Waiting for Columbus - Rilegato

Trofimuk, Thomas

3,38

1.317 valutazioni di Goodreads

Rilegato

ISBN 10: 0385529139 ISBN 13: 9780385529136

Casa editrice: Doubleday, 2009

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A delirious mental patient claiming to be the legendary explorer Christopher Columbus captures the attention of Nurse Consuela, who endeavors to make sense of his fantastical tales about how he really obtained three ships from Spanish royalty and the events that led to his disconnect from reality.

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L'autore:

Thomas Trofimuk is a writer, editor, and communications consultant. He lives in Edmonton, Alberta, with his wife and daughter.

Estratto. � Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

Chapter One
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 nervousness--with 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. He'd 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 man's 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 there's anything wrong with caring. It's a good quality for a nurse. It's just that she wishes she were tougher, more thick�skinned.
Consuela almost tiptoes into the room--silently 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. They've drugged him, she thinks, and they're waiting for the drugs to kick in. She peeks through a slit in the curtain. It's 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 he's obviously been through something, some sort of trying experience, an ordeal of some kind. There are bags under his eyes, and there are scratches--some deeper than others--across 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 he'd been given--a 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. He'd broken the nose of one of the policemen with a lurching head butt to the face. They'd said something about his name being Bolivar and that he'd 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 leaving--remembers thinking they were very serious, severe--if they'd had clowns in both pockets of their trousers, they wouldn't 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. He's restrained in the bed and there is still one policeman outside in the hallway--just 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 Consuela's fifth time in, and the guard barely looks at her.
"Que dia es este? Por favor." The new patient stares at Consuela. His voice is demanding, almost commanding. It's a voice that is perhaps used to giving orders. His head is lifted and he's trying to see what it is that's keeping him down in the bed.
"Que?"
"Que dia es este? 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? She's 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.
"I was in Palos. I remember broken glass. People shouting. The ships were in the harbor." He stops. He looks at her with such expectant eyes. "And?" he says. "And?"
What did this man want? And what? What is he looking for? What was he expecting to hear? Consuela shrugs and looks at him hopefully, looking for help.
"Why am I tied to this bed? I'm perfectly fine. My ships, though. Have they . . . have they sailed?" He's irritated. Yanks at the wrist ties.
"Ships?" She's thinking she should probably not say any more. There ought to be doctors here. The psychologists at this asylum are some of the best in the world. In the institution's lengthy history, they'd had people from all over Europe as patients--even a couple of kings and a few wayward princesses called this place home for brief periods of time. This is one of the first asylums in the world to actually attempt to help the mentally ill--to get at the root cause of an illness. When it first opened, �so-�called treatments in other parts of Europe were still muddled in the casting out of devils or burning people or drowning them as witches--remarkably final and fatal cures--when the Sevilla Institute was actually caring for the mentally ill. This place, this hospital of innocents, had been a relatively safe haven for many, many years.
"I'll get a doctor," Consuela says, turning.
"Wait."
She stops.
"Get me a phone," he snaps. "I want to make a call."
"Pardon?"
"A phone, damnit. Look, I am Columbus. Christopher Columbus. I know the queen, the queen and the king. They can vouch for me. I am to lead three ships across the Western Sea. We've got a deal, damnit! Just get them on the phone."
Whoa, she thinks. Consuela can hear the earnest certainty of his voice. He believes what he's saying. "You want to fall off the edge of the Earth?" Consuela is performing her own little experiment. "You want to die?"
"You don't believe that. Nobody but a simpleton would believe that old wives' tale. Try not to underestimate my intelligence and I'll do the same for you."
"I'll let Dr. Fuentes know you're awake."
"Yes, let your doctor know that I'm hungry, and I have to piss, and I'm not crazy."
She shuts the door--the click echoes in the stone hallway. Consuela walks past the admitting desk and around the corner to Dr. Fuentes's office. She knocks on his door. Waits. Knocks again.
The door squeaks open, slowly. "Yes. What is it?" He says this with the proclivity of someone who has been doing something frustrating and this intrusion is the icing on the annoyance cake. Dr. Fuentes is a tall, �clean-�shaven man who is a fastidious bureaucrat. He's just been appointed chief of staff at the institute. Consuela is honestly uncertain about his skills as a doctor.
He holds the door open with one hand and fumbles with his lab�coat buttons with the other. The sound of a chair scraping on a tiled floor comes from inside the office.
"Patient 9214 is awake." Consuela decides she does not want to know who else is in there. Damnit! She hates stuff like this--office politics. Knowing the human contents of Doctor Fuentes's office would put her in the middle of something. There was no scraping sound, she tells herself. It was nothing. There was no scraping.
"Thank you." The doctor releases the door but catches it immediately. "Wait. Is he still sedated?" She nods. Fair enough. There was no way to know for sure if this new patient was going to explode again or if he was done.
* * *
Consuela wakes up at her usual time, thinking about this patient who wanted her to call a king and queen who've been dead for nearly five hundred years, on a telephone. She's intrigued. Regardless of his ranting, she liked the color of his voice. It sounded like burnt sienna, and at the bottom, the color and texture of fine sand.
She does not work today, and so she grinds the coffee beans, boils water, and makes a leisurely French press. She pushes the kitchen window open and is immediately aware of the difference in the quality of air. It never really cooled off overnight. The air�conditioning in her flat is now at cross�purposes with this open window. The warm, dry air pushes up against the cool, forced air of her apartment.
She's been moving around her apartment, waiting for sunrise on the Guadalquivir. This riverside flat has been her home for six years and sunrise is one of the benefits. She loves her mornings with the fine, dusty�orange color inching its way up her walls. This apartment came with a wall of bookshelves in the living room, which Consuela had no problem filling. She added two more stand�alone shelves in her bedroom. She pauses this morning in front of a row of her to�read books--books she's bought because of a review, a mention in another book, or a recommendation, or because the cover spoke to her. She pauses at Calvino's Invisible Cities. She runs her finger down the spine of Riddley Walker. She tilts a book called Tropisms and the Age of Suspicion by Nathalie Sarraute as if to slide it off the shelf--this was a recent addition, found in a bookstore in Madrid, bottom of a pile, hideously ugly cover but there was something about the title. She eventually picks Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita. But decides mornings are not for starting novels. She takes the Bulgakov into her bedroom--places it on the bedside table.
In the kitchen, she opens the newspaper and immediately ...

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