Deirdre’s phone number, which Arden had found listed in Omar’s passport, was written on the little pad on the phone table in the front hall, and Arden dialed it immediately upon entering the house. She had spoken to Deirdre the night of the accident, told her what had happened: Omar had been stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction, fallen out of a tree and broken his right wrist, but that he would be fine.
The phone was answered by a machine that asked her to leave a message.
“This is Arden Langdon,” she said. “I don’t wish to alarm you, but I’m afraid Omar is once again in a coma. I suppose Dr. Peni is in touch with Omar’s father, but I thought I should call you. I think you should come here. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
She hung up the phone and stepped through the open French doors into the courtyard. There, she thought: That is the end. If his girlfriend comes, nothing can happen. He will not die and I will not fall in love with him.
The tablecloth was still on the table. It had only been three nights since they had drunk champagne. She gathered it into her arms. It was stained; it would need to be bleached.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Omar had had trouble getting to Ochos Rios because fundamentally he did not believe he could get there; Deirdre was not hobbled by doubt, and her intrepidness was coupled with a sense of emergency. She arrived there two days after receiving Arden’s summons—there being Tranqueras, the nearest town. The closer to the destination, the more difficult the journey: there seemed to be no way to proceed beyond Tranqueras—or at least no commercially sanctioned way. In her haste to depart and therefore arrive, she had not adequately questioned nor listened to Arden’s directions and had assumed that the house—Ochos Rios—was in the town, not ten miles distant.
She thought that perhaps she could call Arden and ask to be picked up in town, or given instructions for concluding her journey, but there seemed to be no public telephones available. Under other circumstances Tranqueras would have been a charming place to languish: there was a single street of shops, a parklike square in front of a church, a small market of flip-flops, batteries, and skinny, badly plucked chickens, and a café with a few tables set out directly upon the broad cobblestoned street. It was in front of this café that Deirdre alighted from the bus. She sat at one of the tables beneath an umbrella that advertised German beer. A young man, formally dressed, emerged from the café and approached her. Deirdre’s Spanish was quite good: she had studied it in college and spent a semester in Seville. She ordered an agua mineral, after being told that the bebida típica de la región was Coca-Cola.
When the waiter returned with her water she asked him if he knew Ochos Rios; he did. Did he know how to get there?
It was a distance, he admitted, but there was always someone driving out in that direction, especially in the evening. She could not wait until then? Ah, yes: an emergency. Well, in that case—
Deirdre took the crammed school bus full of chattering girls out to Ochos Rios, and alighted from it, with Portia, at the bend in the road outside the gates.
“We have to walk from here,” Portia explained.
“Is it far?” asked Deirdre.
Portia pointed up the drive and said, “It’s about as far again as you can see.”
“Oh,” said Deirdre.
“Is that far?” Portia wondered.
“Yes,” said Deirdre, “in my case it is.”
“You can leave your suitcase here, if you want,” said Portia. “And get it later with the wheelbarrow.”
“I prefer to carry it,” said Deirdre.
They began walking up the drive.
“Do you know how Omar is?” asked Deirdre.
“He was stung by a bee,” said Portia. “And swelled up like a balloon. He couldn’t breathe.” She mimicked gasping. “He’s at the hospital.”
“I know,” said Deirdre. “That is why I am here.”
“Are you his mother?” asked Portia.
“No,” said Deirdre. “I am his friend.”
“His girlfriend?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “Is he better, do you know?”
“I don’t know,” said Portia. “Where do you live?”
“In the United States,” said Deirdre. “Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” said Portia. “My mother lived there, before she came here. And my grandmother lived there but she’s dead.”
Deirdre put down her suitcase. “Let’s rest a minute,” she suggested. She sat down on the case. “Have you seen Omar, since he was stung by the bee?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Portia. “He was lying on the ground kicking his feet. His shoes came off. Then he fainted. Pete and my mother had to carry him to the car. They dropped him once. He’s heavier than he looks, they said.”
