“I don’t usually eat meat,” said Omar, and thus excused, helped himself to some sausage and what looked to be a lamb chop.
“It seems rather pointless to be alive and toothed and not eat meat, but your diet, whatever it is, seems to agree with you.” Adam maneuvered several chops and sausages onto his plate and began to attack them with his knife and fork. He was a zealous and messy eater, Omar noticed: the pink juice ran down his chin, onto his cravat.
“No, no, no,” said Adam, after a moment of concentrated gluttonous consumption. “There is a reason I have lured you here, there is a reason for our little déjeuner sur l’herbe. And I am sure you have guessed what it is.”
The meat was delicious: tender and juicy; it was the kind of meat that made a very persuasive case for eating flesh. When Omar, who was in a bit of a blood-induced stupor, did not answer, Adam looked over at him. “Have you guessed?” he asked.
“Ah, no,” Omar managed to say around a mouthful of sausage.
“We must work together,” said Adam. “We must co-conspire.”
“Yes,” said Omar, “of course.”
“I can help you with this,” said Adam. He filled both their glasses with beer. “I can get the women to agree to authorization.”
“Can you?” said Omar. “How?”
“Never you mind how,” said Adam. “I haven’t lived with crazy women for most of my life without learning a little about how to deal with them. Did you know my mother was crazy?”
“No,” said Omar.
“Mad. Undone by grief. Prostrated by sorrow. Loco. Yes, I have walked many a mile with a madwoman. And Caroline and Arden are two of the maddest. They aid and abet each other, you see.”
“They seem quite sane to me,” said Omar, although he remembered that he had only recently wondered if Caroline were mad.
“Oh, of course they appear to be quite sane. It is the crowning achievement of their insanity: their elegant rational façades. But it is only a façade, my dear boy. Behind it is a madhouse, I assure you. Bedlam! Rattling around in that spooked house like two Miss Havishams. It makes me shiver.” Adam did shiver, and forked another sausage onto his plate. “No,” he continued, “you leave the madwomen to me. I will have them signing on the dotted line—I assume there is a dotted line somewhere—in no time at all.”
“Well, good,” said Omar. “That’s great.”
“Yes, isn’t it great?” said Adam. “My father smacked me every time I said anything was great. Frederick was Great, he would say. Catherine was Great! Your baba au rhum is not great. Speaking of baba au rhum, do you want a flan? We had better ask for it now, before our waitress disappears. These waitresses have a maddening habit of disappearing. I think they are lured into postprandial dalliance by their customers. You look as if you could use a flan, or two.”
“No, thank you,” said Omar.
“You’re quite sure?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I couldn’t, after all this meat.”
“No doubt it is the secret to your charming figure. But as I have long ago forsaken mine—or more aptly it has forsaken me—I will order a flan.”
He summoned the waitress and appeared to do that.
“So,” said Adam. “I will help you get the authorization you need.”
“Thank you,” said Omar.
“And I wonder if you would be so kind as to help me with something.”
“Of course,” said Omar. “What?”
Adam laid down his fork. He rubbed his napkin ineffectually on his stained shirtfront, and sat back in his chair. “There is something,” he said, “that you could do for me.”
“What?” repeated Omar. He was wondering if it would be piggish to take the last sausage, which had burst its skin and was leaking its savory stuffing onto the platter. No, he thought, I mustn’t: I’ve had enough.
He looked over at Adam, and saw that he was thinking. After a moment Adam said, “It is such a long story. I don’t know where to begin.”
Omar knew enough to say nothing. He waited. He pushed the platter a little bit away from him. All around them men were rising from their tables; in the parking lot, trucks were backing up, raising clouds of dust. Lunchtime was apparently drawing to a hasty conclusion. The waitress arrived with Adam’s flan, which wobbled prettily in a pool of syrup on a white saucer. She took the platter of meat away with her.
Adam took a bite of the flan. “Delicious,” he pronounced.
A few men still lingered at tables, smoking cigarettes or cigars and drinking tiny cups of espresso or yerba maté. For a moment Adam concentrated on his flan, and Omar thought he must have forgotten the long story. But he had not. When the flan was consumed and the saucer scraped clean, Adam laid down his spoon. He patted his mouth with his napkin and then folded it carefully and laid it on the table. “I think I shall spare you the long story,” he said.
“I would be interested to hear it,” said Omar.
“That’s right,” said Adam. “I forget, you are a biographer. You thrive on narrative excrement. You prefer it to flan.”
Omar said nothing.
Adam said, “I’m sorry. You must understand—or rather, I beg you to understand—that this contempt I have for everyone is really contempt for myself. But perhaps you are wise enough to know that.”
Omar said nothing.
The waitress came and gave them both espressos. Omar did not know if they came automatically or if Adam had ordered them.
Adam said, “Contempt. It is such a pathetic thing, isn’t it? I mean, my mind is just large enough to know that. But it is practically all I feel. It is the odious gas that fills me. One day I will float disdainfully away, buoyed by contempt. Icarus flew too near the sun.”
“Yes,” said Omar.
