The City of Your Final Destination (26 page)

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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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In other circumstances, it would have been a lovely moment: the nice meal on the patio, the delicious rosé wine, the little gold-rimmed cups of espresso, the walk down the trellised alley, the warmth of the rocks beneath them, the faint but powerful scent of earth and wisteria and verbena. And small birds—perhaps golondrinas, Omar thought, for they sang and flew—twittered in the leafy canopy. A green lizard raced away from them down the wall, and then froze, radiant. It moved its head in small ticking motions, like the hands of a clock. Suddenly, it plunged off the wall, into the jumble of weeds below them.
Caroline spoke, but as she was still turned away from Omar, he could not understand what she had said.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn't hear you.”
She stood up and then sat back down, facing him. “What else did they tell you?”
He remembered how she had seemed mad to him that morning he had visited her in her studio, and he felt that possibility again; there was a wild tension within her that her calm hauteur could not completely mask.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “whatever happens, I will seem a monster.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if you write the book, I will seem a monster, and if you don't write the book, I will seem a monster.”
“You will not seem a monster,” said Omar. “You are not a monster.”
“You don't know me,” she said. And then she said it again: “You don't know me.”
“I know you a little,” said Omar.
She was looking down, fingering some fuzzy lichen that grew on the rock, but then she looked up at him. He could see his face reflected in the dark orbs of her sunglasses. “Do you know why Jules killed himself?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Do you know he wrote another book? After
The Gondola
?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“So they told you that? They've told you everything?”
“No,” said Omar. “I just know there is another book, based on—on your situation, but that Jules did not want it published.”
“Who told you that?”
“Arden did. Adam mentioned the book, and Arden told me what it was about.”
“And she said Jules did not want it published?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Poor Omar,” Caroline said. “Everyone lies to you.”
So tell me the truth, Omar wanted to shout, but he said nothing.
“Is there not another book?” he asked.
“No,” said Caroline. “There is not another book. Jules wrote another book, a book about our situation, as you say. He worked on it for years. It might have been a very beautiful book, who knows? But it does not exist anymore.”
“What happened to it?” asked Omar.
“It was destroyed,” said Caroline. “I burned it.”
“Oh,” said Omar. Then he asked, “Why?”
Caroline appeared to wince. She lowered her face. She put her hand flat on the stone beside her and looked at it. “I don't know,” she said. “Perhaps I felt I had given him too much, and needed to take something away. Or perhaps I had not given him enough, and wanted to take something away. And it is awful when you cannot make something yourself, not a child, not a painting, and someone else makes something out of your stuff—” She drew her hand into a fist and then slowly released it, patted the stone. “Or maybe not that at all. Perhaps simply because I hated him. Or hated myself. Or Arden. Or hated all of us, everyone. Or maybe because I loved him, and couldn't bear that. I really can't say. But I am sure you will figure it all out, and explain it to me. For there must be an explanation, of course: everything makes sense, or can be made sense of, with people like you around to do that for us. To pick up the pieces and put them back together, even if they have been shattered. Or burned.”
Omar said nothing. It was hot there, in the sun. He wished he had not drunk the wine at lunch. Dr. Peni had told him not to drink any alcohol for at least ten days. But he had been so nervous and it had looked so good. Caroline stood. She moved across the walk and paused beneath the trellised canopy of flowering vines. “I will grant you authorization,” she said. “It is worse to try to stop you. It does me more harm, I think. More harm to me. So go, and write your book. Explain it all to us. Explain ourselves to us. How grateful to you we will be.” She turned and walked up the shaded alley, toward the patio, where Donatella and Gianfranco and Pete still loitered, laughing, at the table.
They were silent driving away from the house. Pete stopped at the gate; Omar got down and opened it and let the truck pass though,
then closed it behind them and returned to the truck. He felt tired and sick. They passed over the clattering bridge and when the noise of that subsided, Pete asked, “How did it go, your talk with Caroline?”
“She said yes,” said Omar.
“So you have got what you wanted?” asked Pete. “What you came for?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
They turned onto the hard road and drove for a ways in silence, and then Pete said, “You don't seem happy, that you got what you wanted.”
“I don't feel very well,” said Omar. “And I'm tired.”
“But you're happy?” asked Pete.
“No,” said Omar, “I am not happy.”
Pete said nothing, but after a moment he reached out and patted Omar's leg. Then he put both hands on the steering wheel and concentrated hard on driving, although the road was perfectly straight for as far as they both could see.
Pete dropped him off in front of the big house and then drove away. Omar went upstairs to the bathroom and was sick. He rinsed his mouth and washed his face and went into his room. He took off his pants and lay on the bed.
He wished he could talk to Arden; he would like to ask Arden what he should do. But he knew that Arden was avoiding him. She was sorry she had kissed him; she hoped he had forgotten it. But he had not forgotten it. It had seemed like a dream but it had not been a dream. They had walked up to see the gondola and kissed outside the boathouse. She had put her hands on his face …
The door opened, and Deirdre came in. She turned and closed the door behind her and then stood, looking at Omar on the bed. “What's wrong?” she said.
