The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “Yes,” said Tom. “This is Hugo. Poor Hugo. He doesn’t much like the heat.”

  “I shall get him a bowl of water,” she said. “Come!” she said, to both man and dog, and walked toward the kitchen. She filled a glass bowl with cold water and placed it on the floor. Tom unsnapped the leash. Hugo sat down and panted.

  “Well, I would like a drink,” said Caroline. “Will you join me?”

  “Sure,” said Tom.

  “I’m afraid all I have is white wine,” she said. “Will that be okay?”

  “That will be fine,” he said.

  She took the wine out of the now empty refrigerator and opened it. Margot had very nice wineglasses; she filled two of them and handed one to Tom. “Let’s go sit in the living room,” she said. “I think it’s cooler.”

  Hugo had lain down on the kitchen floor. They left him there and went into the other room. Tom sat in a chair that was covered in old chintz; she sat on the sofa. She pushed the bowl of nuts toward him. “How long have you lived here?” she asked.

  “Almost ten years,” he said. “The whole time I’ve been in New York.”

  “And where were you before that?”

  “I grew up in Maine,” he said.

  He stood up, and looked around the room. He went over to the window and looked out. Then he sat back down. “It feels so odd,” he said. “To be in here, without Margot.”

  Caroline said nothing. She sipped her wine.

  “What brought you to Uruguay?” he asked, after a moment.

  “I married a Uruguayan,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Do you like it there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Very much. It’s beautiful and peaceful. I lived here, you know, with Margot. In this apartment. Years and years ago. In 1959.”

  “Wow,” he said.

  “You said you knew her fairly well?”

  “I liked Margot. We got along. But we weren’t exactly close.”

  “Was she happy, do you think?”

  He thought for a moment, studying his wine. Then he looked up at her. “Sometimes I would see her at night, if she didn’t close her drapes—my apartment is directly across the way.” He pointed out the window. “I’d come home late at night sometimes, and see her in here, sitting where you are, on the couch, reading. She wore glasses to read. I never saw her wear them in public. Sometimes, I’d come over. We’d just talk for a little while. She’d make some tea, and we’d sit here and talk. She had very good tea; she brought it back from Paris with her. She gave me some. I still have it.”

  “Do you think she was happy?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “In a way. She always seemed composed and gracious, content. I think she liked her life. You got that feeling.”

  “Good,” said Caroline. “Did she—do you know if she had friends? Romances?”

  “Of course she had friends,” said Tom. “She had many friends. She had dinner parties often—she was a terrific cook—and a big party every year at Christmastime. She’d use my refrigerator for her big party.”

  Caroline was touching her finger to the thin rim of her wineglass.

  “Every time she went away, when I would take care of Hugo, she would bring me back something. Not something stupid, like most people would. Something nice. A beautiful tie, or a bowl, or antique cufflinks. She once had a shirt made for me, in Italy, from fabric she had found in a flea market. She was very generous. Some of the nicest things I have are from Margot.”

  Caroline put her glass of wine down on the table. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No,” she said. “Please—I want to hear, I know so little about her.”

  “Why?” he asked. “You seem so like her. I would have thought you would be friends.”

  “We were,” she said. “We lived here together, as I said—”

  “And what happened?”

  She picked up her glass and sipped the wine. He reached forward and took a pistachio from the bowl. “I fell in love with her boyfriend,” Caroline said. “I married him.”

  “The Uruguayan?”

  “Yes,” she said, and smiled a little: Jules, the Uruguayan.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “It was an awful thing to do,” she said. “The worst thing, I suppose, a sister can do.”

  “But you did it—I’m sure you did not do it maliciously,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “I was very young, and it happened so quickly. We got married,” said Caroline. “Secretly, at City Hall, and left that same night for Uruguay. We wrote Margot letters, begging her to forgive us. Of course, she did not. She could not. I never heard from her again.”

  “Wow,” said Tom. “And you’ve been in Uruguay ever since then?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “I’ve been back to Paris, a few times, to see my mother. But never back here. Not until now.”

  Hugo appeared in the open doorway. He whined quietly, and looked from one of them to the other.

  “Are you ready for your walk, Hugo?” Tom asked. “He usually gets walked now,” he said to Caroline.

  “How many times a day does he get walked?”

  “Three, usually. In the morning, about now, and then before bed. Why don’t we go out, and I can show you where he likes to go.”

  At the corner, Tom handed Caroline the leash. “Here,” he said. “You take him, he should get used to you. He gets a long walk now, over to the river. In the morning and at night you can just go around the block. He doesn’t need much exercise.”

  Caroline took the leash and they crossed the street.

  “Do you like dogs?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Caroline. “I’ve never had a dog.”

  “Hugo is a very sweet dog. He’s very good, well-trained.”

  “Are you sure you can’t take him? It would be so nice if you could.”

  Tom shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I go out to L.A. almost every month.”

  “What do you do?” asked Caroline.

