room. Kicks over a wooden table with a half-finished puzzle of a running horse. Two indignant patients barely escape the table as it slams to the floor. They stand there with puzzle pieces in their hands watching Columbus disappear. He slams a door that is always left open and is off down the hallway.
“Let him go,” Consuela says to the orderlies. “It’s my fault. Just let him go.”
Columbus sits in the corner of the dayroom, staring out the window, sunglasses on his face, rocking back and forth.
Consuela has had enough. She pulls a chair next to his and sits down. “It’s not your fault,” she says.
“I wasn’t there for them,” he says. “I left them alone and went off into the world chasing a dream.”
“What?”
“A salmon moving upstream. There were poems. I was chasing poetry against the current.”
“What are you-”
“People everywhere. And I am running away from them. I’m running hard and then there is thunder. A storm is coming. A big red storm.” He does not stop rocking, nor does he acknowledge her. He mutters and rocks. Consuela pulls her chair away and attends to her other duties.
In the lineup for breakfast, Neil, who has some derivation of Tourette’s syndrome, taps Columbus on the shoulder, asks him something or says something, and Columbus turns on him, pushes hard. Neil goes flying into the containers-rashers of bacon, and steel containers of scrambled eggs, and stacks of lightly buttered toast. Orderlies descend on Columbus and he’s escorted back to his room. “Buttfucker! Ass-wipe!” Neil shouts at the retreating figure of Columbus between two orderlies. “Fucking pig!”
He refuses Consuela’s invitations to swim in the morning. He refuses to bathe. He makes a pass at Elena, who considers his proposition and agrees to meet him. One of the orderlies finds them in a closet, embracing, kissing. Columbus disengages, thanks her, and goes to his room.
“I have to tell you something. I know, I know you’re sad right now and don’t really want me around. I respect that. And you can have as much space as you need. It’s just that…” She stops. She’s not even sure he’s awake.
Consuela is speaking through the little wire-mesh portal in his door. Columbus has his back to the door, is leaning against it, rocking slightly, staring straight ahead at the window. It’s 5 A.M. The nightmare dream woke him and he had no idea what to do. Going back to sleep was not an option. Walking the hallways would require breaking out of his room. He knows how to do this. It’s a matter of lining up the tumblers inside the lock with a straight pin, keeping tension with the tine of a fork. He knows that picking the lock again and walking around the institute freely is an activity that would certainly be frowned upon.
This dream is a swift horror. The first steps in a series of events he knows. He knows where this dream ends. The destination is a familiar terror. He’s been avoiding direct acknowledgment of it for so long. In the darkness, he throws his legs over the edge of the bed, sits up, sighs. Walks over to the dresser and bends forward to see himself in the mirror. Dark shadows. Narrow face. Sunken eyes. He leans over the washbasin and pulls tepid water to his face, does it again, and again. He reaches for his towel but it’s fallen to the floor. Once he finds the towel, he sniffs it for any hint of mildew, then dries his face and hands. After pacing for more than an hour, he’s tired, ready for sleep, but not if that dream is waiting. And one can never be sure about dreams. So he hunches, leans back against the door, and rocks himself into a sort of meditative state. Her voice is a whisper inside his meditation. At first he’s not sure it’s real. He’s not even sure it’s a woman’s voice.
“I have to tell you something. Are you there?”
“Yes.” He whispers, a kind of mimicking echo.
“I think I need to let a different nurse take care of you. Maybe Nurse Emily. Or Frances. You always said you liked Nurse Frances.”
“Why?” The thought of losing Consuela wakes him up fully-starts panic in him.
Yes, she thinks. Why would I think I could get away with not answering the why?
Columbus waits.
“Because I care for you in the wrong way.”
“Is there a wrong way to care for someone?”
“Well, yes, when you are the patient and I am your nurse. There’s a line. It’s professional.”
“And?”
“And I have feelings that go beyond professional.”
“So it’s okay for a patient to love a nurse, but not the other way around? That hardly seems fair.”
“You love…?”
“I have to get up. My knees are killing me.”
“ Columbus?” She’s been whispering but now it’s her full voice.
“You have seen me at my very worst, Consuela. You’ve seen me stripped bare of dignity, clothing, pride, and still… you found me. You found me and kept me safe.” He stops. How could I
They sit on the stiff wooden bench in silence for a long time, the television in the dayroom just loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to be deciphered. It’s some show about oceans. There are colorful fish and coral reefs. Consuela is torn. She wants him to finish his tale, but she does not want to lose Columbus. She had no illusions about awkwardness. She had confidence that there would be awkwardness between them. Just by telling him her feelings, no matter how oblique, she crossed a line.
She looks up at the television, then down at the floor. Columbus clears his throat and Consuela smiles.
“The Church of St. George in the town of Palos is a small stone structure with a modest bell tower. It was a mosque at some point in its history. Now a cross crowns its highest tower.”
Inside, soft cathedral light fingers its way through fine dust. A cluster of candles illuminates one corner. The coolness of this sanctum conflicts with the pervading heat outside.
Tomorrow is the day, Columbus thinks as he enters the building. His captains will board their respective ships. They will all wait for him. They’ll wait for him to board the Santa Maria. And then, with the blessing of the church, they will set sail for the Canary Islands, and then they will push the edges of knowledge.
Columbus sits on one of the wooden pews and Father Antonio, who has come to bless the voyage in the morning, joins him. After a few minutes of silence, Columbus nods his head in some sort of inner understanding, as if he’s made up his mind about something.
“Father forgive me, for I have sinned,” he says. “And I am about to sin.”
“Speak, my son,” Father Antonio says. “My friend, what is on your mind? What weighs on you?”
“I have lied to all these men, Father. I’ve told them we can sail easily to Japan and to the Indies and the lands of Marco Polo. In truth, I have no idea how far it is across the ocean.”
“You don’t know? But all this time-”
“Just words. I lied to the king, to the queen, to the university commission. I know in my heart there is land out there but I don’t know how far. The only way to find out is to sail and see for ourselves.”
The father is silent, turned inward. “You want my blessing?” he says finally.
“No, Father. I seek no blessing. I only need you to listen. I no longer have the heart to carry on. I no longer wish to continue on this journey. I have my ships. I have provisions and crewmen. But I no longer have my heart. Forgive me, Father.”
Silence resorts to itself in the small church. Then the sound of a sparrow in one of the high windows. One problem at a time, Father Antonio is thinking. Columbus has no idea what he’s doing. He has no idea how far he’ll have to go to reach land. He’s told all these men, kings and queens and God only knows who else, that he knows this can be done. And now he admits he does not really know. And God? Well, God had to know this. God knows all.
