The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “I felt at home here as soon as I arrived. I don’t know why. Perhaps because I was pregnant, and needed to feel that way. Also, I think I was ready for it in some strange way. But in any case, it stayed, that feeling. It’s odd: sometimes I have, or think I have, memories of being here as a child.” She shook her head. “It’s very odd.”

  “It is odd, how memory works,” said Omar. “And déjà vu.”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “I don’t believe in the afterlife, or in reincarnation, or anything like that, but I do think this life is more—more powerful, more complex than we think. I feel it sometimes, as if there is some incredible richness, complexity, lurking just beyond the wall. Some other level of living, of engagement.”

  Omar said nothing. She is talking about love, he thought.

  “I’m not making any sense, I know,” said Arden. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  He wondered if she really did not.

  Adam was ready when they arrived. He, too, was nicely dressed. Arden drove; Adam sat beside her and Omar sat in back.

  “Is Pete not joining us?” asked Arden.

  “Apparently not,” said Adam. “He has not returned from wherever he was.”

  “He was in the garden this afternoon,” said Arden.

  “He was in the garden this afternoon: it sounds so biblical,” said Adam. “I think I finally understand this sad propensity you, and so many others, have, to till this miserable earth. It is Eden you are after, vainly trying to regain a paradise lost.”

  “It is not in the least about religion,” said Arden.

  “Oh, but it is, my dear,” said Adam. “The nice thing about getting old is that you lose that sentimental attachment to the earth. I do not need to muck about in the soil, fertilizing carrots, to feel safe. Or saved.”

  “Must you disparage everything we do?” asked Arden.

  “Oh, I don’t. I admire you very much. I think you drive very well. And dress nicely. I think you are a wonderful mother. And you make excellent coffee. In fact, your talents are infinite.”

  For a while no one said anything. And the landscape they passed through seemed in some way reflective of their silence: the road was straight, though it rose and fell with the gentle swells of the earth, and the woods that bordered it were unremarkable.

  “You seem to live very far from anything,” Omar said, after a moment.

  “What an astute observation,” said Adam.

  “Federico’s is in Tacuarembó,” said Arden. “It’s not far from here. Not terribly far.”

  Adam turned around in his seat so he was facing Omar. “Federico’s has been here forever,” he said. “By that I mean it has been here as long as I. I came here with my parents, and Jules. Often, of a Saturday night, the Gunds would dine at Federico’s, en famille. They were a little pathetic, a little sad, our dinners at Federico’s. A desperate attempt to retain Europeanness, normalcy.” He turned back around. “Just to give you some historical perspective,” he said.

  Federico’s looked alarmingly like Ponte Vecchio, the Italian restaurant Deirdre and Omar sometimes frequented in Lawrence, when their budget allowed a splurge. Omar wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he had thought that an Italian restaurant in Uruguay would be different from an Italian restaurant in Kansas. At some level he believed that everything in Uruguay had to be different from everything in Kansas, such was his notion of the two places, and the fact they were not so different, and in some ways almost identical, was vexing.

  The restaurant appeared to be quite empty. In fact, it was empty.

  “I’m so glad you thought to reserve a table,” said Adam.

  Arden laughed. “Well, you never know with Federico’s,” she said. “It’s either no one or the world.”

  Omar was preoccupied by trying to find some sign that indicated the establishment welcomed credit cards, particularly Visa. He thought he had enough cash to pay for the meal, unless of course it was hideously expensive. But it did not look like the kind of restaurant that would be too expensive. He noticed two dead fish in the aquarium beside him in the entryway, which he took to be a good sign.

  A man in a tuxedo appeared out of the gloom in the back of the restaurant—it was very dimly lit, relying mostly on candles guttering in wine bottles for illumination (a technique also favored by Ponte Vecchio). The man looked rather funereal from a distance, and his glum expression did not alter as he drew near. He grabbed a few menus from atop the aquarium and said, “Tres?”

