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Authors: Peter Cameron

The City of Your Final Destination (27 page)

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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“I don't think it's a matter of perspective,” said Omar.
It seemed to Deirdre an odd thing for Omar to say.
“Well,” said Deirdre. “Can't you wait and see? Please, Omar—there's no need to decide anything now. Just let's get out of here, get home, and when you're feeling better, when you're feeling yourself again, then you can think about all this. But not now. Not here. Promise me. Please, promise me.”
Omar said nothing.
“Please, Omar. Promise me. Promise me you won't say anything to anyone here about not writing the book.”
“Okay,” said Omar. “I promise.” They stood there for a moment, and then Omar said, “I think I will go visit Adam.”
“Adam? Why?”
“I need to talk to him before I leave. To tell him I won't bring the paintings to New York.”
“Oh,” said Deirdre. “Are you sure you do? It was a silly bargain, Omar. I'm sure he doesn't really expect you to do it. Perhaps it's best just left alone.”
“No,” said Omar. “I need to tell him. I owe him at least that.”
“What will you tell him?”
“I don't know. Something. That I've decided I can't do it, for, for—practical reasons.”
“Well, don't say anything about the book. Remember, you promised me.”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Do you want me to come with you? Perhaps it would be easier if I were with you.”
“No,” said Omar. “I think it's better if I go alone.”
“You don't need to do this,” Deirdre said. “It was wrong of Adam: he coerced you. You aren't morally obligated to explain anything to him.”
“I'd just like to go talk to him,” said Omar. “I'll see you back at the house. I won't be long.” He turned and set off down the road toward the millhouse. Deirdre watched him, until he turned into the drive, and disappeared.
Adam was sitting on a wooden chair in the cobbled yard in front of the millhouse, drinking a glass of what looked like rosé wine. If his suit was a little less rumpled and his hair a bit more kempt, he would have looked as if he were in an advertisement. “Good evening,” he said, as Omar unlatched the gate and entered the yard.
“Hello,” said Omar.
“How good to see you,” said Adam. “So you are up and about. No longer an invalid?”
“I'm feeling much better,” said Omar.
“Would you like a glass of wine? I have the bottle here; you must fetch another glass.”
“No, thank you,” said Omar. “I'm not supposed to drink any alcohol.”
“I'm sure a little glass of wine would be very good for you,” said Adam. “It has such a tonic effect.”
“I had some, the other day, at Las Golondrinas, and felt very ill afterward,” said Omar.
“And you blame the wine? I'm sure it was the company. But I understand you returned victorious. The conquering hero.” Adam raised his glass of wine, which glowed rosily in the dwindling light. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” said Omar. “I have actually come to tell you something.”
“No doubt you have,” said Adam. “People are always coming to tell me something. Never the thing I want to hear, of course. Only once did that happen, or once that I can recall. When I was as young as you—or younger perhaps; I was a student at Heidelberg—a boy I loved came to me and said, ‘I have come to tell you something.' It was that he loved me, but he could not say it. He thought that by saying that, by saying ‘I have come to tell you something' I would know of what he spoke. Or wished to speak. And of course I did. But I was no braver than he. I should have said, ‘Say nothing: I know,' but I could not. Would not. This was back in the dark ages. They were silent as well as dark. And so we sat there, saying nothing, and our chance was lost. I don't suppose you have come to tell me you love me?”
“No,” said Omar.
Adam said nothing, but when Omar did not speak, he said, “Then what is it you have come to tell me?”
“I have come to tell you that I cannot transport those paintings to New York for you.”
“Cannot?” said Adam. “Or will not?”
“Will not,” said Omar.
“Oh,” said Adam. He regarded the pinkness of his drink. “I'm sure you have a very good reason for saying what you do.”
“It's just that—well, the bargain was that you would convince Caroline to agree, but you did not. I did.”
“Yes,” said Adam. “The conquering hero.” He lifted his glass toward Omar, and then drained it.
“Please don't say that,” said Omar. “Don't call me that. You don't understand. I've decided—”
“You've decided what?”
“Nothing. That I can't—won't—transport the paintings for you. But you don't understand.”
“Oh, I think I do. A bit. I understand a bit. And really, who can understand more than a bit? Who would want to understand more than a bit? Not I.” Adam stood up. “It was all a bit foolish of me. The intractability of things! The older you get, how apparent it is, how it weighs upon one. You would think it would not be so difficult as it is.” He addressed this tirade to the stones at his feet.
Omar was not sure what he was talking about, so he said nothing. And then he said, “I'm sorry.”
