The table is long and narrow, and made of oak planks. Luis de Santángel sits not at its head but, rather, stranded in the middle, surrounded by councillors. Santángel’s black hair is pulled back neatly behind his ears. His hands are manicured. His clothing is plain. Nothing ornate, though he could easily afford it. His overall appearance is friendly and open but also down to business. He sits with his back to the window. He’s partially silhouetted against the morning sky, which is cloudless and holds the promise of a hot day. Columbus sits directly across from Santángel. At his right hand is his lone companion, his friend, Father Antonio.
Eighteen to two, Columbus thinks. They must believe this meeting is important. Either they believe wholeheartedly in my journey or they are covering all possibilities.
“Drinks?” Santángel says. “Mr. Columbus?”
“No, thank you,” Columbus says, speaking for both himself and Father Antonio.
The men surrounding the queen’s treasurer are all laden with paper. Some have binders; others, piles of paper clipped together. All have cell phones either hanging from their belts or sitting on the table. Santángel opens a small black file folder that sits neatly on the table in front of him, its edges square to the table’s edge. He flips the first page over and leans back in his chair. All side conversations stop.
“Very well, then,” Santángel says. “I first want to congratulate Mr. Columbus on the successful financing of his impending voyage across the Western Sea to Japan and India. This is quite an accomplishment.” Santángel leads the small herd of lawyers and councillors in polite applause. He clears his throat and begins again. “The purpose of this meeting is to determine the compensation Mr. Columbus will receive, if any, from the profits and proceeds of this expedition. We are here today to determine any remuneration for Mr. Columbus and his crews. I expect our negotiations to be somewhat complex but hopefully not too lengthy. Now, as a starting point, I’ve prepared a base-offer sheet.” He turns toward the far end of the table where a diminutive, bald man with dark-rimmed glasses is fidgeting with a brown briefcase. One of the latches is stuck. “John? Could you hand out the sheet? I believe there are enough copies for everybody to have one.”
“I’m… I’m having a problem with this latch. Just a minute.”
“As I was saying, Mr. Columbus, this negotiation, while complex in nature…”
This guy loves the sound of his own voice, Columbus thinks. I’d love a cup of coffee. Better, an espresso. I bet they’d get me one if I asked.
“John? How are we doing?”
“I’ve almost got it.” John’s got a knife wedged in the lock, and he’s prying it back and forth.
“Perhaps,” says Santángel, “we should take a break until we can solve the briefcase problem.” He smiles, more a twinge.
“A question, Señor Santángel,” Columbus says softly.
“Yes, Mr. Columbus.”
“I’d love an espresso.”
“Emilio,” Santángel snaps. “An espresso for Mr. Columbus.” One of the crowd of lawyers stands and moves toward the door. “And I’ll have one, too.”
Now the other lawyers start offering orders.
“I’d like a café solo.”
“I’ll have a double espresso with a wedge of lemon.”
“Do you have decaf?”
“Could I get a latte, extra hot?”
“I’ll have a café con leche.”
“I got it.” It’s John with the briefcase. “It’s open. I got the briefcase open.” He’s smiling and holding his left hand, which is bleeding. “I need a bandage.” John sits down. A woman in a gray dress pulls her briefcase onto the table, snaps it open, and produces a bandage, which she passes down the table toward John, who looks pale, exhausted.
“I have kids,” the gray woman says.
Columbus looks at his fingernails, gazes out the window. He actually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s going on around him. He knows the outcome of this meeting already. Getting to that outcome is a series of formalities. He’s a sailor now. He’s no longer interested in negotiating anything but oceans.
The deal is done, he thinks. I’ve got my ships. Just when I thought it was truly hopeless, funding for three ships and provisions and a crew appears. Why? Doesn’t matter. I’m going. I’m off to make a brand-new route. There is no question that there is something out there. Look at these idiots with their cell phones and mounds of paper. Look how they jump when I ask for espresso. They’ve bought the dream. They want, desperately, what I’ve put on the table.
Santángel’s base offer is passed around. Everyone has a copy. A cream-colored cover with a few attached pages sits unopened in front of Columbus. Father Antonio’s copy also sits on the table exactly where it was placed.
The coffee arrives. Cups are handed around. Columbus is served first, his espresso, in a blue demitasse, is placed in front of him. He silently acknowledges the excellent crema but other than this, ignores the coffee.
“So if we can begin again. Can I get everyone to sit? Now, as I was saying, we are here today to…”
Columbus pulls out a briefcase, lays it flat on the table, covering Santángel’s offer as if it is insignificant. Santángel stops talking. Columbus clicks open each catch and removes a single sheet of paper. He passes it to Santángel. “Here are my requirements. Father Antonio will hear any comments, but this list of demands is firm and final. There will be no negotiation. I’m going fishing for a few days.”
Columbus stands and nods to the gaggle of gape-mouthed lawyers. Then bows deeply toward a tapestry at the far end of the room. “Your Majesty,” he says softly. Father Antonio remains seated as Columbus walks across the room and pushes open the far doors. He stops in the archway. “My associate, Father Antonio, will take you up on that drink now,” Columbus says. The doors groan shut and he’s gone.
