by Mary Morris
She had an exhibit of her mother’s heads once in New York. She didn’t tell her mother, of course. One critic called them “fascinating.” Another said they were “disturbingly obsessive.” But her mother learned of the exhibit. She went to see it and that evening Rachel received a call. “What is wrong with you?” her mother said. After that Rachel gave up on the heads. She switched to hands. She doesn’t know why. Hands to touch you, love you, slap you. Not only her mother’s. Random hands. She’s not sure if this was a step in the right direction.
Rachel slumps onto the wooden chair near her desk. She has no idea where to start. Perhaps she should begin by putting things away. But if she puts them away, it will mean she has to start something new.
* * *
She makes her way back to the house, slipping through the sliding doors. She’s about to head to the kitchen to start dinner, but from the living room comes the familiar gasping sound, and she walks in in time to see Davie throwing up all over himself. Jeremy is shouting, “Mom, Mom, Davie’s sick.” She grabs a towel, races over to her five-year-old son. In an instant she takes in the scene. Jeremy is eating Cheetos and Davie must have eaten some. “Did you feed him Cheetos?” she yells at Jeremy.
“I didn’t. He took some when I wasn’t looking.” She glares at Jeremy. “You know you’re supposed to be more careful.” She’s wrapping Davie up in the towel. “Is that true, sweetheart? Did you take some Cheetos?” But Davie is gasping, about to heave again. “Come on, pumpkin,” she says, “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s going to take care of you. Let’s get you into a nice warm bath.” In that swift way that only mothers can manage, Rachel slips off his filthy T-shirt and pants, tosses them into the laundry-room sink, then carries her naked, whimpering child into the bathroom where she puts both of the spigots on full blast.
She lifts Davie up and is about to settle him into the water when she feels the steam rising and Davie starts to squirm out of her arms. She jerks him away from the water that laps at his feet. “On my god. That’s hot,” she says. “That’s very hot.” As she reaches down, her fingers are seared. The water is scalding. She turns off the hot water altogether and just lets the cold run, then tests it again, burning her fingers.
The cold water is boiling hot as well. She turns off the cold and turns on the hot, thinking that the pipes have gotten switched, but it too is boiling. “What the hell?” Rachel reaches for a towel that she dampens and then lets it cool. Gently she swabs Davie down. “No water, no tubby, no rubber ducky,” she says, soothingly to her child. There is no cold water coming through the pipes.
Then Rachel fills the tub with hot water and closes the door. She will bathe them when the water cools. She plunks the boys in front of a cartoon and puts on a jacket over her stretch pants and T-shirt. “I’ll be back in five minutes.” She points a finger in their faces. “Do not move.” The night is cooler after the storm and there is a breeze as she stomps across the dirt road. She rings Lorca’s buzzer. It sounds more like a warning than a welcome. When no one answers, she buzzes again. A disembodied voice comes over the intercom. “Who is this?”
“It’s your neighbor. From across the way.”
There is a buzz and the gate opens. Rachel walks into the Spanish-style courtyard where a pickup truck and an SUV are parked. She walks up the gravel drive to the front porch. At last some lights come on. She hears the clomp of boots as someone comes to the door.
When the door opens a looming man with chiseled features stands before her. “What is it?” the man says.
“I’m your neighbor, Rachel Rothstein.” He stares down at her. “I live over there.” She points into the blackness. “We share the well.” Rachel peers in behind him. She wants to get a glimpse of this house and now she can see his famous paintings on the walls, his ceramics on the glass tables, the carpets made from his designs on the floor.
“Yes,” the man’s voice is slow and she can hear his annoyance. People don’t come ringing Julio Lorca’s buzzer. Nathan has warned her to be careful about the well. He can take their rights away in a flash.
“Well, my son is sick. Actually he’s allergic. To milk.” The man just stares. “He threw up. And when I tried to bathe him…” She watches his features harden. He hates her. There is no doubt. He has just met her and already he hates her. He hates her because she is a newcomer, and she will always be a newcomer. And in the end what business does she have encroaching on his land. “Anyway there’s no cold water coming through the pipes.” He glares at her. “I think the men when they were working on the well…they must have clogged the cold-water pipes or something.”
