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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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“I'm sorry Mrs. Gund couldn't join us,” he said, carefully lowering his precariously full martini. He had ordered a martini because after Adam had ordered one it seemed the easiest thing to do.
“Are you really?” said Adam. “I'm surprised you know her well enough to miss her company.”
“I don't really,” said Omar, remembering his talk with Caroline that morning—in a certain way, he knew her quite well, and was glad she was not there. “It's just that I wanted an opportunity to talk to all three of you, together.”
The waiter came to take their order. When he had been dispatched—Adam's summoning of waiters was not a singular phenomenon ; he dispatched them with equal panache—another party had entered the restaurant, and for some reason watching them be seated was preoccupying. After a moment Adam turned to Omar and said, “What is it you want to tell us?” as if he had no idea what had brought Omar to them.
For a moment Omar's nerve failed him, so he took another sip of his drink. Why do they fill the glass so full? he wondered in panic. His main object was drinking it down to a level where it could be more easily handled, although he was glad he had followed Adam's lead and ordered a martini: it really was a lovely drink. He noticed that Adam's martini had already sunk to a very safe level.
“Well,” Omar began, “I suppose I'd like to talk to you about why I want to write a biography of Jules Gund, about the importance of the project to me, and to answer any questions or address any reservations you have. I feel confident that if I explain things properly to you, you will see no reason to withhold authorization.”
Omar noticed that Adam had returned his attention to the large party that had recently entered the restaurant. “Is that Suki Schmidt?” he asked Arden.
“Yes,” said Arden. “And Willem and Willem's brother Brat and I don't know who else. Perhaps it's Brat's wife and her sister.”
“I thought she and Willem were divorced.”
“They were,” said Arden. “But they reconciled.”
“How terribly stupid of them. They were always at each other.”
“Yes,” said Arden. “But they were unhappy apart. Apparently they missed it.”
“What?”
“Being at each other.”
“They were awfully good at it,” said Adam. “She once shot him, you know. And hit him too. In the stomach, I think.”
“Yes, he has one of those plastic bags now,” said Arden.
“Violence is terribly underrated,” said Adam. “It's so—so expeditious. I'm always asking Pete to smack me. ‘Just smack me,' I tell him.”
“Pete would never smack you,” said Arden.
“Yes, I know,” said Adam. “Yet I think we would be so much happier if he did. Did you ever smack Jules?”
“Yes, in fact,” said Arden. “Once or twice.”
I should be taking notes or something, Omar thought. I should have brought a tape recorder. Suddenly it seemed exhausting, impossible : How do you write a biography? he wondered, when there is so much, when there is everything, an infinity, to know. It seemed impossible. It was like compiling a telephone book from scratch. He sipped again from his martini.
“You often had that smacked-about coital glow,” said Adam.
“Oh, Jules never smacked me,” said Arden. “You're mistaken if you think he did.”
“Oh, I never thought he did. I assumed the smacking was all yours. What about you, Mr. Razaghi? I understand you are affianced. Does your fiancée smack you? Or you her? Although you don't appear to be the smacking type. Or perhaps you are both above all that?”
“I am not engaged,” said Omar.
“Pardon me,” said Adam. “I have been misinformed. My sources err.”
“Who told you I was affia——engaged?” asked Omar.
“A little bird,” said Adam. “A big bird. A blue bird. A swallow. A bat.”
“Well, I am not engaged,” said Omar, thinking: Why I am saying it like that, as if they are accusing me of something? It must be the martini. He glared at it a moment, then sipped from it.
“There is something so repellingly Victorian about any couple,” said Adam. “The smugness, the sense of sanctity and safety and superiority ; it's why God invented smacking. I am sure the Victorians were constantly smacking one another. It's why they wore all those hideous clothes: to hide their bruises.”
The conversation seemed to have veered into territory beyond Omar's ken, and he felt that he—and his martini—had contributed to its waywardness. So he decided to sit quietly and collect his thoughts.
“Perhaps you should tell us, then, why you want to write a biography of Jules Gund,” Arden suggested.
Why did he want to write a biography of Jules Gund? It was a very reasonable question, especially under the present circumstances. Of course, it presumed he wanted to write a biography of Jules Gund, but of course he did. He would not be here if he did not. But suddenly, for the first time in the entire process, he was not sure. Did he want to write a biography of Jules Gund? Could he?
“Well, as I told you,” he heard himself saying, “I am extremely interested in his work. Although he wrote only one book, I think it is an important book. It deserves to be more widely known, and read, and I think a biography would help in that regard. Really, the fact that he wrote only one book does not matter.”
“He wrote another book,” said Adam.
“Adam …” Arden warned.
“What?” asked Adam.
“He published only one book,” said Arden. “
The Gondola.
That is what counts.”
“Well, it depends who is counting.”
“He wrote other books?” asked Omar.
“No,” said Arden. “He worked on other books, but none of them—he did not finish another book. There is only
The Gondola
. Go on with what you were saying.”
Omar was flustered. Other books? What did they mean?
“Why do you want to write a biography of Jules?” Arden prompted.
“Well,” said Omar. “I think
The Gondola
is an important historical and artistic document. And his life was interesting—in many ways, it is a quintessential life of the century.”
“How do you figure that?” asked Adam.
“His life bridges worlds and cultures and religions. All of the great conflicts of the century are apparent in it.”
“I see what you mean,” said Arden. “His being half Jewish, and European, but raised Catholic in South America …”
“Exactly,” said Omar. “And then there is, of course, his personal life.”
