“It’s all right. I wouldn’t know where to begin, either.”
“I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”
“It was an interesting journey, Julian.”
They sit in silence. A squeaky metal cart moves by in the corridor outside the closed door. Julian can smell coffee. He turns toward the smell.
“Do you want a cup of coffee? I just made a press.”
“I would. Black. Thank you. What is it the Turks say about coffee? That it should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love? I’ll forgo the sweetness today.”
The doctor gets up and retreats to the small sitting area behind his desk. He comes back with two steaming mugs.
“I take mine black, too,” he says.
Julian inhales the scent of the coffee like he’s been away from it for years. He takes a sip. Closes his eyes. He places the mug carefully on a stone coaster on the side table. “What happens now?” he says. “My daughters, my wife, gone, and I should have been there, with them, to protect-”
“You would be dead, too.”
“What kind of God would… I should have been there to protect them, to protect my girls.”
“Not about God. It’s not your fault. It was heartbreaking and awful, but it’s not your fault you’re alive.”
Julian takes a sip of coffee and notices Dr. Balderas noticing his hand is shaking. He’s angry and confused, outraged, and resigned. He doesn’t know what to feel first. But somebody did this on purpose. Because of religion, or politics, fear, or oil, or any variation of fundamentalism. All the meaningless, stupid reasons.
“What happens now?” Julian whispers.
Dr. Balderas looks at his patient-tries to comprehend the pain he’s had, is having, will have. “What happens now,” he says, “is you face your pain and move on. You live through it. It’s not something you have to do alone. I know a very fine therapist in Montreal.”
Emile sticks out his hand and Julian takes it. Emile can see an open bag on the bed behind Julian.
“The embassy wanted to buy a whole new set of luggage. Our luggage in Madrid, after a while, was shipped back to Canada. But I have nothing to put into a set of luggage.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Professor Nusret.”
“I… I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry. Are you from the embassy?”
“I’m Emile. Emile Germain. I’m with Interpol. I’ve been following you across southern Spain. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
“Oh, so you’re the Emile that Consuela talks about. She’s told me a little about you. You’ve made an impression on her. Something about dedication and doggedness, and listening. You’re a good listener.” Consuela could do worse than this man, he thinks.
“Look, I know you’re getting ready to go home, to go back to Canada. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to let you know that I’ve been lost. I’ve been at the bottom of sadness. And… and it’s possible to find your way back.”
“Something happened to you,” Julian whispers. It’s more a statement than a question.
“I got shot. And a girl was killed. They say it wasn’t my fault.” Emile stops. He can’t seem to catch his breath, but he pushes through. “After, I couldn’t find my way. I lost meaning, misplaced the purpose to any of this.” He raises his hands, palms up, half pointing to anything and everything. He looks around the room, at Julian, past the window, into the oak tree, across the wall, and back to Julian.
Emile pulls his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and loops the stems around his ears, pushes the bridge up on his nose. He does not know why he put his glasses on. He’s not going to read anything. Christ, he thinks. This man lost his wife and daughters, his whole family. My problems are bits of fluff. “Nothing I say right now will be of any comfort. I know this. But I hope at the right time, you’ll remember me-that I’m all right. I made it through.”
Julian sits on the edge of his bed, looks out the window, lets silence move into the space between them.
Before the shooting Emile would have been uncomfortable with this sort of damaged lull. But not now.
Julian looks over at Emile. “Thank you,” he says.
“God, I hope I didn’t just sound like some sort of affirmative, positive-thinking, self-help asshole. I only wanted to let you know the pain doesn’t have to be permanent.”
“That’s what I heard,” Julian says, nodding. More silence interjects itself.
After a couple of minutes, Emile clears his throat. “Look, I have to go but I wanted to-”
“Thank you for not giving up on me,” Julian says. “Without your determination I might still be five hundred years ago… It’s better to know, to be now. To be
Consuela meets him in the dining room, where Julian sits staring at the lemon grove across the courtyard. Behind the lemon trees there are palm trees-green splashes in the sky like fireworks. He is sitting in his chair, the one in which he’s spent many days and weeks-months, in fact. Now he seems lost in this chair. “Come with me,” she says. “Let’s get you out of here.” She takes his hand.
Julian follows her down through the mezzanine, through the front garden area, and past the parking lot. He looks around like a newborn baby-as if everything he’s seeing is new and fascinating. She nods to the guards and they walk together through the main gate. Julian stands at the edge of the street. The air is silky, the light diluted and kind. Across the narrow cobbled street is a small sidewalk cafe. There is a woman sitting, reading a newspaper, and taking her coffee. The balconies above the cafe all have cast-iron balustrades, most have plants. At the end of the street there is a pale-colored building that looks like it may be a cathedral. A man on a moped putters by. A red Volvo is parked down the block.
“I’m still in Spain,” he says, half surprised, but adds: “Of course, I’m in Spain.” He takes a big breath.
“I’d love to buy you a drink,” Consuela says. This idea, blurted out, makes her blush.
“That would give me much pleasure. But I insist that I pay. Dr. Balderas was kind enough to loan me his credit card. He expects me to use it. I don’t want to disappoint him.”
They walk across the street to the cafe and sit at one of the sidewalk tables. A waitress places menus on the table, announces she’ll be right back to get their order. There are four blue cornflowers in a narrow vase in the middle of the table. A white tablecloth. The music is a single cello playing inside its own echo. There is no direct sunlight.
When Julian looks at her, Consuela knows. She sees the truth of him. This man is not Columbus. Each wrinkle and stray hair speaks of a different man. There’s an efficiency in his movements that was not there three days ago. There is no omnipresent hope, no abstruse pigheadedness, and no hysterical obsession with sailing away. There is no passion for acquiring ships. And yet, he will fly away tomorrow to the continent Columbus never stepped upon but is credited with discovering. She gets it. She knows he has to grieve. He has to be alone. He needs time to gather what remains of his life into the present tense. Part of Consuela is screaming that she should cling to this man no matter what-that she ought to hold on to him for dear life. But not now. They cannot converse at length, not in the present. They met more than five hundred years ago, when Columbus was desperate and obsessed-when he would do almost anything to get his caravels and go to sea. When the Inquisition was running around poking its narrow bone of a finger at all that was different. When a powerful queen single-handedly ran the country. They met inside the Columbus story-factual or not. That’s where Consuela is and, for now, that is where she must stay.
It was Columbus she fell in love with. She has no idea who Julian is, except a missing, presumed-dead Canadian professor who had a wife and daughters. Surely Columbus was a meshing of Julian and everything he knew or thought or understood about Columbus. But Columbus is not looking back at her.
“I-” He stops, looks away, then comes back to her face.