Julio Lorca stares down and Rachel feels herself growing very small. Smaller than she’s ever been. She is a beetle, a bug that he can crush with his cowboy boot. “And what do you want me to do about it?” he says.
She glances up at the sky. Overhead the moon is a narrow crescent, a sliver. Like a scythe. Something you can use to slit a throat. “Fix it,” Rachel says. Then she turns on her heels and walks back across the dirt road.
CHAPTER SIX
DEAD RECKONING—1492
Since the voyage began Luis has slept on the deck. He can’t bear to stay below among the ripe odors of men, the stench of piss and shit and rotting meat and musty potatoes, and the rats nibbling at his toes. He can’t drift off listening to the groans of men who touch themselves, or worse one another, in that dark, fetid hold. He prefers the wind and the blackness, the lull of the sea. He longs for the body of his wife, her smooth curves, her voluptuous breasts. The sea seems to mimic what he is missing the most. He makes love to it in his dreams.
This evening Luis’s eyes are on the Admiral of the Ocean Sea. It seems as if Columbus has decided to forgo sleep. All night he paces. Or pauses by the railing, staring at the sky. He listens to the wind. Columbus can close his eyes and tell the direction from which it is coming. He calls the winds by their names as if they are his friends. Tramontane, Ostro, Sirocco, Gregale. He charts their course with the magnetic compass that his men do not trust. They don’t believe that it will guide anyone to China.
From beneath the rigging Luis observes him. Back and forth the Admiral moves like a bear in a cage. Once more he crosses the stern castle, tilting his head. He eyes the sails as they take the wind. With his nocturlabe he measures the distance between the stars. Something is troubling the Admiral tonight. Even in the darkness Luis notes the worry on his face. Columbus does not know that he has miscalculated his direction by thousands of miles. Or that a continent and an ocean lie between him and his goal. In fact he will never know. At least he will never admit that he has been wrong. He resumes his pacing.
If Columbus sleeps at all, he dreams of silkworms spinning their cocoons. He envisions bolts of shiny green and crimson that he will bring to his king and queen. He dreams of palaces with a thousand rooms, women stretched out on couches to greet him. He sniffs the wild rhubarb growing in the mountains of Tangut and sees the cranes that fly over Changa-nor. He walks into the Forbidden City where he will enter hidden chambers, walls within walls, of the Lord of Lords, Sovereign of the Tartars. Kublai Khan will greet him with spices and silks, gems and gold. It does not occur to Columbus that the Great Khan is long dead, his empire in ruins. Or that he is leading his men not to Cathay but to islands of naked souls who have nothing to offer except parrots and mangoes and the human skulls in which they store their keepsakes.
When he does go to his cabin, it is rarely to sleep. It is to write in his log where almost each entry begins, “We continue west.” When he is not writing, he is rereading the voyages of Marco Polo. He reads it over and over again, making careful notes in the margins. He looks for any hints of where he will find what he is searching for. He has to prove that his mission has value. He will find the gold and new trade routes that will make Spain the greatest empire that ever ruled. Never mind that Marco Polo told his story from a prison cell in Pisa to a romance writer from France who wrote the story as he saw fit. Never mind that Marco Po
lo never mentions eating with chopsticks or drinking tea, and some doubt that he’s ever been to China at all. Columbus has based his journey on a fiction of a fiction, one that happened more than two centuries before he set sail.
Still he has memorized the passageways that lead to the private chambers where the treasures of the Great Khan are kept. Others that lead to the harem where he will find the slaves and concubines. Columbus doesn’t care that Marco Polo writes of these rooms only from the rumors he heard whispered in the game parks and corridors of the palace. Only those closest to the Great Khan are allowed into the inner sanctums. It is in these chambers that the coffers of diamonds and pearls and gold overflow. Rooms filled to the ceiling with treasures no ordinary man has ever laid eyes on.
