The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  Deirdre fell asleep in the car, her head leaning against the door. Arden thought the cessation of motion might arouse her, but it did not, so she was compelled to reach over and touch Deirdre’s shoulder, softly shake it.

  “Deirdre,” she whispered, “we’re home. Well, I’m home. You’re here.”

  Deirdre opened her eyes. They were parked at the top of the drive, on a grassy verge beside the house. There was a little light left in the sky, soft, late-evening light, and it poured itself across the miles onto the baked yellow wall of the house. For some reason that seemed absolutely correct and necessary, Arden kept her hand, for a moment, on Deirdre’s shoulder. Arden knew, instinctually, how and when to touch people. It was a gift, a talent she had.

  “Come in,” Arden said. “And we’ll make a bed, and you can sleep.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Deirdre awoke the next morning in a strange bed in a strange room. It was very quiet. For a moment she thought she was in some sort of sanatorium—the linoleum floor and white metal bed frame seemed quaintly therapeutic; I have TB, she thought, and have been sent to a sanatorium.

  Then she saw her suitcase opened on the floor and remembered that she was at Ochos Rios, in Uruguay, and that it was Omar who was incapacitated. She looked at her watch, which was, besides a ceramic lamp and a glass of water, the only thing on the bedside table. There was something oddly lovely about the glass of water: the tumbler itself was delicately etched with a garland of braided flowers, and the water was curiously bright and clear. Schools of tiny bubbles clung to the sheer inside wall. It was 10:40. She had slept for hours and hours. She got out of bed and stood in the center of the room, looking around. There were three doors, one per wall, and on the fourth wall was a window with a rather ugly and ancient venetian blind drawn, and drapes made from heavy brocaded fabric that did not at all suit the utilitarian, therapeutic mood of the room. They looked like drapes that had been cut down, made over, from other more majestic drapes. They were not drawn. Light leaked prismatically through chinks in the lowered blinds, forcing itself, as if by desire, into the room. It must be very bright outside, Deirdre thought. She parted two lengths of dusty blind and peered out: an unkempt lawn sloped sharply down toward a piney forest. A dog was sitting on the lawn, carefully eating a very large bone. She tapped softly on the glass but the dog did not respond, and she had the odd feeling he was in another world, that it was all other worlds, through the window and behind each of the three doors.

  Deirdre hoped that one of the doors might reveal a bathroom. Alas, none did: one opened into a large closet empty save for a pomandered, wizened, unidentifiable fruit that hung on a satin ribbon from the long rod. There was something totemic and disquieting about it hanging there, all by itself, in the dark closet. Another door opened into an identically sized room where in place of a bed there was a long worktable piled high with bolts of fabric and an ancient sewing machine. The third door opened out onto a long corridor, with perhaps a dozen closed doors set along its length. Many chairs of different breeds were set along either side of the hall, between the doors, and it was clear that they served no purpose, that no one sat on them waiting, but they themselves were waiting.

  Deirdre now vaguely remembered visiting a bathroom along this hall the night before. How tired and exhausted she had been! She hoped she had behaved all right. She set out in search of the bathroom. She knocked on the door across the hall and when no one answered she opened it. This room, which seemed to be roughly the same size and shape as her bedroom, was empty except for a large wooden table set before the window; on the table was a small, velvet-curtained proscenium stage of the kind used for puppet shows. Marionettes hung, like torture victims, along the walls. There was something creepy about this room—something creepy, at least, to Deirdre—and she quickly closed the door. Even as a child—especially as a child—she had always hated the dumb, staring faces of dolls. She could never pretend that they were alive, and had disdained girls who did.

  The room beside the sewing room was another bedroom, similar to hers. She recognized Omar’s suitcase closed, but not latched, upon a chair. The bed was neatly made. She stepped inside and closed the door. She looked into the suitcase. On top of the clothes were a few books: Hermione Lee’s biography of Virginia Woolf (which Deirdre had given him, along with a watch, for Christmas), and Spanish and English editions of The Gondola. There was also a small, cheap notebook with a pen jammed into its spiral. Deirdre opened this notebook and recognized Omar’s careful, somewhat old-world writing. Apparently it was a journal. She looked around the room, and convinced she was alone, began reading:

  Well, I got here. Here being Montevideo, which I suppose is really neither here nor there, but I’m still amazed I got this far. Although I think the trip here was the easy part. I feel a little scared and lost. But excited too. Montevideo is half-great and half-ruined, like most places in the world. I’ve just been walking around. I’m staying in a pretty terrible hotel but it’s cheap. My room has no window. It feels very safe, like a cocoon, but it’s a little scary. Like you could disappear in it. Like in addition to the window the door could be subtracted and you would be stuck inside. It’s a very basic room: floor, walls, ceiling, bed, wardrobe, chair. A lightbulb on a chain hangs from the ceiling. I’m sitting up in bed now, writing this. I could be anywhere in the world. The sheets are stiff and scratchy but clean. They smell of bleach. The bed creaks when I move.

