Dr. Balderas has decided that a day-trip to the ocean might be just the thing for about a dozen of his patients-the safe ones. It’s about sixty miles to Punta Umbria and its nearest beach, Playa La Mata Negra. Dr. Balderas remembers these beaches from his youth. His parents used to go to this particular beach every summer for two weeks, at least in the years when they weren’t fighting. He remembers the golden sand, crystal-clear water, and a particular silky quality to the air. How could this not be therapeutic?
On Friday afternoon, he sits down at his favorite café with a double espresso and makes a list. He’s been through the files. Pope Cecelia and Arturo make the list. Cecelia has been experiencing spells of lucidity in which she remembers her life, her name, her family. Arturo, well, he’s just slow. Not a bad thing on a sandy ocean beach. Columbus makes the list despite his escape attempts. Dr. Balderas is impressed with the effort he’s been seeing from Columbus. In his opinion, Columbus wants to get better, wants to get to the bottom of his delusion. That perceived honest effort goes a long way with Dr. Balderas. Mercedes is not on the list. The beach is a dirty place. And there’s nowhere for her to wash her hands. He chuckles to himself when he thinks about Mercedes. The audacity of a kleptomaniac with a hand-washing compulsion is too much. On Monday morning he gets his nurses to gather a group of thirteen peaceful patients, five orderlies, and three nurses, including Consuela, and by midmorning they’re headed to the beach.
The temperature is a very comfortable twenty-two degrees Celsius when they arrive. Not a cloud in the sky. The orderlies set up four large umbrellas, and the nurses spread blankets. Pope Cecelia demands a chair so she is higher than everyone else. An orderly finds a beach chair and places it in the shade. She’s wearing her usual three robes. Columbus is wearing an institute-assigned maroon robe, and he immediately goes down to the edge of the water and walks into the skittering surf. The water is warm but also refreshing. It jumps and spits at the bottom of his robe, tickles his calves. He goes into the water up to his knees, looks out to sea, breathes. Observes the waves. Breathes some more. He loves the smell of the ocean. The sounds. The shushing waves meeting land. The awkward gull calls. For a few minutes, he is happy standing up to his knees in the ocean, the gulls hovering carefully above the offshore waves. At the same time, he realizes there are two orderlies, one up the beach and one down the beach, watching him. There is no need to turn around and look. He feels them. He can smell them.
Alberto, a patient who as far as Columbus can see is perfectly normal except that he is openly homosexual, throws a red ball the size of a large orange toward Columbus. Shouts, “Heads up, Columbus!”
He turns and snatches the ball out of the air, an almost automatic gesture, then throws it back to Alberto. Columbus walks back to the umbrella encampment and sits down. He begins to wait.
Elena comes over and sits beside him. Regardless of the fact that she does not speak, he has enjoyed having her around. She has a good energy. It costs him nothing to be with her-she’s not a taker of energy.
“What do you see out there, Columbus?” Elena says. A creaky half whisper interwoven with the sound of the waves feathering the shore.
Columbus wants to turn toward her. He wants to ask her what she means. He wants to be sure he just heard her say something. But all these options would ruin it-erode the magic of Elena speaking. He decides to trust himself. Of course she spoke.
“Freedom,” he says softly.
“If I can help, let me know,” she says, even more withdrawn than before.
Columbus turns toward her. Finds her face, her eyes. Her eyes are hazel. She pushes a few strands of hair away from her face-in behind her ear.
“Thank you, Elena.”
“It’s what wounds you that you love,” she says.
“I don’t know my wounds,” he says.
“You will,” she says.
Two of the orderlies begin to set up folding tables for a midday meal. Columbus gets up and offers his assistance, which they accept. At least this way they know exactly where he is.
After lunch, he and Alberto go for a stroll along the beach. Columbus nods to Benito, who looks more weighed down than usual, seems more resigned to the fact that life is hard. Benito says nothing but follows, leaving them plenty of room.
“You really are crazy if you think you can do this,” Alberto says.
“Perhaps. But will you help me?”
“Of course. It is a small thing you ask. I hope you make it.”
