The City of Your Final Destination (22 page)

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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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“But it isn't an imposition,” said Arden.
Deirdre thought she was in the wrong room, but the number on the door confirmed she was not. This time the screen was set around the boy's bed and voices murmured from within the cocoon. She walked around the shrouded bed and saw Omar lying awake. “Deirdre!” he said.
She sat on the bed and kissed him. “Hello,” he said.
“My God. Why are you here?”
“Arden called me. You were in a coma. And you were paralyzed. Can you move everything?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I think so.”
“Have you walked?”
“No,” said Omar.
“How do you feel?”
“A bit odd. Groggy. I think it's the medication.”
“What about your poor hand? Does it hurt?”
Omar looked down at his gauze mitt. “No,” he said. “It just itches. I can't believe you've come. There's really no reason. And my God—how much did it cost?”
“Don't worry about that,” said Deirdre. “What's important is that I'm here, and that you're okay.”
“The nurse told me someone had visited me last night. I couldn't imagine who it was. I mean other than Arden. Why didn't you wake me?”
“They told me not to. Has Arden been visiting you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Have you met her?”
“Of course,” said Deirdre. “I'm staying there.”
“Isn't it amazing? I mean the house and everything.”
“I think it's spooky,” said Deirdre.
“Have you met Caroline?”
“Yes. Briefly.”
“And Adam?”
“No,” said Deirdre. “I just got here last night.”
“I don't know why Arden called you. I'm really fine.”
“I don't think you were, though. She was very worried. Do you remember what happened?”
“No,” said Omar. “I don't remember anything from that day clearly. I was a bit sick, hungover, I remember that. We had gone out to dinner the night before.”
“Do you remember that?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “We went to this restaurant. An Italian restaurant. Adam, Arden, and me. Caroline wouldn't come. She's been difficult.”
“Yes, I've heard,” said Deirdre. “But I hear Arden has changed her mind. And the brother too. Congratulations!”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Although the brother—Adam—was for it from the beginning, I think. But Arden has changed her mind. But I don't think Caroline will. Although Adam says …”
“He says what?”
“He says—he told me he could change her mind for me. That he would change her mind for me. If I …”
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Omar. “I don't really remember.”
“What?” said Deirdre. “Omar, I've come all this way. What's going on? I can't help you unless I know what's going on.”
“Nothing's going on,” said Omar. “There's another book, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jules wrote another book.”
“Was it published?”
“No.”
“Have you read it?”
“No. But supposedly it's based on their ménage.”
“That's great. If you hurry, you can have the biography published simultaneously. That would be fantastic.”
“They don't want to publish the book.”
“Why not?”
“I'm not sure. It's supposed to be a secret, I think. Adam blurted it out and then Arden told me to forget about it. So don't mention it.”
“Okay,” said Deirdre, “but that's very exciting news.”
“I know,” said Omar.
They heard the screen around the other bed being moved and were silent. A doctor and nurse emerged from behind it. The nurse left but the doctor washed his hands in a basin in the corner of the room and then came and stood beside Omar's bed.
“I am Dr. Peni,” he proclaimed, extending his hand. “And you are a friend of our poor stung Omar?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. She shook his hand, which was still damp.
“You are from the United States?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre.
“You are a good friend, to come so far.”
“I'm very concerned about Omar.”
“Of course you are. We are all concerned. But I think all the news is good news. He has been conscious for two days. I think for good now. You won't be leaving us again, will you, Omar?”
Omar said he would not.
“You see,” he said, turning to Deirdre. “You must not be worried. You are too beautiful to worry. All the women who visit Omar are beautiful. No wonder he makes such a recovery. I can claim no credit: it is the beauty of women that has healed him.”
Deirdre did not approve of the direction the doctor was taking. “Is his paralysis all gone?” she asked.
“Yes, Omar's sensation has returned, to every part of his body. He will soon be fit as a fiddler. And ready to fiddle again. You must not worry about Omar,” he said. “I will reassure you.”
“I don't want you to reassure me,” said Deirdre. “I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Oh, but the truth is reassuring. The truth is always reassuring,” he said.
Although Deirdre did not agree with this statement, she knew that it would be pointless to refute it. “How is his health?” she asked. “He seems to have some memory loss.”
“His health, under the circumstances, is fine. All his organs are functioning normally. His loss of memory is a temporary and normal result of brain trauma. It will all fall back into place, rather quickly, I imagine. But we must all be patient. Omar is fortunate to be so loved and befriended. It plays a great part in his recovery, I assure you. I play my part, which is, of course, instrumental, but we cannot underestimate the human part. Are you a religious person, Miss—”
“MacArthur,” said Deirdre. “Deirdre MacArthur. No, I am not.”
“If you were, I would urge you to pray for your friend. You do your work and I do mine. But in this case we shall leave the prayers to others.” He patted Omar's head, shook Deirdre's hand again, and then left the room.
