The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  Arden and Pete were working in the garden. Pete was hoeing and Arden was weeding. It was amazing, how quickly the weeds grew, Arden thought. It seemed almost impossible. It was almost as if you could watch them.

  Suddenly she was aware of being in shadow. She looked up to see that Pete was standing above her, hands resting on the hoe.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Will you miss them?” asked Pete. “When they are gone?”

  “Who?” she said, although of course she knew who, but she did not want to speak to Pete about them, she did not want to speak to anyone about them, she just wanted them to go away.

  “Omar,” said Pete. “Omar and Deirdre.”

  Arden sat back on her haunches. For a moment she felt blinded, but then she realized Pete had shifted and the sun was shining full in her face. She closed her eyes. Pete shifted again and the shadow returned. She opened her eyes.

  “No,” she said. “Why would I miss them?”

  “I think I will miss them,” said Pete. “I mean Omar. I will miss Omar.”

  “It must be lonely for you here,” said Arden. She pulled a weed from the ground and dropped it into the bucket. She crumbled a little clotted earth between her fingers.

  “Do you love him?” asked Pete.

  Arden looked up at him. “No,” she said. She shook her head. “No,” she said again. “I don’t love Omar.” She stood up. “I’ve got a headache,” she said. “I think I’m going to lie down.”

  She took off her gloves and tossed them in the bucket, on top of the mound of weeds. She left the bucket there, in the middle of the row.

  In the kitchen she saw the saucepan in the sink. This irritated her. Why had Deirdre heated the soup? It was supposed to be cold, it was best cold, the freshness of it, the flavors would all be compromised by heat—but you are being absurd, she thought: it doesn’t matter at all. It doesn’t matter.

  She went upstairs and lay on her bed. It was awkward having Deirdre here. It was a strain for her. But it was good. If Deirdre were not here, she would have to be nursing Omar, and that would not be good. With Deirdre here she could avoid Omar. She would avoid him and then he would be gone, in less than a week, he would be gone. Perhaps he would not leave. Perhaps Caroline would change her mind, and he would stay to work on the book. Deirdre would leave, but he might stay. For quite a long time, perhaps, working on the book. But Caroline would not change her mind.

  She was sure Omar did not remember their kiss; she almost did not remember it herself, so completely had the immediately ensuing emergency obliterated, superseded it. Yet she knew it had happened, they had kissed, sitting up there, outside the boathouse, in the hot sun. They had kissed. Perhaps he did remember. Or perhaps he would remember, and it would mean nothing to him. It is hard to know what a kiss means. She did not think Omar was in the habit of indiscriminately kissing women, but that did not mean that their kiss had meant anything in particular to him. Meant anything! How stupid she was. How pathetic. It was these years of living alone, living away from things, people, men. These years of not being kissed. She had had one affair since Jules’s death. It was with the brother of the van Deleer sisters, friends of Caroline. He had come to visit them for a month; she had been invited to dinner, and somehow they had ended up in bed together. Although it had not seemed very curious at all at the time: from the moment she encountered him on the van Deleers’ loggia, where they had drinks before the meal, she had known, and she had known that he had known, that they would sleep together. His name was Henrik. It had been very nice, but he had gone away, of course, at the end of the month. He had a wife in Cape Town, and a daughter, who was oddly enough named Portia. Of course she had fallen in love with him, it was impossible for her not to have under the circumstances, but it was a heady, superficial love that did not leave much of a stain. She had kissed him that first night, the first night she met him at the dinner party. She had got up to use the bathroom after dinner and he had followed her; as she emerged he was waiting in the shadows of the dark hall; he stood there waiting, watching her. To return to the party she had to walk past him. The hall was narrow. She thought for a moment he was waiting for the toilet but he was not, he was waiting for her. She thought: It is stupid to pretend I don’t want this; I won’t do that. I won’t be like that. I want this. She walked toward him, in the dark narrow hall, and kissed him.

  The sisters van Deleer found out, of course, and never much liked her after that. Arden was sure they had probably told Caroline, but Caroline never mentioned it to her.

  The attraction had been very clear—very apparent, overt—with Henrik, but with Omar it had not been clear. It was all murk, weird fumbling and murk, and then that one odd, sunstruck kiss. Perhaps, she thought, we do love each other in a way, for the kiss had been—what? Real? Yes, the kiss had been real, so perhaps we do love each other, but it is not a practical love. It was all right. The fact of it happening doesn’t mean anything: it doesn’t mean it’s meant to be acknowledged, or fostered, or consummated. Consummated! She thought of what it would be like to make love with Omar. He was very beautiful. His skin, and hair and eyes … she was touching herself, gently, in the strange half-light of her bedroom. Why had Pete asked her if she loved Omar? What did Pete know? Had Omar spoken with Pete? While they were netting the trees? What had he said? Had he told Pete he loved her? That they had kissed? She got up off the bed. She went into the bathroom and washed her face with cold water. She looked at her face in the mirror. Sometimes she could look at herself and see that she was beautiful, but she was never sure. Something always looked wrong. It went back to when she had been in movies: it was awful, seeing her huge face on the screen. She had not been pretty then.