But Columbus is certain that he will. He spent more than a decade trying to convince the kings and queens of Europe to finance his voyage. He has presented his endless sea maps and charts and theories and drawings. He brought with him his knowledge of navigation and astronomy and mathematics. He explained his theories based on the almanac of Rabbi Abraham Zacuto. He spoke before the bewildered monarchs and archbishops and dukes who shook their heads. Few could understand the theories he spouted. King João of Portugal believed him to be deluded. Others have been even less kind. Behind Columbus’s back they laughed at his demands. He will be Admiral of the Ocean Sea. He will claim every island as his own and for his king and queen. He will make his sovereigns, and himself, rich.
His men don’t know their Admiral’s dreams. If they did, they would turn around. As it is they are filled with fear. Most have never sailed away from the coast without land in sight. They don’t know how to navigate without seeing the shore. The Unknown terrifies them. Their Admiral’s night roaming disturbs them. His endless gazing at the stars. Among themselves they wonder if he hasn’t lost his mind. Or perhaps never had it to begin with. At night when darkness falls, they can’t bring themselves to look at the sea. Blackness surrounds them. During the days if clouds gather or if they are becalmed, they are even more afraid. They fear that the monsters of the deep will rise up, dragging them down. Meanwhile Columbus scans the sea. He searches the distance for a flickering light, though unsure of what that might be. A candle, a torch, an illusion. Even the most seasoned sailors see things that are not there.
Tonight something displeases the Admiral. Is it the direction of the wind, the movement of the waters? And though Luis is not schooled in the ways of the ocean, even he can see that above them, one by one, the stars are being obliterated. The rocking of the ship is different from before, more insistent, as if someone is knocking. Instead the blackest of clouds hover above them and in the morning the sun does not rise. The Admiral never takes his eyes off the water. The steely gray ocean begins to roil. The men have never seen such darkness after dawn. Suddenly the sea seems to rise all around them. Caverns of water engulf them. The storm is as fierce as any of the seamen have ever known. They tie down the sails and let the waves carry the ship along. The bones of their boats ache. The wood stretches and creaks as if it will break in two.
Around Luis sailors are ill, vomiting into the sea, or they have gone below where the stench of their puke will hang thick in the air for days. Luis’s stomach clutches as well as he stares into the black maelstrom. It is a darkness he has never known. He must get below or he will be tossed from the deck into that abyss, but he cannot let go of the rigging. He calculates in his head. It is ten paces to the hatch and he is about to make a run for it when a wave crashes over his head. All he can do is hold on for dear life or else he will slide over the railing and disappear into that roiling broth of a sea. He is certain they will go down. As the waves descend upon him, he does not think of the Christian prayers he has been made to memorize. He shouts the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, into the eye of the storm instead.
Above the roar of the water, the darkness replies. “Shalom aleichem” is what he hears. “And peace be with you,” Luis echoes back. But he believes that death is upon him and his ears are deceiving him. The voice seems to come from the sky, from the clouds. Has he heard the voice of God? Looking up, he expects to see the face of the Eternal shining through the storm, beckoning him, welcoming him. Instead he sees a sailor with olive skin and jet-black hair, strapped to the mainmast, peering down like an angel. Then another wave crashes upon them and Luis is sure that all is lost.
The storm continues to pummel them for days, until at last the black clouds break and blue sky, streaked with sunlight, appears. Sailors fall on their knees, crossing themselves. It is a miracle that they have survived. Luis turns away, pretending not to see as they thank God for getting them through this storm and pray that the next will be less fierce. That night the sea calms and the stars and moon return. Luis makes his bed on the sodden deck, but he is sure that he will not rest again on this voyage. He lies with his head against the rigging, watching as the stars return. It is then that he sees a shadow above him and a man stoops down.
“Are we both running away?” The man speaks to him in Ladino and Luis recognizes the voice from the storm.
“Who are you?” Luis asks. He stares into the face of a dark-skinned man with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, a gold stud in his ear, and piercing green eyes. He is not tall, but he is strong with muscles that ripple down his arms and legs. For a moment Luis thinks that this must be one of the dangerous corsairs he’s heard about, pirates who will ambush a boat, take every sword and piece of silver they can get their hands on, and then slit every throat even as brave men kneel, pleading for their lives. But if he is a pirate, he speaks the language of the Jews.
