be better, or
the people
, perhaps
his duties
. They would see. Fine, the mayor allowed. Weâll alert President Pezet.
Very good.
But you should know that he is in Tarapoto, the City of Palms.
And?
The mayor explained that a dispatch would take time, as would reading it, the trip, his arrival ⦠time.
Weâll wait here, Pinzón answered, his eyebrows doing the pileof-coal thing again.
The mayor acquiesced but suggested it might not be necessary to sleep here, on the sofas. It would be better to return to the ships. No matter, no matter, Pinzón repeated.
Then he asked if the palm trees in Tarapoto were really that pretty. They must be since the city was nicknamed for them. Thatâs something. What exactly is it about them? The mayor said that they were truly magnificent, tall and strong. The wind rustled their leaves, mimicking the sound of the sea, a rough sea, a storm. Oh, said Pinzón. Yes, said the mayor, a real squall. When you close your eyes, there are more storms in Tarapoto than in any port city in the Americas. Oh, Pinzón said again, you havenât seen Salamanca. I was referring to the Americas, the mayor said, the Americas. Youâre talking about Europe. But you havenât seen Salamanca, Pinzón said.
They were quiet. They waited.
The captains, who had lost their way, joined the threesome. They didnât know how they got lost, but they did know how they got found. A trumpet player had guided them, a good Samaritan. He played the
Marcha Real
rather well. They had listened to be polite.
Hours passed; the mayor excused himself at the end of one of them.
Gentlemen, my family.
The sun was setting when they decided to head back to the ships. They were hungry and tired. Their eyes, which periodically counted the ceiling tiles, spent longer and longer hidden behind eyelids; pins and needles invaded their hands, which tapped sword hilts to keep them at bay. They grew pensive. The smile of a woman left behind came to them, or fantasies of the woman they had never met, the One, who would surely come along, otherwise there was the fear of dying alone. It must have been the place that conjuredsuch mythical creatures. So empty and calm it summoned wild thoughts. The silence, combined with the effects of the journey, the things they had seen, too much space. It mustnât be easy living in the Americas all the time, and it being the only place you could roam. Did they resign themselves to never seeing it all? Did they ever get used to their own insignificance, to the incredible vastness that reduces men to nothing?
No.
Letâs go, Pinzón said. He was feeling suffocated; this would take some time. Pezet wanted to say goodbye to his palm trees and his turkey first.
On the way back, the admiral asked Simón not to mention this retreat. You should say that we waited, not sleeping; thatâs more realistic, more determined, more Spanish. And our resolve is worthy of the fabrication. There is no point in exhausting ourselves right away. We will exhaust ourselves when fatigue is no longer an option.
Pezet never came. His tour was bringing him glory, and Juanita was weakening. He also loved the palm trees of Tarapoto. So he sent an envoy, Manuel Ignacio de Vivanco, the general. The stylish one.
The meeting took place a few days after the fleetâs arrival, in the office of the mayor, who, for the cause, had graciously agreed to slip out. Pinzón asked the captains to wait in the entrance hall. He preferred the nobility of the duel, a steely face-to-face confrontation; it was a question of honour. So they went back to the ceiling tiles they had started counting the other day, counting the floor tiles when those ran out, and contemplating their lives.
But not you, Pinzón said.
Not me? Simón asked.
Well, yes, you.
The admiral wanted him in the meeting; Simón would dispassionately record what each one said and would give each a copy of the interview. A
the people
, perhaps
his duties
. They would see. Fine, the mayor allowed. Weâll alert President Pezet.
Very good.
But you should know that he is in Tarapoto, the City of Palms.
And?
The mayor explained that a dispatch would take time, as would reading it, the trip, his arrival ⦠time.
Weâll wait here, Pinzón answered, his eyebrows doing the pileof-coal thing again.
The mayor acquiesced but suggested it might not be necessary to sleep here, on the sofas. It would be better to return to the ships. No matter, no matter, Pinzón repeated.
Then he asked if the palm trees in Tarapoto were really that pretty. They must be since the city was nicknamed for them. Thatâs something. What exactly is it about them? The mayor said that they were truly magnificent, tall and strong. The wind rustled their leaves, mimicking the sound of the sea, a rough sea, a storm. Oh, said Pinzón. Yes, said the mayor, a real squall. When you close your eyes, there are more storms in Tarapoto than in any port city in the Americas. Oh, Pinzón said again, you havenât seen Salamanca. I was referring to the Americas, the mayor said, the Americas. Youâre talking about Europe. But you havenât seen Salamanca, Pinzón said.
They were quiet. They waited.
The captains, who had lost their way, joined the threesome. They didnât know how they got lost, but they did know how they got found. A trumpet player had guided them, a good Samaritan. He played the
Marcha Real
rather well. They had listened to be polite.
Hours passed; the mayor excused himself at the end of one of them.
Gentlemen, my family.
The sun was setting when they decided to head back to the ships. They were hungry and tired. Their eyes, which periodically counted the ceiling tiles, spent longer and longer hidden behind eyelids; pins and needles invaded their hands, which tapped sword hilts to keep them at bay. They grew pensive. The smile of a woman left behind came to them, or fantasies of the woman they had never met, the One, who would surely come along, otherwise there was the fear of dying alone. It must have been the place that conjuredsuch mythical creatures. So empty and calm it summoned wild thoughts. The silence, combined with the effects of the journey, the things they had seen, too much space. It mustnât be easy living in the Americas all the time, and it being the only place you could roam. Did they resign themselves to never seeing it all? Did they ever get used to their own insignificance, to the incredible vastness that reduces men to nothing?
No.
Letâs go, Pinzón said. He was feeling suffocated; this would take some time. Pezet wanted to say goodbye to his palm trees and his turkey first.
On the way back, the admiral asked Simón not to mention this retreat. You should say that we waited, not sleeping; thatâs more realistic, more determined, more Spanish. And our resolve is worthy of the fabrication. There is no point in exhausting ourselves right away. We will exhaust ourselves when fatigue is no longer an option.
Pezet never came. His tour was bringing him glory, and Juanita was weakening. He also loved the palm trees of Tarapoto. So he sent an envoy, Manuel Ignacio de Vivanco, the general. The stylish one.
The meeting took place a few days after the fleetâs arrival, in the office of the mayor, who, for the cause, had graciously agreed to slip out. Pinzón asked the captains to wait in the entrance hall. He preferred the nobility of the duel, a steely face-to-face confrontation; it was a question of honour. So they went back to the ceiling tiles they had started counting the other day, counting the floor tiles when those ran out, and contemplating their lives.
But not you, Pinzón said.
Not me? Simón asked.
Well, yes, you.
The admiral wanted him in the meeting; Simón would dispassionately record what each one said and would give each a copy of the interview. A
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