Adam smiled, sadly, at his espresso cup. Something had shifted: Omar noticed they were the only ones left in the cantina. A few men stood about in the parking lot, but all the tables were empty, and the light had changed all around them, grown just a bit less harsh.
“Do you know the story of Icarus?” Adam asked.
“Yes,” said Omar, although suddenly he thought perhaps he did not: was there more to it than wings made of feathers and wax melting in the heat of the sun? Of course there was more.
“My parent were refugees,” said Adam. “Of course, you know that. They brought certain things with them when they came to Uruguay.”
For a moment Omar thought this had something to do with the story of Icarus but then he realized it did not. “What things?” he said.
“Both my parents came from wealthy families. My mother, especially. My mother brought some paintings with her, paintings which were not supposed to leave Germany. And jewels.”
“Are they yours now?” asked Omar.
“What interesting, methodical questions you ask. You will make a fine biographer, methinks. To answer your question: I believe they belong to me,” said Adam. “They were my mother’s. In some way, they belonged to Jules, too, of course, but Jules is dead. I suppose they belong in some way to Caroline. Perhaps they belong in some way to Arden. But I think they mostly belong to me. Neither Caroline nor Arden knows these things exist. Jules did not know. My mother did not feel safe here. She did not feel safe anywhere after she left Stuttgart. She did not feel safe on this planet. Unlike Arden and Caroline, she had reason to be crazy. I would like to sell these things now. I would like you to take these paintings and this jewelry back with you to New York, and give them to a man there, who will arrange for them to be auctioned.”
“Oh, I don’t live in New York,” said Omar, as if this disqualified him from everything.
“I assume you pass through New York. Or can arrange to go there. If you have gotten yourself here, I am confident you can get yourself to New York. You merely need to go to New York and give these things to a man. I will give you his address.”
“Is it legal?” asked Omar.
“Is what legal?”
“This whole thing … taking these
things out of the country, taking them to New York.”
“It is moral,” said Adam.
“But not legal?”
For a moment Adam did not reply. Then he said, “You know, of course, that my mother was a Jew. You know they came to Uruguay to escape Hitler. They waited a bit too long. I think they thought for a while that since my mother had married a gentile, things might not be so bad. But things were bad. They realized this, and finally came here. It was the only place they could come to at that point. Do you know the conditions of their coming here?”
“No,” said Omar.
“Well, first of all, my father had to buy a mine. A failed mine, a spent mine, a mine he did not want. And he had to pay a lot of money for it. My mother was not allowed to bring any of her family’s possessions out of Germany. They finally let her leave, but she could take nothing with her. So she smuggled these things. These few paintings, these few jewels. I want to sell them now. Do you know why I want to sell them now?”
“No,” said Omar.
“I need money for Pete. I need money to give to Pete so he may leave me.”
Omar said nothing. Then he said, “This sounds very personal and complicated. I don’t think I want to get involved with all of this. I don’t think I should.”
“Oh,” said Adam. “Oh,” he said, again. Then he said, “Remind me: what is it you want?”
“What?”
“You want to write a biography of Jules, no? You want authorization to write a biography of my brother. Is this not something you want?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I want that.”
“But you don’t want to get involved with personal or complicated things?”
“It just sounds like it could get messy,” said Omar. “And dangerous.”
“And you don’t want things to get messy or dangerous?” asked Adam.
“No,” said Omar.
“It has been my experience that sooner or later things always get messy or dangerous,” said Adam. He stood up and paid the waitress, who was wiping tables with a rag and a spray bottle of cleaning fluid. Omar watched him give her a bill; she gave him change from the pocket of her apron. Adam returned to the table but did not sit down.
“I’m sorry,” said Omar, after a moment. “It’s just that I’m no good at these things.”
“You’re scared,” said Adam. It was a statement, not an accusation.
“Yes,” said Omar.
Adam put his hand on Omar’s shoulder. “You can be scared,” said Adam. “The thing is not to let being scared stop you from doing the right thing, or from getting the things you want. That is what makes cowards.” He removed his hand. “But enough of this now. I am sleepy,” he said. “I want to go home, and take a siesta.”
They were silent on the ride back to the millhouse. Pete was where they had left him. He walked over to the car and helped Adam out of it. “Did you have a nice lunch?” he asked.
“Delicious,” said Adam, “but stupefying. At least I am stupefied. I want to be prone: prone and unconscious.”
“Thank you for the lunch,” said Omar.
“You’re welcome,” said Adam. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company. Perhaps you would help me up the stairs, Pete.” He turned to Omar. “Pete does things like help me up the stairs now and then. He is so good to me.”
“Let me help you,” said Omar. “There is something I want to tell you.”
“Is there?” asked Adam.
“Yes,” said Omar. “There is.”
“Well, you need not help me up the stairs. We can talk without my experiencing that particular mortification.”
Omar looked at Pete.
“Excuse me,” said Pete. “I will go.”
“No.” Adam touched Pete’s bare forearm. “Stay. Pete may hear whatever you have to say to me, Mr. Razaghi. We have no secrets.”
“It’s only that—I just wanted to say that I’d do what you asked me to do. Of course I’ll do it. It seems the right thing to do.”