“No,” said Adam, looking up at Omar. “Don't be sorry. I couldn't bear your being sorry. Besides, I'm sure you have better things to be sorry for. Forget our little bargain.”
“I sincerely wanted to help you,” said Omar. “I do. Perhaps there is something else I could do for you.”
“I cannot think of anything at the present moment,” said Adam, “but if and when I do, I will not hesitate to contact you.”
“I'm sorry,” said Omar. “I am being sincere.”
“And I am not?”
“No. I don't think you are.”
Adam stepped forward, and did an odd thing: he touched Omar's cheek. “Don't be so sure,” he said. “It is a hard thing to tell with me.”
Pete was driving them to Tacuarembó, from where they could catch a bus directly to Montevideo. They would spend one night there and leave the following morning.
Deirdre finished packing and closed her bag. She brought it downstairs and put it on the bench next to the front door. Then she went back up to Omar's room. He was sitting on his bed beside his open suitcase.
“Are you finished packing?” she asked.
He nodded. There was something wrong with him; he had hardly spoken to her since their conversation on the road, but she did not know what to do except to get him out of here, get him home. “Let's go down, then,” she said. “Pete should be here.”
“Do you know where Arden is?” he asked.
“She's in her room. She said she would come down to say goodbye.”
Omar stood up. “I need to talk to Arden. I'll meet you downstairs.”
“Omar—”
“What?”
“Why do you need to talk to Arden? Maybe we should just go.”
“I just want to say goodbye to her, and thank her.”
“You can do that downstairs.”
“I want to do it privately.”
“Remember what you promised me,” Deirdre said.
“Yes,” said Omar, “I remember.” He left the room. He had never been to Arden's room but he knew where it was: it was one of the two large rooms at the front of the house, on the second floor. He walked down the hall and across the gallery to the other side of the house. Her bedroom door was shut. He knocked on it.
After a moment she opened it. “Omar,” she said.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She looked confused, almost as if she thought he had already left, but she stepped back from the door and opened it wider so he could enter. She did not shut it behind him.
The room was very large. It was darker than he thought it would be; the shades were all drawn. A huge unmade canopied bed stood against the back wall, and a door beside it was opened into a bathroom. Between the front windows stood a long empire sofa, and facing it were several matching chairs. A very large, worn patterned carpet covered most of the floor, and the walls were all painted a pale green.
Neither of them said anything for a moment, but then Arden asked, “Is Pete here? Are you ready to leave?”
“No,” said Omar.
“I was going to come down, and say goodbye. Portia is angry. She wanted to stay home from school, so she could say goodbye. But I told her I would do it for her. So: goodbye from Portia.”
“Why have you been avoiding me?” said Omar.
She looked at him. “Oh, Omar,” she said.
“Why?”
“I thought it best, with Deirdre here, not to be in the way—”
“I think I love you,” said Omar.
“Oh,” she said. She ducked her face a moment, then she looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said. “I'm flattered you think that. But of course you don't. You hardly know me.”
“But I—”
“No,” she said, “listen to me. I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry I did. It was wrong of me, Omar, it was wrong of us both. I like you very much, but you must not think you love me.” She shook her head. “You mustn't think that.”
“Why not?” asked Omar.
“Because,” she said. “I can't explain it without hurting you and I don't want to hurt you. Just trust me, Omar.”
“You won't hurt me,” said Omar.
She stood up. “Yes,” she said, “I will. And I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want you to hurt me. Please—” she touched him, lightly, on his arm. “Please, it will hurt me, it does hurt me, but it is better if you go. There is nothing to talk about, really, Omar. There is nothing to say. Let us be friends.”
They heard the gravel crunching out front and a car door slam.
“Here's Pete,” she said. She touched him again. “You should go. You don't want to miss your bus.”
But Omar did not move. He just stood there looking at her. For a long moment they looked at each other. Then Arden went and closed the door. She came back and stood close to him. She touched him again—his arm, and then his face. He closed his eyes, moved his face against her hand, reached out, blindly, touched her, opened his mouth, found hers.
They were all three quiet in the car, almost as if they were strangers. Deirdre sat in front beside Pete. She closed her eyes and feigned sleep but Pete could tell she was awake, and he hated her a little for this deception. She is not brave or honest enough to sit beside me and not talk, he thought. In the rearview mirror he could
see Omar gazing out the window. Pete looked up many times into the mirror, but Omar's gaze never shifted; he was always looking out the window, but his stare was dull, uninterested.