Omar wiped his cheeks but said nothing.
“What's wrong?” she repeated.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Of course something is,” she said. “You were crying. You are crying.”
He covered his face with his hands. She came near the bed and touched his bare leg with her hand. He was wearing boxer shorts and lying on top of the bedspread; it was warm in the room. “Please tell me what's wrong,” she said.
“I don't know,” he said, after a moment.
“Are you sad about something?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did Caroline say no?”
“No,” he said, “she said yes.”
“Then I don't understand. Why are you sad? Or are you relieved?”
“I'm sad,” said Omar.
“Why?” asked Deirdre. “Tell me. What are you sad about?”
“I don't know,” he said. “Everything, I think.”
“But everything is okay, Omar,” she said. He felt her sit beside him on the bed. “You have nothing to be sad about. You've got authorization now, you can keep the grant, you can write the book. Everything is fine. In three days we'll be back in Kansas and everything will be normal again. You can start teaching and researching. You have nothing to be worried about, or sad about. Why are you sad?”
Omar shook his head—his hands still covering his eyes.
Deirdre gently removed his hands from his face, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “It must have been difficult,” she said, “talking with Caroline. And traveling. And you're not well yet. You shouldn't have gone. But I'm so proud of you, Omar! What a wonderful thing you've done. How did you convince her? What did you tell her?”
Omar shook his head. “I don't want to talk about it,” he said.
“Okay,” said Deirdre. After a moment she said, “Omar, are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I'm just so worried about you,” said Deirdre.
“Why?”
“I don't know. I don't understand it. You seem different. Maybe it's just what's happened, and being here, I don't know, maybe when we get home everything will be back to normal again. I mean, not normal, not exactly the same, of course, different, of course, but—”
“But what?”
“I don't know.” Deirdre was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “I've been thinking. I've been thinking maybe you shouldn't go back to Yvonne's. I don't think you should be alone out there. Especially in the winter, with your car, and the snow, and your wrist—Maybe you should move in with me. I think it would be good for us to live together. I think it's time. What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About living together.”
“I don't know,” said Omar. “Before you said I was too irresponsible to live with.”
“That was before,” said Deirdre. “Things change. Things have changed.”
“How have they changed?” asked Omar.
“They have—Oh, Omar: I've changed. We've both changed. I've realized how much I love you. How much I admire you. And need you.” She paused. She touched his moist cheek, gently, with the back of her hand. “And want you,” she said. “I'm sorry if I sometimes behave in a way that doesn't make all that clear. I'm sorry because it's all true, it's all there, beneath everything else I say or do, there are always those feelings for you, always. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Good,” said Deirdre. “I think when we get back we should try to do things differently. I think living together would be a good change. Don't you?”
“I don't know,” said Omar.
“Well, we can think about it,” said Deirdre. “We don't have to decide now.”
“No,” said Omar.
“Do you want to sleep?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Maybe, for a little while.”
“Okay.” Deirdre stood up. “Do you want something to drink? Some water?”
“No, thank you,” said Omar.
Deirdre stood beside the bed. “I'm glad we had this talk,” she said. “Please don't be sad. And congratulations, Omar. You've done a wonderful thing. I'm very proud of you.”
She left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Omar felt better that evening, and he and Deirdre went for a walk, down the drive, through the gates, and along the road toward the millhouse, where it was just road and woods and sky. It was a warm, still evening: the falling sun struck the trees along one side of the road almost brutally, turning their green into gold. They loitered there, in the middle of the road, their shadows cast wildly behind them. They had not talked much on this walk, and they did not speak at all as they stood in the middle of the deserted road. Omar knelt down and touched the macadam, which was still warm from a long day's worth of sun. “I remember the first time I walked down this road,” he said.
“When was that?” asked Deirdre.
“My first day here. No: the second. I was going to see Adam. I remember I was very happy, for some reason, walking down here. Hopeful.” He stood up. After a moment, he said, “I think I've decided something.”
“What?” asked Deirdre. “What have you decided?”
Omar looked down at the road. For a moment Deirdre thought he might crouch and pet it again. But he did not.
“I've decided—I think I've decided I don't want to write a biography of Jules Gund. I think I want to forget about all of this.”
“Omar? What do you mean? Why do you think that?”
He shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “It just seems pointless. I don't want to do it. I think I'd be bad at it. I'd do a bad job. It seems wrong.”
“Wrong? How wrong?”
“I can't explain it. I don't understand it. Just wrong. But really wrong. It's like a pond where everything has settled, so it's still and clear, and if I were to—I'd just stir everything up, I'd make a mess.”
“Omar! That's ridiculous. In the first place, it isn't all still and clear, and in the second place—I think you're just confused. And tired. The shock you've had; all these days, this experience—it's been too much for you, Omar. Don't think about any of this now. When we get home, and you feel better, you'll feel differently, I think. Everything's a bit askew for you here, I think. You're too close to it all, somehow.”

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