They walk a bit more. Alberto stops to pick up a starfish and throws it back into the ocean. They both watch as it is swallowed by the incoming waves. “What exactly are you in here for, Alberto?” Columbus says.
“I like men.”
“That’s it?”
“That fact alone, which I do not deny, makes me crazy. I am insane because I am not physically attracted to women. There are a few other things, small problems with coping. I don’t handle stress well.”
“How long have you been in here?”
He closes his eyes. And then softly: “A year and a half.”
It’s a simple plan. Around two o’clock, Alberto kneels at Pope Cecelia’s side and whispers that Elena has been spreading a rumor about her. “She’s been saying that you’re the Antichrist,” he says. Cecelia glares at Elena and Elena nods-confirms the alleged rumor. Cecelia goes completely ballistic. She splinters. She stands and, with strength one would not normally attribute to a woman of her age, she tosses her beach chair at the nearest food table, which collapses-spills the small loaves of bread, meat, cheese, and bottles of water into the sand. Condiments splatter across most of the patients. The collapsed table bangs into the other table and it teeters. Pope Cecelia lunges at Elena, attempts to grab her neck, wants to choke the lie out of this sinner. Elena holds out one of her long arms and keeps Cecelia at bay until the orderlies can stop her. James, who has narrow, scary eyes, has mustard spilled across his shirt and pants. He caws like a crow-raspy squawks. These caws come sporadically, surprising not only those around him but also James. He has no control whatsoever. He caws now as he attempts to get at the pope. He accidentally steps on Howard, who’s mostly deaf and had been sleeping on his back throughout the ruckus. Howard comes to, sits up, in a foul mood-wants to know why James has stepped on his arm.
“Fuck you, you satanic bitch! You white devil!” Cecelia shrieks, trying to displace the anger, which seems to be aimed at her.
“Why did you step on me, you bastard?”
“Look at my shirt! Look at my shirt! Look at my trousers!”
“It’s her! She’s the Antichrist! She’s the Antichrist!”
“Calm down, everybody. Calm down.” Dr. Balderas is holding a jar of mustard.
“I was sleeping! I was dreaming a beautiful fucking dream! Does anybody care that my dream was disturbed? I’ll never get that dream back!”
“Oh piss off, you minor twit.”
Nurse Tammy looks around the demented circle and tries to comprehend how something like this could happen so quickly. She looks like she’s about to lose control-like this is too much for her. Dr. Balderas hands her the jar of mustard, which she holds as if it’s the Holy Grail.
“This will never, never, never, never come out! You owe me for a new shirt. You must replace this shirt. This is silk!”
“I think my arm is broken!”
“I was dreaming! I was stepped on!”
Consuela’s holding the edge of one of the tables with one knee and a hand, trying to keep the remainder of the food and bottles from spilling onto the beach. “Cecelia!” she shouts. “Cecelia, Your Holiness, it’s all right. Everything is all right. Calm down. Calm down. We’ve called in the Vatican Guard.” Balderas is fiddling with the crumpled table legs, trying to get them to behave.
“Clam down. Clam down,” James says. “Cawk, Cawk! Cawk!”
Elena watches Columbus edge away from the cacophony. He looks back over his shoulder at her. Elena smiles encouragement. He nods his thanks. Consuela watches him, too. Columbus moves very slowly, almost gracefully, toward the water, drops his robe, and then naked, slips into the ocean. He’s a hundred feet out before she’s free of the table. He’s only a dot by the time everything has calmed down. She’s torn. Doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t want to lose him. Wants him to be free. Wants him to live. Wonders if he knows how to find her. Did they ever talk about where she lives? What if he dies out there? Where in the hell does he think he’s going anyway? Something freezes inside her. Does Columbus believe he can swim to India? Is that what he’s doing?
“I can get that out.” Everybody looks at Sonia, a black-haired woman in her mid-twenties. Everybody knows her story. She was raped-can’t stand to be touched by anybody. She looks at Consuela. “What? I can. I can get that stain out. You look funny. What’s the matter with you?”
“What do you mean, I look funny?” Consuela feels her face start to burn. Is she that transparent?
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nonsense.”
