“I haven’t given any of that much thought,” said Omar. “I’m not sure what I think.”
“How I hate that!” said Caroline. “No one is sure what he thinks. You are just afraid to say what you think.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Perhaps.”
“Don’t be afraid. I need to know what you think.”
“Why?” asked Omar.
“Because if you are to write a biography of my husband, I must know what you think about certain things.”
“Like marriage?”
“Yes,” said Caroline.
Omar said nothing.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“No,” said Omar.
“Are you a homosexual?”
“No,” said Omar.
“So we may conclude that you are an unmarried heterosexual?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “We may conclude that.”
“Are you romantically engaged?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I suppose I am.”
“You suppose? You’re not sure? How unromantic.”
“No, I am sure. But why do you want to know that?”
“Because I would not want the person who writes the biography of Jules Gund to be a person who had never been in love. Or, worse yet, a person who would not admit to being, or having been, in love.”
“But I thought I wasn’t going to write the biography.”
“Yes. You were not.”
What would Deirdre do, Omar wondered, if faced with this type of lunatic interrogation? He had a vision of Deirdre pushing, or slapping, Caroline. Not that Deirdre was given to violence: it was just a vision he had. Perhaps because he wanted to push or slap Caroline? No. But he felt odd.
They were both silent for a moment.
Then Caroline said, “I ask you again: are you romantically engaged?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I am.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Caroline.
“Well, I’m glad to have done something that pleases you.”
Caroline smiled. “It is a woman, I assume, with whom you are romantically engaged?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “It is a woman.”
“For how long have you known her?”
“A little more than two years,” said Omar.
“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s personal, I suppose—”
“I see. You are to come here and ask us all innumerable personal questions—pardon me if I am wrong, but I assume that’s how a biography gets written—and we are to ask you none? Is that how this works?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t ask me questions. I just said it makes me uncomfortable. And if I don’t have authorization I won’t be asking you any questions anyway.”
Caroline looked at him. “It is a little difficult for me to believe you.”
“Believe what?”
“That you are, or have been, in love.”
“I have a girlfriend,” said Omar. “Her name is Deirdre. We’ve been together two years. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“What do you mean: here, as in the man you now are, or here, as in Uruguay?”
“I wouldn’t be here in Uruguay.” Both, he thought.
“Why not?”
“I would have given up,” said Omar. “I would have accepted your decision.”
“So Deirdre convinced you to come here. She urged you to come here and change our minds?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“And if you fail to change our minds, if you return without authorization, what will she think?”
“I don’t know,” said Omar.
“Will she think you have failed?” asked Caroline.
“I don’t know,” said Omar.
“I know you don’t know!” exclaimed Caroline. “Of course you don’t know. You are clearly not a mind reader. I asked you, what do you think? What do you think she will think?”
“I think she will think I have failed,” said Omar. “I will have failed.”
“Sometimes it is good to fail at things,” said Caroline. “To try, but to fail. There is nothing ignoble in that.”
“I suppose not,” said Omar, “but it is failure nonetheless. And Deirdre regards these matters less philosophically than you.”
“Ah. She is a practical woman?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “She is, among other things, a very practical woman.”
“And you are not? Or perhaps you are?”
“A practical woman? No, I am not.”
“Are you a practical man? I would think, in order to write a biography, one would need to be practical.”
“I’m sure it helps,” said Omar. “I’ve resolved to become practical.”
“How dreary it sounds: to aspire to practicality.”
“I am resolved to become it; I don’t aspire to it.”
“To what then do you aspire?”
“I aspire to write a biography of Jules Gund,” he said. “I aspire to write a new kind of biography.”
“How new?”
Omar took a deep breath. He had a feeling this was his moment. “I intend to abandon the notion of objectivity,” he declared, as if he knew what he was talking about. “The objective biography is a myth. I want to write a biography that celebrates its subjectivity. In terms of biography, there was no Jules Gund. No one, real, intact Jules Gund. Certainly no ‘authorized’ Jules Gund. There is your Jules Gund. There is Miss Langdon’s. There is mine.”
“And your biography would present them all?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “At least it is to that that I aspire. A truer account by virtue of, rather than despite, its subjectivity. Biography is a hoax.”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “I see your point.”
“I’m sorry,” said Omar.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
“For lecturing you. It’s odd; it’s not something I normally do. Not even when I’m supposed to be doing it. It’s just that I thought if you knew what kind of book I intended to write, or at least hoped to write with your cooperation, you might reconsider your decision. I have no intention of usurping, exploiting, or hijacking the life of Jules Gund for my own purposes.”
“It’s interesting, what you propose to do. Yet it doesn’t sound very academic. Will your university support such a project?”
“Oh yes,” Omar hastened to assure her. “The weirder you are, the more they like it. You’ve got to do something no one else understands—then they can’t attack you. If they don’t understand it, they think there’s a chance it might be brilliant and keep their mouths shut.”
