Waiting For Columbus (36 page)

“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.