  Now that I’m here (although it’s only Montevideo) and nothing has really been accomplished yet or changed, but now that I’m here, this far, I feel like things will be okay. I mean whatever happens. I thought about writing them from here, saying I was coming. Send a telegram or something like that. But I think it would be better if I just show up. I’m sure that there is some way I can present this so that they will be willing to give me authorization. Unless they’re totally insane and irrational.

  On the plane they gave us all free champagne. Little miniature bottles. The woman next to me didn’t want hers so I got two. I’m keeping the extra one to drink with Deirdre when I get back, when all this has been straightened out, when I’ve got authorization, and everything is okay again. And we can celebrate. It’s only a little bottle but we can drink it together.

  I’m tired and it’s hard to write sitting up in this bed. Needless to say there is no desk.

  That is all there was written in the book.

  “There you are,” said Arden, when Deirdre entered the kitchen. “I was just thinking about waking you, but felt odd doing so. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Deirdre.

  “You were exhausted,” said Arden. “I mean really exhausted. Physically exhausted. Emotionally, too, no doubt.”

  Although Deirdre knew that exhaustion was a neutral state, she felt in Arden’s pronouncement a judgment, as if some weakness on her part had allowed, even fostered, the exhaustion.

  “I’m feeling much better now,” she said.

  “And did you find the bathroom? I hope there was enough hot water for you to shower properly.”

  The shower had been tepid, slurring toward cool as it evolved, but it had nevertheless been much enjoyed by Deirdre, as showers after extended periods of travel inevitably are. “It was fine,” she said. “I’m in love with your house. All the old fixtures, and furniture—”

  “Their charm wears thin after a while,” said Arden. “I loved it all when I first came too.” She said this in a way that made it clear that she still loved it all, but had the time-deeded prerogative to make complaints. “What would you like for breakfast? Everyone eats such different breakfasts, but we have most anything you’d like.”

  “Coffee would be wonderful,” said Deirdre.

  “Yes, of course,” said Arden. “But what else? You must be starving. You ate nothing last night.”

  Deirdre realized she was famished. “I suppose I am a bit hungry,” she allowed.

  “Of course you are,” said Arden. “How do
you like your eggs?”

  “Scrambled,” Deirdre said, “but let me do it. Really, let me. Just show me—”

  “Nonsense,” said Arden. “Unless you don’t trust me. But eggs I can manage.” She laughed. She poured coffee from a percolator into a mug and set it before Deirdre, and nodded at the milk and sugar waiting on the table. Then she busied herself with the making of the eggs.

  The coffee was very good: dark and fragrant and intensely flavorful.

  Arden returned to the table with a plate of eggs and bread and fried potatoes. She set the plate down in front of Deirdre, then filled a mug with coffee for herself, and sat at the far end of the table.

  “Thank you,” said Deirdre. “It looks delicious.”

  Arden sipped her coffee with a vague smile on her face.

  “How long have you lived here?” asked Deirdre.

  “About ten years,” said Arden. “Eleven, now, I suppose.”

  “And are you from Uruguay? Were you born here?”

  “No,” laughed Arden. “I was born in England. My father was British, and my mother was American. She was an actress.”

  “So you grew up in England?”

  “Yes, except for a bit in Los Angeles and Wisconsin. Mostly in boarding schools. My parents were both rather self-preoccupied. They divorced soon after I was born.”

  “Does your mother still act?” asked Deirdre.

  “I think not,” said Arden. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Deirdre.

  “It happened quite a long time ago,” said Arden.

  “I wanted to be an actor,” said Deirdre, “but I could never relax on stage. I always looked tense, they said.”

  “I see,” said Arden.

  “Do you mind me asking you questions?” asked Deirdre.

  “No,” said Arden, “of course I don’t.”

  “It’s just that it seems so interesting to me—your being here. How did you get to Uruguay?”

  “God brought me,” said Arden.

  “Oh,” said Deirdre.

  Arden laughed. “I joined one of those awful Christian missionary groups when I was in college. I was a bit of a mess. I think I mostly did it to hurt my father, who was passionately irreligious. The group I joined was called Joyful Noise. We traveled around the world giving concerts and smiling brightly and converting heathens. I shook the tambourine.”

  “And you came to Uruguay?”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “We were touring South America by bus. My God. Can you imagine? I made it as far as Montevideo, where I came to my senses. I’ve always loved Montevideo for that reason. I couldn’t go home, so I arranged to go to the university and that’s where I met Jules. He was teaching there. And then I came here.”

  “You’ve had an interesting life,” said Deirdre.

  “Well, it’s quieted down. It took me a while to find my home. I had never had a home before I came here. Neither of my parents had time for homes.”

  “And it’s just you, and Portia, and Caroline living here?”

  “Yes. An odd home, I know. Adam and Pete live just down the road. Adam was Jules’s brother. Pete’s his companion. It was Pete who was with Omar when he had his accident. He feels very bad about all of this, of course. He feels responsible.”

  “Do the bees sting often?”

  “I suppose,” said Arden. “I’m often stung.” She looked down at her hands and bare forearms, as if for evidence. “No one has ever responded to a sting like Omar. I’ve never seen anything like it. I really thought he was going to die.”