  “I write screenplays. Actually, I rewrite screenplays.”

  “For movies, you mean?”

  “Yes,” said Tom.

  “I haven’t seen a movie in ages,” said Caroline.

  “You’re not missing much,” said Tom.

  “I don’t remember that we were so close to the river,” said Caroline. They had paused to cross the West Side Highway.

  “You probably didn’t come over here before,” said Tom. “It wasn’t so nice.”

  They crossed and began walking south along the river. “This is very nice,” said Caroline. “How far can you walk?”

  “All the way down.” Tom pointed ahead of them. “To Battery Park.”

  Caroline looked out across the river. “May I ask you another question about Margot?”

  “Of course,” said Tom.

  “Did she have—was she romantically engaged?”

  “Not recently,” said Tom. “When I first met her she was seeing a man. He was an attorney. He lived in San Francisco. He was married, I think. But he was in New York often, staying with her. And I think they traveled together.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t really know. It just ended. She didn’t talk about it. I saw her going out with other men, after that, sometimes. She went out a lot—to the opera and ballet. She had subscriptions to both. She took me sometimes. She did not seem lonely. She was very independent. I think she liked being alone. She had another dog before Hugo—a dachshund. Named Fritz. He was a nasty dog.”

  “I’d like you to have something of hers,” said Caroline. “Something—or things—from the apartment, that you like. Is there something you’d want?”

  Suddenly Hugo stopped walking. He squatted like an anchor at the end of the leash.

  “Hugo lets you know when he’s had enough,” said Tom.

  “So we must turn around?”

  “S
ometimes he can be coaxed. But I should be getting back.”

  “Of course,” said Caroline. They turned around, and retraced their steps. “Is there? Something you’d like from the apartment?” asked Caroline. “Anything.”

  “Really?” said Tom.

  “Yes,” said Caroline.

  “There are a few things I’d love.”

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid they’re valuable.”

  “Good,” said Caroline.

  “There’s the clock in the living room. I have always loved it. And the Rudy Burkhardt photographs in the hallway. I love those too.”

  “Good,” said Caroline, “I want you to have them, then.”

  “What are you going to do with everything?” said Tom.

  “I don’t know. Sell it, I suppose.”

  “Be very careful,” said Tom. “It’s not junk. None of it. Margot had wonderful things.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Caroline. “I will be very careful.”

  On their way home they passed a little restaurant called Chez Stadium. Two tables were on the street, set with silverware and linen, but unoccupied. The sun was low over the river and shone directly up the street. “Is this a good restaurant?” Caroline asked.

  “It’s not bad,” said Tom.

  They parted in the hallway outside the elevator. In the apartment, Hugo seemed to be at home, to know what to do. Caroline did not. She looked at the photographs Tom wanted, and at the clock. He had a very good eye: they were lovely. But then the apartment was filled with lovely things.

  She ate dinner by herself at the restaurant they had passed, sitting at one of the tables outside on the street. She was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, but it felt good, sitting at the little table on the street. People walked by and smiled at her. She drank two glasses of wine with the meal, and had a coffee afterward, just to prolong the pleasure of sitting there, on the quiet urban street, beneath the trees, in the lamplight. She felt very far away from Ochos Rios. She had thought that was her life but perhaps it was not. It was hard to know, and she was too tired to figure it all out now. She paid the check and went back to the apartment.

  She was sitting in the living room, looking through the magazines that Margot had left behind, when Hugo appeared in the doorway. He stood there, looking at her.

  “Is it time for your walk?” she asked.

  He cocked his head a little.

  She looked at her watch: it was 11:00. “Let’s go,” she said. They walked around the block. She wondered if he missed Margot. He seemed very self-possessed. She was beginning to like him. Two youngish women, a couple, Caroline felt, entered the building and rode up in the elevator with them.

  The women both clutched some sort of program. One of them bent down and patted Hugo. “Hello, Hugo,” she said. She stood up. “Are you a friend of Margot’s?” she asked Caroline.

  “I’m her sister,” said Caroline.

  “We heard she died,” said the woman. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” said Caroline, not knowing what else to say. “Where have you been?” She nodded at their programs.

  “Oh,” said the woman. “The ballet.”

  “How was it?” asked Caroline.

  “It was lovely,” said the woman.

  The elevator stopped. The other woman pushed open the door. “Good night,” she said.

  “Good night,” said Caroline.

  In the apartment she let Hugo off the leash. He trotted into the living room and lay down on the rug. Caroline got ready for bed. She went into the living room and turned out the lights. “Good night, Hugo,” she said. He looked up at her.

  She closed the bedroom door and got into bed. After a moment she heard him whining at the door. Then he scratched at it. She got out of bed and opened it. “What?” she said. “What do you want?”

  He looked up at her.