“And has this always been your approach to biography? I don’t remember it expressed this way in your letter to us. You seemed to advocate a more traditional approach then.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “You’re right. It is only since I’ve been here, and met you, and Miss Langdon—”
“Stop calling her Miss Langdon! Her name is Arden. And mine is Caroline. Miss Langdon: it sounds like an amanuensis.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Well, it’s only been since I’ve met you, and Arden, that I’ve understood things.”
“So we are speaking of a recent realization?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Very recent. I came here thinking I would write the standard academic biography, but I see now that that is impossible, even distasteful.”
There was a knock on the door. “Entrez,” said Caroline.
The door opened, revealing Arden standing in the vestibule. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I’ve just spoken with Adam.”
“What does he want?” asked Caroline.
“He invited Omar to have lunch with him and Pete. And Caroline, Omar has offered to take us out to dinner this evening, you and I and Adam and Pete. Adam has accepted this invitation. What about you?”
“Well, a dinner out sounds fine, but we cannot allo
w Omar to take us. While he is here, we are his hosts—”
“No, please, I insist,” said Omar. “It would give me much pleasure to take you all out to dinner. Really it would. You must allow me! I insist.”
“Adam suggested Federico’s,” said Arden. “I hope you like Italian food,” she said to Omar.
Omar said he did.
“It was Jules’s favorite restaurant,” said Arden. “It’s a bit of a drive, but as I told you, there are really no decent restaurants in the neighborhood.”
“In fact, there is no neighborhood,” said Caroline.
“Well, Adam is expecting you. He said to come at noon. Do you want to take the car or walk? He’s only about a mile down the road.”
“I’d be happy to walk,” said Omar. “If you will show me the way.”
“It’s just straight down the road,” said Arden. She turned to Caroline. “About dinner. Should I make a reservation at eight?”
“I seriously doubt we will need a reservation,” said Caroline.
“Well, just to be sure. Is eight all right with you?”
“Yes, eight is fine. You’d better go, Omar, if Adam expects you at noon. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”
“No,” said Omar.
“Come, then,” said Arden. “I’ll point you in the right direction.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Omar felt a bit loopy as he walked down the road toward Adam Gund’s house. His interview with Caroline—indeed the entire morning—had left him slightly discombobulated, and he was trying to calm himself and recover his wits. Yes, he thought, I was a bit mad. But then I think she is a bit mad herself, so perhaps it was okay. Why did I say that, about a subjective biography? Was it nonsense? Do I want to write that kind of biography? Could I? Would the university publish it? He stopped walking and stood in the middle of the road. He knelt and laid his palm on the cracked tarmac. Oh, he thought, it’s quiet and beautiful and peaceful here. And warm.
There was no traffic on the road, which pitched gradually downward. He continued walking down its center. Woods grew close to the road on either side, and then on one side gave way to a clearing, a sort of meadow. The road turned around the meadow and then descended more sharply; a crude stone bridge rose over a wide, shallow creek. Omar paused for a moment and looked down at the water flowing briskly over the rocks. He thought: Here I am in Uruguay, but I could be anywhere. I could be in Kansas. Although the air smelled different: there was some sort of warm, dusty scent that seemed vaguely exotic.
Omar crossed the bridge and saw the dirt lane that led to what must be the millhouse, a tall, cylindrical dwelling made of stone. He turned off the deserted road and walked down the tree-shrouded lane. A low stone wall separated the house from the lane, and inside the wall, in front of the house, was a yard paved with stones and crosshatched with moss. In this yard a man with a wire brush was vehemently scraping the paint from a wooden table. The noise this activity made, and his intentness upon it, prevented him from noticing Omar’s arrival.
Omar stood outside the stone wall and watched for a moment. The man was Asian, and he didn’t look much older than Omar. His dark hair was drawn back into a ponytail. His bare brown arms were sinewy and strong. After a moment he interrupted his activity, stepped back, and appraised his work. He noticed Omar. “Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” said Omar. “I am Omar Razaghi. I am here to see Adam Gund.”
“Yes,” said Pete. “We are expecting you. Come in.”
Omar opened the wooden gate and stepped into the yard.
Pete set the brush down on the table and wiped his hands on his pants, and then held one out. “I am Pete,” he said. “I live here with Adam.”
Omar shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
“How was your walk?” asked Pete.
“Very nice,” said Omar. “I enjoyed it.”
“You must be thirsty. Come in and I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Before this act of charity could be achieved the front door opened and an elderly man, dressed in a linen suit that looked much in need of washing and pressing, emerged from the house. He wore a fedora made of straw and a cravat at his open neck. He carried a cane, or a walking stick, with which he pointed at Omar.
“Mr. Razaghi, I presume?” he said.
“Yes,” said Omar. “Are you Mr. Gund?”
