The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  Omar said he would not.

  “You see,” he said, turning to Deirdre. “You must not be worried. You are too beautiful to worry. All the women who visit Omar are beautiful. No wonder he makes such a recovery. I can claim no credit: it is the beauty of women that has healed him.”

  Deirdre did not approve of the direction the doctor was taking. “Is his paralysis all gone?” she asked.

  “Yes, Omar’s sensation has returned, to every part of his body. He will soon be fit as a fiddler. And ready to fiddle again. You must not worry about Omar,” he said. “I will reassure you.”

  “I don’t want you to reassure me,” said Deirdre. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “Oh, but the truth is reassuring. The truth is always reassuring,” he said.

  Although Deirdre did not agree with this statement, she knew that it would be pointless to refute it. “How is his health?” she asked. “He seems to have some memory loss.”

  “His health, under the circumstances, is fine. All his organs are functioning normally. His loss of memory is a temporary and normal result of brain trauma. It will all fall back into place, rather quickly, I imagine. But we must all be patient. Omar is fortunate to be so loved and befriended. It plays a great part in his recovery, I assure you. I play my part, which is, of course, instrumental, but we cannot underestimate the human part. Are you a religious person, Miss—”

  “MacArthur,” said Deirdre. “Deirdre MacArthur. No, I am not.”

  “If you were, I would urge you to pray for your friend. You do your work and I do mine. But in this case we shall leave the prayers to others.” He patted Omar’s head, shook Deirdre’s hand again, and then left the room.

  Driving back in the car, Deirdre said to Arden: “Does Mr. Gund live near you?”

  “Do you mean Adam?” asked Arden.

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “I suppose. Jules Gund’s brother. The other executor.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Arden. “Not far at all.”

  “Do you think I could see him?” asked Deirdre.

  “Of course,” said Arden. She glanced over at Deirdre. “About what?”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre. “I would just like to meet him. And there is something—something private—I would like to discuss with him.”

  “Of course,” said Arden. “I can drop you there on our way back.”

  “I hate to cause trouble for you,” said Deirdre.

  “You aren’t,” said Arden. “It’s on the way.”

  Arden parked in front of the millhouse. “Perhaps I should come in with you, just to make sure he is here,” she said. “And introduce you.”

  “Thank you,” said Deirdre.

  The two women got out of the car and approached the house. Arden knocked on the wooden door. After a moment she opened it and called Adam’s name.

  He was coming down the stairs. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Who’s this?” he asked, upon seeing Deirdre through the open door.

  “This is Deirdre MacArthur,” said Arden, “Omar’s friend from Kansas. We’ve just been to see Omar. And Deirdre wanted to have a word with you.”

  “Did she?” said Adam.

  “Yes,” said Deirdre, “although I could come back at a more convenient time if you would like.”

  “No, I am hopelessly free for the rest of my life,” said Adam. “Now is fine. In fact, I was going to walk up to the big house this afternoon for a chat with you.”

  “Then I’ll leave you,” said Arden. “Do you mind walking back to the house, Deirdre? It isn’t very far.”

  “Of course not,” said Deirdre. “Thank you.”

  Arden went out and closed the door.

  “Come sit down,” said Adam. “It is so merry having all these guests. First Omar and now you. We are unused to so much company.”

  Deirdre followed him into the living room. “Would you like something to drink? Something cold? Something hot? Something tepid?”

  “Something cold would be nice,” said Deirdre. “Just some mineral water, if you have it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Adam. “Sit down.” He indicated the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two glasses of water. He handed one glass to Deirdre, who had not sat down. “So you are Omar’s paramour?” he asked. “It is almost palindromic: Omar’s paramour. Or is it merely anagrammatic?”

  “I think it is neither,” said Deirdre. “Nor is it the word I would use to describe our relationship.”

  “I think words are very bad at describing relationships,” said Adam. “At least my relationships. They are all too complicated for mere words.”

  Deirdre said nothing.

  “Please, sit down, my dear,” said Adam. “You look as if you might bolt. It is upsetting me.”

  Deirdre sat, but rigidly, as if in compromise. Adam sat opposite her. “I did not mean to offend you. I can see you are offended. I suppose you are Omar’s partner or significant other or something moderne like that. But it sounds very dreary to me! How much nicer to be a paramour. You should consider it.”

  “I will,” said Deirdre.

  “Perhaps you are not the paramour type,” said Adam.

  “Are you?” asked Deirdre.

  “Yes, I was: in my youth. And I was a youth for a very long time. Perhaps it was the effect of being a paramour. It retards the aging process, but it does not, alas, stop it: I woke up one morning and I was an old man. You are aging more gradually, which is, I think, a blessing: there is nothing worse than waking up one morning and discovering that you are decrepit.”

  “It is better to become decrepit gradually?”

  “Yes,” said Adam. “You don’t notice, then. Unless you are foolish enough to look at an old photograph. For this reason I have destroyed all old photographs of myself.”