Sonia turns to James. “Give me that shirt. I’ll get that stain out.” He caws a couple of times but doesn’t move. “Give me your fucking shirt, I said. Now! Don’t touch me but give me your shirt!” James backs up but takes his shirt off and hands it to her, carefully dangling it in front of her.
“Thank you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Consuela can see one of the orderlies-is it Benito?-doing a head count. This is something they do every half hour on field trips. It’s the institute’s standing policy. Here it comes, she thinks.
“I count only twelve.”
“Do it again,” Dr. Balderas says. “Find out who’s missing.”
“Could that be,” Consuela says meekly to Dr. Balderas, pointing out to sea at a small black dot, “someone?”
“It’s Columbus,” Benito says.
“Well, there goes one of our innocents,” Consuela says.
“Fuck.” Dr. Balderas walks slowly toward the water. “How did no one see… Oh, forget it. He probably arranged that little fracas back there.” He sighs heavily. “We’re going to have to get him back. Ideas? Anyone?” The three of them stand at water’s edge, turn to one another with blank faces, and then they watch the small black dot get smaller and smaller.
There is nothing she can do. They’ve alerted the authorities. They’ve called the coast guard. They round up the remaining patients and head back to the institute. On the road, Consuela looks over at Benito, who is driving. He is alert and focused on the road. She leans her head against the window, feels the road’s vibration. She closes her eyes and drifts back to Columbus ’s last story. Was there a clue in that story? It’ll be dark soon and he’s out there in the strait. Was he trying to tell her about this with his last story?
Columbus and Beatriz and the boys, and Juan, have come to a small villa at Santa Isabel, near the Portuguese border. Columbus is sitting with Juan. “Look,” he says, “I’m sitting alone by the sea and crying. I do not know if I have been successful or not. I do not know if I have made my journey to the Indies or to Japan. In my dream, I do not know. I am alone on the beach, by the ocean, and I am crying.”
“Do you have this dream often?” Juan sips his coffee.
Columbus squints at the midmorning horizon. His eyes do not waver from this line.
Columbus does not look at Juan. He watches Diego and Fernando, who are playing on the beach. They’re safe. He and Juan have been sitting at the table since breakfast. Beatriz has just returned from a week in Huelva. She was with her sister, who gave birth to a baby girl, whom they have named Mary. The boys have let Beatriz sleep in. Travel is always an ordeal.
Juan thinks Columbus has the look of someone who has not slept. Heavy darkness under his eyes. He is a man who is driven. Eaten by something on the inside. Or better, the Western Sea draws him, pulls at him. It is as if there is something unseen across the sea pulling him constantly. Even his shoulders are not even-one is higher than the other.
Juan watches Diego down on the beach. The boy is playing a game with the waves as they touch Spain. He lets the waves chase him inland, and then runs hard after them as they wash back out to sea. Fernando is making a castle in the sand.
“Diego is a big boy,” Juan says.
“He just turned twelve.”
“He’s a good size for his age. They both look healthy, happy.” Juan watches Columbus ’s face. There is such a genuine pleasure in his face as he watches his boys. His eyes become soft with love.
“Fernando turns five next week. He’ll be five… he already reads better than his brother.” Columbus drifts. The sound of the ocean becomes obvious. He is adrift once again in the dream remnant that has traveled with him into consciousness.
“What is making you so sad in your dream?” Juan says.
Columbus ’s vision is fixed on the horizon, yet there appears to be no focus.
“Christopher?”
“Hmmm.”
“What is making you so sad in your dream?”
“My life. Life. I don’t know.” He opens his mouth to continue, decides against it, and then brings his eyes to wash over Juan. “It is as if life has a thickness, and in order just to live I must continually push my way through it. It is like water only thicker. Is it so for you, Juan?”
“No, life has no thickness for me.”
“For me, to stand still is to die. I must push forward in a direction or I will die. I do not know why.”
They are quiet. There is only the sound of the sea. Tears form and stream from Columbus ’s eyes. He seems not to notice. He continues his watch on the horizon.
“It is not the sadness of lost love, or of a single death, or of a dozen deaths,” Columbus says. “This is the sadness of something inevitably horrible. Something that has to happen but is too awful to think about.” He picks up his glass, looks at it, and carefully places it back down on the table. “I did this thing. In my dream, I did this horrible thing.”
