The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  She looked at him again. “I haven’t changed it to please you,” she said. “You mustn’t think that.”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “I just—in thinking about things, it seems to me that a biography is the best thing for Jules. It’s for Jules I’ve changed my mind, not you.”

  “Of course,” said Omar.

  At the millhouse, Adam opened the car door. “Do you want to come in for a nightcap? We have a bottle of chartreuse lurking about, I believe.”

  “I’ve had plenty for the night,” said Arden. “And Ada is staying with Portia.”

  “You can take the car back with you, if you want,” said Adam. “Pete can fetch it tomorrow. Walk me to the door, then, Mr. Razaghi,” said Adam. “These cobbles are treacherous at night.”

  Omar got out of the car and helped Adam from his seat. Adam took hold of Omar’s arm and led him across the dark, cobbled yard.

  “Well,” Adam said. “One down and one to go. Perhaps you did not need me with Arden, but Caroline is a stickier wicket.”

  He was speaking rather loudly—they had drunk a bottle of Prosecco with dinner—and Omar was afraid that Arden would hear. “I don’t think I had anything to do with Arden changing her mind,” he said.

  “Nonsense! Of course you did. Don’t underestimate the effect of your charm.”

  Omar said nothing, but blushed in the darkness. He felt Adam’s grip upon his arm tighten. “I once had charm like yours,” Adam said. “Strange as it may seem now. But charm spoils with age. Like cheese, or beauty. Or at least for me it did. Some people manage to retain one or the other or, rarely, both. But I think you will find this prize requires a price. The price is selflessness, forfeiture, abstinence. There is something a little pathetic about ending up old and beautiful and charming, I think: it indicates, to me at least, a waste of resources, or at the very least, a serious misappropriation of them. I think I have very appropriately divested myself of these resources. For charm and beauty are more valuable commodities in the young. There’s little the ancient can buy with them. For this reason, I do not mind being old and ugly: it seems apt.”

  “But you’re not ugly,” said Omar, emboldened by liquor.

  “How charming of you to say that,” said Adam. “Thank you. But don’t squander your charm on me.”

  “No, thank you,” said Omar. “Thank you for all your advice, and help.”

  “I think in retrospect you’ll come to see I’ve done nothing for you,” said Adam, “but while you are feeling obliged, I hasten to remind you of our agreement.”

  “Of course,” said Omar, “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Well, we can talk about all of that later. Tomorrow, perhaps. Now, I need my bed. Perhaps you could open the door for me, for it sticks a bit, and responds well to brute force. A quality, like charm and beauty, I presently lack.”

  The door was recalcitrant but Omar managed to push it open. Adam stepped inside.

  “Charm and brute force. What a delicious package you are.”

  Omar remained on the stoop. “Good night,” he said.

  Adam turned back toward the door. He put a hand on either of Omar’s shoulders, and kissed him on his cheek. “Good night, dear boy.” He turned and slowly walked up the dark stairs. Omar pulled the door shut and crossed the yard. Arden had left the car and was sitting on the stone wall. She had once again removed her shoes. He sat beside her. It was cool and she had put on a sweater he had not realized she had. Perhaps it had been in the car. “Is it all right to walk back?” she asked. “I feel like a walk, and some fresh air—but we can take the car if you want. You must be tired.”

  “No,” said Omar. “I’d like to walk.”

  Arden stood and began walking up the drive. Omar followed her. They were silent all the way up the lane. They crossed the bridge over the stream, which they could hear gushing in the darkness beneath them. They paused there, as if by mutual agreement. Arden said, “What will you do now?”

  Omar wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, and he did not want to think about what he could, or should, do. He said nothing.

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to,” said Arden.

  “Thank you,” said Omar.

  Arden began walking again, and Omar followed her.

  “There is one thing I’d like very much to do,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to see the gondola.”

  “Oh,” said Arden. “Of course you may see it. It’s a hike, though, I warn you, now that the road’s washed out. I told you the road was gone, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “When did that happen? How?”

  “It was about five years ago. Jules’s father had built a lake for the gondola by damming the river. That river”—she motioned behind them—“but farther up. Of course the dam, like everything, was neglected. It broke in a storm and the road up to the lake was washed out, and we’ve never bothered to fix either.”

  “But you can still get there?”

  “Yes, on foot. There’s a path.”

  “How far is it? How long does it take?”

  “A couple of miles, I suppose. Uphill. About an hour or so. We can go tomorrow, if you like. It’s a nice walk.”

  “Thank you,” said Omar. “I’d like that.”

  “After breakfast, then. We can bring a lunch with us.”

  “May I bring my camera?” asked Omar.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Arden.

  Omar said, “It’s odd.”

  “What’s odd?”

  “Where I live, in Kansas—where I live now—I live in a house on a defunct lake.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Arden.

  “It’s the same as here. There was a lake created by a dam, but the dam broke, so the lake is gone. Just a creek and marsh. It’s odd that the same thing happened here.”