  “Sí,” said Arden. “Tenemos una reservación. A nombre de Gund. Para cuatro personas, pero sólo somos tres.”

  The man seemed, understandably under the circumstances, uninterested by this information. He led them through the sea of empty tables to a circular booth along the back wall.

  “Muy bien,” said Arden. “Gracias.”

  Omar, who had understood everything Arden had said, felt empowered. Perhaps he was learning Spanish. Perhaps it really did just come to one, like getting a suntan or acclimatizing oneself to a new time zone.

  “Sí, gracias,” he said to the maitre d’.

  Arden scooted into the booth and sidled toward the middle; Omar and Adam flanked her. She picked up the menus the maitre d’ had somewhat flung onto the table and handed one to each of them. “Everything is good here,” she said to Omar.

  “It would be more accurate to say that nothing is better than anything else,” said Adam. “But first we must order a drink. Will you join me in a cocktail, Mr. Razaghi?”

  At some sedimentary level Omar thought that perhaps it might be best not to drink at this very important dinner—he did not hold liquor particularly well and was still feeling a bit stupefied from all the beer he had drunk with lunch—but his immediate response was affirmative: he would like a cocktail, so he said yes.

  Adam snapped his fingers in a way that suggested he had spent much of his life summoning waiters (and others) in this fashion, and a waiter immediately materialized beside their table. They ordered drinks (martinis for Adam and Omar, a glass of wine for Arden) and turned their attention back to the menus.

  Omar was mainly concerned with the prices and was trying to convert them into dollars in his head. He was delighted to find that the place was absurdly cheap—entrees for as little as $1.50! Oh, wait: he did the math again, and realized he had neglected to shift the decimal point to the right. Entrees were $15.00. And up. Well, it was still within his means. He didn’t suppose the drinks and wine could cost that horribly much.

  Adam put his menu down first. After a moment, Arden, apparently decisive, discarded hers. Omar was looking for the cheapest pronounceable thing; luckily he could discern the Italian origins of the dishes through the Spanish scrim. He, too, lowered his menu.

  Their drinks arrived. Omar couldn’t think quickly enough to make a toast—would toasting Jules Gund be in poor taste?—but the moment passed, as they all seemed more eager to sip their drinks than to make, or acknowledge, a toast. Toasting really is a ridiculous custom, thought Omar. It’s like saying “God bless you” when someone sneezes.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Gund couldn’t join us,” he said, carefully lowering his precariously full martini. He had ordered a martini because after Adam had ordered one it seemed the easiest thing to do.

  “Are you really?” said Adam. “I’m surprised you know her well enough to miss her company.”

  “I don’t really,” said Omar, remembering his talk with Caroline that morning—in a certain way, he knew her quite well, and was glad she was not there. “It’s just that I wanted an opportunity to talk to all three of you, together.”

  The waiter came to take their order. When he had been dispatched—Adam’s summoning of waiters was not a singular phenomenon ; he dispatched them with equal panache—another party had entered the restaurant, and for some reason watching them be seated was preoccupying. After a moment Adam turned to Omar and said, “What is it you want to tell us?” as if he had no idea what had brought Omar to them.
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  For a moment Omar’s nerve failed him, so he took another sip of his drink. Why do they fill the glass so full? he wondered in panic. His main object was drinking it down to a level where it could be more easily handled, although he was glad he had followed Adam’s lead and ordered a martini: it really was a lovely drink. He noticed that Adam’s martini had already sunk to a very safe level.

  “Well,” Omar began, “I suppose I’d like to talk to you about why I want to write a biography of Jules Gund, about the importance of the project to me, and to answer any questions or address any reservations you have. I feel confident that if I explain things properly to you, you will see no reason to withhold authorization.”

  Omar noticed that Adam had returned his attention to the large party that had recently entered the restaurant. “Is that Suki Schmidt?” he asked Arden.

