The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “I think about it,” said Deirdre. “I wonder about it.”

  Omar said nothing.

  “Omar?” Deirdre asked.

  Omar said nothing.

  “Omar,” Deirdre said again, “can I ask you a question?”

  She was looking at him, but he was looking ahead of them, down the sidewalk, which rose and fell like geological plates. He nodded his head.

  “Did you—I’ve been thinking, trying to figure it out. You were so strange. It was all so strange. Did you fall in love with Arden? Is that what happened? I mean, besides the bee—”

  They were passing a house that was built on a slight incline above the street; the lawn was banked and the walkway leading to the front door commenced in a series of steps. Omar sat down on the bottom step and covered his face with his hands; he sat down on the step very naturally, as if this were his house, as if he lived here, and was home, and had the absolute right to live his life, or a moment of it, sitting on the step. Deirdre glanced around, but the street was empty, the girl on the tricycle had disappeared. She sat down beside Omar.

  Omar uncovered his face. His eyes looked a bit blurry and bruised, as if he had ground his fists into their sockets. He had lost weight, she realized; she had never noticed he had eye sockets before. He said, “I just have to get over it.”

  Deirdre said nothing for a moment. She was aware of the moment: she and Omar sitting side by side on the steps of some house. This is where it ends, she thought. And we won’t ever know whose house it is, or what their story is, what drama is being played out behind us, up the walk and inside the green front door, past the rhododendron bushes. No: we won’t ever know that.

  “Or not,” she said.

  “What?” said Omar.

  “You can just get over it,” she said, “or not.”

  “I have to get over it,” said Omar. “I have to figure out what I’m doing, or no: what I can do, and do it.”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “Holding people down while they’re tortured in a hospital in Toronto sounds like an excellent way to figure that out.”

  “What else can I do?” asked Omar.

  “You can do anything you want,” said Deirdre.

  “Yes,” said Omar, “and tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.”

  Deirdre said nothing for a moment, and then she said: “You could go and love Arden. Or try to, at least. I think it would come easier to you, than holding people down, whilst they are tortured.”

  “She doesn’t love me,” said Omar.

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “Perhaps she was wrong. People are often wrong about these things, you know.” She paused. “Present company excepted, of course. I was not wrong: I did love you, you know.”

  “I know,” said Omar.

  “Good,” said Deirdre. “I worry about that.” She paused, and then said, “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” said Omar.

  “Good,” said Deirdre. She touched him. “Good.”

  She stood up. “For what’s it worth, I don’t vote for Toronto. I think you should go to Uruguay.”

  Omar laughed.

  “What?” asked Deirdre.

  “You’re always pushing me to go to Uruguay,” said Omar.

  “Not always,” said Deirdre. “Just twice.” She held out her hand. “Come,” she said. “We should go back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She was late; she had missed her connecting flight in Miami, so instead of arriving in New York early in the evening she arrived there after midnight. By the time she was reunited with her baggage and had cleared customs it was 1:30 A.M. She fell asleep in the taxi and woke as it passed Yankee Stadium; she knew, or thought she knew from her distant knowledge of New York City geography, that this was wrong, that she should not be passing Yankee Stadium, which glowed hugely and palely in the night like an edifice in a dream. Perhaps she was dreaming. She sat forward and rapped on the glass—well, Plexiglass—divider. For a moment she had to think what language to speak in.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “Why are we passing Yankee Stadium? I want to go to Manhattan. Jane Street, in Greenwich Village.”

  “This is a shortcut,” the driver said. He had a beautiful face: sad, dark eyes that met hers tiredly in the rearview mirror. “There is much traffic the other way.”

  “It’s the middle of the night!” she said. “There is no traffic!”

  “It is quick, this way,” he said. “I get you fast to Greenwich Village. Relax, ma’am, and you will be happy.”

  She leaned back against the seat, and looked out at the dark deserted city. She would not tip him.

  He pulled up to the curb. “Here, ma’am. We are here.”

  She leaned forward and looked out at the building. It did not look the same to her, it did not look as she remembered it, but she had not seen it in over thirty years. But she had lived here once, for a year or two, late in the fifties. Had it been here? It looked so different. The number was right. “Is this Jane Street?” she asked him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  She paid him, and tipped him. He had gotten her there, after all, and what did she know? Perhaps Yankee Stadium was on the way. Perhaps it had moved. He lifted her suitcase out of the trunk and set it on the sidewalk. It was a lovely night, cool, the trees in succulent green leaf.

  “This is your building, yes?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Good night.”

  He got back in the cab. For a moment he sat there, watching her. Then he drove away. There was a smell of New York that she remembered. She stood there, beside her bag, on the sidewalk, breathing in the smell.

  After a moment she climbed the steps into the lighted foyer. She was supposed to get the keys from the superintendent, but she was supposed to have arrived at 6 P.M. But there was nothing else to do. She did not know where there was a hotel. She supposed she could sit on the stoop until dawn, but her exhaustion emboldened her. She pushed the buzzer that was labeled SUPER. There was no response, so she pushed it again, and again, longer. She held it down. Finally a squawking voice burst forth from the intercom. “Hello!” she called into it. “It’s Caroline Gund.”

