knows what Columbus has gone through. The trials and arguments at the university. His dealings with the king and queen. The years of waiting. The years of not knowing. The years of doubt massing up like storm clouds.
“A wrong turn,” Juan says.
“I do not make wrong turns,” Columbus snaps.
“A faulty map then.”
“An error in the map? Yes, this is a possibility.”
“Yes,” Juan says, “but look. Look where you’ve brought us. I have never seen such a view.”
Columbus turns and smiles. This is true, he thinks. I have discovered a new view. It is my destiny. And it is my destiny to claim the entirety of this magnificent view in the name of God and Their Glorious Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. For Spain.
Then he says out loud: “I claim all this land, all the trees, the animals, the birds and fish and gold and gems and peoples in the name of God and Their Glorious Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.” He kneels and crosses himself. “And for my beautiful Beatriz, who very much wanted to come fishing but stayed in the village. And of course, for both my sons, Diego and Fernando, may they be safe and grow into decent and brave men.”
“Cristobal, my friend. I do not think the king and queen of France would appreciate you claiming part of their country for Spain, no matter how perfect a view it is that you’ve discovered.” Juan can see that this spot is a well- used campsite. There is a fire pit surrounded by stones beside a large boulder. Somehow, Columbus does not see this.
“Is it not my destiny to discover?”
“Ah, but this land is already discovered. Beyond these cliffs is France.”
“But this view?”
“A view is a view,” Juan says. “This is a magnificent view but it is-” He stops. He does not want to deflate this man who stands before him. That is not the role of a friend, he thinks. Is he loopy or is he pulling my limb? Surely he knows we are on the border between Spain and France. Ahh, it doesn’t matter. It does not matter if Columbus wishes to claim this small section of France.
“We should make a fire before it is too late. We do not want to wander these cliffs looking for wood in the dark.” Juan kicks at the ground in order to begin to create a fire pit. He does it away from the established pit. He snaps off the first dry bough he finds, tucks it under his arm, and continues to search.
When there are sparks twisting into the sky and a steady heat coming from the fire, Juan turns and looks at Columbus. He has been standing with his back to the forest, seeming to watch the light in the western sky move toward indigo.
“Columbus,” Juan says, “I’ve got the fire going. Come and sit down.”
“It’s going to happen,” Columbus whispers.
“What?” Juan says, poking at the fire, making adjustments.
“The journey across the Western Sea. It’s going to happen.”
“I have always known it. And listen, I have some news. My meeting with the Rubensteins went very well. They’re in.”
“That is good news. Any idea how much?”
“Enough for one ship, fully outfitted. But there is a condition.”
“A condition?”
“They want transport to the Canaries.”
“For how many?”
“Twenty. Maybe more.”
Columbus leans in and pokes the fire with a short stick. Sparks lift into darkness.
“I have been thinking about this journey all day. There is too much to gain and too little risk for this not to happen. I play the role of the little risk…” He stops, pauses, and then shouts: “Nothing but the sea.” The echo from across the valley is strong and spooky. It hangs in a circle above their camp. The echo drains into the night and Columbus makes the silence wait before he shouts again: “NO THING.” And it comes back as “O-ING, O-ING, o-ing, ing, ing.” Columbus turns his back to the vastness of the valley. He sits down next to Juan and observes the fire. Looks up at Juan. Nods his head.
“Sure, why not. Let’s transport the Jews.”
“I’ll let them know when we get back.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, tell me about your life, Juan.”
“But have you heard from the queen? Is there word?”
“No, no, not about me. Not about ocean journeys. You. I want to hear about you.”
“There are no events in my life when it is compared to yours. I do not meet with kings and queens and noblemen. I do not speak with physicians and philosophers, and I do not read the latest charts.”
“Just people,” Columbus says, smiling. “Just things.”
Juan talks about his painting. He speaks about the mixtures of colors, the brushes, the textures of the walls. Then there are the canvas paintings, the portraits and crude landscapes.
“The problem with the portraits is the skin. To mix the correct skin tone is half the battle,” he says. “And then I often wish to paint not what I see but what it is I feel.”
“Is it not the job of the artist to paint what he sees?” Columbus says.
“Yes. But there is the artist’s feeling in each accurate portrait no matter how true to life.”
“And you wish to take it further?”
“I simply wish to paint what I feel first, and what is truly there comes second.”
“And what would someone think when they see such a work?”
“Only what they feel is interesting.”
The fire draws them in. The heat massages and makes them drowsy. It soothes something deeper than they know. And so they are quiet for a while.
“Keep painting only what you feel, Juan,” Columbus says. “I’d like to see what you come up with. Perhaps you will be famous one day.”
“Columbus, my friend, no one will remember me. It’s you who will be remembered.”
“I have been thinking that this thing I wish to do will happen regardless of whether I want it to or not. I think perhaps some events in history are simply meant to happen. The right time, the right thinking, the right weather, the right person… all these things add up, and then all it takes is one small seemingly unconnected event, and then there is no stopping.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying I play only a minor role in this.”
“But how can you say-”
“The ball is rolling. It would take a great effort to stop it now.”
“But it’s been all your work, your dream, your idea.”
“But it’s no longer my destiny. It’s the destiny of Spain, and of human beings.”
“But you want it to happen, right?”
In the morning, they look out from under their blankets into a thick, white light. A vast whiteout encloses the campsite.
“ Columbus?” Juan says. “It’s a whiteout. We should try and climb up and out of it.”
They stand up and immediately lose sight of each other. Columbus takes a few steps toward where he last saw a fading Juan. Juan gathers up his blanket and, dizzy in all the whiteness, staggers a few paces. He feels the shrubs scratching his legs before he sees them.
Columbus faces the forest, thinking it’s the mountain valley. He is suddenly struck with a thought about the view. There is no proof my view ever existed, he thinks. There is only memory. Is it my memory or my faith that tells me this mountain valley existed? He turns again to try and fix where Juan is but cannot see anything. “Juan?”
“Here.”
The voice is behind Columbus, perhaps. He’s not sure.