  “I should think some people would want to be reminded of their beauty,” said Deirdre.

  “It is better to remember it in one’s mind’s eye,” said Adam. “Beauty remembered is more potent than beauty recorded.”

  “Have you really burned all your old photos?” asked Deirdre.

  “No,” said Adam, “but I will do so as soon as you leave. I shall build a fire—a pyre—in the yard and immolate my past. I think people should leave the world very cleanly, with nary a trace. It is rude to leave things behind—it is like littering, I think. I shall leave nothing behind.”

  “Did Jules Gund leave lots behind?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re writing a biography of Jules Gund too!”

  “No,” said Deirdre, “I just wondered. Are there lots of letters, and photos, and manuscripts, and stuff?”

  “Perhaps you should write the biography. You show more interest than our poor Omar. How is he? Have you come from visiting him?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre.

  “And how is he?”

  “He seems well, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering his accident,” said Deirdre.

  “Aren’t we all.”

  “Aren’t we all what?” asked Deirdre.

  “Aren’t we all well, considering our accidents,” said Adam.

  Deirdre did not reply.

  “You seem to me to be a sensible woman,” said Adam. “Do you consider yourself to be a sensible woman?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “I suppose I do.”

  “It is a novel experience for me: talking to a sensible woman. I am so practiced in the art of dealing with hysterics.”

  “We don’t much like that term,” said Deirdre.

  “Oh,” said Adam. “Don’t we? Who is we?”

  “Women,” said Deirdre. “It implicates our wombs. It is a term that reeks of male oppression.”

  “Wombs! I am surrounded by women who are preoccupied with wombs.”

  “I was merely speaking of the Latin roots of the word,” said Deirdre. “I am not preoccupied with my womb. Or the wombs of others.”

  “And I am so glad to hear
it. I meant to say that I am unpracticed in the art of speaking directly, as everything we say to one another here at Ochos Rios is convoluted at best. And I want to speak to you plainly, and directly.”

  “Please do,” said Deirdre.

  “I will try. The day before poor Omar encountered his poisonous bee, I had a talk with him. Actually, several talks, but it is one of our conversations that concerns me.”

  “About the biography?” asked Deirdre.

  “Yes,” said Adam. “among other things. In fact, we made a little bargain. And I am worried that in his present infirm state he may forget his obligation.”

  “It is about that little bargain that I have come to see you,” said Deirdre.

  “Ah! So he has not forgotten. He has told you about it?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “He mentioned it.”

  “Good. Then he has not forgotten.”

  “I think perhaps he has. I mean, he remembers you made a bargain, but he doesn’t remember the details.”

  “It is really quite simple: My mother brought paintings with her when she came here—fled here—from Germany. I would like to sell these paintings now. Omar agreed to take them to New York City for me, to a dealer who would arrange their sale.”

  “Do you mean smuggle them?”

  “No.”

  “And Omar agreed to do this?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You said it was a bargain. What was your part?”

  “I guaranteed him authorization. I convinced Arden to change her mind.”

  “In other words, you blackmailed him.”

  “Smuggle … blackmail. You have a romantic imagination. No doubt you read too many nineteenth-century novels.”

  “No: I am a modernist. And Arden told me she changed her own mind.”

  “Of course Arden thinks she changed her own mind. That is the only way to change someone’s mind—to allow them to think they have changed it themselves. Caroline will think the same.”

  “Perhaps you should forget this bargain, which seems both coercive and ridiculous to me. Perhaps you might concern yourself instead with Omar’s recovery.”

  “Of course that concerns me! I am not heartless. But by all accounts he is out of danger and progressing splendidly. I am sure he will be gathering honey in no time.”

  Deirdre stood up. “I am glad to hear that,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will return to Ochos Rios. I am feeling tired.”

  “Wait,” said Adam. “Please.”

  Deirdre had headed toward the door, but she turned around. “What?” she asked. “You know, I think it was really wrong of you, manipulating Omar like that! I’m sure what you’ve asked him to do is illegal. I will not allow him to do it. And besides, he is the wrong person to do something like that. It would be better if you found someone else.”

  “I agree with you,” said Adam.

  “Oh,” said Deirdre.

  “It is precisely about that that I wish to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About Omar being all wrong for the job. About finding someone else.”

  Deirdre said “Oh” again, and loitered near the door.

  “Will you come sit down? For just a moment. You don’t look tired at all.”

  “I am tired,” said Deirdre, somewhat petulantly. But she sat back down.

  “I asked Omar to transport the paintings to New York for sale—which is, I assure you, my moral right to do—because he was the only person available to transport them to New York. But I agree with you, he is hardly the ideal man for the job.”

  “What do you mean: moral right? Is it legal or not?”

  “You are obsessed with semantics. It is the curse of the academic mind. Try for a moment to rise above it.”

  “Yes, tell that to the border guards! Tell them to rise above it!”

  “Calm down. May we forget, for a moment, the legality of the issue? Or can your mind see no other perspective?”