  She got back into bed but left the door open. She was almost asleep when she felt him jump up onto the bed. He turned around a few times and then settled himself at her feet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was June, the penultimate day of school before the winter recess. Portia got on the bus and sat near the front, beside Ana Luz, but she heard her name being called from the back of the bus. She turned around and knelt on the seat.

  He was sitting alone on the last seat; none of the girls had sat beside him. He was smiling, but he looked very silly sitting there, on the school bus, and for a moment she wondered if she could pretend not to know him.

  Ana Luz had also turned about. “Who is that?” she asked.

  “The man who came to write the book,” said Portia. “The one who fell out of the tree.”

  “What does he want?” asked Ana Luz.

  “I don’t know,” said Portia. “I’ll go see. Save my seat.”

  She walked down the aisle. Giselle and Claudia and Seraphina and Teresa, sixth-formers who usually sat in the last seat and smoked cigarettes, were sitting in the second to last row, having been displaced by Omar. They glared at her as she approached. Only girls in the upper school sat—or even approached—the back of the bus. But Portia walked proudly past them; something about being allied with the mysterious stranger empowered her. She sat down beside Omar.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Taking the bus to Ochos Rios,” said Omar.

  “I know,” said Portia. “But why?”

  Omar did not answer. The bus started. Teresa turned around and looked at them.

  “You can go back with your friend,” said Omar. “I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Are you staying with us again?” asked Portia.

  “I’m not sure,” said Omar.

  “Does my mother know you’re coming?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  Portia looked at him. He looked different from how she remembered him, but she could not see how.

  “How is everyone?” he asked.

  “Caroline’s gone away,” said Portia. “And Pete too.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “Caroline moved to New York City. Pete is in Montevideo. He’s opening a store there. Instead of selling his furniture to the American lady, he is selling it himself. He comes back, sometimes, when he is looking for new things.”

  “And Adam?”

  “He’s still there.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Of course she is still there. I found your shoe, you know. The one you lost when the bee stung you. I found it when we cut the grass in the meadow. It had ants in it. I kept it, although my mother told me to throw it away. She said it was ruined.”

  Omar said hello to Teresa, who was still watching them. She turned around.

  “I forgot I lost my shoes,” said Omar.

  “Just one,” said Portia. “We took them off because your feet were swelling up, and you kicked one, far away. We couldn’t find it. You look better now. You’re not swollen at all.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I’m all better.”

  “We have a medicine now. In case someone else gets stung like you. A needle. We keep it in the refrigerator. You stick it in your bum.” She paused for a moment and then said, “Why have you come back?”

  “Because I wanted to,” said Omar.

  The bus left them off at the gates. They walked up the long drive and into the front hall. “Wait here,” said Portia. “I’ll go find my mother.” She disappeared through the door to the kitchen.

  Omar stood in the hall. The large round table, which he always remembered as having flowers on it, had none: just some stacks of mail and magazines and papers. And dust: it needed to be dusted. He walked around the table and looked out through the French doors at the courtyard. The table they had eaten at was covered by an ugly black tarpaulin. It is winter here, he thought, and less lovely: the black shroud, the dead leaves skating over the cobbles. The sky had clouded over, thick, dark clouds he did not associate with the place. It looked as if it wo
uld rain.

  He heard the door open above him on the gallery at the top of the curved stairs, and then he heard Arden say, “Portia?”

  He knew he should step forward so she could see him, but he could not. He felt suddenly panicked, for he had done it all very quickly, without thinking: using his credit card to buy the ticket, packing the little bag, leaving the same afternoon Yvonne returned. He had told no one what he was doing, where he was going, he had just thought—for of course he had been thinking, but it was a different kind of thinking, a thinking that came from somewhere else inside him—go there go there go there, and as long as he was in motion it had seemed right, it had seemed inevitable, and he thought: Do not think until you get there, it will all become clear when you are there, but now he was there, he could go no farther unless he opened the French doors and fled, but he could not open the doors, he could not think, he could not move, he had gone as far as he could go and all he could do was stand there and listen to Arden descend the stairs.

  He heard her stop. It seemed very long, the moment, or perhaps it did not seem long, it was a weird moment drained somehow of time and it was the quiet that finally made him turn around. Arden was on the first landing of the stairs, in the far corner of the hall, looking down at him, both hands on the banister. He was shocked by how beautiful she was. For a second he thought: She knew I was coming and has made herself beautiful, but then he realized that was absurd. Perhaps it was how she was standing on the stairs, like a woman in a painting, but her beauty shocked him. Or perhaps it was simply her presence. He had thought he would never see her again, even coming here did not guarantee it: she could have left, like Caroline, like Pete. She could have died.

  “Omar?” she said.

  He nodded, but stayed standing where he was.

  So did she. “I thought it was Portia …” she said, vaguely.

  “It was,” he said. “It is. She’s gone to look for you. In the kitchen.”

  “I was upstairs—” She gestured. Then she shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How did you get here? What are you doing here? I thought—we got your letter, I thought it was all over …”