  The door buzzed and she pushed it open with her foot. She slid her suitcase into the lobby and followed it. She stood there for a moment, panting, as if she had climbed a mountain. She could not remember where the superintendent’s apartment was. She did not remember there being a superintendent. She could picture their apartment, in the back of the building, on the top floor. She stood besides the mailboxes. She saw the mailbox that was labeled M. DESCOURTIEUX. She touched it.

  The elevator opened and a man stepped out of it, tucking his shirt into his pants. For a moment she mistook him for the taxi driver: he had the same eyes, the same sad, tired eyes.

  “Mrs. Gund?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He held up a set of keys on a ring. “Here are the keys.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late,” she said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. He gave her the keys. “Do you need help?” he nodded at her suitcase.

  “No,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said. “She was a very nice woman. A real lady.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “She lived here a long time,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Forty years.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Mr. Perth, in 6B, he has Hugo.”

  She did not understand what he meant so she merely nodded. “I’m very tired,” she said.

  He looked at her for a moment. “You come from where?” he asked. “Russia?”

  “No,” she said. “Uruguay. Thank you for the key. Good night.”

  He said good night and disappeared into the elevator. She waited a moment and then pushed the button, and after a moment the elevator returned, emptied, and she stepped i
nto it with her suitcase.

  She had trouble with the locks and keys, but finally the door swung open. The apartment was dark. She remembered the long hall. She remembered where the light switch was and felt for it, touched it, turned it on. She closed the door behind her and bolted it. There was a low bookcase along one wall, ceramic bowls of coins and matchbooks and Christmas ornaments and old keys placed along the top of it. Above it was a framed Paul Klee print. She put her suitcase on the worn wood floor and walked down the hall. She passed the kitchen and walked into the living room. Of course it was differently furnished, but the room itself was different from how she had remembered it. In her memory it had windows on two walls. She turned on a table lamp and looked around the room. It was very crowded with things: books and paintings and furniture and plants, but in its own way it was very neat and ordered. Everything had its spot. She opened the casement window and leaned out. All the windows were dark. Everyone was sleeping. It was quiet. Even for New York City, it was very quiet. She walked slowly around the room, touching the sofa, the chairs, the wooden tables. Dust.

  She went back down the hall and got her suitcase and took it into the bedroom. She paused in the doorway. This is where she had slept with her sister, on mattresses on the floor. Margot had a job working at Bergdorf Goodman’s. She had a job checking coats at a restaurant called Périgord. During the day she took painting and drawing classes at the Art Students League. In some ways it was all still there, those happy years in New York, those years that had ceased to exist, to be spoken of. Such complete neglect had fixed them in amber; they had not been muddied or distorted by recollection. She turned on the overhead light, but no light came on. She looked up and saw that there was no fixture, just wires dangling from the socket. Was the light being repaired someplace? Was it being replaced? She turned on the lamp on the bedside table. Of course, the mattresses were gone; they had been replaced by an antique wooden sleigh bed; its coverlet hastily pulled up over itself. Margot had not had time to make the bed properly before they took her to the hospital. Caroline wondered if she went in an ambulance. How do you leave your home for the last time? Did she know she would never come back? For three weeks, while she lay dying in the hospital, her bed had waited here for her. Caroline sat down on the bed. After a moment she lowered her face to the pillow and breathed deeply, to see if she could smell her sister, to see if that, at least, remained.

  She slept late and woke up, disoriented, in the sleigh bed. She lay in bed, looked around the strange room, and let the circumstances slowly rise to the surface: Margot was dead. She had come to New York to deal with her things: her apartment, her business.

  She got up and showered, thinking the lilac-scented soap had touched her sister’s skin. She looked at all the toiletries in the medicine cabinet: the bottles of lotion and perfume, the pots of makeup, the assorted prescription drugs. Descourtieux, Margot. Take one capsule three times a day as needed to relieve pain.

  She decided to start with the kitchen. She found a plastic shopping bag and began to fill it with the contents of the refrigerator. She had quickly filled one bag and was starting on a second when there was a knock on the door. She paused for a moment. Who could it be? No one knew she was there.

  The knock was repeated.

  She went down the hall and opened the door. A young man, maybe in his early thirties, stood outside the door. He was casually dressed in jeans and had bare feet. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Tom Perth. I live in 6B, next door. Are you Margot’s sister?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “I’m Caroline Gund.”

  He held out his hand, and she shook it.

  “Antonio, the super, told me you had arrived. I just wanted to let you know I have Hugo.”

  “Who is Hugo?” Caroline asked.

  “Oh,” said Tom Perth. “Hugo is Margot’s dog. You didn’t know she had a dog?”

  “No,” said Caroline.

  “He’s a French bulldog. I’ve been taking care of him ever since Margot went into the hospital.”

  “Thank you,” said Caroline.

  “I’m going to L.A. tomorrow. No, not tomorrow: Thursday. So I’ll have to return him to you.”

  “Oh,” said Caroline. A dog! What would she do with a dog? “Perhaps you would like to keep him?”