“What did you do?”
“I ruined something,” he says. “It is the feeling I have.”
“What do you see in your dream?”
“That.” He points. “The sun. I see the sun rise on the Western Sea.”
“So you are on one of the Canary Islands, looking east?”
“No, it does not feel so. Not the Canaries.”
“Well then, you are in the Azores.”
“No, the land behind me is different.”
“You are not in Britain?”
“No, it is hot, Juan. It is hot and very green in the place of my dream. There are palm trees.”
“We have run out of places that we know of where you could sit on a beach and watch the sun rise over the Western Sea.”
“Have we?” Columbus says flatly.
“Are you certain of the direction you face?”
“I have told you. I face the east,” says Columbus, “to see the sun rise over the sea.”
“Not a lake?”
“It is an ocean.” His voice is deep and blunt.
Juan smiles. Picks up his glass. “There’s only one place you could be,” he says.
In the afternoon, Juan goes into town to pick up supplies. Beatriz and Columbus come back onto the patio and sit in the shade offered by half a dozen palm trees. The boys are coloring at the table. Columbus has downed three Heinekens in about half an hour. Beatriz is sipping her wine. The breeze off the ocean is kind and warm.
“There are days,” Columbus says, “when I am tired of the constant pushing, constant struggling. I know I am away too much, Beatriz. I know.”
“Why do you do it?” She is not judging.
“Navigating. Sailing. This is all I know. What else would I do?”
“Your boys need you. I need you. We believe in you. You can do anything.”
“Sailing is in my bones. My blood is home when I am at sea.”
“This is for you, Papa,” Fernando says. He hands his father a picture of a thin blue line between two clumps of green. In the middle of the blue line, there is a ship with enormous sails and a small stick man standing on the deck. Columbus does not need to ask what the picture represents. He knows. He picks the boy up and draws him to his chest. Hugs him. Kisses his cheek.
“Thank you, Fernando,” he whispers. “It’s beautiful.”
“Here, Papa,” Diego says, pushing his drawing across the table. “So you will find your way home after you are in China.”
“Thank you, Diego. I will use it.” He looks at the drawing, which is a simple representation of his hopes. He hopes it’s going to be as simple as this map makes it appear. China isn’t too far. The ocean isn’t so vast. “This is an excellent map,” he adds, and Diego beams.
“It’s not a map, Papa. Maps are for land. This is a chart. Charts are for oceans.”
Columbus is impressed. “I’m glad you know that.”
Columbus leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. He sneaks his fingers up to rub his eyes. “I’m doing this for all of you,” he says. The boys stop coloring. Beatriz nods slowly.
“I’m going to cut a deal with the king and queen that will make it so we never have to worry about money. It’s for all of us. I want you to understand that I love you. I would do anything for you. But I must do this.”
Beatriz blinks away tears, reaches her hand across the table and takes his. Fernando comes to his father and crawls into his lap, tries to get his little arms around Columbus ’s chest for a hug. Diego looks up from his coloring, nods his approval and his understanding toward his father.
The day seems to hold its breath for ten seconds.
Columbus stands. “Who’s up for a swim?”
The boys are ecstatic. They both jump up. Diego’s chair crashes to the patio floor.
“I’ll watch from here,” Beatriz says. “There are fresh towels just inside.”
“We don’t need towels, do we, boys? We’re men and men don’t need towels.”
“Ya,” Fernando says. “We’ll use sand.”
“Love ya, Mom,” Diego says, and he grabs a stack of towels from a storage compartment under the bench seat.
The boys are running past the palm trees and down the beach. Columbus is standing, watching them, his hand on Beatriz’s shoulder. She is looking up at him, her hand in his. It’s like he’s on a ship, looking out at the sea, she thinks. He moves her hand up to his mouth and kisses it gently. Then he is off, running full tilt after his boys, toward the ocean.
There is nothing but breathing, the ocean, and staying afloat. There is nothing but water, and breathing, and moving slowly away from Spain. There is nothing but the ocean, the lift and fall of the water, inhalation and exhalation, and the sky. Columbus begins to turn inside out. He feels suspended between the rising and falling water, and the vast sky. He is adrift between Spain and the north coast of Africa.
