me back but I don’t really care about that.”
“Where was it that this conversation took place?”
Lucia points down the street. “The cafe on the corner. The Velema.”
“By the men playing boules and smoking cigars?”
“Yes,” she smiles. “The neighborhood elders. They were there that day. They’re in the park almost every day.”
“Mom. Mary won’t share the crayons.” It’s a girl’s voice from inside.
Lucia pokes her head back into the house. “Solve the problem, Felipa. You’re a smart girl. Find the middle ground.”
Lucia turns to Emile. “I am neither stupid nor naive, Mr. Germain. He seemed a bit desperate, sad, lost. He said he needed to get to Marbella. I was able to help.”
“Emile, please. Call me Emile. I hope I haven’t insinuated that you were stupid. I do not think you’re stupid. Not in the least. I’m just trying to find this man.”
“I love my sister, but this newspaper story. I think it painted me as a bit of a kook.”
“From what I’ve seen and heard, this was only an act of kindness.”
Lucia blushes and smiles her awkward, turned-aside smile.
“Now, is there anything else-anything that we haven’t covered, or that wasn’t in the newspaper story-that you can remember about your conversation? No matter how small or seemingly insignificant.”
“I can’t think of anything, Mister, um, Emile.” She reaches behind her and places her hand on the
