Waiting for Columbus

Does she like the bullfights? Is it all right that he’s asking so many questions? And what is her name-beyond embarrassed and clumsy?

She works in a cafe called Cafe Biscay, not far from where they are. She lives in Pamplona-she was born there. Her father took her to her first bullfight when she was six years old-to her mother’s chagrin. She is an avid fan. Of course, any question is welcome, so long as she gets to ask some, too.

“My name is Rashmi.”

“So will you be my guest at the bullfights tomorrow? The seats are perhaps not what you’re used to, but-”

“I can’t,” she says. “I have to work tomorrow.” She offers this statement of fact with one of her smiles. In Julian’s mind, there is no way that smile could lie.

“The next day, then?”

“You’ll pick me up at the cafe?”

Years later, the faint line of a scar that marked their meeting was still there. It was there when they honeymooned in Morocco-when Rashmi bought the candelabra at the market and the man kept trying to sell her a five-candle version of the one she wanted, but three is perfect, she’d said. Near this shop, Rashmi bought a pale- green scarf the size of a sari. Rashmi was wearing that scarf on the way to the hospital for the birth of each of the girls. It became a sort of holy garment for her. The night Chloe was born, they were halfway to the hospital and Rashmi made Julian turn the car around, to go back home and get the green scarf. It was her touchstone. “I wore it when Jane was born. I had it all through Morocco and in Paris on our honeymoon. We have to go home and get it.”

“Do we have time?” He looks at his wife, who is breathing slowly through her mouth.

“Of course we have time,” she says in a strained and borrowed voice that Julian barely recognizes.

He remembers watching her contemplate a move, leaning forward over a chessboard. They were in a cafe in Montreal, a block off the Main. It was fall and she was wearing the green scarf. The girls were at a movie. Rashmi would tilt her head as she extrapolated the possible ramifications of a particular move. Sometimes when she tilted her head, the scar under her eye became a fine silver line.

The night before the train station in Madrid, the girls are finally asleep and he is opening a bottle of wine as Rashmi moves around their room in bra and panties-laying out clothes for the next day. He puts the cork and the corkscrew on the side table, and leans back against the pillows and the headboard. For Julian, this is one of the most profound benefits of being married. He gets to watch the woman he loves move around the room in her bra and panties. She could be doing anything. Washing her face. Putting on her makeup. Finding a book. Ironing. It was the familiarity of it that made it so lovely for Julian. It was one common moment in a long line of similar cherished moments. It was both comfortable and erotic. Perhaps it was erotic because it was so nonchalant-there was no pretense. It was what it was. Julian always felt lucky to be able to stop what he was doing and watch. They drank the wine, a very nice bordeaux, propped up in bed, watching an old movie on TV. They’d both seen Casablanca more than once, but the movie was still able to capture them. He remembers moving tight to her in bed, and at some point before sleep, whispering his finger along the scar under her eye.

***

Not your fault, Rashmi says. She looks across the table of the bar in Pamplona with her crooked smile and he inhales sharply. She looks across time at him with her sad blue eyes and her kind face. It’s not your fault, she says.

I could have done something…

There is nothing you could have done. It’s not your fault.

I left you alone.

You couldn’t have known what was going to happen. It’s not your fault.

I know, he whispers. I know, but I carry this weight-this guilt.

The sound of the ocean rises up-moves through him with surprising strength.

I miss you, he thinks. I miss you so much. I don’t know how to live without you and the girls. There is only this hole.

Of course you know how to live, Jules. Don’t be foolish. She reaches out her hand as if to smooth his face, but stops. Her eyes brim but she does not cry. She sits up straight, lifts her chin and breathes deeply. It’s like this, she says. Life always goes away. Love doesn’t. It’s your job to carry on, to love.

Julian sits for a long time, adrift in memory. It’s begun to drizzle a bit-on and off. He pulls down the brim of his cap to shield his eyes. He has no more tears. His sorrow can go no deeper. It has no more words. He takes a big breath. There is only right now, and what’s next. There is the deep, green-gray smell of ocean. The light is fading quickly and the approaching blackness is not some city darkness-there’s a thickness to it. Julian does not mind the darkness. This is a nice tuft of grass. He hugs himself against the chill. He knows the ocean will soon be only the sound of the ocean. Very soon, the Cape Race lighthouse will burst to life and push a hole far out over the Atlantic. It will push through the darkness, clouds, and rain. Julian will not be able to look at this light as a warning. He will see it only as a beckoning. If Columbus is out there in the Atlantic and he needs a way in, this light will be a beacon. Somehow he’ll make it through the killer reefs and jagged rocks along this shoreline. He’ll avoid the icebergs. He’ll find a beach and put in to shore. We all need Columbus, he thinks. Columbus does not turn away from adventure. He dreams big and then chases those dreams. He sails, fearless or fearfully, into the unknown. He looks toward the horizon with curiosity and wonder. And Columbus loves ferociously. Julian feels an illogical obligation to see what comes ashore. If it’s Columbus at 4 A.M., well, he wants to welcome him with open arms and an open heart. Surely he can wait until then without freezing to death. And instead of driving the ugly Portugal Cove South road in darkness, he can sleep in the car tonight-use his raincoat as a blanket. He needs Columbus to come ashore, to walk up the beach, boots full of water, smiling with the innocence of a little kid. Together they can drive back to St. John’s in the morning. Then the next day, he and Columbus can go the other way on board the Dolly Varden -they can start again on the Atlantic.

But first, this lighthouse has to do what it’s been doing for more than a hundred years. A few steady drops pelt down with a promise of more to follow, but Julian ignores the rain. He waits. He sits at the edge of the ocean and waits.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Hilary McMahon at Westwood Creative Artists, who was my first reader, and who responded to my semi-neurotic, exuberant e-mails with such kindness and compassion. Thanks also to Natasha Daneman and Chris Casuccio at Westwood, and to my editors, Lara Hinchberger at McClelland & Stewart, Alison Callahan at Doubleday, and Charlotte Greig at Picador, for understanding the book, loving the book, and helping to make it better.

Thank you to Dr. Anthony S. Joyce, director of the psychotherapy research and evaluation unit, Department of Psychiatry, University of Alberta, who with a couple of preliminary e-mails helped identify and solidify some of the psychiatric pathologies presented in this book.

Thanks to Dr. Leah Fowler (CF), who read an early draft of this book and whose comments reshaped its tone and texture; Elena Ray for her words on wounds; Cara Winsor Hehir for her consultation on Newfoundland; Wayne Silver for his advice and consultations, over much wine, on Arabic; Roberta for her help with the sweetness of Sevilla; Gail Sidonie Sobat and Geoff McMaster for their warm hospitality, sustaining laughter, and constant support; Dean Baltesson, my friend in life; Terence Harding for his steady encouragement; Laurie Greenwood, who has been such a lovely, warm wind of support; and Mark Kozub, Randall Edwards, Michael Gravel, Gordon McRae, and all my Raving Poets comrades in verse.

Thanks to Donya Peroff, whom I have never met, but whose edits on a previous manuscript taught me so much about writing, and to Marc Cote, who made that happen.

Thanks also to John and Anna, at Miette Hot Springs Resort (Anna, for your exquisite Greek coffee). For me, there is no better place on this planet to write.

To Cindy-Lou, who holds the kite string while I flitter about the sky. In your most frail gestures are things which