Thomas Trofimuk - Waiting For Columbus  

Thanks to Hilary McMahon at Westwood Creative Artists, who was my first reader, and who responded to my semi-neurotic, exuberant e-mails with such kindness and compassion. Thanks also to Natasha Daneman and Chris Casuccio at Westwood, and to my editors, Lara Hinchberger at McClelland & Stewart, Alison Callahan at Doubleday, and Charlotte Greig at Picador, for understanding the book, loving the book, and helping to make it better.

Thank you to Dr. Anthony S. Joyce, director of the psychotherapy research and evaluation unit, Department of Psychiatry, University of Alberta, who with a couple of preliminary e-mails helped identify and solidify some of the psychiatric pathologies presented in this book.

Thanks to Dr. Leah Fowler (CF), who read an early draft of this book and whose comments reshaped its tone and texture; Elena Ray for her words on wounds; Cara Winsor Hehir for her consultation on Newfoundland; Wayne Silver for his advice and consultations, over much wine, on Arabic; Roberta for her help with the sweetness of Sevilla; Gail Sidonie Sobat and Geoff McMaster for their warm hospitality, sustaining laughter, and constant support; Dean Baltesson, my friend in life; Terence Harding for his steady encouragement; Laurie Greenwood, who has been such a lovely, warm wind of support; and Mark Kozub, Randall Edwards, Michael Gravel, Gordon McRae, and all my Raving Poets comrades in verse.

Thanks to Donya Peroff, whom I have never met, but whose edits on a previous manuscript taught me so much about writing, and to Marc Ct, who made that happen.

Thanks also to John and Anna, at Miette Hot Springs Resort (Anna, for your exquisite Greek coffee). For me, there is no better place on this planet to write.

To Cindy-Lou, who holds the kite string while I flitter about the sky. In your most frail gestures are things which enclose me, still.

And to Marie Mackenzie for making me pinkie swear, a lot.

While this is not a historical novel, much of what goes on in this book is based on what we know, or what we think we know, about Christopher Columbus.

Books and academic papers on Christopher Columbus, or with references to Columbus, that I read over the past five years and that may have influenced this novel include The Mysterious History of Columbus: An Exploration of the Man, the Myth, the Legacy, by John Noble Wilford; A World Lit Only by Fire: The Medieval Mind and the Renaissance: Portrait of an Age, by William Manchester; and The Hospital of Innocents: Humane Treatment of the Mentally Ill in Spain, 14091512, by Emilio J. Dominguez, in the Bulletin of the Menninger Clinic. I also was probably influenced, to a small extent, by watching Ridley Scotts movie 1492: Conquest of Paradise. References to saints all came from www.holyspiritinteractive.net.

I owe a debt of gratitude to The Tao of Steve for Father Paulos rant on women.

Sevilla Institute for the Mentally Ill

Sevilla, Spain

The passage from freedom to incarceration is never an easy one. The passage from an unacknowledged, untested sanity to a diagnosed insanity is equally problematic. The first time Nurse Consuela Emma Lopez entered his world, it was with nervousnesswith the trepidation of a sparrow pecking the ground a few meters in front of a perfectly motionless cat. He was immobile on a bed in the admitting area, restrained and drugged. Hed arrived at the institute kicking and screaming.

Consuela heard the shouting, wondered who it was and what it was that had him so upset. She could have written this off as just another ugly and loud admittance in a long string of ugly and loud admittances. But the sound of someone in pain or distress always gets through to her heart. The sound of this mans voice caused her to pause, to look up from her work and ache a little. The timbre of this particular voice vibrated in her. She cared, immediately. This is not something she likes about herself. Not that theres anything wrong with caring. Its a good quality for a nurse. Its just that she wishes she were tougher, more thick-skinned.

Consuela almost tiptoes into the roomsilently but not so timidly as to suggest she is uncomfortable in the admitting room. The lights have been dimmed and a curtain drawn around his bed. Theyve drugged him, she thinks, and theyre waiting for the drugs to kick in. She peeks through a slit in the curtain. Its difficult to say how old he is but she would guess thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight, despite the graying-verging-on-white hair. He has a kind, narrow face but hes obviously been through something, some sort of trying experience, an ordeal of some kind. There are bags under his eyes, and there are scratchessome deeper than othersacross his forehead. His jaw has been bandaged.

Consuela finds his chart hanging on the far wall. She flips it open and finds an exercise in ambiguity. Scant details about where he was found. The words Strait of Gibraltar and Palos. No name. A notation on the sedative hed been givena hefty dose of Rohypnol. And a number.

Nurses talk. They tell stories at coffee. Two hours earlier a black van had arrived and out climbed three members of the National Police Force with the new patient wedged between them. They delivered him, wrapped tightly in a straitjacket, to the admitting area. His clothes were bloodstained, his shirt ripped. Despite the restraints, he was wild. Hed broken the nose of one of the policemen with a lurching head butt to the face. Theyd said something about his name being Bolivar and that hed been found in the Strait of Gibraltar. In the strait? a nurse asks. Surely you mean near the strait? The policeman looked at her with dehumanizing, flat disdain, signed the papers that were thrust toward him, dropped the pen on the counter, and departed quickly. It seemed that the transport and handoff of this patient had been a trying experience for these men. They were glad to be rid of him. Consuela saw them as they were leavingremembers thinking they were very serious, severeif theyd had clowns in both pockets of their trousers, they wouldnt have smiled. They reminded her of her ex. The black, stiff uniforms. Those intensely earnest faces. The type that follow orders unquestioningly.

When Bolivar opens his eyes two days later, he is calm and seems rational. Hes restrained in the bed and there is still one policeman outside in the hallwayjust in case. The guard sits straight in a wooden chair to the left of the door. He checks identification badges of everyone who enters, makes a note on his clipboard. This is Consuelas fifth time in, and the guard barely looks at her.

Qu da es ste? Por favor. The new patient stares at Consuela. His voice is demanding, almost commanding. Its a voice that is perhaps used to giving orders. His head is lifted and hes trying to see what it is thats keeping him down in the bed.

Qu?

Qu da es ste? What day is it?

It is Sunday, Consuela says.

Sunday? What date? He pulls at his wrist restraints, still checking.

Sunday, the fourth day of April.

April? You mean August. Where am I? He flexes against the ankle restraints.

Sevilla.

How did I get here? What happened to me?

You were brought here She stops. What exactly can she tell him? Shes not sure.

I was in Palos. It all went sideways. There were two girls. Are they all right? Everything went horribly wrong But his voice trails off as if he is slowly finding the answers to his own questions.