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Authors: Thomas Trofimuk
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Western Sea. It would be unfair to her. While he is a brilliant navigator, sailing is dangerous. And there is much fleshy union to be made.”
“Fleshy union?”
“Yes, the lovemaking.”
“Are you aware that you are talking about yourself in the third person again?”
“Am I?”
“It’s as if you are standing outside yourself, observing. Why do you do that?”
“I don’t know. It just comes out of me. It’s easier to pretend I am a character inside a story.”
“So, Columbus … you, are a lover.”
“Of women, and the bullfights.”
“And Beatriz was all right with the other women in your life?”
“Beatriz had the most wonderful scent.” Columbus closes his eyes inside a memory.
“She smelled?”
“Yes. Down there.”
Consuela looks down quickly. And then up at him again. “What do you mean, she smelled?”
“It was spicy and sweet. Cinnamon and rain. Completely distinctive. I have never experienced anything like it. It was heavenly. It must have been associated with her diet. It was extraordinary.”
Nurse Consuela hasn’t blushed since … well, she can’t recall the last time she blushed.
CHAPTER
F IVE
On the morning of the liturgical feast of Saint Pammachius, Columbus
is in a lawn chair, overlooking the garden. He’s wearing his standard, institute-issue maroon robe and gray socks. He looks like any number of other patients wandering around in the courtyards and gardens surrounding the institute. He’s speaking to Consuela over his left shoulder. “I have to tell you, people used to roll up on the beach on a regular basis—well, chewed-up bodies anyway. When I lived in Palos we’d find them all the time—stinking and rotten. Even the foulest of birds or animals wouldn’t touch them.”
“I’m sorry?” She really was not in the mood for a story. She was unfocused—half watching the ducks in a pond, half keeping an eye on him. She’d rather be curled up in bed reading.
“Dead people. On the beach. The result of shipwrecks.” Consuela feels out of sorts this morning. She couldn’t sleep—flipped from side to side throughout the night. She had been searching the Internet until 1 A.M., looking for information on Christopher Columbus, staggering through the maze of information. She wanted to know if there really was a Beatriz. And she found Beatriz in the fifteenth century—a woman Columbus never married. This got her wonderingabout a doppelganger Beatriz in the twenty-first century. If there is one, why doesn’t she visit? Wouldn’t she be worried? Wouldn’t she file a missing person report at some point? And why doesn’t Columbus talk about his kids? Wouldn’t a father wonder where his children were? Then it was 3:30 A.M.—time to get up, get ready for work. The bread was moldy but the bagels in the fridge were fine. She sliced and toasted a bagel—ate it with Nocilla. Her tea was excellent, but she was alone. She woke up alone, made breakfast alone, showered alone, and ate alone.
“Why are you here, Columbus?” she says slowly, carefully. Apart from telling ridiculous stories about Vikings with maps and bloody charts, she thinks.
“I beg your pardon?” Columbus looks back over his shoulder at her.
“Why are you here? You show up here looking like you’ve had a bath in blood and claiming you’re Christopher Columbus. Now I’m not saying you’re not. But do me a favor. Look at your hands.”
Columbus looks down into his palms.
“No, the other way. Good. What do you see?”
He wants to say
hands
but he has the good sense to know she’s after something else. “A ring,” he says. “A silver or white-gold band with a rope design.”
“And what finger is it on?”
“On my ring finger. It’s a symbol of commitment.” As if he’s almost surprised.
“And you are committed to …?”
“Beatriz. Columbus is—I am, committed to Beatriz.”
“You’re telling me that’s not a wedding ring? Goddamnit! Who are
you
married to? You! Who’s
“Fleshy union?”
“Yes, the lovemaking.”
“Are you aware that you are talking about yourself in the third person again?”
“Am I?”
“It’s as if you are standing outside yourself, observing. Why do you do that?”
“I don’t know. It just comes out of me. It’s easier to pretend I am a character inside a story.”
“So, Columbus … you, are a lover.”
“Of women, and the bullfights.”
“And Beatriz was all right with the other women in your life?”
“Beatriz had the most wonderful scent.” Columbus closes his eyes inside a memory.
“She smelled?”
“Yes. Down there.”
Consuela looks down quickly. And then up at him again. “What do you mean, she smelled?”
“It was spicy and sweet. Cinnamon and rain. Completely distinctive. I have never experienced anything like it. It was heavenly. It must have been associated with her diet. It was extraordinary.”
Nurse Consuela hasn’t blushed since … well, she can’t recall the last time she blushed.
CHAPTER
F IVE
On the morning of the liturgical feast of Saint Pammachius, Columbus
is in a lawn chair, overlooking the garden. He’s wearing his standard, institute-issue maroon robe and gray socks. He looks like any number of other patients wandering around in the courtyards and gardens surrounding the institute. He’s speaking to Consuela over his left shoulder. “I have to tell you, people used to roll up on the beach on a regular basis—well, chewed-up bodies anyway. When I lived in Palos we’d find them all the time—stinking and rotten. Even the foulest of birds or animals wouldn’t touch them.”
“I’m sorry?” She really was not in the mood for a story. She was unfocused—half watching the ducks in a pond, half keeping an eye on him. She’d rather be curled up in bed reading.
“Dead people. On the beach. The result of shipwrecks.” Consuela feels out of sorts this morning. She couldn’t sleep—flipped from side to side throughout the night. She had been searching the Internet until 1 A.M., looking for information on Christopher Columbus, staggering through the maze of information. She wanted to know if there really was a Beatriz. And she found Beatriz in the fifteenth century—a woman Columbus never married. This got her wonderingabout a doppelganger Beatriz in the twenty-first century. If there is one, why doesn’t she visit? Wouldn’t she be worried? Wouldn’t she file a missing person report at some point? And why doesn’t Columbus talk about his kids? Wouldn’t a father wonder where his children were? Then it was 3:30 A.M.—time to get up, get ready for work. The bread was moldy but the bagels in the fridge were fine. She sliced and toasted a bagel—ate it with Nocilla. Her tea was excellent, but she was alone. She woke up alone, made breakfast alone, showered alone, and ate alone.
“Why are you here, Columbus?” she says slowly, carefully. Apart from telling ridiculous stories about Vikings with maps and bloody charts, she thinks.
“I beg your pardon?” Columbus looks back over his shoulder at her.
“Why are you here? You show up here looking like you’ve had a bath in blood and claiming you’re Christopher Columbus. Now I’m not saying you’re not. But do me a favor. Look at your hands.”
Columbus looks down into his palms.
“No, the other way. Good. What do you see?”
He wants to say
hands
but he has the good sense to know she’s after something else. “A ring,” he says. “A silver or white-gold band with a rope design.”
“And what finger is it on?”
“On my ring finger. It’s a symbol of commitment.” As if he’s almost surprised.
“And you are committed to …?”
“Beatriz. Columbus is—I am, committed to Beatriz.”
“You’re telling me that’s not a wedding ring? Goddamnit! Who are
you
married to? You! Who’s
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