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doctor says. “Do you know why you’re here? Do you have any idea, Bolivar?” He scribbles in his notebook. His therapy consists of long conversations and interactions in which he uses the patient’s first name, his real name. No assumed names, ever. He has never called Columbus by his assumed name.
    “Bolivar?” Columbus is smiling, playing with the doctor.
    “Yes. You are Bolivar.”
    “How can I be this Bolivar when my name is Columbus?”
    Fuentes’s voice becomes a silken rope. “I’ve told you this before, but repetition is fine. We think something happened to you and the defensive part of you has conceived this alternate persona.”
    “You think this Bolivar is inside me?”
    “Yes, that’s our theory.”
    “A theory?”
    “Yes, we don’t know for sure.”
    “How long have I been here? And all you have is a theory? Should I look for a new doctor? Someone more competent?”
    “Three other doctors have consulted on your case, Bolivar. All we have are theories right now.”
    Columbus has his hands clasped tightly. Everything in him wants to punch Dr. Fuentes in the face. “And?”
    “And they concur—”
    “They
agree
. They don’t teach you how to talk like a human being at doctor school, do they?”
    “They all
agree
that you have this disorder. Yes.”
    “Nonsense. I am only me. Have been only me since I got here, and before this I was also me. For instance, I was Christopher Columbus in the spring of seventy-eight when we came across Vikings. You see, I, Cristóbal Colón, had the most extraordinary meeting with a Norseman. He was a big man and we had an amazing conversation … I found out a few things about the world that are not taught in the universities … Things that would astound even you, Fuentes, Mr. Smarty-pants.”
    “The fact you seem annoyed—your anger—is an indication that there’s some truth in what I’m saying.”
    “You’ll have to try your first-year psychology tricks on somebody else, Fuentes. I’m not buying it.”
    “And the fact you are just now changing the subject is also indicative. I want to talk about your disorder and you change the subject to Vikings. You want to tell stories about Vikings. You’re avoiding the subject by telling made-up stories.”
    “All stories are true, Fuentes.”

    Columbus is sitting on the end of his bed, rocking, looking directly out the window into a narrow gathering of palm trees. “Fuentes is an idiot,” he says to Consuela as she gathers a pile of laundry and pushes it into a cloth sack. “Are you sure he’s a doctor?”
    “I think he’s under a lot of stress,” she says. She pulls hard on the rope and ties a knot, then tosses the bag into the hallway. “I gather your session was less than satisfactory?”
    “Isn’t this the work of orderlies? Or nursing assistants?”
    “I don’t mind helping out where I can.”
    “Alternate persona, my ass,” he mutters. “Never heard of such a thing. I do know about Vikings, though. Everyone’s heard about Vikings.”

    Fourteen years
before
Columbus came to Palos with three ships in the harbor; fourteen years
before
he was to embark on an incredible, unprecedented, and courageous journey; fourteen years
before
all of this, he was on the open ocean near Iceland and had a chance meeting that connected the dots—sparked his obsession into a full-fledged fire.
    It’s a shouted conversation above howling wind and rain across the bows of two ships bobbing in the ocean off the coast of Iceland. Three men from three different lands who speak three different languages shout back and forth. The two vessels are loosely lashed together. Crew members from each craft keep a distance with their oars—pushing and giving way in order to maintain a half stability. This is a full-time fight against crashing together. Eight-foot swells don’t help. These rising and falling motions, and the blustering wind, are proving to be great inconveniences to conversation. The man from Britain,