What the hell are you doing, exactly? Do you know? You can’t swim the entire ocean. Surely you know this. Of course you do; you’re not crazy. It’s just that this plan formed quickly and you only got to the escape part. The after-the-escape bits of your plan were for the most part unformed. But sometimes opportunities need to be acted upon-plan or no plan. It’s not a problem to stay afloat. You’re a strong swimmer. Sunset is an hour away. Perhaps you could swim a bit, drift a bit, alternate until dark, then get your bearings and find your way back to land by the stars. This is a good plan. The only sensible plan. But still, you keep pulling at the water. Pulling yourself farther and farther from land. You keep swimming. Perhaps some small part of you recognizes that the action of swimming is life. That small part of you wants to live. What if it clouds over and you can’t see the stars? Remember Tristan, adrift in a rudderless boat, adrift with only faith to guide his boat? But Tristan had a wound. Tristan was a hero, trying to save his people from being afflicted by his wound. He had a wound. You have no wound.
You continue to swim. Slow and steady strokes. You’re in no hurry. Darkness is coming. Starlight is coming. There are no clouds. Your ring feels like it could slip off. You try to remember to bend that finger. Beatriz would kill you if you lost the ring. You can lose your freedom, lose your mind, but not the ring. Not this ring. This ring binds you to Beatriz. You imagine the ring falling through water. So much water. So deep and dark. Does a ring fall in water? Or does it just sink? Oh for Christ’s sake, there is no falling once you are in water; everything that’s not buoyant, sinks.
Tristan had a wound. You’re not wounded. You’re no hero. You’re no Tristan.
You continue to pull at the water, to kick at the water. As darkness falls, you begin to remember names. A storm petrel appears in the water, seemingly out of nowhere. It startles you. You accidentally take a mouthful of ocean-the salt water causes you to gag and choke. The bird circles, stays close by. Hovers over the water a few feet away. You remember these dark birds are signs of bad things to come. Petrels are often found hiding in the lee of ships during storms. They’re warnings of approaching storms. Is there a storm coming?
The sky remains clear. Stars start to push through the membrane of night. Something big brushes your leg. Fear rises up from the depths of the ocean under you. A shark? A whale? Just a fish? You are suddenly and profoundly aware of your vulnerability. You can feel yourself starting to panic. You are a dangling morsel for anything big and hungry. Quick, shallow breaths. Your heartbeat racing. You try to slow your breathing-force yourself to calm down. You’ve no choice but to accept where you are, and to accept this vulnerability. You’re in desperate need of a distraction.
The stars-focus on the stars. There’s nothing you can do about this blackness but the stars are a different matter. “Hercules, Virgo, Leo, Libra,” you say out loud. “Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Cancer, Draco.”
You’re treading water now. Not swimming very much. Just floating. Moving with the current. A few sidestrokes, then treading water. Moving as little as possible to stay afloat. You remember a story your grandmother told you. About the constellations. Once upon a time, a long time ago, it began. Somewhere in the Basque region, two thieves robbed a man of two of his oxen. The man was angry about this and sent his servant, his maid, and his dog out to chase the thieves. Not much time had passed before the impatient man also went out to look. As punishment for his impatience, everyone in the story, including the man, is taken up into the sky. The first two stars in the cup of the dipper are the oxen, the other two stars are the two thieves; the handle of the dipper is comprised of the servant, the maid, and the master, who is the final star. The dog is the faint star, Alcor.
“Where is Alcor?” Can you remember your grandmother’s face, her name? All you can recall is the scent of cloves.
How could you forget your grandmother’s name? But you know a woman named Rashmi. A Hindu name. A name that means “ray of sunlight.” And you know the name Nusret. Nusret means “dangerous bear.”
Why would you know the meanings of these names?
You’re looking up at a panoply of stars. You’re adrift in the ocean. Adrift with no boat. Nothing between you and the color black. But is black a color or is it merely the absence of light? You had a black crayon when you were little. It was with other colored crayons. Therefore, black must be a color. Who is Nusret? Panoply is a funny word. Where did you find that word? One of your daughters? Do you have daughters? Not sons? And what about your wife? Look at the orgasm of stars. Can you find a star to guide you home, Columbus?
