“Chris, it’s me, Isabella. I can’t talk long because I don’t trust the line. And too many people around. Meet me tonight-”
“Yes, I got your-” He stops.
“What? Listen, meet me tonight at the Plaza Hotel, at ten.”
“Plaza Hotel, ten,” he says. “I’ll be there, my queen… Hello?” But she is gone. Columbus hangs up and gazes into space. The bartender brings him another glass of wine, and slides a note into place beside the glass. He softly taps the paper so Columbus is sure to notice it.
Oh, good God, he thinks. Now what? He opens the note and reads it. Then he reads it again and slides it into his pocket. Someone else wants to meet him at the Cafe Bordeaux at nine o’clock. Selena, he thinks. The Bordeaux is Selena’s kind of cafe. Selena has come to say good-bye. Selena the safe and silent harbor, he thinks. She has always been like the moon, a distant and giving lover. He remembers feeling very safe with Selena. Always.
Consuela dreams about Beatriz. Beatriz is sitting across from her and they are sharing a bottle of wine as old friends would. The air is pristine. They’re on a patio near the ocean. Consuela can hear seagulls. They’re drinking chardonnay from fishbowls. It’s so pleasant Consuela starts to feel apprehensive; she starts to not be able to breathe. She looks across the table at this olive-skinned, voluptuous, dark-haired beauty. Her eyes are only kind, and there is gentleness in everything she does. Even the meticulous way she drinks wine is an exercise in gentleness. Her movements are so fluid-it seems she is almost dancing with her wine instead of just drinking it. Her face is soft and her eyes, understanding. She’s telling Consuela about her love for Columbus. And once she begins to speak her love, Consuela can say nothing. She becomes paralyzed with fear. She’s afraid she’ll say something stupid, like: “I know.” And then Beatriz would say, “What the fuck do you mean, you know?” Everything would be ruined. So Consuela is silent. She listens to Beatriz and the seagulls. She breathes the wonderful ocean air. She wakes up cold and shivering with her blankets on the floor.
Consuela grinds her coffee beans, boils her water, and gets ready for work. She needs Columbus to finish. She can’t take much more of this. She wants to put him behind her, get on with her life, and live in the present.
It’s drizzling. The light is sublime. Fog mixed with cloud swirls in the high branches of the trees, giving everything an even, kind light. They hustle across the dayroom courtyard. Just before they reach the arched entrance to the south wing and the forgotten swimming pool, she says, “And?”
“And what?” he says, stopping.
“And what happens next?”
“Of course, you want to know what happens next, but great stories should never be rushed. This is a story about obsession and love, and lust and imminent discovery. It is a story that marks a leap in knowledge and understanding for all of humanity. It changes the world into a far bigger entity.”
“It
“I’m happy to keep going. Whenever you want, I am happy to tell you my story. Should we get out of the rain?”
But he doesn’t continue. He swims and she waits and nothing comes. When he finishes his swim for the day, he looks at her with confusion in his eyes.
“I… I don’t know what happened. I wanted to go on, to unravel more of this story. It just wouldn’t come out. I couldn’t find a way to begin.”
“It’s all right, Columbus. Stories can wait.”
In fact, it’s Consuela and Dr. Balderas, anxious in the wings, who wait. They wait for more than a week for him to continue.
“I know I started this,” Columbus says at breakfast. “I know. But it’s getting harder to keep going. I start to lose my breath when I think about coming to the end.”
“All in good time, Columbus,” Consuela says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds his fingertip on the top of his queen, but Dr. Balderas is suspended in something other than chess. His mind is not on the game. Even Consuela can see that any move involving the queen would be disastrous. But still, he holds his finger there, as if he is considering the possibilities of such a move. He is looking at the board but he does not see it. He moves his forefinger to his pursed lips.
“The women,” he says, finally. “The women are his wife.”
“The women are his wife?” Consuela is confused.
“ Columbus. Columbus ’s women. Think about it. The queen, Isabella, represents strength, fortitude, and courage-and most important, she is sexual restraint. Selena is unconditional love. She asks no questions. She asks for nothing. Beatriz is the archetypal mother. Cassandra-was that her name?-she represents lust, desire, wild abandonment. All these women are representations of Columbus ’s wife. His real-life wife.”
Consuela can feel the blood drain from her face.
“What?” she says halfheartedly.
“It’s just one piece of the puzzle. I couldn’t get my head around all these women Columbus sleeps with, or in the case of Isabella, doesn’t sleep with. This parsing of personality traits makes sense. He’s not a philanderer in his real life. He probably loves his wife very much. What I don’t understand is why Columbus never beds Isabella. If I’m reading your reports correctly, they’re crazy about each other.” He’s about to go on but glances up at Consuela and stops. “Are you all right, Consuela?”
“Bathroom,” she says quickly. In a flash she’s in the hallway. In scant seconds she’s standing in the bathroom with the door locked. The lock click echoes in the small room. A strip of fluorescent lighting sparks to life, hesitant and yellow.
Breathe, Consuela, she tells herself. She slides down the wall so her buttocks rest on the floor, her feet still flat on the tile. Her forearms rest on her knees.
Even with the air-conditioning and the cool tile on her back, Consuela is sweating. She can feel the wetness on her back, and under her arms.
Why hasn’t Columbus slept with Isabella? It’s a story. There must be a thousand ways to tell a story in which this lust is consummated. There was plenty of opportunity. Just make up some motel room in Barcelona, or Madrid, or Marbella. Find some clever way to shake off her bodyguards. Wear disguises. But Columbus has not told this story. Their relationship is taut with sexual tension. It’s restrained, withheld, and ultimately forbidden. Just like…
It’s me. I’m Isabella. Oh, fuck.
“Does he know who he is?” Emile sips his coffee. Dr. Balderas had been pleased to show off his new Italian espresso machine. When Emile had asked for a cafe cortado, the doctor jumped up and made one for himself, too.
“Not yet,” Dr. Balderas says, “but we believe he’s close.”
“How close?”
Dr. Balderas hesitates.
“Look, it’ll take us a few days, perhaps as long as a week, to confirm who he is. But if he is this missing Canadian, I’ll have to let the Canadian embassy know we’ve found him. They’ll want to notify his family. And eventually, sooner rather than later, they’re going to want to take him home.”
“How much can you delay that process?”
Emile smiles. “Depends on how convincing an argument you can make.”
“Nurse Consuela is supposed to be here.” He looks at his watch. It’s not quite eight thirty.