  She went back out to the garden. Pete was still intent upon his hoeing. She stood outside the fence and called to him.

  He turned around. “What?” he said.

  She motioned him over. “Come here,” she said.

  He thrust the hoe upright into the earth and walked over to the fence. There was sweat on his face. He wiped it with his bare arm. He stood there, waiting for her to speak.

  She looked away. She looked past the garden, at the orchard, at the netted trees. They looked ugly: the netting was plastic, orange, synthetic. It was a shame they had to be netted. Perhaps they could find some netting that was not an eyesore. That was invisible.

  “What?” said Pete.

  Still looking at the trees, Arden said, “Did Omar say anything to you, the other day, when you were netting the trees?

  “What do you mean?” asked Pete.

  She turned to him. “Why did you ask me that, before?”

  “What?”

  “Before,” she said, “what you asked me about Omar?”

  “I just wondered,” said Pete.

  “He didn’t say anything to you? About me? The other day?”

  “No,” said Pete.

  “Oh,” she said. And after a silence: “I just wondered. It seemed odd, that you would ask me that.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Pete. “I just thought, if I were you …”

  “If you were me, what?”

  “I might love him.”

  “Well, we hardly know him, do we, Pete? He’s only been here a short time. He has a girlfriend. And he’s leaving soon—”

  “Yes,” said Pete. “All of that is very true.” He went back to his hoe. He pulled it from the soil and resumed his work. After a few moments he stopped and turned around. Arden was still standing by the fence. Pete smiled at her.

  Caroline stood in the middle of the kitchen, gazing around her vacantly, as if she had never seen a kitchen before. “Oh, there you are,” she said, when Arden came in from the garden. “I just wanted to let you know I am going away for a few days.”

  “Where?” asked Arden.

  “To Gianfranco and Donatella’s. I don’t feel comfortable here, with all these invalids and hangers-on lurking about.”

  Gianfranco and Donatella Norelli were a
n Italian couple who owned a vineyard about a hour from them.

  “Fine,” said Arden. “When are you leaving?”

  Caroline looked at the clock. “It’s rather late now. I suppose I shall wait till the morning.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Until they leave,” said Caroline. “You must call me when the coast is clear.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” said Arden. She was looking at the saucepan, which was still in the sink. She could not help thinking about her delicious cold soup, heated …

  “What?” said Caroline.

  “I’m just … Go if you want, go, but don’t give me orders. Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Goodness,” said Caroline, “it sounds as if you’re the one who needs to get away from here. You’re welcome to join me if you want.”

  “Are you going to leave without talking to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Omar!” Arden almost shouted. She banged the saucepan in the sink and then filled it with water.

  “Why should I talk to Omar? I have talked rather a lot to Omar.”

  Arden wanted to say, If you go you can’t change your mind. But of course that’s why Caroline was going, she thought; she’s afraid if she stays here she’ll change her mind.

  “You’re afraid if you stay here, you’ll change your mind,” she said.

  “No,” said Caroline. “I’m afraid if I stay I’ll lose my mind. I’ll have people accosting me at all times of the night and day, trying to do that, yes: change my mind, but I do not want my mind changed. I want these people to go away, but as they only incapacitate themselves and multiply, I will go away myself.”

  “Fine,” said Arden. “Go.”

  The next morning, Deirdre brought Omar’s breakfast to him on a tray.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  “Who?” asked Deirdre. “Who is everyone?”

  “Caroline and Adam and Pete and Arden and Portia. I’ve seen no one but you since I’ve been back here.”

  “They’re all busy doing whatever it is they do around here. Forging paintings and raising killer bees. Do you know there’s a weird voodoo-ey puppet theater down the hall?”

  “No,” said Omar. “Have you been opening doors?”

  “I was looking for the bathroom. And next to my room is a sewing room, with one of those old pedal machines.”

  “So?”

  “I’m just reporting.” She put the tray down on the bedside table. “Why don’t you take off those pajamas? And I’ll see about getting them washed.” Or destroyed, she thought. “Do you want to take a bath?”

  “That might be nice,” said Omar.

  “There’s a nice tub down the hall,” said Deirdre. “I’ll go fill it.”

  Omar heard the taps squeal as they were opened and the water thunder into the tub. But it was several minutes before Deirdre returned. She closed the door and leaned against it. “Oh, no,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Caroline’s bolted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was filling the bath when I saw her walk by with a suitcase. I followed her downstairs. She’s going to stay with some friends for a while.”

  “For how long?”

  “She was vague. Her suitcase was rather large.”

  “Is she still here?”

  “No, she drove away.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Tackle her?”

  “But I need to talk to her. I’ve got to talk to her. If I can’t talk to her, it’s all over.”

  “I know,” said Deirdre. “I panicked. But what could I have done?”

  “Where has she gone?”

  “I told you to—to visit friends.”

  “I know, but where? How far? She’s not leaving the country, is she?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “We’ve got to find out. Ask Arden. Is she around?”