Deirdre stood up. “Let’s go,” she said. “Would you like to help me?” she asked Portia.
“Yes,” said Portia.
“Then carry this,” said Deirdre, handing over her backpack.
Portia left Deirdre in the front hall and went in search of her mother. She found her in the garden. “Hello,” Arden called, as her daughter approached. “You’re supposed to change out of your uniform before coming outside.”
“Omar’s girlfriend is here,” said Portia. “She took the bus with me.”
“What?” asked Arden.
“Omar’s girlfriend came on the bus with me. She’s in the house, waiting for you.”
“On your school bus? Are you sure?” asked Arden. “I don’t think she could have gotten here so soon.”
“She says she’s Omar’s girlfriend. She’s from the United States. She made me carry her backpack.”
Deirdre waited until the child disappeared and then looked around her. The room in which she waited was large, with doors and windows on two sides. Its ceiling was three stories high. In the center of this room was a large wooden table, the apron of which was intricately carved and inlaid with mother of pearl. On this table was a large vase of rather dead flowers. The parquet floor was badly scuffed; many of the pieces had become dislodged or had disappeared. In one corner, beneath the curved staircase, was a little table with an antique rotary phone on it, and a pad of paper, on which was written Deirdre’s number.
Deirdre was trying to open the French doors out into the courtyard when she heard someone close a door above her. She stepped back into the center of the room and saw a woman descending the stairs. For a moment she thought it was Anaïs Nin. And then she remembered that Anaïs Nin was dead and that she was in Uruguay and that her brain was muddled with travel and fatigue and worry. She felt for a second as if she might cry, but something about the woman’s calm, silent gaze quieted her. The woman, who appeared to be between fifty and sixty, was quite beautiful. She had a serene face. Her hair was parted in the middle and loosely drawn back and knotted, so that it hung in two wings beside her face. She wore an indigo linen dress that had no waist and came to just below her knees. A necklace of amber and silver beads hung almost to her navel. The woman came down the stairs slowly, holding her spine straight, so that the heavy necklace barely moved, and she did not speak until she had gained solid ground.
“May I help you?” is what she said.
“Hello,” said Deirdre.
The woman repeated her greeting. She smiled in a patient, unfriendly way.
“I’m Deirdre MacArthur. Are you Ms. Langdon?”
“No,” said the woman. “I am Caroline Gund.”
The wife, Deirdre thought.
“May I help you?” the woman said again.
“I’m a friend of Omar Razaghi’s,” said Deirdre. “I’ve come to see Omar.”
“Oh, Omar,” said the woman. “Omar is not here. He has had an accident.”
“I know!” said Deirdre. “That is why I am here. Do you know how he is?”
“I am afraid I do not,” said the woman. She touched the dusty surface of the large table with two fingers and then rubbed them together. There was someth
ing condemnatory about the gesture, as if Deirdre were responsible for dusting the furniture. “You have come from—where?”
“From the United States,” said Deirdre. “Kansas.”
“Ah, yes, Kansas. People from Kansas keep appearing here. Unexpectedly,” she added.
“Miss Langdon knew I was coming,” said Deirdre. “She asked me to come.”
“Did she?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “Do you really know nothing about Omar? Is he still in a coma?”
“I think he has regained consciousness. But Arden knows more. I have somewhat absented myself from the affair.”
“Oh,” said Deirdre.
“You have only just arrived?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “I have only just arrived. I’ve been traveling for hours and hours and hours. Days.”
“I would show you to your room, but I am not at all sure what room is yours. Arden is the innkeeper. But I could offer you a drink, of water or whatever else might please you.”
“Thank you,” said Deirdre.
“Water? Or something stronger? You look as if the latter might be—how should I say? Appreciated? Required?”
“Water would be fine,” said Deirdre. “Perhaps something else later.”
“Of course,” said Caroline. “Excuse me.” She opened the door beneath the stairs and disappeared down the dark hall toward the kitchen.