  “Yes,” said Arden, “I suppose.” And then she said: “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “But you have a girlfriend, I understand?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Omar.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Deirdre.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” said Arden.

  Omar did not respond.

  “And is she also an academic?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “She is.”

  “Is her field literature?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “It is.”

  “Forgive me if I’m being rude,” said Arden.

  “You aren’t being rude,” said Omar. “I’m sorry if I made you feel that. Really, you weren’t.”

  “I don’t meet new people often. I don’t know how to behave anymore.” They were silent a moment, walking side by side, and then Arden turned slightly toward him. “Are you happy?” she asked.

  It was an odd question, thought Omar, perhaps she did not know how to behave anymore. But there was something about the moment that allowed it: or it was not the moment so much as the sum of moments, the entire day, stretching back behind them in the darkness, as if the day was a road they had walked along. “I suppose I am,” said Omar. “I have no reason not to be. Although I’m concerned about the book, of course, and authorization—”

  “No,” said Arden. “I mean apart from all that. I mean in your life, living in Kansas, getting your degree, teaching—does all that make you happy?”

  The answer was no, but for some reason Omar was unable to admit that, for admitting to unhappiness seemed tantamount to admitting to failure, for after all, wasn’t it? If he was unhappy, unhappy living in Kansas, getting his degree, teaching, wasn’t it all his fault? Yes. If he was unhappy there was no one to blame but himself. And that was failure. But was he really unhappy? He had never thought so before, exactly. Instead of saying no, he said: “It’s odd to come so far away from your life, like this. To step out of it. Imagine if you came to Kansas—”

  Arden laughed.

  “I
know,” said Omar. “I can’t imagine you in Kansas.”

  They arrived at the gate and turned up the drive.

  “I feel like I’ve been here longer than one day,” said Omar.

  “Yes,” said Arden, “it feels longer.”

  “I understand why you would want to stay here. Or at least I think I do. It seems very perfect here, in a way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. It’s just that everything seems perfect. Everything seems in its place. Even the trees, the gate, the house, all the things in the house, and the quiet—I don’t know. I’m a bit drunk, I think.”

  Arden smiled in the darkness.

  “You look so beautiful tonight,” said Omar.

  “I’ve changed my mind. You can stop flattering me.”

  “No!” said Omar. “Really. I mean it. I wouldn’t flatter you. I mean I wouldn’t flatter you for mercenary reasons. I’m not like that.”

  “I know,” said Arden, “but you shouldn’t, nevertheless.”

  “Why not?” asked Omar.

  “Well, for one thing, you have a girlfriend, don’t you? I don’t think she would like it.”

  Omar thought of Deirdre. It was hard to think of Deirdre, perhaps because he was drunk, and the distance, it was almost as if the distance affected his ability to imagine her. “I don’t think she would mind if I said you were beautiful,” he said.

  Arden said nothing. They approached the house. A soft light glowed from the windows in the tower but most of the others were dark, and they stood outside the front door, in the darkness. The trees all around them murmured and exhaled their piney scent.

  “I wish we could walk now, to see the gondola,” Omar said.

  “Now? In the dark?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But you wouldn’t see it. There are no lights up there.”

  “I want to keep walking,” said Omar.

  “I’ve got to go in,” said Arden. “Ada is staying with Portia. You can walk about all you like.”

  “I think I will walk a little.”

  “Fine,” said Arden. “Don’t get lost.” She turned away from him, abruptly, without saying good night or anything else, and entered the house. Omar stood outside and watched the lights turn on. Then he walked down the drive, to the point where it curved, and he turned and looked back up at the house. He could see it looming there in front of him, the yellow bricks glowing palely in the dark. He stepped a ways off the drive into the towering trees. He lay down on the ground, looking up through the embrasures of their quivering tip-tops at the stars.

  Adam was sitting in the dark living room when Pete returned. Pete turned on the light and saw him: “Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked.

  “I was waiting for you,” said Adam.

  “Why were you waiting for me?” asked Pete. “Why were you in the dark?”

  “Where have you been?” asked Adam.

  “In Huerta.”

  “And what brought you to Huerta?”

  “A table,” said Pete.

  “You missed the dinner,” said Adam.

  “I’m sorry,” said Pete. “I didn’t think I would be away so long.”

  “It does seem rather a long time to be contemplating a table. Was it a particularly fascinating table?”

  Pete went into the kitchen and rinsed out a dirty glass, then filled it with water and drank it all, quickly. Then he filled it again and returned to the living room, sipping from it. “Do you want something?” he asked Adam.

  “There are many things I want,” said Adam.

  “Do you want something I can get you?” asked Pete.

  “I want you to be happy,” said Adam.

  “I am happy,” said Pete.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” said Pete.

  “If I were you, I would not be happy,” said Adam.

  “Well, you are not me. And who would you be happy being? No one, I think.”