Driving back in the car, Deirdre said to Arden: “Does Mr. Gund live near you?”
“Do you mean Adam?” asked Arden.
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “I suppose. Jules Gund's brother. The other executor.”
“Yes, he does,” said Arden. “Not far at all.”
“Do you think I could see him?” asked Deirdre.
“Of course,” said Arden. She glanced over at Deirdre. “About what?”
“Oh,” said Deirdre. “I would just like to meet him. And there is something—something private—I would like to discuss with him.”
“Of course,” said Arden. “I can drop you there on our way back.”
“I hate to cause trouble for you,” said Deirdre.
“You aren't,” said Arden. “It's on the way.”
Arden parked in front of the millhouse. “Perhaps I should come in with you, just to make sure he is here,” she said. “And introduce you.”
“Thank you,” said Deirdre.
The two women got out of the car and approached the house. Arden knocked on the wooden door. After a moment she opened it and called Adam's name.
He was coming down the stairs. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Who's this?” he asked, upon seeing Deirdre through the open door.
“This is Deirdre MacArthur,” said Arden, “Omar's friend from Kansas. We've just been to see Omar. And Deirdre wanted to have a word with you.”
“Did she?” said Adam.
“Yes,” said Deirdre, “although I could come back at a more convenient time if you would like.”
“No, I am hopelessly free for the rest of my life,” said Adam. “Now is fine. In fact, I was going to walk up to the big house this afternoon for a chat with you.”
“Then I'll leave you,” said Arden. “Do you mind walking back to the house, Deirdre? It isn't very far.”
“Of course not,” said Deirdre. “Thank you.”
Arden went out and closed the door.
“Come sit down,” said Adam. “It is so merry having all these guests. First Omar and now you. We are unused to so much company.”
Deirdre followed him into the living room. “Would you like something to drink? Something cold? Something hot? Something tepid?”
“Something cold would be nice,” said Deirdre. “Just some mineral water, if you have it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Adam. “Sit down.” He indicated the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two glasses of water. He handed one glass to Deirdre, who had not sat down. “So you are Omar's paramour?” he asked. “It is almost palindromic: Omar's paramour. Or is it merely anagrammatic?”
“I think it is neither,” said Deirdre. “Nor is it the word I would use to describe our relationship.”
“I think words are very bad at describing relationships,” said Adam. “At least my relationships. They are all too complicated for mere words.”
Deirdre said nothing.
“Please, sit down, my dear,” said Adam. “You look as if you might bolt. It is upsetting me.”
Deirdre sat, but rigidly, as if in compromise. Adam sat opposite her. “I did not mean to offend you. I can see you are offended. I suppose you are Omar's partner or significant other or something
moderne
like that. But it sounds very dreary to me! How much nicer to be a paramour. You should consider it.”
“I will,” said Deirdre.
“Perhaps you are not the paramour type,” said Adam.
“Are you?” asked Deirdre.
“Yes, I was: in my youth. And I was a youth for a very long time. Perhaps it was the effect of being a paramour. It retards the aging process, but it does not, alas, stop it: I woke up one morning
and I was an old man. You are aging more gradually, which is, I think, a blessing: there is nothing worse than waking up one morning and discovering that you are decrepit.”
“It is better to become decrepit gradually?”
“Yes,” said Adam. “You don't notice, then. Unless you are foolish enough to look at an old photograph. For this reason I have destroyed all old photographs of myself.”
“I should think some people would want to be reminded of their beauty,” said Deirdre.
“It is better to remember it in one's mind's eye,” said Adam. “Beauty remembered is more potent than beauty recorded.”
“Have you really burned all your old photos?” asked Deirdre.
“No,” said Adam, “but I will do so as soon as you leave. I shall build a fire—a pyre—in the yard and immolate my past. I think people should leave the world very cleanly, with nary a trace. It is rude to leave things behind—it is like littering, I think. I shall leave nothing behind.”
“Did Jules Gund leave lots behind?”
“Don't tell me you're writing a biography of Jules Gund too!”
“No,” said Deirdre, “I just wondered. Are there lots of letters, and photos, and manuscripts, and stuff?”
“Perhaps you should write the biography. You show more interest than our poor Omar. How is he? Have you come from visiting him?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre.
“And how is he?”
“He seems well, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering his accident,” said Deirdre.
“Aren't we all.”
“Aren't we all what?” asked Deirdre.
“Aren't we all well, considering our accidents,” said Adam.
Deirdre did not reply.
“You seem to me to be a sensible woman,” said Adam. “Do you consider yourself to be a sensible woman?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “I suppose I do.”
“It is a novel experience for me: talking to a sensible woman. I am so practiced in the art of dealing with hysterics.”
“We don't much like that term,” said Deirdre.
“Oh,” said Adam. “Don't we? Who is we?”
“Women,” said Deirdre. “It implicates our wombs. It is a term that reeks of male oppression.”

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