Deirdre sat on one of the benches beside the door. She saw the child and another woman crossing the courtyard. She stood up.
Arden opened the door and entered the hall. Portia dawdled by the fountain. “Hello,” Arden said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you but I had no idea of when you might arrive. You’ve come sooner than I thought. I am Arden Langdon.” She held out her hand, and then, seeing how dirty it was, withdrew it. She laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been in the garden, and—”
“Hello,” said Deirdre. “Do you know how Omar is doing?”
“Yes, yes,” said Arden. “He’s doing better, I’m happy to tell you. He’s regained consciousness; he’s been conscious for twenty-four hours at least now. I haven’t seen him today, but Dr. Peni—that’s the doctor who’s treating Omar—called at noon with quite a good report. I didn’t go on the chance you’d arrive.”
“When are visiting hours?” asked Deirdre. “When may I see him?”
“Oh, it’s rather a relaxed establishment in that regard,” said Arden. “There are no visiting hours. I think you could see him at anytime.”
“Now?” asked Deirdre. “Could I see him now?”
The door beneath the stairs opened, revealing Caroline holding a glass of water.
“Oh, Caroline,” said Arden. “Hello. Have you met Deirdre?”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “This water is for her.” She handed Deirdre the glass of water. “I’ll leave you in Arden’s hands now. She is, as I said, the innkeeper.”
She slowly ascended the stairs.
“I could use some water too,” said Arden, as she watched Deirdre gulp her own. “Let’s sit in the kitchen for a moment. It’s through here.” She opened the door beneath the stairs and motioned down the hallway. Deirdre picked up her bag.
“Oh, why don’t you leave that here?” asked Arden. “Unless you want it for something.”
Deirdre lowered the bag and followed Arden down the dark hallway into the large, bright kitchen. Arden took a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and refilled Deirdre’s glass and poured a second glass for herself. “Sit down,” she said, nodding toward the table. “I’m just going to wash my hands.”
Deirdre sat at the table. It had wooden legs and a stone top. A fresher-looking bouquet of flowers erupted from a glass jar at its center. Deirdre laid her hands flat against the tabletop.
Arden fondled her soapy hands beneath the rush of water from the tap and turned to look at Deirdre. “You got here so quickly. How was your journey? Portia told me you came on the school bus from town. How clever of you.”
“The man at the café suggested it,” said Deirdre. “He was very kind. And so are you, calling me, and letting me stay here. I appreciate it.”
“Well, I wish it wasn’t unpleasantness that brought you here,” said Arden. She turned off the water and then dried her hands with a white towel. “Although I suppose nothing else would. But as you see, we’ve got plenty of room. Or will see, when I show you the house. I’m sorry I haven’t made a bed for you but it won’t take a minute.”
“I can sleep in Omar’s bed,” said Deirdre. “I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,” said Arden. She sat at the table, and drank her glass of water. It had never occurred to her that Deirdre might sleep in Omar’s bed. No, she must have a bed of her own.
“Where is Omar?” Deirdre asked.
“Oh,” said Arden. “The clinic is just outside Tacuarembó. It’s about a thirty-minute drive from here. Why don’t we—well, perhaps you’d like to freshen up? And we’ll go.”
“I hate to be so dependent upon you,” said Deirdre. “Is there a place in Tacuarembó where I can stay?”
“Oh, please,” said Arden. “You mustn’t feel that way. You must stay here. It’s really no problem. As you’ll see, there’s very little for you to interrupt. There’s a bathroom upstairs you can use. And we’ll put your bags in a room. Have you really only brought the bag in the hall?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre.
“You travel light,” said Arden.
“I didn’t really pack,” said Deirdre. “I was in such a rush—”
“Well, if there’s anything you need, you must tell me. I think my clothes would fit you. Come, I’ll show you the bath.”