Two hours later, they are alone in the room. The councillors have been dismissed and Father Antonio has been escorted back to his monastery. The father followed Columbus ’s instructions to the letter. He listened. Engaged in no negotiations. Then listened some more.
“Admiral of all the Seas. Is he insane? This is impossible! I mean, Your Majesty, I like him but these demands are outrageous!” Santángel speaks toward the tapestry. “And he wants a percentage of all the profits from any route he finds. And he wants-”
“Give it to him,” Isabella says as she steps around the edge of the screen. She’d like to use her fingernails to claw the goddamned dress she’s wearing off her body. She can barely get a full breath from morning to sunset. She swishes over to the window and looks out across the dusty landscape. Would she still be able to see him? Fishing? Who goes fishing at a time like this? Isabella giggles. Of course, Columbus would go fishing at a time like this. He loves fishing.
“But he wants-”
“Give it to him.”
“Forgive me, my queen, but this is too much.”
“Just give him what he wants. We’ll figure out how to make good on the promise once he returns, if he returns.” If… yes… there is a possibility he will not make it back. Anything can happen at sea. And if he returns, we will keep our distance from him. We will not visit or encourage him in any way.
Santángel smiles. “A dangerous game.”
“My game.”
“But-”
“Enough! Go. Arrange to give him everything he requires. Go!”
When Columbus looked at the tapestry and bowed, Isabella had to cover her mouth with her hand. She gasped and then wept quietly. Her yearning surprised her. She felt overwhelmed by it-caught off guard. She thought she might faint. She stood with wobbly knees and tears flowing, and watched him walk out of the meeting.
I want him, Isabella thinks. But to want him is to court death, tempt fate. So he must go. I must give my heart respite. Put Columbus, and myself, out of danger.
But it would be nice to see him, perhaps one more time before he sails. Just one more time. Nothing will happen. I just want to see him. To have a simple conversation. Nothing more.
“I’m done,” she says. “I can’t listen to any more stories. I need a break.” Her voice is a frayed rope. Her fingers intertwined and squeezed white. Dr. Balderas walks across his office, two glasses in his hands-the ice tinkling. “Drink this,” he says. He sits in a low, leather armchair across from her, places his drink on the arm, elbows on his knees, and leans forward. He recognizes fatigue-has seen it in himself, in his wife, when they were dealing with their teenagers. The dark circles under her eyes, a slumped weariness to her posture. There is no doubt in his mind that Consuela is exhausted.
“I can’t make you do this. You’ve already gone above and beyond your duty here. I know you’re tired.” Dr. Balderas takes a drink. Wonders how he’d react to his own pitch.
If you only knew what I’m feeling, she thinks. You’d yank this patient out of my care in a second. All I have to do is tell you, and no more stories. No more Columbus. Just say the words, Consuela. I’m in love with Columbus. Go on, say it.
Consuela teeters. The right thing to do is to walk away from Columbus. This is her opportunity.
“Look, whatever happened to him, these stories seem to be moving toward where we’ve been hoping he’d go. He wants to finish his story. I think it’s important that he finishes it.”
“Can’t he tell you, or some other nurse?”
“I’ve tried to get him to go there, but I really think it has to be you.”
“Why me? What if it doesn’t end?” Her voice is filled with a desperate frailty.
“The very first report I read from you, about Columbus ’s stories, you said Columbus said he was going to tell you the story of how he, Christopher Columbus, got his ships-the true story.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And, when he arrived, he asked you about the ships-ships in a harbor-and what happened?”
“You read my reports.” She makes a small, impressed smile.
“Carefully-some more than once.”
“Well, that’s certainly more than your predecessor.”
“Look, he’s not taking you to sea. I believe it will end when he gets his ships… but you’ve been there from the start. He started it with you. He believes he has to end it with you.”
“But-”
“Just let him finish it.”
On Saturday, Columbus asks her if she likes to hike. He has no idea Dr. Balderas has planned a little trip to the beach for Monday. Columbus doesn’t know that the doctor has already made his list of safe patients and is visiting with his mother who is in a seniors’ home in Córdoba.
“Do you backpack?” Columbus says, and Consuela is not sure what to make of the question.
“Backpack?” she says. “You mean carry your tent, bedding, and food into the wilderness?”
“That’s it,” he says. “Away from it all. No distractions. No work. No meetings. Nothing but nature and working the legs. The mountains are best because of the elevations. You get the vistas. Vistas are the payoff.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
He smiles, clears his throat. “Because…”
Because they left Beatriz and the boys in the village. Columbus and Juan have come to the mountain regions between Spain and France to fish for trout. They move up through pine forests, looking for the tiny hut where they will spend the night. Columbus leads, even though Juan has been there many times before. The deer trail they were following has disappeared, and Columbus stops at the edge of a cliff with a mountain vista. He removes his cap and drinks from the large, leather water sack. The view is of blue mountain ranges against mountain ranges, fading rows of peaks against darkening indigo sky.