  “Yes,” said Arden. “And Willem and Willem’s brother Brat and I don’t know who else. Perhaps it’s Brat’s wife and her sister.”

  “I thought she and Willem were divorced.”

  “They were,” said Arden. “But they reconciled.”

  “How terribly stupid of them. They were always at each other.”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “But they were unhappy apart. Apparently they missed it.”

  “What?”

  “Being at each other.”

  “They were awfully good at it,” said Adam. “She once shot him, you know. And hit him too. In the stomach, I think.”

  “Yes, he has one of those plastic bags now,” said Arden.

  “Violence is terribly underrated,” said Adam. “It’s so—so expeditious. I’m always asking Pete to smack me. ‘Just smack me,’ I tell him.”

  “Pete would never smack you,” said Arden.

  “Yes, I know,” said Adam. “Yet I think we would be so much happier if he did. Did you ever smack Jules?”

  “Yes, in fact,” said Arden. “Once or twice.”

  I should be taking notes or something, Omar thought. I should have brought a tape recorder. Suddenly it seemed exhausting, impossible : How do you write a biography? he wondered, when there is so much, when there is everything, an infinity, to know. It seemed impossible. It was like compiling a telephone book from scratch. He sipped again from his martini.

  “You often had that smacked-about coital glow,” said Adam.

  “Oh, Jules never smacked me,” said Arden. “You’re mistaken if you think he did.”

  “Oh, I never thought he did. I assumed the smacking was all yours. What about you, Mr. Razaghi? I understand you are affianced. Does your fiancée smack you? Or you her? Although you don’t appear to be the smacking type. Or perhaps you are both above all that?”

  “I am not engaged,” said Omar.

  “Pardon me,” said Adam. “I have been misinformed. My sources err.”

  “Who told you I was affia——engaged?” asked Omar.

  “A little bird,” said Adam. “A big bird. A blue bird. A swallow. A bat.”

  “Well, I am not engaged,” said Omar, thinking: Why I am saying it like that, as if they are accusing me of something? It must be the martini. He glared at it a moment, then sipped from it.

  “There is something so repellingly Victorian about any couple,” said Adam. “The smugness, the sense of sanctity and safety and superiority ; it’s why God invented smacking. I am sure the Victorians were constantly smacking one another. It’s why they wore all those hideous clothes: to hide their bruises.”

  The conversation seemed to have veered into territory beyond Omar’s ken, and he felt that he—and his martini—had contributed to its waywardness. So he decided to sit quietly and collect his thoughts.

  “Perhaps you should tell us, then, why you want to write a biography of Jules Gund,” Arden suggested.

  Why did he want to write a biography of Jules Gund? It was a very reasonable question, especially under the present circumstances. Of course, it presumed he wanted to write a biography of Jules Gund, but of course he did. He would not be here if he did not. But suddenly, for the first time in the entire process, he was not sure. Did he want to write a biography of Jules Gund? Could he?

  “Well, as I told you,” he heard himself saying, “I am extremely interested in his work. Although he wrote only one book, I think it is an important book. It deserves to be more widely known, and read, and I think a biography would help in that regard. Really, the fact that he wrote only one book does not matter.”

  “He wrote another book,” said Adam.

  “Adam …” Arden warned.

  “What?” asked Adam.

  “He published only one book,” said Arden. “The Gondola. That is what counts.”

  “Well, it depends who is counting.”

  “He wrote other books?” asked Omar.

  “No,” said Arden. “He worked on other books, but none of them—he did not finish another book. There is only The Gondola. Go on with what you were saying.”

  Omar was flustered. Other books? What did they mean?

  “Why do you want to write a biography of Jules?” Arden prompted.

  “Well,” said Omar. “I think The Gondola is an important historical and artistic document. And his life was interesting—in many ways, it is a quintessential life of the century.”

  “How do you figure that?” asked Adam.