In the car they were silent for a long time, Arden driving, Deirdre sitting beside her, looking out the window. They passed no buildings or houses or people or other cars.
“How did it happen?” asked Deirdre.
Arden glanced at her. “What?” she asked.
“How did Omar come to be stung?” she asked.
“Pete and Omar were netting a tree in the orchard. Omar was very kind to help. He was up on a ladder, and apparently he was stung. We have a hive, we keep bees,” said Arden. “Pete and I. Pete is Jules Gund’s brother’s companion. I don’t really know what happened. I was in the house. We had gone for a—But poor Omar was stung, and—Did you know he was allergic to bee stings?”
“No,” said Deirdre. And then she said it again, “No.”
“I think it was immediate, his reaction. Pete came running in; he couldn’t move Omar by himself. At first we didn’t know he had been stung. We thought he had just fallen from the tree. They realized that at the clinic, so he didn’t get the serum as soon as he should have—But you see it’s a distance to Tacuarembó, and then they had to summon the doctor when we arrived, and it all took time. It was awful. But you mustn’t worry. He’s going to be fine, Dr. Peni assures me.” She looked over at Deirdre, who was clutching the little strap that hung from the car’s ceiling. “There’s something I should perhaps tell you,” said Arden.
Deirdre looked over at her. Arden was looking straight out at the road, intently serious but her preoccupation was artificial, Deirdre could tell. “What?” Deirdre asked.
“It’s about Dr. Peni,” said Arden. “It’s really silly, but you should know, I think. He’s taken very good care of Omar. Extraordinary care.”
“I’m happy about that,” said Deirdre.
“Yes,” said Arden.
“What is it?” asked Deirdre.
“Dr. Peni thinks Omar is my—well, I suppose he assumes he is my lover. I never told him that, he just misinterpreted my concern, and I didn’t correct him.”
“Why not?” asked Deirdre.
“I felt it was in Omar’s best interest,” said Arden. “Dr. Peni is a bit of a romantic, a chauvinist really, and well, he is like men here. He likes to see the world in a certain way. He saw Omar and me in a certain way that appealed to him, I think, and I sensed it
would help Omar, so I didn’t correct him. Of course, now that you’re here, we shall, but I wanted to explain.”
“No,” said Deirdre. “Whatever works best for Omar. I don’t care what the doctor thinks.”
“But he’ll wonder who you are, coming from the United States, appearing like this.”
“I could be his sister,” said Deirdre, “or a friend. It doesn’t really matter. Must you explain it? Let him think whatever. If he assumed something about you, he will assume something about me, won’t he?”
“I suppose he will,” said Arden.
“Let’s leave it alone, then,” said Deirdre. “At least for now. At least until we’re sure Omar is out of danger. I will be his sister. Or I suppose I can’t be his sister, as I look nothing like him. Who can I be?”
“A friend,” said Arden.
“All right,” said Deirdre. “I will be a friend.” She looked at Arden. “A close friend,” she added.
Arden led Deirdre down the hall; the door to Omar’s room was open. Omar was asleep. The bed Señor Miquelrius had abandoned had been assumed by a young man—a teenager, in fact—who sat up in bed, eating his dinner from a tray. He looked over at the two women standing in the doorway.
“Good evening,” said Arden, in Spanish. “We’re here to see Omar.”
The boy had nothing to say about this. He returned his attention to his meal.
“Go and sit with him,” said Arden. “I don’t think you should wake him, but sit. You can maneuver that screen if you want some privacy.” She pointed to the screen of white cloth panels that now leaned against the wall.
“Thank you,” Deirdre said.
“I’ll be in the waiting area,” said Arden. She turned and walked down the hallway.
Earlier, from her tower, Caroline had watched them drive away. She sat looking out the window for a long while after the car had disappeared and the dust in the drive had settled.
Then she got up and walked down the stairs and across the courtyard. Deirdre’s bag remained in the hall. She went out the front doors and walked down the drive.
The City of Your Final Destination Page 16