Consuela would love it if he’d look at her with those puppy-dog eyes of his and tell her that she’s an idiot or that she drinks too much or that she has a potty mouth.
“What happened?”
“She left
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, it’s a painful thing.” Marcello’s eyes fill with tears. He looks away.
Oh for fuck’s sake, Consuela thinks. It’s been over a year.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It must have been a very difficult breakup.”
Before dessert is served, Consuela is in the bathroom. She’s just pulled up her dress, pulled down her panties, and is sitting on the toilet when someone knocks on the door. Maybe they’ll go away if I ignore them, she thinks. The knock comes again, a little louder this time.
“Just a minute,” Consuela says. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Connie, it’s me. Let me in.”
It’s too far to reach the door, so Consuela half walks, her dress around her waist, panties at her knees, to the door and lets Faith in. She sits back down on the toilet. “I’m not done yet, Sis.”
Faith is leaning forward toward the mirror, looking at her hair, her makeup, looking for the darkness under her eyes that seems to get harder and harder to hide. She lights four more candles on another candelabra-squints at the side of her face. “Isn’t he a dream?” She does not look at Consuela.
“Who?” Of course she knows who but wants to irritate her sister.
“Marc,” she says. “Marcello. And I happen to know he’s available.”
“Yes, we had that conversation.”
“And?” She pulls her shoulders up, and one at a time, sniffs her underarms. Reaches for the powder and puffs both her armpits.
“And he’s charming and very agreeable.”
“I knew it. I knew you two would hit it off.”
“I never said-”
“Oh, you don’t have to. I can tell.”
Consuela wipes. Her smell-a sweet, strong, sexual scent-takes her to Columbus.
“Would you risk your deepest dream on a game? You have dreams, don’t you, Consuela?”
“Yes, of course I have dreams. I want to be a mother someday, though I’m in no panic about this. I’d like to get married again, more carefully this time. And I want to see Tibet.”
They are sitting on a bench, in a long hallway of arches. Columbus has his back against the stone wall. The day is stranded inside a pewter sky, but it’s warm, and not yet raining. They face a small courtyard with a tiled fountain in its center. An eight-point-star-shaped fountain with only a trickle of water. The tiles are in disrepair but it is easy to imagine that they were beautiful once. There must be ten shades of blue in that bottom row, Consuela thinks.
“So if I said to you that I will guarantee a healthy baby and a loving husband but only if you can roll a seven or an eleven on these dice, would you?”
“Maybe.”
“What if I said this was your only chance? Make the roll and it happens-but anything other than a seven or an eleven and it’s over. You won’t have a baby. You won’t marry. You won’t visit Tibet. Ever.”
“Those are not good odds,” she says. “I’d have to be pretty desperate.”
They clomp into the fortress courtyard. The coolness of the enclosure hits like a wave as they ride from the pounding, exposed heat, into the stone fortress. The temperature difference under the entranceway arches is palpable and welcome. They dismount the horses, toss their reins, and storm up through the stone corridors to the poolroom. Royal hangers-on, courtiers, petitioners, lobbyists appear and bow and lurk in the shadows. They seem to spring up like colorful weeds who wish they were flowers. An infestation of seedy color wherever the king and queen travel. Ferdinand opens the door and motions for them to use it. Nine men bow and mumble “As you wish” and other agreements as they leave. When they are alone, Ferdinand turns to the door and screams, “Sycophant pigs! Flattering parasites! ?Manajate!”
Columbus stifles a laugh. Places his hand across his mouth to hide his grin. Tries to pull his face down into an even expression.
“Oh, laugh, Mr. Columbus. It’s funny, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. It is funny.”
The king walks toward one of the windows and looks into the courtyard. Two chambermaids stand in the enclave talking. He stands watching them for some time. Silence lulls the room. Columbus wonders what it is the king is looking at. He seems fixated.
“What is it that they require?” Ferdinand says, turning around and picking up a stick. He cracks the small formation of colored balls by poking a white ball at his end with the stick. The balls scatter across the smooth surface and he stands back amazed. He’s thrilled every time by this small explosion of color.
“Well, I am merely your humble servant, but I think they want to be close to power, close to greatness, close to God.” Columbus sinks the six ball into the far corner and draws the white ball back so it lines up with the seven. “They hope your greatness will rub off on them.” He drops the seven and leaves himself set up for the three ball, a table-length, along-the-cushion shot. “It is well understood, if you have the ear of the king, even for a short time, you have power,” he says. He puts too much English on the three and it ricochets to mid-table.
“Are you speaking of our courtiers? The army of bastard sycophants who surround and annoy me?”
“Was that not the question, Your Majesty?”
“No, but regardless, your answer was an insightful one. I was referring to those enigmatic creatures who haunt me-women. What is it they require from us? That was my question, and I suspect you will have no easy answer to this. What is it that women want from us, Mr. Columbus?”
The king lines up the eleven ball and cracks the white ball with just enough bottom to send it flying off the table and through a window. They hear it clacking across the courtyard. The king picks a new white ball from a golden bowl on the window ledge and hands it to Columbus.
Columbus wonders if he should try to lose. He is playing the king, after all. It wouldn’t do to severely beat the king at a game he loves. He places the ball on the table and then proceeds to clear the table, knocking the eight ball into the side on a double bank to win.
“Thank you for the game, Your Majesty. I was lucky to win.”
“No. You played well. You deserved to win. Another game?”
The king smiles as he places the colored balls into a tight formation. Columbus is disarmed. He feels closer than ever to winning the king’s favor for his proposition. Here he is, a lowly navigator, not even Spanish, playing pool with the king. Riding beautiful horses with the king through the streets of Cordoba. He is inside the highest inner circle. He is dizzy with how close he stands to the power. He must certainly let the king win the next game. All the games that follow, in fact, he should lose as skillfully and subtly as possible.
“Women,” the king says as he hands the stick to Columbus, “confuse and confound me. Yet they are ridiculous, necessary mysteries.” He picks a white ball from the bowl and heaves it through the open window. They hear three clicks and a splash.
Columbus breaks the formation on the table. “There is a problem with the queen?” Three solid-colored balls disappear. His next shot should be the two ball, a solid, in the far right corner. But he picks a striped ball and lines it
