by Mary Morris
When the fresh water is gone, they pray for rain, but the storms come whipping out of nowhere, slashing their sails and then leaving them becalmed. Some men lose their minds. One keeps pointing to the horizon, muttering “land, land” until they put him in chains below. Others are sick all the time. The lower decks stink of vomit and shit, of sweat and piss. Rodrigo is certain that none of them will survive, and Luis is beginning to think he is right.
The wine is making them sleepy. “If we survive,” Luis says, “let us find a safe place in the New World. We will bring our wives and children.”
Rodrigo nods. “I have been thinking the same thing.”
The two men hold out their hands and shake. They crawl into their bedding. Rodrigo drifts off. He sleeps the deep sleep of a child, but Luis barely shuts his eyes.
“I have made a friend,” he will write to Catalina the next day. He does not dare write “another Jew.” Instead he writes, “Perhaps we will all break bread together someday.” She will understand. Luis finds comfort in the idea that they will bring their families to the Indies. They will make a new world for the Muslims who have been forced to relinquish Allah and the Jews who have been forced to convert, the ones who in secret still keep up the dead Law of Moses. He does not mention the cabin boy to Catalina. He cannot tell her that he wants to bring him home as well.
They continue west. Over the next few days there is no cloud cover and the sun bears down. Some strip off their tunics until the sun blisters their backs. They cannot bear the ropes of the hammocks at night. Luis seeks shelter in the Admiral’s quarters, but Rodrigo stays on the mast until his lips are open sores, his face burned and cracked. There are no birds. From time to time a fish leaps into the air, and then it is swallowed again by the sea. A school of dolphins follows the boat and the men harpoon one. Though the flesh is tough and fatty, they still eat it.
Luis records all that he sees. Some of the men he does not trust. Nino, the helmsman of the Santa María, is a drunk who sneaks sips from the kegs at all times of the night when he thinks no one is looking. Luis watches him during his sleepless nights on deck. And he does not trust the boatswain either. At times Luis fears for his life. All the crew knows that he and Rodrigo are of the Hebrew race. Despite the fact that he writes letters for them, he has heard himself referred to simply as “the Jew.”
Almost all of the men speak ill of the Admiral. They do not believe that he navigates by the sun and stars. They do not trust the magnetic compass that he uses from time to time. Some say that he navigates using the dark arts as well. They are foolish and superstitious—and mutinous—men. But Luis is fortunate in that they believe him to be harmless. Mostly they ignore him. They say whatever they want when he is near. They think he isn’t listening as they plot to take command of the ships away from the Admiral and sail back the way they have come.
* * *
In the morning a bird appears. A large white creature with feet as red as blood soars overhead. It seems too enormous to fly. The sailors believe it is a vision. The bird perches on the mast, grasping hold with its bright red talons. Its feathers are as white as the Admiral’s hair. The sailors look up and rejoice. Later they will think of it as the bird with blood on its hands.
That afternoon a log drifts by. It has a fresh green shoot growing from its trunk. Land is near. They keep their eyes glued to the horizon, searching for a dark rim that will signal land or a flicker of light. But then for days nothing. Just the endless rolling sea. Then at night from the stern castle something catches Columbus’s eye. A flicker of light. A promise of land. It is close to midnight when he turns to his quartermaster and asks, “Do you see something there on the horizon?” Both Columbus and the quartermaster know that the sea can play tricks on you. It can convince you that you are sailing west when you are really sailing east. It can make you think that land is in sight.
To humor the Admiral the quartermaster replies, “I do, sir. I see a fire.”
They don’t see it again that night. But at dawn a great cry is heard from the crow’s nest. Rodrigo has spotted a dark hump like a whale on the horizon. The faintest hint of land. Soon it grows larger. A piece of what looks like a hand-carved boat floats past. That evening they sail into a cove of turquoise waters with sandy beaches. On the island, palm trees sway in the wind. They anchor the Pinta, the Niña, and the Santa María, all three of which have survived the crossing. And not a single man has been lost. And they have discovered a western route to China. They have reached the shores of the Great Khan.