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me all this. If you think Omar is going to transport the paintings, you’re mistaken. And neither am I. So it is pointless to talk about this any further.”

  “You seem so sure of yourself. You will not even listen to me? What better thing have you to do?”

  “I’m tired,” said Deirdre. “And I’m worried about Omar. You’ve no idea how worried I am. He is not well. I cannot concern myself with smuggling paintings at a time like this.”

  “I have never understood that expression: a time like this. Surely you mean at this time, not a different time similar to this time?”

  “Now who is obsessed with semantics?” Deirdre stood up.

  “You are a less interesting person than I thought you were,” said Adam. “Although I like you. You are invigorating. It is a shame you have no sense of adventure. You submerge your life: you read too many books—or perhaps you don’t even read books anymore. You probably just read criticism of books: you live vicariously. You come all the way to Uruguay, but do not concern yourself with what you encounter here. You will regret it all your life. Or no: it will take you a while to regret it—one day, when you are old and decrepit like me, you will think, Why did I not smuggle those paintings?”

  “So it is smuggling. I was right.”

  “I prefer to think of it as private relocation.”

  “Why must it be done privately?”

  “In order to maintain provenance, the paintings must seem to have remained in Germany. The man in New York has someone who will take them there—smuggle them, as you are so fond of saying—and then they will be sold there. The jewelry is another matter. That can easily be sold in New York.”

  Deirdre stood up. “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “but neither Omar nor I will be able to help you with these transactions. You must consider your little bargain with Omar dissolved. I am sure we can get Caroline to agree to authorization without your help.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well,” said Deirdre. “We can only try. Honestly try, without resorting to bargains and blackmail and manipulations.”

  “You shall take the high road, so to speak,” said Adam. “Yet it seems odd to me—odd and a bit stupid even, if I may be so blunt—that you would alienate me in this way. After all, what is stopping me from changing my mind?”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre. “I understood that you wanted the biography. I did not think your support was variable or to be bought. I did not think there was any issue there.”

  “There are issues everywhere, my dear.” Adam stood up. “While I admire your gumption, I think it would be best if this situation is resolved between Omar and me. The agreement was made with Omar; it is up to him to dissolve it. Well. I have so enjoyed our chat, but I usually take a siesta about this time. Will you excuse me?” He left the room, and Deirdre heard him climbing the stairs.

  She waited a moment, but it was quiet. She went out into the hall, but he had disappeared. She felt foolish standing there, so she went out the front door. She was not sure how to walk back to Ochos Rios. She supposed she should walk up the lane to the road and then head in either direction. One of them was bound to be right.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  How tiresome these people were, Deirdre thought as she walked toward Ochos Rios. Poor Omar, having to deal with them. It was really a good thing she had arrived, and could straighten things out. Perhaps his accident had been a blessing in disguise.

  The school bus was letting Portia off at the gate as she approached. Portia waited for her, clutching her satchel.

  “Hello,” called Deirdre.

  “Hello,” said Portia. “Where have you been?”

  “I was visiting your uncle,” said Deirdre. They began walking up the drive. She tried to think of something nice to say to Portia. She was about to say what a pretty dress she was wearing when she noticed Portia was wearing a uniform. She could think of nothing else, so she said, “How was school today?”

  “Good,” said Porti
a.

  “Omar and I are both teachers,” said Deirdre.

  “Are you nuns?” asked Portia.

  “No,” said Deirdre. “We don’t teach at a Catholic school. We teach at a university. A public university.”

  “Oh,” Portia said. Apparently she was not interested in the subject.

  “What do you want to be, when you grow up?” Deirdre asked her.

  “I want to be a nurse,” said Portia.

  “Why not a doctor?”

  “I would rather be a nurse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then if the people die it’s not your fault. If you’re a doctor it is. But if they do get better the nurse helps them.”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre. Then she said. “I saw a nurse today. In the clinic where Omar is.”

  Portia looked at her. “Of course,” she said. “That’s where nurses work.”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. They did not speak the rest of the way; the nice thing about children was that you could ignore them if you wanted: they didn’t take it personally.

  Arden was waiting in the front hall. She hugged Portia and said to Deirdre: “Dr. Peni called. He said he might release Omar tomorrow. If he has a quiet night.”

  “Oh, good,” said Deirdre.

  “But he said he couldn’t travel for at least a week. That he’d have to spend most of his time in bed, resting.”

  “I suppose I should stay here, then, and go back with him. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” said Arden. “How was your talk with Adam?”

  “It was fine,” said Deirdre.

  “I don’t suppose he offered you lunch. You must be hungry.”

  “Can I have my snack?” asked Portia.

  “Yes,” said Arden. “Can I get you something?” she asked Deirdre.

  “No, thank you,” said Deirdre. “I’m tired. I think I will take a nap now.”

  “Of course,” said Arden. “We’ll eat around seven. Do you eat meat?”

  Deirdre said she did, and asked if Caroline would be present at dinner. Arden said she was not sure.