“Does it?” asked Adam.
“Yes,” said Omar. “I am sure it is the right thing to do.” Adam pounded his walking stick twice upon the cobbles beneath them. “Good,” he said. “I feel revivified. I believe I have sufficient strength to drag myself to my bed without the help of either of you burly youths. I leave you here.” He turned and walked, quite briskly, but with apparent effort, into the house.
When he had disappeared, Pete said, “I’ll walk you back up to the big house. Or would you rather walk alone?”
“No,” said Omar, “of course not.”
Pete laid down his tools and they set off up the narrow lane toward the road. They did not speak. There is a way that people displace their attention to one another onto the landscape that, when done simultaneously, is sometimes an effective and satisfying substitute for communication.
Omar had to urinate badly; he had intended to ask for the lavatory at the millhouse, but the scene there had not accommodated such a request, and he had figured he could pee on the wayside once he had gained the road, but here was Pete sharing the road with him. They walked silently up the lane and turned onto the main road.
Omar could wait no longer. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I will visit the bushes,” he said.
Pete looked at him blankly. “What?” he asked.
“I need to visit the bushes,” Omar said. “Nature calls.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Pete. He laughed, but not unkindly.
Omar ventured a way into the scrub and urinated vehemently against a tree. It was odd how good it felt.
When he returned to Pete’s side something had shifted between them—the low call of human nature had freed something, and their silence was more companionable.
After a moment, Omar said, “How long have you lived here?”
Pete looked around them, as if Omar meant this particular spot. “About six years,” he said.
“Where are you from, originally?” Omar asked.
“Thailand,” said Pete. “Bangkok.”
“I’ve never been there,” said Omar.
Pete didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he said, “My mother was a prostitute. So was I, for a while, as a boy. A German man brought me back to Stuttgart with him when I was seventeen. I met Adam there.”
“What was Adam doing in Stuttgart?”
“He was living there. He was managing director of the Stuttgart Opera. I had a job there, building sets. When he came back here, I came with him. To do this, he must adopt me. Legally, I am his son.”
“Do you like it here?” asked Omar.
“Yes,” said Pete. “I have a little business. I find old furniture and then make it look older. A lady comes twice a year from New York City and buys whatever I have. She says I have a very good eye. And I help Arden in the garden. It rhymes. And I take care of the bees.”
“What bees?” asked Omar.
“There is a hive at Ochos Rios. Behind the garden. I will show you.”
“The garden is very large,” said Omar.
“We make it a little bigger every year. It is a lot of work, especially at this time of year. It’s winter now, where you come from?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“You live in the United States?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Which state is yours?”
“A state called Kansas. It’s in the middle of the country. The center.”
“And it’s very cold there?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Now, it is. It is probably snowing.” He mimed snow by twinkling his fingers.
“Why do you pick that? A cold state? All the states are not so cold, are they?”
“No,” said Omar. “Some are warmer than others.”
“Then why not pick a warm state? I think Florida is warm. I was in Miami once. Miami is nice.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Florida is warm.”
“But you don’t like Florida?”
“I’ve never been to
Florida. I live in Kansas because it’s where I’m teaching.”
“And you want to write a book about Jules?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “A biography. Did you know Jules?”
“Yes,” said Pete. “When I first came here, Jules was alive. I am the one who found him, when he was dead. I knew where he would go.”
“How did you know?” asked Omar.
“I don’t know. I just knew.”
“Where was he?”
“A place in the woods. Not far from the lake.”
“Near the gondola?”
“The gondola is in the boathouse,” said Pete.
“Was this place in the woods near the boathouse?”
“No,” said Pete. “It was the other side of the lake.”
“Did you know he would be dead?”
“Yes,” said Pete.
“How?”
“He had taken the gun,” said Pete. He touched the top of Omar’s head, palmed it. “This had come off,” he said. “Like an egg.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and reached the gate of Ochos Rios. It was only yesterday that I arrived here, thought Omar. It seemed days ago.
“Where are the rivers?” he asked Pete.
“What rivers?”
“The eight rivers. Isn’t that what Ochos Rios means: eight rivers?”
“Yes,” said Pete. “But there are no rivers. It is just a name.”
CHAPTER NINE
From a window in the tower, Caroline watched Pete and Omar walk up the drive. She felt in Omar’s presence a threat—not merely, or perhaps not even fundamentally, because of the book. It struck more deeply and vaguely than that. In some instinctual way, before she had even intuited the threat, she had thought she could rise up and meet or deflect it—that explained her behavior with Omar last night and this morning. But now she wasn’t sure. They seemed to be chattering gaily, Omar and Pete, like two old friends. Omar glanced up then and saw her in the window. He raised his hand in a combined wave and salute. The familiarity of the gesture shocked her. She stepped away from the window. She stood there, feeling and thinking nothing. Lately she felt this often: this stasis, this vacancy, this sitting or standing still and feeling emptied out, hollow. It was not unpleasant. It did not scare her: it was a sort of contentment, a hiatus, a satisfaction of nothing.
The City of Your Final Destination Page 10