  “Did Omar get a chance to speak with you?” Deirdre asked.

  “What do you mean?” asked Arden.

  “I mean, about the book. The biography. And authorization.” She heard the curtness in her voice. “I just wondered,” she amended.

  “Yes, he did,” said Arden. “And he changed our minds. Well, he changed my mind, and Adam’s. Well, Adam was already in favor of it. He changed my mind. Caroline’s mind is not changed. She still refuses to grant authorization.”

  “How did he change your mind?” Deirdre asked.

  “I don’t really know if he did,” said Arden. “I mean, my mind has changed, and I suppose it is because of him, but I’m not sure. You see, Caroline claims Jules wrote her—soon after The Gondola was published—that he never wanted to have a biography of himself written. I think he was reading a biography at the time—I don’t know whose—and was disturbed by it. Biographies can be disturbing. Well, when Omar’s letter first arrived, I was persuaded to withhold authorization on the basis of that, but now …” She picked up Deirdre’s cleaned plate and carried it to the sink. She rinsed it under the tap and then turned and faced Deirdre, who remained sitting at the table. “Now that seems like a less compelling reason. It was such a long time ago he wrote that letter. Jules is dead. This biography can’t hurt him. And Omar is alive, and the biography can help him. It seemed rather simple to me.”

  “So it’s to help Omar that you changed your mind?” asked Deirdre.

  Arden looked over at Deirdre, and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose that is why. I’m sure you’re anxious to see him again. Should we go? I don’t mean to rush you, but I’d like to get back here before Portia returns from school.”

  “I feel so terrible you have to drive me there,” said Deirdre. “I wish I could drive myself.”

  “Everyone wants to be so self-sufficient these days,” said Arden. “It’s a bit sad.”

  “It’s just that I hate imposing—”

  “But it isn’t an imposition,” said Arden.

  Deirdre thought she was in the wrong room, but the number on the door confirmed she was not. This time the screen was set around the boy’s bed and voices murmured from within the cocoon. She walked around the shrouded bed and saw Omar lying awake. “Deirdre!” he said.

  She sat on the bed and kissed him. “Hello,” he said.

  “My God. Why are you here?”

  “Arden called me. You were in a coma. And you were paralyzed. Can you move everything?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I think so.”

  “Have you walked?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “How do you feel?”

  “A bit odd. Groggy. I think it’s the medication.”

  “What about your poor hand? Does it hurt?”

  Omar looked down at his gauze mitt. “No,” he said. “It just itches. I can’t believe you’ve come. There’s really no reason. And my God—how much did it cost?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Deirdre. “What’s important is that I’m here, and that you’re okay.”

  “The nurse told me someone had visited me last night. I couldn’t imagine who it was. I mean other than Arden. Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “They told me not to. Has Arden been visiting you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Have you met her?”

  “Of course,” said Deirdre. “I’m staying there.”

  “Isn’t it amazing? I mean the house and everything.”

  “I think it’s spooky,” said Deirdre.

  “Have you met Caroline?”

  “Yes. Briefly.”

  “And Adam?”

  “No,” said Deirdre. “I just got here last night.”

  “I don’t know why Arden called you. I’m really fine.”

  “I don’t think you were, though. She was very worried. Do you remember what happened?”

  “No,” said Omar. “I don’t remember anything from that day clearly. I was a bit sick, hungover, I remember that. We had gone out to dinner the night before.”

  “Do you remember that?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “We went to this restaurant. An Italian restaurant. Adam, Arden, and me. Caroline wouldn’t come. She’s been difficult.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” said Deirdre. “But I hear Arden has changed her mind. And the brother too. Congratulations!”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “Although the brother—Adam�
�was for it from the beginning, I think. But Arden has changed her mind. But I don’t think Caroline will. Although Adam says …”

  “He says what?”

  “He says—he told me he could change her mind for me. That he would change her mind for me. If I …”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Omar. “I don’t really remember.”

  “What?” said Deirdre. “Omar, I’ve come all this way. What’s going on? I can’t help you unless I know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” said Omar. “There’s another book, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jules wrote another book.”

  “Was it published?”

  “No.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No. But supposedly it’s based on their ménage.”

  “That’s great. If you hurry, you can have the biography published simultaneously. That would be fantastic.”

  “They don’t want to publish the book.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s supposed to be a secret, I think. Adam blurted it out and then Arden told me to forget about it. So don’t mention it.”

  “Okay,” said Deirdre, “but that’s very exciting news.”

  “I know,” said Omar.

  They heard the screen around the other bed being moved and were silent. A doctor and nurse emerged from behind it. The nurse left but the doctor washed his hands in a basin in the corner of the room and then came and stood beside Omar’s bed.

  “I am Dr. Peni,” he proclaimed, extending his hand. “And you are a friend of our poor stung Omar?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. She shook his hand, which was still damp.

  “You are from the United States?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre.

  “You are a good friend, to come so far.”

  “I’m very concerned about Omar.”

  “Of course you are. We are all concerned. But I think all the news is good news. He has been conscious for two days. I think for good now. You won’t be leaving us again, will you, Omar?”