“But all that applies to me as well,” said Adam. “And my being homosexual, well, that's certainly more a twentieth-century story than wives and mistresses, which sounds very nineteenth century to me. Why not write my biography?”
“I don't doubt for an instant that your life is every bit as interesting and relevant,” said Omar. “And I encourage you to write an autobiography. But as someone interested in the politics of literature, it is natural I am more interested in the life of Jules Gund. And of course it is perhaps important to repeat that there is considerable academic interest in a biography of Jules Gund. As you know, the University of Kansas Press has already committed to publishing the book, on the basis of my dissertation.”
“How many copies will they publish?” asked Adam.
For God's sake, thought Omar, why don't you ask me how many pages the book will have? “I don't know,” he said. “Although I'm sure their print runs are commensurate with other university presses.”
Perhaps Arden heard the edge of frustration in his voice, for she leaned toward the table—she had sunk back into the banquette's gloom—and said, “I have changed my mind, Omar. I have decided to authorize the biography.”
“Really?” said Omar. “Thank you.”
“I am sure you will write a fine biography,” said Arden. She raised her glass of wine to him.
“But what about Caroline?”
“You must still convince Caroline,” said Arden.
“I wish she had come tonight. How can I convince her if I can't speak with her?”
“You assume Caroline is rational. She is not. She will not be convinced in that way,” said Adam.
“Then how can I convince her?” asked Omar.
“You cannot,” said Adam.
“But then—don't you need to be in agreement? Can you grant authorization without her?”
“I said you cannot convince her,” said Adam. “I did not say she would not be convinced. I hope you have not forgotten our little agreement?”
“No,” said Omar. “Of course not.”
“What agreement?” asked Arden.
“It does not concern you,” said Adam.
“If it concerns the authorization, it concerns me,” said Arden. “What agreement have you made?”
“It really does not concern you,” said Adam. “Isn't that correct, Mr. Razaghi?”
“Please call me Omar,” said Omar.
“Isn't that correct, Omar?”
“I'm not really sure what concerns who. Whom.”
“Well, rest assured that what we spoke of earlier does not concern Arden. Or Caroline.”
“What are you plotting?” asked Arden. “If you are plotting something, Adam, I must know. Otherwise I won't cooperate.”
“I am plotting nothing,” said Adam. “I do not plot. Perhaps we should drop the subject, and enjoy our dinner. If you'll excuse me a moment, I will go say hello to Suki and Willem.” He left the table and crossed the dining room.
Arden said nothing. She was fingering the stem of her wineglass, staring straight ahead.
Omar did not know what to say. Arden looked very beautiful. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon and she wore pearl earrings and lipstick. It was clear she had gotten dressed specially for the dinner, and there was something a little bit sad about it, Omar thought: that she looked so beautiful, with lipstick, her hair styled, her pocketbook sitting on the banquette beside her—all for what? This dinner with him and Adam in a crummy restaurant. She looked defeated and sad.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
She turned to him and smiled. Perhaps she was not sad. “Sorry? Sorry about what?”
“About—I haven't been plotting with Adam. Really, we haven't.”
“Oh,” she said, and laughed. She had a lovely laugh: gushing, natural. “I'm not sure I believe you. Adam is always plotting. I'm used to it.”
“There's just something he wants me to do for him,” Omar said. He felt better having said it. He did not want to have secrets from Arden.
“You don't have to do anything for him, you know. Be careful. It will all be fine.”
“What about Caroline?”
She looked away: over at the other table, where Adam stood talking. She shook her head. “Caroline must make up her own mind,” she said. “The more you try to persuade her, the more she'll resist.”
“Well, I'm glad you've changed your mind,” said Omar. “Thank you.”
She looked at him again. “I haven't changed it to please you,” she said. “You mustn't think that.”
“No,” said Omar.
“I just—in thinking about things, it seems to me that a biography is the best thing for Jules. It's for Jules I've changed my mind, not you.”
“Of course,” said Omar.
At the millhouse, Adam opened the car door. “Do you want to come in for a nightcap? We have a bottle of chartreuse lurking about, I believe.”
“I've had plenty for the night,” said Arden. “And Ada is staying with Portia.”
“You can take the car back with you, if you want,” said Adam. “Pete can fetch it tomorrow. Walk me to the door, then, Mr. Razaghi,” said Adam. “These cobbles are treacherous at night.”
Omar got out of the car and helped Adam from his seat. Adam took hold of Omar's arm and led him across the dark, cobbled yard.
“Well,” Adam said. “One down and one to go. Perhaps you did not need me with Arden, but Caroline is a stickier wicket.”
He was speaking rather loudly—they had drunk a bottle of Prosecco with dinner—and Omar was afraid that Arden would hear. “I don't think I had anything to do with Arden changing her mind,” he said.
“Nonsense! Of course you did. Don't underestimate the effect of your charm.”
Omar said nothing, but blushed in the darkness. He felt Adam's grip upon his arm tighten. “I once had charm like yours,” Adam said. “Strange as it may seem now. But charm spoils with age. Like cheese, or beauty. Or at least for me it did. Some people manage to retain one or the other or, rarely, both. But I think you will find this prize requires a price. The price is selflessness, forfeiture, abstinence. There is something a little pathetic about ending up old and beautiful and charming, I think: it indicates, to me at least, a waste of resources, or at the very least, a serious misappropriation of them. I think I have very appropriately divested myself of these resources. For charm and beauty are more valuable commodities in the young. There's little the ancient can buy with them. For this reason, I do not mind being old and ugly: it seems apt.”

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