“Who said that?” These words are swallowed by the ocean.
Do you seriously think fish can talk? Maybe that petrel you saw earlier? But the bird is gone now. You’re adrift in your own head. And this blackness is impossible. This is like falling. Flying. The only sounds you have are your own breathing and the sound of your own body in water. Each small movement marked by its own unique sound.
Save your strength. You’re going to have to save yourself tonight. You’ll have to start to move in the right direction. You know how to navigate by the stars. Right? You’re on the doorstep to the Mediterranean. Your latitude is going to be about the same wherever you are. You know the Atlantic flows into the Mediterranean and at some point, if you manage to stay afloat, stay awake, not get eaten by something, you’re going to flow through the Strait of Gibraltar. Dead reckoning yourself is not possible. You have no compass. If you stop, if you stay right here, the current will carry you into the Mediterranean. Perhaps. You could stop swimming. Stay here. Drift. Stay right here.
Stay here, you said. Wait here. I’ll catch the guy. You shouted this over your shoulder, you did not even say good-bye. How could you? You were running after a thief. The guy snatched Rashmi’s bag. Rashmi’s bag. Her journal. Her beautiful poems. A journal filled with her poems. Money and passports, too, but her poems. Her poems about the rain, and the trees, and her children. Who were you talking to? Who did you want to wait? Catch what guy?
Rashmi. Rashmi and the girls. They’re waiting there on the platform.
What was that? Something touched your leg again.
You had to get Rashmi’s bag back. Those poems. You could only think about the loss of those poems. Rashmi was no good with a fountain pen, but she insisted on always using one. There were blobs of ink throughout her journal, but even these, somehow, she made beautiful. I have to slow down with these pens, she said. I am not so tempted to edit before I write. I must give myself permission to write badly. It is a messy joy.
Do you remember her eyes? Of course you do. They were blue. The color of the Mediterranean at 11 A.M. in mid-July. And her smile? The way the lines formed at the edge of her mouth when she smiled-more pronounced on the left than the right. And the freckles on her cheeks and the tops of her shoulders?
Chloe had her mother’s smile. Jane smiled with her eyes the best. They looked frightened when you ran off after Rashmi’s bag. It’s not as if you were being the hero. You loved Rashmi’s poems. That’s all. You loved her poems. You couldn’t know the future. Nobody can know the future.
Dark now. The stars brilliant and too many above you. You keep pulling at the current, which pulls you left. Is that east? Is that current pulling you toward the Mediterranean? You swim ahead and slightly right because there is land in front of you as well as behind. Morocco? Are you thinking about Morocco? Yes, the north coast of Africa. That would be a feat, wouldn’t it? Rashmi was wearing black pumps. Ridiculous for travel. But she would not wear anything else with her dress. You loved her feet. Not a fetish or anything. She had narrow, long feet. You remember trying to buy her hiking boots. Store after store. You eventually had to go online and order custom-made boots from Germany. They asked for the periphery of her feet, traced on two sheets of paper, which you faxed to Germany. The boots arrived a month later, a perfect fit. You could not bring yourself to throw the tracings away. Felt foolish about it. You hid Rashmi’s feet in a book about Michelangelo. There was an elongated elegance in these simple outlines of her feet, an odd perfection.
You must be hallucinating a wife and a family. And the smiles of these women-Rashmi and the girls. The train station and the man’s back running through the crowd. Glimpses of his back woven into the throng on the sidewalk. And you, catching up slowly. Gaining ground on the bag with no thought of what you’ll do if you do catch him. First, catch the bugger. That’s all you can think. Catch the bugger. You were indignant, angry.
Chloe is eleven. She’s taller than her sister even though she is two years younger. She has an incredible memory-near photographic. She can read a book and know its contents. She leaves her shoes right in the middle of the back entrance, any entranceway, and you’re always tripping over them. Chloe plays the cello.