Adam held out his hand. “I have been,” he said. “And seem to keep on going being Mr. Gund, much as I try to avoid that fate. Every day I wake up hoping I have been metamorphosed. For this reason I have never understood that book of Mr. Kafka’s. I would be delighted to wake up an insect.”
Omar shook his hand, but could think of no reply.
“So,” said Adam, who seemed not to notice Omar’s silence. “You have survived a night with the madwomen of Ochos Rios. You look no worse for the experience, although not having prior knowledge of your appearance disqualifies me from making such a judgment. You were not eaten alive?”
“No,” said Omar. “I was treated very well. Especially considering I arrived unannounced.”
“Yes, how exciting your arrival must have been. Nobody ever arrives at Ochos Rios, let alone arrives unannounced. I’m sure the women are still fibrillating. Well, your arrival here was expected and I must say you are admirably punctual. I thought instead of running the risk of poisoning you with a meal served out of our encephalitic kitchen, we would venture to the only marginally safer neighborhood cantina.”
“That sounds fine,” said Omar. “Whatever.”
“I have a tendency toward preoccupation that makes driving an unwelcome adventure. Can you drive, Mr. Razaghi?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“How nice for us all. How exceedingly perfect you are. We must leave at once, I am afraid, for the cantina stops serving lunch at two o’clock.”
“Enjoy your lunch,” said Pete. “I’ll see you later, I’m sure, Omar.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I hope so.”
“The car is this a way,” said Adam, pointing with his stick.
The cantina was a modest building in a clearing of trees about ten miles down the road. Many trucks and jeeps were parked in the gravel lot in front of it. Only men seemed to eat lunch at the cantina, Omar noticed, and they all seemed to be eating large plates of big-boned chops and crude, bursting sausage. The dining room was a tin-roofed platform open on the three sides that did not face the kitchen, from where great whooshes of flame periodically erupted. Adam and Omar found a table on the far side of the room, a bit away from the more boisterous diners. The table was covered with brightly colored, plastic-coated fabric. A very pretty waitress offered them menus, but Adam declined the menus and said something to her in Spanish that was beyond Omar’s comprehension.
“I have ordered us a plate of grilled meat and a pitcher of beer,” he said, when the waitress had left them. “I hope that will suit you.”
It had only been hours since Omar had gorged himself on the bread and jam and honey, but he found he was hungry once again. There was a wonderful smell in the air of rendered fat and spice and juicy meat, and when the waitress returned with the pitcher of glowing amber beer, which seemed blessedly lit from within, Omar felt curiously happy. It was pleasantly warm in the drowsy grove of trees, the carnivorous men around him all seemed happy and handsome, and he was in Uruguay.
“I will let you do the honors,” said Adam, nodding toward the pitcher.
Omar filled two glasses with beer. He remembered Deirdre filling the glasses that evening at Kiplings, and was overcome with an urgent tender feeling for her. If it were not for her, he thought, I would not be here. In Uruguay, drinking beer with the brother of Jules Gund. He silently toasted her: Oh Deirdre!
Adam took a sip of his beer and cleared his throat. “So tell me,” he said, “have you managed to change their minds yet?”
“You mean about the biography?” asked Omar.
“Yes, of course. Although I may wish you wou
ld change their minds about other things, I don’t know you well enough to presume you might.”
“I don’t think so,” said Omar. “They both still seem pretty much opposed to granting me authorization. But it is hard to tell.”
“I trust you know that I am on your side in this matter?”
“I did not know that,” said Omar. “I thought the decision was unanimous.”
“Did Arden tell you that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I just assumed it, I think.”
“Well, you misassume. No, I am all for this biography. I tried to talk sense to those women, but as you have no doubt discovered, it is like shouting down a well. Shouting down a well? Is that an idiomatic expression in English or did I just make it up?”
“I don’t think I’ve heard it before,” said Omar. “But English is my second language.”
“What is your first?”
“Farsi. I was born in Iran.”
“You mean Persia.”
“Well, it was once called Persia.”
“Yes, back when the world had a certain elegant order. Do you know, I never learned German until I was an adult? My parents never spoke it after leaving Germany. We spoke English at home and Spanish elsewhere, but never German. But that is beside the point. Of what were we speaking?”
“The biography,” said Omar.
“Exactly. I am all for it. And Caroline and Arden can be made to agree with me.”
“Can they?” asked Omar. “How?”
“Don’t you worry about that. They disagree with me at this point only because it is more interesting for them to disagree with me at this point. And in a way I am grateful for their recalcitrance, for it has brought you here to us.”
“Yes, but their agreement would have done the same.”
“Perhaps not so immediately, and so beseechingly. You are really too adorable! Of course you have no idea of how adorable you are, which only makes you more so. I am sure they were plumping your pillows and darning your socks all night long.”
“They left me quite alone,” said Omar, a bit indignantly.
Their platter of meat was delivered and set between them.
“Please, help yourself,” said Adam. “Take whatever morsels you so desire.”
The City of Your Final Destination Page 9
