After three more days, the admiral sent Luis de Torres and Rodrigo de Xerez inland with two Indians, including Diego Columbus.
Christopher Columbus paced the shore, consulted his astrolabe, his charts, his logbook, and, when it appeared that he was unobserved, the book that we had ferried from his brother. The rest of the crew worked on or under the ships and traded chazerai with the islanders. Some loincloth-chasing shiksa-trollers whose shvants were the true admiral and viceroy of their fate contrived to engineer discreet assignations with pretty, young Indio girls in the cool murk of evening.
The music of Spanish in the deep woods:
“Come here often?”
“Anyone ever tell you you look just like that painting of Mary in the chapel at Los Palos?”
And some afternoons, Moishe, too, would slip away into the cool of the green canopy of trees and meet a maideleh. Maybe there was the steady burning of memories of Sarah, but here he followed his wick to the flame.
And sometimes, hidden under the loose calico of his shirt, he would bring the book that hate-torqued mad-hatted Torquemada had given him.
There were five books, each of which spoke of a life everlasting.
Ach. There are some books, even with the patience of Job’s boil-wrangling dermatologist and an immortal life, few could spare the time to read. All words and no meaning. All lid and no Yid. All Columbus and no gold.
What were these five books?
He knew of one.
The almost translucent leather binding of Torquemada’s book made one afraid to hold it, or careful to hold it tenderly. “There, there, little bubeleh book, everything will turn out for the best.”
In the jungle, Moishe puzzled over its sigils. Its strange almost-words. Its farmishteh calligraphy that appeared more navigation map of a twisted Meccano alphabet than real writing.
“Why would Torquemada need to hide this? Its meaning is hidden by its words.” Moishe pointed to the opened book. “So, nu, maybe like a women’s knish, it looks strange until you know what to do with it.”
Feh. This feygeleh should talk about knowing what to do.
I had mistaken up from down. Or myself for myself.
“This is different than my father’s book,” Moishe said, pointing to a page. “Yet these books are cousins. Or shvester. Sisters. The same bend in the nose. The slope of the shoulders.” He turned to another page. “Look at this …”
It was filled with Magen Davids. Stars.
“Some kind of constellation,” Moishe said, connecting the stars with his finger.
“Above which land is the sky filled with Jewish stars?” I said.
“Emes,” Moishe said. “Next year in Jerusalem.”
We examined other pages under the slats of light flickering between leaf shadows.
“Somewhere there’s a key, a legend that explains,” Moishe said. “Maybe the other books,” he said, turning to other pages. “Maybe they explain.”
“Ach, who needs immortal life?” I answered. “It’s but a larger sack to fill with misery.”
“But it works the other way, too,” Moishe said. “Trouble would scatter like ashes in the wind over a life-without-end. And anyway, it’s the Fountain of Youth, so you’re made young again. Younger than your memories, younger than your pain.”
“Eternal relief.”
“An everlasting finger to those who tried to erase us: here we are, a permanent stain on the pages of history. What’s that? Wine? Jizz? Jews? Once shpritzed with Fountain water, we’ll never forget because we’ll never grow old.”
Just then a commotion. Men calling. The trumpeting of a conch.
After four days, Luis de Torres, Rodrigo de Xerez, Diego Columbus and the other natives had returned from their colonial probe inside the island. They brought with them a procession of inland Tainos carrying several baskets and hog-tied animal carcasses. One older, highly decorated Indio appeared to be the lovechild of a warrior and several ostentatious birds: his head was plumed with tailfeathers rising like Technicolor thoughts from out of his dark scalp. The natives and their chief stood motionless in the shade of the forest while the crew approached Columbus, the viceroy of beaches and the governor of sand.
Columbus had some islanders shlepp a large carved chair onto the shore. He sat enthroned, benevolent and regal in the shade of the munificent palms. The infinite regress of power: he was an island Ferdinand and Isabella holding court before his own exploring Columbuses.
“Se?or,” Torres said, approaching him. He inclined his head as if to bow, but then straightened and began his report.
“Two days’ walk, Admiral. Through the thickness of jungle. Along a path that was often defined only by its vagueness. Several times it appeared to disappear. But Los Indios could read it and they led us forward.”