  “His life bridges worlds and cultures and religions. All of the great conflicts of the century are apparent in it.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Arden. “His being half Jewish, and European, but raised Catholic in South America …”

  “Exactly,” said Omar. “And then there is, of course, his personal life.”

  “But all that applies to me as well,” said Adam. “And my being homosexual, well, that’s certainly more a twentieth-century story than wives and mistresses, which sounds very nineteenth century to me. Why not write my biography?”

  “I don’t doubt for an instant that your life is every bit as interesting and relevant,” said Omar. “And I encourage you to write an autobiography. But as someone interested in the politics of literature, it is natural I am more interested in the life of Jules Gund. And of course it is perhaps important to repeat that there is considerable academic interest in a biography of Jules Gund. As you know, the University of Kansas Press has already committed to publishing the book, on the basis of my dissertation.”

  “How many copies will they publish?” asked Adam.

  For God’s sake, thought Omar, why don’t you ask me how many pages the book will have? “I don’t know,” he said. “Although I’m sure their print runs are commensurate with other university presses.”

  Perhaps Arden heard the edge of frustration in his voice, for she leaned toward the table—she had sunk back into the banquette’s gloom—and said, “I have changed my mind, Omar. I have decided to authorize the biography.”

  “Really?” said Omar. “Thank you.”

  “I am sure you will write a fine biography,” said Arden. She raised her glass of wine to him.

  “But what about Caroline?”

  “You must still convince Caroline,” said Arden.

  “I wish she had come tonight. How can I convince her if I can’t speak with her?”

  “You assume Caroline is rational. She is not. She will not be convinced in that way,” said Adam.

  “Then how can I convince her?” asked Omar.

  “You cannot,” said Adam.

  “But then—don’t you need to be in agreement? Can you grant authorization without her?”

  “I said you cannot convince her,” said Adam. “I did not say she would not be convinced. I hope you have not forgotten our little agreement?”

  “No,” said Omar. “Of course not.”

  “What agreement?” asked Arden.

  “It does not concern you,” said Adam.

  “If it concerns the authorization, it concerns me,” said Arden. “What agreement have you made?”

  “It really does not concern you,�
�� said Adam. “Isn’t that correct, Mr. Razaghi?”

  “Please call me Omar,” said Omar.

  “Isn’t that correct, Omar?”

  “I’m not really sure what concerns who. Whom.”

  “Well, rest assured that what we spoke of earlier does not concern Arden. Or Caroline.”

  “What are you plotting?” asked Arden. “If you are plotting something, Adam, I must know. Otherwise I won’t cooperate.”

  “I am plotting nothing,” said Adam. “I do not plot. Perhaps we should drop the subject, and enjoy our dinner. If you’ll excuse me a moment, I will go say hello to Suki and Willem.” He left the table and crossed the dining room.

  Arden said nothing. She was fingering the stem of her wineglass, staring straight ahead.

  Omar did not know what to say. Arden looked very beautiful. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon and she wore pearl earrings and lipstick. It was clear she had gotten dressed specially for the dinner, and there was something a little bit sad about it, Omar thought: that she looked so beautiful, with lipstick, her hair styled, her pocketbook sitting on the banquette beside her—all for what? This dinner with him and Adam in a crummy restaurant. She looked defeated and sad.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She turned to him and smiled. Perhaps she was not sad. “Sorry? Sorry about what?”

  “About—I haven’t been plotting with Adam. Really, we haven’t.”

  “Oh,” she said, and laughed. She had a lovely laugh: gushing, natural. “I’m not sure I believe you. Adam is always plotting. I’m used to it.”

  “There’s just something he wants me to do for him,” Omar said. He felt better having said it. He did not want to have secrets from Arden.

  “You don’t have to do anything for him, you know. Be careful. It will all be fine.”

  “What about Caroline?”

  She looked away: over at the other table, where Adam stood talking. She shook her head. “Caroline must make up her own mind,” she said. “The more you try to persuade her, the more she’ll resist.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,” said Omar. “Thank you.”