They arrived in Tacuarembó early for the bus and Pete offered to stay with them, but Deirdre dispatched him, almost rudely. It was not at all how Pete had imagined it would be. He had thought in some way that because he was young he was one of them; he had thought they would laugh and talk as they drove and embrace before they got onto the bus; he had thought they would stick their heads out the window and wave as the bus drove away. And he had thought—wildly, impossibly—that they might ask him to come with them. But no: they collected their bags from the trunk and then told him to go, or rather Deirdre told him to go. She was polite: she thanked him for the ride, for all he had done for them, but she told him to go. You have so far to drive, she said, there's no point in staying here with us. Who knows how late the bus will be …
Pete stood there for a moment, as if he were deciding, trying to think of a reason why he must stay with them, but he was not clever enough, and so of course he had to leave. He could not stay if they did not want him. Apparently they did not want him. Of course they did not want him. How stupid he had been. Thinking they might ask him to go with them, when they could hardly wait to be rid of him.
Deirdre went inside to buy the tickets, and Pete was left alone with Omar. He reached out his hand and touched Omar's arm. “I'm glad to have met you. I'm sorry you must go.”
“Me too,” said Omar. “Thank you, Pete.” He embraced Pete. It happened very quickly, a quick hug. Over Omar's shoulder Pete could see Deirdre at the ticket window. Omar smelled clean and good, he was warm. Omar patted Pete on the back, and then broke away.
“You will come back,” said Pete.
“Yes,” said Omar, “I suppose.”
“Good,” said Pete. “I will take you with me when I look for
furniture. We will have a nice time together. And we will go to the beach.”
“Yes,” said Omar.
Deirdre had returned with the tickets. She displayed them as if they were prizes, as if she had fought for them. Perhaps she had. She stood in a way that indicated it was time for Pete to leave. He held out his hand toward her. “Goodbye, Deirdre,” he said.
She shook it, and touched it with her other hand. “Goodbye, Pete,” Deirdre said. “Thank you again for the ride here, and everything else—” She was sincere, he could tell. Perhaps he was wrong about her, perhaps she had been asleep in the car.
“You're welcome,” said Pete. “Have a safe journey.”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “You too.”
But I am going nowhere, thought Pete. He said goodbye to Omar again and then he walked to the car. After he started it he looked for them but they had gone to sit inside the bus station. He drove away. He did not know what he had lost. Or it was not even something lost. It was the hope of something, the absurd possibility of something, lost. He drove a little way, out of Tacuarembó, and then pulled the car off the road. He just sat there, waiting. He did not want to get back so fast.
Pete was very late getting back. He had stopped in a town on the way back and drunk three beers in a bar and then napped in the car and then had stopped again for dinner in a roadside restaurant. Adam had left lights on for him. Or perhaps Adam had just left lights on: that was more likely. Pete turned out the lamps in the living room. There was a mess in the kitchen from Adam's dinner, but Pete let it alone. He was very tired. Driving at night exhausted him. It had been very dark all around him, and the car seemed to have weak beams. Perhaps one of the headlights was out. He sat for a while in the dark living room. He still felt the sensation of traveling, of the road moving beneath him. It would take a moment for it to quieten, to cease.
After a while he climbed the stairs. He was surprised to find a light on in the bedroom, and Adam sitting up in bed. He was reading Proust. He laid the fat book, splayed, on his lap and looked up at Pete.
“I heard you come in,” he said.
“I'm sorry if I woke you,” said Pete.
“No,” said Adam. “I was waiting for you. I was worried. I thought perhaps you went off with them.”
“No,” said Pete. “They're gone.”
“Good riddance, I say,” said Adam.
Pete loitered by the door.
“Come to bed,” said Adam. And then he leaned forward, because it appeared as though Pete were crying. “What is it, Pete? What's wrong?”
Pete had turned away, he crossed his arms against the doorjamb and buried his face in them. He was sobbing.
Adam got out of bed. He stood beside Pete, put his hand, lightly, on Pete's shaking back. “What's wrong, Pete?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”
“I don't know,” said Pete. “I thought I was happy.”
“Come to bed,” said Adam. “Get undressed and come to bed.” Pete did. He undressed, turned out the light, and got into the bed. Adam held him. Adam held him and stroked his hair. He said his name, over and over again, until Pete stopped crying. Then he said, in the darkness: “It's all right, Pete. Don't worry. I understand that you must leave here.”
“I don't want to leave you,” said Pete.
“Yes, you do,” said Adam. “You must. There is nothing here for you.”
For a while Pete said nothing, and then he said, “But what about you? Who will take care of you?”
“I don't need so very much taking care of,” said Adam. “Don't worry.”
BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
6.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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