  “Presumably,” said Deirdre. “Somewhere.”

  “Will you tell Arden I’d like to talk to her?”

  “All right, but you should take your bath first. Shit! Your bath. It’s still running.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Two days later Pete drove Omar to Las Golondrinas, which was the name of the vineyard where Caroline was visiting her friends. It had not been easy to arrange: at first Caroline refused to take his calls, but he persisted and finally she got on the phone to tell him to stop harassing her and her friends. Omar promised to desist if she would speak with him for fifteen minutes. Somewhat miraculously, she agreed.

  Of course, Deirdre had wanted to accompany him, but Omar had refused to let her. And somewhat miraculously, she had agreed. So here he was speeding across the range in Pete’s battered pickup. The fields spread out as far as Omar could see in every direction. They were dotted by shallow pools around which willow trees gathered, and often in the shade of these trees cattle lolled.

  “It’s very beautiful,” Omar shouted over the noise of the truck and the wind rushing through the open windows.

  “Yes,” Pete agreed.

  “It is like Kansas,” said Omar. “Very flat.”

  Pete slowed down and stopped: a herd of cattle was being moved across the road by two men on horses.

  “Are those gauchos?” asked Omar.

  “Yes,” said Pete. He leaned over and fished a pack of cigarettes out of the glove box. He offered them to Omar.

  “No, thanks,” said Omar.

  “Don’t you smoke?” said Pete.

  “No,” said Omar.

  Pete put a cigarette in his mouth and pushed in the dashboard lighter. “I only smoke in the truck. I like to smoke and drive.”

  “You drive around a lot, looking for furniture?” asked Omar.

  “Yes,” said Pete.

  “To the ranches?”

  “Sometimes the ranches. But mostly to the little towns, where people have old furniture. They think it is not nice, they want new things, so they sell me the old things for very little.”

  The lighter popped, and Pete held it to the tip of his cigarette. There was the sudden, pleasant warm smell of tobacco. The cattle completed their migration. The gauchos waved at them. Pete waved back and continued driving. “So,” he said, “you need to see Caroline about your book?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “Arden and Adam have agreed, but Caroline has not.”

  “Caroline is stubborn,” said Pete.

  Omar agreed. “What was Jules like?” he asked.

  “I did not like Jules,” said Pete.

  “Why not?” asked Omar.

  Pete shrugged. He flicked his cigarette out the window. “I don’t think he was a very nice person,” said Pete. “He did not seem very happy. He always had a face like this—” Pete scowled.

  “What did he do?” asked Omar.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did he do with his time?”

  “He traveled a lot. To Europe and the United States. And when he was here he was always writing. Always in his study, but I think he was mostly drinking. But I did not know him for long. Only a few years. I think he was happier before I came here.”

  “You came with Adam?”

  “Yes, from Germany.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  “Yes,” said Pete. “It reminds me of Thailand a little bit. More than Germany. I did not like Germany. Not the place and not the people. Here is nicer.”

  “This is like Thailand?” asked Omar.

  Pete looked out at the fields. “No,” he said. “But the weather is nice. It was too cold in Germany. I hate the cold.”

  “Then you would not like Kansas.”

  “Do you like the cold, and skiing?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “In Germany everyone is skiing.”

  “I like the sun and the beach,” said Omar.

  “Yes, that’s very nice,” said Pete. “There are nice beaches here, in the south. Y
ou should go there before you leave. Does Deirdre like the beaches too?”

  “She likes to swim, but she doesn’t like to take the sun,” said Omar.

  “I love to feel the sun,” said Pete. He stuck his bare arm out the window, and rotated it in the hot breeze. “Perhaps we should go to the beach, now. We could keep driving. There is a good road.”

  “But Caroline is expecting us at Las Golondrinas,” said Omar. “I have to talk to her.”

  Pete withdrew his hand. “I would like to show you the beach,” he said. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “That would be nice.”

  “So you will be back?”

  “I hope so,” said Omar. “It depends what happens with Caroline.”

  “I hope she will say yes, then.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “So do I.”

  They were quiet a moment, both gazing out at the road bisecting the landscape in front of them, and then Pete said, “Omar, Adam told me there is no letter.”

  “What?” asked Omar. He put his hand on the dashboard.

  “Adam told me there is no letter from Jules, about the biography. It is Caroline pretending.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “The other day. I came home and he was upset. He was angry at Caroline. And he told me she made up the letter.”

  “Why doesn’t she want the biography, then?” asked Omar.

  “I don’t think Caroline is very happy. Like Jules.” He made that face again. “There could be any reason. With unhappy people it is always complicated.”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  Pete looked over at him. “Maybe you should ask her to see this letter.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Omar.

  After a while they drove off the main road and onto a dirt road. They stopped in front of a low metal gate that was swung shut across the road. “You must open the gate,” said Pete, “and then close it after I have driven through.”

  “Okay,” said Omar. He got down from the truck and pushed the gate open. Pete drove through and stopped. Omar closed the gate and climbed back into the truck.