Jane can’t remember her phone number half the time but God she can dance. She’s an artistically precocious thirteen-year-old. You remember asking her, when she was four, to dance a baby sparrow. Dance the sparrow, you said. What she did-her small birdlike movements ending with folded wings-moved you to tears. She goes to an art school in… you’re not sure where… in the city in which you live. Inside this hallucination. Ah, parents always believe their children are talented beyond belief. When others who have no vested interest come and draw your attention to your child’s talent, then perhaps it is something.
You don’t know what to do about your ring-the one on your ring finger-why don’t you call it a wedding ring? Because you never married Beatriz. The ring almost came off again. You’re afraid to take it off and try it on a different finger, in case you drop it. There is no drop. There is only sinking. You roll over onto your back, face up to the heavens. Your arms are numb. You’re having a hard time feeling your fingers. They tingle. You have to keep working. Keep moving so you warm up. Roll over, you idiot. Start swimming again. Swim or die. You’re hypothermic.
You count to one hundred. Rest for fifty. Swim another hundred. A steady sidestroke brings your arms back into focus. They hurt. At least you can feel them again. You continue to pull yourself through the water toward morning.
It was March, you were at El Pozo del Tío Raimundo station. Not yet the ides of March. They were waiting for you. Two blocks away, the guy looked over his shoulder again, saw you gaining on him, and dropped Rashmi’s bag. Completely out of breath, you picked up the bag and heard the storm. Was that thunder? But the sky is completely clear. There’s blue sky from horizon to horizon.
Their faces begin to fade. Rashmi’s face, Chloe’s face, Jane’s face-her bangs need trimming-become unfocused, withdrawn. Who are these people inside your reverie? Perhaps you are wounded. Maybe you and old Tristan have something in common. You walked back to the train station and found them, didn’t you? You came around that last corner and found them. Emergency crews had not yet arrived. There were no ambulances. Not yet. It was eerily quiet. Oh, there were sounds, it was just that it was quieter than one would expect.
Close your eyes. It makes no difference whether they are open or closed. The stars are not changing tonight. You’re not guiding yourself anywhere by starlight. This plan of finding your bearings by the stars was a bit thin on detail. As it turns out, it was just stupid. In the morning, if you don’t drift off into hypothermia, or sleep, or both, you’ll know the directions because the sun rises in the north. The sun rises in the north? That’s not right. You know this. You know where the sun rises. The sun rises in the east, sets in the south. Chloe stands on the left, then Jane and then Rashmi. Or was Rashmi in the middle? Rashmi looks a little shell-shocked. Somebody lifted her bag-grabbed it off her arm and bolted. The girls aren’t exactly sure what happened yet. The sun is low and behind them. It’s early. Stay here. I’ll be right back, you shout over your shoulder. You do not kiss them. You do not hug them. You’re going to get Rashmi’s bag back. Her poems inside the black notebook. Friends, who really did not understand her, had given her a pink notebook with substandard paper. Rashmi had tried to use it but the paper did not work well with her fountain pen. She went back to her Paris notebooks, which arrived three at a time every few months from France -simple, sturdy booklets, with Swedish paper.