To celebrate they open kegs of red wine. They drink and dip their toes into the warm, salty sea. They dive off the boat and swim to shore, then lie exhausted in the sand. Some kneel, blessing the earth. Others who are ill from the relentless motion of the sea begin to heal themselves here. But the Admiral remains wary. He doesn’t like the swirls in the water, the breaks in the waves. He fears the reefs and rocks that lie hidden. He will not allow his ships closer to the shore.
As night falls, Rodrigo goes to claim his prize. Columbus is in his cabin writing in his log and smiles at Rodrigo when he enters. But as Rodrigo explains that he had come to claim the silk coat and gold coins, Columbus balks. “I spotted land myself last night,” the Admiral says, returning to his log. “I did not shout out, but you can ask the quartermaster. He will tell you.” Columbus claims the silk coat and gold coins for himself, while Rodrigo leaves the cabin seething and determined to get off this boat as soon as he can.
CHAPTER TEN
CARAVAN—1992
As she walks the streets of Tangier, Elena Torres wants to change her shoes. The streets are packed with spice merchants and men grilling meat and women selling flip-flops. The air is redolent with jasmine, cinnamon, and smoking lamb. Moroccan men in pale pink and spearmint djellabas sip sweetened tea in nearby cafés. Elena and Derek had sailed that morning through the Strait of Gibraltar to arrive in Tangier. But all Elena can think about is her feet.
She had been a dancer for years and her feet have buckled and been distorted in the ways that she imagines the bound feet of Chinese women must have. And then there were the various injuries until the spin that shattered her ankle, effectively ending her career. The only solution she has found is shoes—different pairs of shoes. She needs to change them all the time. When she travels, she never worries about what shirts and jackets to pack. It is all about the shoes. She isn’t someone who can get by with one or two pairs. She needs six. Or more.
She should probably be in sneakers, not sandals. It seems as if they’ve been walking for hours. Perhaps in circles, not getting any closer to their destination—a restaurant on the outskirts of the medina. Her bunions ache. With each step she feels the plantar fasciitis, collapsed arches, arthritis of the toes, along with the shaky, shattered ankle. It is early evening, but the medina is still packed. Outside of a social club, men sip tea and play dominoes. A donkey, burdened with bushels of grain, pushes past, almost pinning Elena against the wall. There is a sea of people—women in head scarves and caftans. Shopkeepers beckon. Food stands selling souvlaki wrapped in pita. The smells are rich and meaty and they both want to eat and drink, then go to sleep.
They try to follow the map, but each street seems to wind its way into another like the roots of a tree. They are greeted and then harassed by “May I help you?” and “Can I take you somewhere?” They head down long dark alleys. Men in djellabas stand like sentries at the entrance to one street. A group of boys tells them that they are going down a dead end, and then laugh when they walk the other way.
“Let’s turn back,” Derek says. “We aren’t getting anywhere.”
Elena has her eyes in the guidebook. “But turn back how? We have no idea where we are.” Indeed they seem caught inside this labyrinth and wonder how they’ll ever find their way again. They continue through the souk and its maze of dark, winding streets, many of which like a coiled snake seem to lead back to where they began. Other routes take them deeper into the souk, and they all look mo
re or less the same. Soon it is apparent that they have no idea where they are.
Perhaps they should have stayed in the hotel and ordered food. Can they even do that in Tangier? Elena doesn’t know. They would have tumbled into each other’s arms, made love, and fallen asleep. As Elena stands, hungry and tired in the middle of the souk, she longs for Derek’s arms. His touch has always softened her, made her more real. It is a touch she finds she cannot do without. It has kept them together. Now she squeezes his arm. “I’m going in here.”
Guidebook in hand, Elena steps into a souvenir shop. It is filled with miniature hand-carved camels, hookahs of all sizes, fezzes, teacups from which to drink sweetened tea, wrist and ankle baubles, scarves of all colors. Derek assumes she wants to ask directions, but instead she heads to the postcard rack. A blue-eyed bedouin on a camel stares out at her from one. Another is of sand dunes, another an oasis.