“We’ll have to make a fire and stay here tonight,” Juan says. “It’s three leagues to the hut and getting too dark.”
“By my calculations, it should be just over there.” Columbus points into the forest with no hesitation.
“Actually, it’s there, at the base of that mountain.” He points across the valley in front of them.
“Are you sure, Juan?”
“Yes, Cristóbal, my friend, I have been there many times.”
“Someone has made an incorrect calculation then?”
Juan looks at Columbus. A pathetic man, standing there with cap in hand, tousled white hair. The past ten years of intense dreaming have come with a price, Juan thinks, and Columbus has paid with part of his sanity. Nurturing a dream requires a great deal of energy, and this is a big dream. He might be losing his mind. But Juan 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.”
“Cristóbal, 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.
“Have you moved from the spot where you slept?” It’s Juan’s voice again. Columbus looks down toward his feet and can barely see them.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I can barely see the ground.”
“Well, don’t move. The cliff is not far. And-”
“Juan? Juan?”
“I’m here. I think you’re in front of me. Say something.”
“This is stupid. I’m going to move up this ridge,” Columbus says.
“Which direction is up? Where is the cliff?”
Columbus looks around at the white haze. “These are good questions,” he says. “So we wait then.”
“Yes. I think that would be wise.”
Columbus begins to feel tightness in his chest. He wants to run for the light and open air. A hopeless desire for blue sky grows in him. His eyes squint into the blankness for a direction. Then the scream pushes up from his gut to his brain. It explodes into his feet. Run! it says. Run! Get the hell out of this whiteness! Columbus begins to run in the direction he’s facing.
“Don’t move!” Juan screams. But Columbus runs smack into him and knocks him over the edge of the cliff.
Before he sits up, Columbus sees blue sky, feels a cool mountain breeze on his face, and hears a faint “Help, help, Columbus.”
He pokes his head over the edge of the cliff and sees Juan dangling by his sword belt from the root of a tree. “Juan?”
“Cristóbal, lower some of that rope, quickly. What have you been doing up there all morning?”
“What happened?”
“Just lower the rope and pull me up. Please.”
When they are seated on the cliff’s edge, passing a bota of wine between them, Columbus looks at Juan and smiles.
“How did you fall off the cliff?”
Juan takes a good gulp of wine. Winces. Touches his head delicately. Looks at his friend.
“I guess I panicked and took a wrong step.” One more little incident like this and I could be dead, Juan thinks. This is the man who wants to drag all of humanity to their destiny across uncharted water? Who wants to create a new passage to India, and the lands of Marco Polo? This is the man who still has to convince men to follow him on his journey, a queen and a king to trust him? I should begin praying now and not quit until the day I die and still there would not be enough prayer.
A true friend, Columbus is thinking. Juan has lied kindly twice already to spare my feelings. This is a man worthy of much love. Here is the greater man of the two of us.
“I think perhaps it was I who panicked and knocked you over,” he says.
“No, Cristóbal, it was-”
“Juan, you did no such thing. Let’s eat.”
Behind them, the distance of ten men, the sound of a rock falling. The skittering sound of it down a steep slope.
“Did you hear that, Juan?”
Juan pulls slowly on the hilt of his sword. Draws it out and stands up. “Yes.”
“There’s my problem,” Columbus says, not noticing Juan has drawn his sword. “That rock back there is my greatest problem.”
“A rock, Cristóbal?”
“My biggest worry.”
“A rock-”
“That rock is the one true challenge of this entire adventure.”
Juan keeps his eyes and ears focused on the direction of the rock sound. “Perhaps we should eat something. I have some dried meat.” He twists and rustles in his pack behind him.
“You think I am crazy sometimes.”
Juan wants to scream, Yes! Yes, you are many, many times crazy. You are beyond crazy tenfold. Goofy, insane, ridiculous, a fool with no equal! But he remembers the dream of simply wanting to set sail and find out what’s there, regardless of the dangers. He can well understand this. He knows this desire.
“You have great pressures and hardships,” Juan says.
“All my pressures and any hardships are made small by my friends, by Beatriz and you, and Isabella and…” He encloses the end of his thought inside himself.
Columbus drinks from the skin. Passes it to Juan, who also drinks.
“Oh, getting the ships and men and supplies and finally embarking is challenge enough. Convincing ninety men that it’s perfectly safe to sail out past the point of no return, and then to sail beyond the point of going back safely. This is also a challenge.
“We will discover what there is to discover. This I am sure of. But to simply discover is not a discovery. Like the rock back there. It falls whether there is anybody to notice it or not.” He looks hard at Juan’s face. “We must make it back and shout the discovery to anyone who can hear. We must bring back news of the falling rock. We must prove the falling rock exists. Then, and only then, is our discovery complete.”
“Our discovery?”
“You are coming along, are you not?”
“I have no ocean skills. No experience. I don’t know.”
“Bring your paints and record what you see. Better, record what you feel.”