  Pete sat down on the sofa across from Adam. A low table intervened, and Pete raised his legs up, one and then the other, and rested them on the table. He sighed, and leaned back into the cushions. “How was the dinner?” he asked.

  “Mildly diverting,” said Adam. “Arden has changed her mind. I have always liked that expression: ‘changed her mind.’ Like hats: as if one takes one mind out and puts another mind in. I would like to change my mind.”

  “Change it about what?”

  “I mean entirely. Like a hat.”

  “I like your mind. I would miss it,” said Pete. “Why did Arden change her mind?”

  “Because she thinks it would be fun to play with Omar Razaghi.”

  Pete said nothing.

  “Of course we all want to play with him, each in our own way. The problem is that Caroline is contrary, and thinks it would be more fun to bait him than to aid him.”

  “And you?” asked Pete.

  “I just find him amusing.”

  “Well, I am glad you are amused.”

  “Tell me about the table,” said Adam.

  “What table?”

  “The table that has occupied you in Huerta this entire evening.”

  “You don’t believe there is a table in Huerta, do you?”

  “Of course I believe there is a table in Huerta. I believe there are many tables in Huerta.”

  “It was actually not a table. Or not only a table. They are building a new courthouse in Huerta. Very modern, and ugly. They are auctioning all the contents of the old courthouse. There are some beautiful things. Including tables. Beautiful benches. And on the way back I stopped at Mordachei’s, and had dinner, and drank some beer.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes,” said Pete.

  “You spoke with no one?”

  “Why are you asking these questions? I don’t have a secret life.”

  “I know,” said Adam. “I wish you did.”

  “Why?” asked Pete.

  “Well, not secret. Not necessarily secret. But another life, or at least a bit of a life, I wish you had that.”

  “I do,” said Pete. “I have more than a bit of a life.”

  “Sometimes I think it was wrong of me to bring you here.”

  “I happen to like it here,” said Pete. “I’m happier here than anywhere else I have ever been. I wish you would not worry about me in that way. I’m not a pet.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Adam.

  “I think you did. You’re not responsible for my happiness.”

  “Of course. Yet it concerns me, nonetheless.”

  “I think you should worry about your own happiness.”

  Adam chuckled, darkly. “Oh, I have given up on that!”

  “You pretend you have, but you have not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It is cowardly, I think,” said Pete. “It is the one thing about you that I don’t like.”

  “What?”

  “That you pretend happiness does not matter. That it is somehow beyond, or behind you. That you are past it.” He paused. “It is a little too easy, and selfish.”

  “Selfish?”

  “Yes,” said Pete. “Selfish, and a bit mean. What about me? Don’t I make you happy? Can’t I make you happy? At least sometimes?”

  “Of course you can,” said Adam. “Of course you do.”

  “Then don’t say you are not happy. Don’t say happiness does not matter.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Adam.

  Pete stood up. “I’m tired,” he said. “Are you ready for bed?” “Go up,” said Adam. “I will be there in just a minute.”

  Pete replaced his glass in the kitchen. He passed back through the living room and paused in the doorway. “Are you coming?” he asked.

  “In just a minute,” said Adam.

  “Did I upset you?” asked Pete.

  “No,” said Adam. “Well, yes, a little. But it is fine. I am fine. Thank you for what you said.”

  �
�Come up,” said Pete. “Please, come up now.”

  And to his surprise, Adam did.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Caroline was drinking tea at the kitchen table when Omar appeared the next morning. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she replied. “Portia missed the bus so Arden drove her to school. She should be back shortly, I think. There is coffee in the pot.”

  “Thank you,” said Omar. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table.

  “I understand you and Arden are off on an excursion,” said Caroline.

  “Yes,” said Omar. “We’re going to see the gondola.” He sipped his coffee. It was very hot. He blew on it.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner at Federico’s?” asked Caroline.

  “Yes,” said Omar. “It was a very nice dinner.”

  “And Arden has changed her mind,” said Caroline.

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “You know, I have been thinking about it all. And I am confused. You confuse me. Perhaps I misjudged you yesterday, but you seemed different.”

  “How did I seem?”

  “You seemed compassionate, and moral.”

  “You think I am immoral?”

  “Well, I wonder what kind of person would write a biography of a man against that man’s wishes. Or those of his wife, for that matter.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Omar. “I just fail to see how a letter a man wrote thirty years ago—”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty, then. Whatever. But I fail to see how feelings expressed at that time have any bearing on this matter.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “And even if they did, other matters take precedence.”

  “What matters are they?”

  “I mean that if Jules had never written a book it would be different. But he did. And it was published to considerable international attention. He joined in public discourse.”

  “And so he lays himself open to the scourge of biography? By publishing one book?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “And I don’t think biography is necessarily a scourge.”

  “I think you’re simply rationalizing, making excuses. I wish you could read his letter.”

  “So do I,” said Omar.

  “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you’d like to read all his letters to me.”