Turning the rack slowly, she looks at pictures of the Strait of Gibraltar, the North African coast, pyramids of spice in a marketplace. Then she comes to the fortress. It is a stone building, the color of sand, looming above the sea. It is taken from the ramparts of the old fortress from which Tangier defended itself against invaders. The soldiers could see boats coming all the way from Spain. Miguel will like the fortress. It is one of the first things she does on any trip. She buys Miguel his card. She doesn’t want to forget to mail it. It is such a little thing, but it has become her habit everywhere she goes.
She planned to buy only the one card and the stamp to go with it, but the owner of the shop looks at her with dark, disgruntled eyes. She picks out a blue silk scarf and a set of silver ankle bells. Later she will dance with these in their room. Elena’s travels are always about dance. In Spain she studied flamenco in the Gypsy caves of Granada. She has done belly dancing in Istanbul. She traveled to northern India to learn the dances of the nomadic bards of Jaipur. She brings home scarves and bells, castanets and ankle bracelets made of tortoiseshell. She teaches young dancers to twirl in long silk scarves, to gyrate to the tingle of the bells. In Morocco she hopes to find the Berber dancers of Fès. Tangier is only a stopover.
The shopkeeper smiles as he tallies her purchases on a sheet of thin white paper, and then holds it up so she can see. Elena pays him. She puts the stamp on the postcard and scribbles something the way she always does. When the shopkeeper offers to mail it for her, she does not refuse, though she wonders if it will ever reach Miguel. But then she wonders if any of the cards she sends ever reach him.
As they are leaving, Elena points to the guidebook. “Caravan?” she asks. The man nods and leads them into the alleyway. In French he tells them to go straight until they come to some stairs, climb them, and turn right. The restaurant will be down a side street. As they set out, Elena is already having difficulty remembering. She is one of those people who asks directions but never really listens to the answer. The passageway is barely shoulder width, and it is pitch-black. Ahead a shadow moves. A ghostlike man in a black djellaba walks toward them. They have to turn sideways for him to pass.
They come to the stairs as the man said they would. The steps are cobbled, and uneven. All along them merchants sell scarves, slippers, ceramics. Elena’s ankles are weak and her balance isn’t good. There is no railing so she clasps Derek’s arm. Women wearing tiny slippers race around, grabbing the latest bargain. It is difficult to believe that they don’t fall. A group of young men rush down the steps, shoving people aside. Elena clutches the pouch that contains her wallet and IDs.
At the top of the steps they reach a large square. Shopkeepers are closing their stands of trinkets and dresses, spices in bright orange, yellow, and red pyramids. Walking along the square, they peer down the narrow side streets. They are ready to eat anywhere, even from the street, when they come to a building with a set of stairs and a small light. Below the light a blue hand-painted sign reads “Caravan.”
They climb the two flights and find themselves in a bright blue room where the clientele recline on pillows and sit on the floor. There is only one other couple seated near the back. “It’s still early,” Derek whispers.
Elena nods. Neither of them likes eating in empty restaurants. “I know. But I’m starved. Let’s eat anyway.”
The host seats them beside a raised platform where, as soon as they sit down, four musicians in red-and-white gowns and red fezzes appear. The lights dim. Before they even open their menus, the musicians begin to play. With the rattle of a tambourine and shaking of a gourd, an eerie melody begins. Despite herself, Elena’s feet start to move. She can’t control herself, but still she frowns. Elena is sure that this is only for the benefit of tourists—something she’s spent years avoiding. She is proud that she has never been to the Eiffel Tower or Prague Castle. All those places are ruined as far as Elena is concerned. She has managed to live in New York and avoid the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. In fact for years she thought it was the Umpire State Building and had to do with baseball.
Elena first went to New York when she was fourteen and moved there for good when she was seventeen. Despite her injured ankle, she never left. What Elena likes about New York is that most people have no past. It is as if they are the product of spontaneous regeneration—popping up from the soil without parents, siblings, hometowns, or the bad choices or rumors that followed them, the bullies who badgered them, and the lovers who betrayed them. Elena walked away from the world of drunken Hispanic boys with their lowriders, pregnant girlfriends, and debts, but in New York nobody knew any of that. No one knows who you are or where you’ve been. Everyone is in exile. It is a city of aliases and alibis. A city devoid of background checks. You are born the day you arrive.