Moonrise. Stars pull back. Give the moon room. Perhaps when you are dying, you are able to hallucinate the truth. You wish Rashmi was your wife, and Chloe and Jane your daughters. What a beautiful dream you’re having. You’d better keep swimming. Keep moving. There is Chloe playing her cello at Christmas. She’s playing “Silent Night.” Rashmi is humming along beside you. She can’t carry a tune, but she always tries. The acoustics in this room are phenomenal. A small echo adds body to the sound-forgives any imperfections. There’s a tree in the corner, a fir that brushes the ceiling. And there is Rashmi smiling. Her smile shatters you. The way she looks at you can only be described as loving. There is nothing else in that look, just that she loves you. Chloe and Jane are fussing with the tree, hanging the last of the ornaments. They’re dressed up. Chloe in a burgundy velvet gown that dips to her knees. She’s not wearing jeans, which is a minor miracle. Jane is wearing a simple black dress far too old for her age. You don’t want them to grow up too fast. She looks to be eighteen. Your own tears surprise you. You’re not sure what they’re attached to. You know for sure that tears are a completely useless addition to the ocean. Just keep going. A few more strokes and then you can rest for a while. Let the melody to “Silent Night” find you again. See Chloe’s dark hair-pulled back into a ponytail, a utilitarian gesture. Her hair has always been beautiful but she doesn’t care. Her lack of caring translates into a cool panache. Her friends follow her lead when it comes to dressing, and again, she doesn’t care or notice. It’s a hell of a thing to have daughters. You are surrounded by these women. You wish this was your reality, this beautiful dream. You could love these young women and Rashmi. Perhaps you already love these women. What’s the test for love? Is there a litmus test? Go back to the girls standing in front of the tree. They’re putting the last of the ornaments on, hanging them on their preferred branches. The light patterns on the wall are a lush combination of shadow and color. Do you remember snow? Was there snow this Christmas? Turn around and look out the window. Why can’t you turn around? You’re afraid if you turn away from your girls, they’ll be gone when you turn back. You want to keep them in sight. You’re going to stay right there inside that moment. You will not run away. You will not turn away. Stay here. Wait here. You are well past tired. You want to sleep. Something pokes you in the ribs-a softness that intrudes but does not seem threatening. You hear the clicking laughter of a dolphin, several dolphins. What is a group of dolphins? A herd? A flock? A pack? The dolphins want me to be awake, you think. That’s funny. If I stay awake, I can stay afloat. If I can stay afloat, perhaps I will live. What does it matter? Falling through water is not so bad.
You’re not sure if your arms are moving. You don’t know if your ring is still on your finger. You have no idea. You haven’t had any feeling in your fingers for quite a while. You’re breathing. That’s good. You know you’re breathing. Each breath is a raspy hiss. Somebody is telling you to be quiet. Shhhh, they whisper. Shhhhhh. And you want to be quiet. You want to be quiet more than anything. Shhhh. You hear waves. The sound of waves arriving somewhere. You can’t feel… anything. A group of dolphins is a pod. All is calm, all is bright. All is calm, all is bright.
She doesn’t know whether to read it or not. It feels like an invasion of privacy. This journal was not meant for her. He’d have told her about it. It was tucked under his pillow. The orderly who changed his bedding brought it to her. Consuela flips through the journal quickly, not landing on anything specific. This isn’t reading, she thinks, it’s looking. There are more than a dozen entries. She decides she has to read this journal, and if they find Columbus, she will slip this booklet back where it was found. She wants in, goddamnit. She deserves to be included. She flips the journal open at random and begins to read.
The girl is stopped in midair, on her way to landing in the pool. The water sparkles beneath her feet. The sky is brilliant blue-dazzling, unadulterated. Scant seconds before this frozen image, there would have been the sound of slapping feet on the wet pool deck. She has such a joyous expression on her face. She is thrilled to be jumping into this water. This girl wears her hair in pigtails. Even though there is joy on her face, something in her eyes says she’s not 100 percent sure about hitting the water. This apprehension is not enough to make her pause. She smiles and trusts it’ll be all right, and jumps anyway.
This picture, obviously captured by someone standing in the pool, also catches an older, taller girl, standing on the pool deck waiting. She stands on the pale-green tile beside a wooden deck chair. The girl is wearing a one-piece pink swimsuit and she entertains no uneasiness. She will jump a bit higher and will land farther out into the water than her sister. Towels piled on the chair back. Perhaps she was supposed to be jumping along with the jumping girl, but no, she wants all the picture-taker’s attention. She waits to say, Hey, look at me. Slap, slap, slap, slap, and she will be airborne above the water, landing gleefully with a splash, hoping the lifeguard doesn’t bust her for running on the deck. Hoping whoever is there watching, sees her jump. There are a few other people reclined in deck chairs along the pool’s edge. He can tell by the way they lounge, they are very relaxed, and it is very likely a hot day. He knows these girls. He knows their hearts. He knows them at a level beyond knowing. But he cannot say their names. No matter how much he wants the scene to move beyond frozen, it will not budge. One girl hangs in mid-flight, her face happy and innocent, and the other girl waits on the deck-waits for her turn to show how well she can jump and how big a splash she can make. The sun is hot. The sky is clear. But there is no splash landing. No laughing-giggling-coming-up-for-air. No screaming: Let’s do it again! Let’s do it again! Nothing moves.