“Perhaps we are running to something.” The man takes out a flask of wine and offers it to Luis.
“I was the translator for the governor of Murcia,” Luis explains, taking a swig and handing it back.
Rodrigo de Triano is the son of a Moor, famous for his ceramics, and a Sephardic woman, known for her beauty. He is a man with olive skin and a fine, straight nose. “They hired me because I have a sharp eye,” Rodrigo says. It is his task to remain on the mast and search for land. “Whoever finds land first,” Rodrigo tells Luis, “is promised eight ounces of gold and a fine silk coat.”
Luis laughs. “What will you do with that silk coat?”
“I will sell it and use it to help bring my wife and children to join me.” He hands the flask back to Luis. “Unless we all die first.”
Luis shakes his head. “I think our Admiral knows what he is doing. He is a fine navigator. Though he may be deranged. His mission is too grand.”
“Yes, I think he may be mad as well. I left my little girls.” Rodrigo shrugs.
Luis nods. “I left two boys, one just born.” His eyes begin to well up. He glances at his finger that last caressed the lips of his young sons. He wants to sniff the sweat of their brows, their child smells, once more. And his wife with her sultry eyes and the ripe odor of a woman about her. He breathes deeply. He will find a way to see them again. If he could, he would turn back now.
A shooting star blazes across the sky and the men smile. To both it means good luck. As the night grows cold and the moon begins to rise, they sip their wine. They speak in whispers of their children and their wives. They speak of the homes they have left, but soon these talks fill them with longing so they speak of what is around them. The height of the waves, the pewter gray of the sea, and the multitude of stars.
Rodrigo, who has been trained in celestial navigation, is less afraid of the vastness. He can name the planets and the stars. Betelgeuse, Polaris, Algol. Polaris is the one star that does not move. If you find it, you can set your course. With his finger he helps Luis connect the dots. He knows the constellations as well. The Plough, the Seven Sisters, the Hunter and his bow. Cassiopeia, the vain queen. Luis follows Rodrigo’s finger and soon the patterns make sense to him as well. Suddenly there is less to fear. It is as if they are reading an ancient text, their fingers moving together across
the page.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LOWRIDERS—1992
Roberto Torres is crouched in his garage, trying not to die of the fumes. Then he races outside to take a gulp of air. Roberto has developed a way to hold his breath like a pearl diver when he is airbrushing. Sometimes he holds it for two or even three minutes at a time. He dashes outside only when he is about to faint. Now he stands, panting. He knows he should be wearing a mask, but when he wears a mask, he feels as if someone is trying to suffocate him. And Roberto’s worst fear is being suffocated. He’d rather die in a fire than with a pillow pressed against his face.
The phone inside his trailer starts to ring, but he doesn’t make a move to answer. He’s got a few beers in him and some weed too. He’s not sure he’d make much sense on the other end of a conversation. Roberto tries to decide who it might be. It could be MG, his ex, always wanting something—usually money he doesn’t have. Or his probation officer, who checks in with him more than is mandated by the courts. His probation officer would like nothing more than to fling him back behind bars where he’d spent time after some drunk driving episodes. It could be Miguel, but the kid hardly ever calls. Or maybe a customer. But it’s not a good moment to talk to a customer.
What can be so important that it can’t wait an hour or so? Besides he wants to finish his work. But what if it’s his sister, finally returning one of his calls? He doubts it. She never calls him back. She never answers his letters. Of course he can hardly blame her, but still he keeps trying. Finally the machine picks up. Vaguely he hears someone leaving a message. Roberto’s arms start to itch, but he tries not to scratch. His eczema is festering and the fumes make it worse. He is glad that Miguel isn’t plagued by this same condition. It seems to skip a generation. Maybe it makes him stronger—fighting this constant urge to scratch at his flesh. He takes a deep breath. In a moment he’ll plunge back into the garage. For now he lights a cigarette and leans against an outside wall. His old El Camino sits rusting in the yard. He’s got this idea of fixing it up for Miguel for his birthday in the fall. He keeps putting it off. The truck needs a lot of work. And he’s got to handle his paying jobs first.