She met Derek at a party in Tribeca and they’ve been together for almost three years. He worked for a tech startup that went bust, but he has a wild, cackling laugh and gray eyes like a fog she can get lost in. Now he does content for the website of a large insurance firm. It is just a job to pay the bills. Derek has other things that interest him. He belongs to a bluegrass band and plays the banjo often just so Elena will dance for him. Though she can no longer go on point, she swirls her body, twisting in ways that make him think of a serpent. She makes dips and turns that astonish him. Once or twice he invited her home to meet his mother who still lives outside of Bridgeport. It did not go well, but Derek says that he could have brought home the Duchess of Cambridge and his mother would not have approved.
Once, when Elena was returning to Entrada for her aunt’s funeral, Derek asked if he could come with, but she said no. He wanted to be there for her. And he thought he’d understand her better if he experienced her in her natural habitat—a village where her family has lived for four hundred years since, as her deluded but endearing grandmother claimed, her ancestors traveled to New Spain with Coronado in search of the Seven Cities of Gold. In the end some of the conquistadors had had enough of conquest and decided to lay down roots. Some married native women and migrated into the hills of New Mexico. But Elena tries not to think about home. All she knows is that the farther away she gets from Entrada de la Luna, the better off she is.
A noisy party of eight—a whole family with grandparents, parents, children, including a toddler, celebrating something—comes in. They are laughing, scrambling for seats, arranging then rearranging themselves. A young boy holds a blue balloon that Elena feels certain will pop any second. They are given a long table near Elena and Derek. They speak loudly and point at one another. Derek squeezes Elena’s hand. “What are you going to have?” He almost has to shout to make himself heard.
They are glancing at the menu when the waiter asks if they would like something to drink. Elena wonders if she dares and decides she does. She asks for a glass of wine but the waiter, smiling, shakes his head. “We do not serve alcohol. I’m very sorry, madame.” Elena takes in a deep breath and Derek pats her hand.
“It’s a Muslim country,” he reminds her.
“I know.” She sighs. Derek order
s the chicken couscous and Elena the lamb stew with beans. They are going to share. They always do. Fifty-fifty, right down the middle. In everything, including money. The waiter, wearing a red fez, which annoys them both as some coy tourist attraction, takes their order, slowly scribbling onto a pad what seems to them fairly straightforward.
Nearby the party of eight is having a raucous time. It is clearly someone’s birthday—maybe the little boy. They are shouting in Arabic, Elena assumes, then bursting out laughing again. Derek hasn’t taken his eyes off her. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“Where?”
He furrows his brow the way he does when he is thinking. When she was growing up, Elena had a bloodhound that did the same thing when it was hunting and caught a scent. “Maybe there’s a hotel around here with a bar.”
“We’re here. We’re tired. Let’s just eat.”
But in fact she wishes she could leave. Elena has difficulty sitting in one place. She is constantly on the move. Perhaps it isn’t for nothing that the butterfly is her totemic creature. “Bye byes” she called them when she was a child. Her father called her Flutterbye because she was always flitting from one thing to the next. Until she flitted thousands of miles away on a one-way ticket—unlikely to return to the world of scrub cactus and lowriders. But by then he was gone.
Elena has never felt good about leaving her mother to grow old alone. Sometimes she has offered to come home. Especially after her father died, drunk, driving off the highway into a canyon. Though they hadn’t really lived together for years, still it had been a blow. A few times she’d invited her mother to come and live with her in New York, mainly because she knew she wouldn’t, to which Rosa just laughed and said, “What will I do in New York?”
Yet her mother never complained. She never asked Elena to come home, not even for a visit. Not even for holidays. She let her daughter go free and pursue her dancing career in New York. Dutifully, Elena called her mother every Sunday and told her about her teachers and the classes she was taking and the girls she danced with—brief, perfunctory calls that always ended with her mother saying “I love you” and Elena replying “Me too.”
