far end of the room. “Your Majesty,” he says softly. Father Antonio remains seated as Columbus walks across the room and pushes open the far doors. He stops in the archway. “My associate, Father Antonio, will take you up on that drink now,” Columbus says. The doors groan shut and he’s gone.
Two hours later, they are alone in the room. The councillors have been dismissed and Father Antonio has been escorted back to his monastery. The father followed Columbus ’s instructions to the letter. He listened. Engaged in no negotiations. Then listened some more.
“Admiral of all the Seas. Is he insane? This is impossible! I mean, Your Majesty, I like him but these demands are outrageous!” Santangel speaks toward the tapestry. “And he wants a percentage of all the profits from any route he finds. And he wants-”
“Give it to him,” Isabella says as she steps around the edge of the screen. She’d like to use her fingernails to claw the goddamned dress she’s wearing off her body. She can barely get a full breath from morning to sunset. She swishes over to the window and looks out across the dusty landscape. Would she still be able to see him? Fishing? Who goes fishing at a time like this? Isabella giggles. Of course, Columbus would go fishing at a time like this. He loves fishing.
“But he wants-”
“Give it to him.”
“Forgive me, my queen, but this is too much.”
“Just give him what he wants. We’ll figure out how to make good on the promise once he returns, if he returns.” If… yes… there is a possibility he will not make it back. Anything can happen at sea. And if he returns, we will keep our distance from him. We will not visit or encourage him in any way.
Santangel smiles. “A dangerous game.”
“My game.”
“But-”
“Enough! Go. Arrange to give him everything he requires. Go!”
When Columbus looked at the tapestry and bowed, Isabella had to cover her mouth with her hand. She gasped and then wept quietly. Her yearning surprised her. She felt overwhelmed by it-caught off guard. She thought she might faint. She stood with wobbly knees and tears flowing, and watched him walk out of the meeting.
I want him, Isabella thinks. But to want him is to court death, tempt fate. So he must go. I must give my heart respite. Put Columbus, and myself, out of danger.
But it would be nice to see him, perhaps one more time before he sails. Just one more time. Nothing will happen. I just want to see him. To have a simple conversation. Nothing more.
“I’m done,” she says. “I can’t listen to any more stories. I need a break.” Her voice is a frayed rope. Her fingers intertwined and squeezed white. Dr. Balderas walks across his office, two glasses in his hands-the ice tinkling. “Drink this,” he says. He sits in a low, leather armchair across from her, places his drink on the arm, elbows on his knees, and leans forward. He recognizes fatigue-has seen it in himself, in his wife, when they were dealing with their teenagers. The dark circles under her eyes, a slumped weariness to her posture. There is no doubt in his mind that Consuela is exhausted.
“I can’t make you do this. You’ve already gone above and beyond your duty here. I know you’re tired.” Dr. Balderas takes a drink. Wonders how he’d react to his own pitch.
If you only knew what I’m feeling, she thinks. You’d yank this patient out of my care in a second. All I have to do is tell you, and no more stories. No more Columbus. Just say the words, Consuela.
Consuela teeters. The right thing to do is to walk away from Columbus. This is her opportunity.
“Look, whatever happened to him, these stories seem to be moving toward where we’ve been hoping he’d go. He wants to finish his story. I think it’s important that he finishes it.”
“Can’t he tell you, or some other nurse?”
“I’ve tried to get him to go there, but I really think it has to be you.”
“Why me? What if it doesn’t end?” Her voice is filled with a desperate frailty.
“The very first report I read from you, about Columbus ’s stories, you said Columbus said he was going to tell you the story of how he, Christopher Columbus, got his ships-the true story.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And, when he arrived, he asked you about the ships-ships in a harbor-and what happened?”
“You read my reports.” She makes a small, impressed smile.
“Carefully-some more than once.”
“Well, that’s certainly more than your predecessor.”
“Look, he’s not taking you to sea. I believe it will end when he gets his ships… but you’ve been there from the start. He started it with you. He believes he has to end it with you.”
“But-”
“Just let him finish it.”
On Saturday, Columbus asks her if she likes to hike. He has no idea Dr. Balderas has planned a little trip to the beach for Monday. Columbus doesn’t know that the doctor has already made his list of safe patients and is visiting with his mother who is in a seniors’ home in Cordoba.
“Do you backpack?” Columbus says, and Consuela is not sure what to make of the question.
“Backpack?” she says. “You mean carry your tent, bedding, and food into the wilderness?”
“That’s it,” he says. “Away from it all. No distractions. No work. No meetings. Nothing but nature and working the legs. The mountains are best because of the elevations. You get the vistas. Vistas are the payoff.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
He smiles, clears his throat. “Because…”
Because they left Beatriz and the boys in the village. Columbus and Juan have come to the mountain regions between Spain and France to fish for trout. They move up through pine forests, looking for the tiny hut where they will spend the night. Columbus leads, even though Juan has been there many times before. The deer trail they were following has disappeared, and Columbus stops at the edge of a cliff with a mountain vista. He removes his cap and drinks from the large, leather water sack. The view is of blue mountain ranges against mountain ranges, fading rows of peaks against darkening indigo sky.
“We’ll have to make a fire and stay here tonight,” Juan says. “It’s three leagues to the hut and getting too dark.”
“By my calculations, it should be just over there.” Columbus points into the forest with no hesitation.
“Actually, it’s there, at the base of that mountain.” He points across the valley in front of them.
“Are you sure, Juan?”
“Yes, Cristobal, my friend, I have been there many times.”
“Someone has made an incorrect calculation then?”
Juan looks at Columbus. A pathetic man, standing there with cap in hand, tousled white hair. The past ten years of intense dreaming have come with a price, Juan thinks, and Columbus has paid with part of his sanity. Nurturing a dream requires a great deal of energy, and this is a big dream. He might be losing his mind. But Juan