  “I love Hugo, but I can’t. I travel too much.”

  “Oh,” said Caroline.

  “You can’t take him?” he asked.

  “No. I’m just here visiting. I live in Uruguay.”

  “I thought Margot was French.”

  “She was. I just happen to live in Uruguay.”

  “Well, listen, I’ll bring Hugo over later. Will you be around this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “Or wait—no. I have an appointment with Margot’s lawyer at two o’clock.”

  “Okay. I’ll come over later, then. Around six?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Caroline. “I will be here then. Is there anything I need to get, to take care of the dog?”

  “I have all his stuff. I’ll bring it over. I’ll see you later, then.” He turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Caroline.

  He turned back.

  “Excuse me—I’m just curious—did you know my sister well?”

  “Fairly well, as far as New York City neighbors go. We’d have dinner once in a while, and I took care of Hugo when she traveled.”

  “Did she travel a lot?”

  “Yes, for her business, a couple times a year.”

  “I didn’t know her well,” said Caroline. “We were not in touch.”

  “She never mentioned you,” he said.

  “No,” said Caroline. “I’m not surprised.”

  “You look like her,” said Tom Perth.

  “Do I?” said Caroline.

  “Yes,” he said. “Listen, I gotta go. I have an appointment for a massage at eleven. I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Of course,” said Caroline. “Thank you.” She stepped back into the apartment and closed the door. A dog, she thought. Hugo. What can I do with her dog?

  Tamara Shelley, Margot’s lawyer, told Caroline that Margot’s will had clearly broken her estate into three parts: her business, her savings, and her apartment. Her business, Descourtieux Textiles & Fabrics, Inc., which designed and imported fabric, had been left to her associate, a woman named Anna Powell. Her savings and retirement funds, which Tamara estimated totaled $400,000, was to be divided evenly among the American Cancer Society, Planned Parenthood, and the Fresh Air Fund. Her apartment, which had turned into a co-op at some point in the seventies and which Margot now owned, was left to Caroline, as was everything it contained : art, furnishings, clothes, books, jewelry.

  It was a very sensible and straightforward will, Tamara concluded, and she anticipated no problems in executing it.

  Caroline asked her how quickly she could sell the apartment. Tamara told her she could not sell it until the will had been probated, and she had assumed ownership, which could take from six to eight months, but in any case, she advised Caroline not to sell as the real estate market was on its way up and the value of the apartment would undoubtedly increase over the next few years. She recommended subletting, which Caroline could legally do for three out of any consecutive five-year periods. Remove everything valuable and personal from the premises, she advised, and sublet it furnished. She gave Caroline the name of several agencies that specialized in such situations, asked Caroline to sign several forms, and then bid her good day.

  Caroline remembered the dog. What was she to do with him? Did the will mention him? To whom did he now belong?

  The will did not mention a dog. Presumably he fell in with the contents of the apartment. Caroline was free to keep him, sell him, or dispose of him in any way she saw fit. Tamara believed both the ASPCA and the North Shore Animal League took unwanted pets.

  Caroline walked out onto the busy midtown streets in a sort of daze. Why had Margot left her the apartment? And all her things?
Why did she want Caroline to have them?

  She found herself on Fifth Avenue; she stood for a moment and let the swarm of pedestrians flow around her. It was a beautiful day, late in the spring, with the feeling of summer. She walked up toward the park, and into Bergdorf’s. Margot had worked behind a counter on the main floor that sold silk scarves and handkerchiefs. Grace Kelly had come in one day and bought a white linen kerchief beaded with Austrian crystals from Margot. Grace Kelly was dead. Margot was dead.

  A girl at the Lancôme counter asked Caroline if she would like to be made up. No, Caroline said, and pushed herself out the doors and back onto the street. She sat on a bench in the park, beside a child and her mother. The child dispiritedly ate some sort of pink ice cream thing on a stick. Caroline closed her eyes and let the sun fall on her. She could feel the city around her, hear it thrumming. She had supposed she would never come back here. She had gotten Jules and Margot had gotten New York. It had seemed fair enough. Now, suddenly, she owned an apartment here. She could go back downtown and bolt the door and stand in the room and no one would know she was there or what she was doing. She could paint the walls. She could buy flowers from the market on the corner: she had seem them there, buckets of peonies, cosmos, phlox.

  She was hot when she got back to the apartment so she showered again with the lilac-scented soap and pinned her damp hair up high on her head. She had bought the peonies, an expensive armful of them, their beautiful creamy fists nodding and unfurling in a Waterford vase in the living room. She had also bought a bottle of Gavi and cherries and pistachio nuts.

  He knocked a little after six o’clock. She opened the door. He was wearing a white dress shirt and pale blue linen pants and had the dog on a leash. His blond hair was combed back from his face.

  “Hello,” she said. “Won’t you come in?”

  She stepped aside and he and the dog walked into the apartment.

  “So this is Hugo,” she said, closing the door. It was a medium-size dog, fawn-colored, with an ugly smashed face and bat ears. It gazed up at her with its imploring dog eyes. She bent down and touched its brow. It slobbered.