The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “Of course,” said Omar.

  “Good,” said Lucy. She shook his hand. “Well,” she said, “it’s back to work for me. I’m learning a department chair’s work is never done. I don’t know how Garfield did it. I suppose he simply didn’t do it.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I suppose that was his trick.”

  Deirdre was on her way to Tai Chi when she saw the LOST DOG poster taped to the streetlight. She recognized Omar’s writing:

  LOST DOG

  small hairy white dog named Mitzie lost near Hiawatha Woods on Wednesday, Jan. 16 please call 448-2123 with information

  Oh God, she thought: Omar’s lost Mitzie. That stupid dog!

  As she passed Kiplings, she glanced in the window and was surprised to see Omar sitting alone at the bar, drinking a beer. She turned around and entered the restaurant. She sat on the stool beside him.

  He was preoccupied and did not look up from his beer until she touched him. “Deirdre!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw you. I was on my way to Tai Chi.” She looked at her watch. She would be late now. “I saw you sitting here. What are you doing?” She helped herself to some of his beer.

  “Do you want a beer?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I have Tai Chi. But what are you doing here? I saw the Mitzie poster. How long has she been gone?”

  “Since yesterday. Gwendolyn Pierce left her outside. And she never came back. I don’t know what to do. I called the police. They haven’t found any dogs, dead or alive. So I put up the signs.”

  “You should have put a picture on the sign. So people would know her if they see her.”

  “I couldn’t find a picture. Yvonne hid all her personal stuff. Or maybe she doesn’t have any personal stuff. That’s why I described her.”

  “Yes, but small, hairy, white: that could describe a lot of dogs.”

  “Well, it was the best I could do.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it,” said Deirdre. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it’s my fault!” said Omar. “I’m responsible for Mitzie.”

  “Yes, and when you went away Gwen Pierce was responsible for Mitzie. If she hadn’t left her outside this wouldn’t have happened. It was stupid of her. Irresponsible.”

  Omar said nothing. He rested his face in his hands. “You should go to Tai Chi,” he said. “Or you’ll be late.”

  Deirdre put her hand on his back. She had the feeling that he was crying but his face was covered by his hands. “What’s wrong, Omar?” she asked.

  “Everything,” said Omar. And then he made a noise that was like crying.

  “Oh, Omar,” Deirdre said. She patted his back. “Tell me. What’s wrong? Mitzie is just a dog. She’ll come back. And if she doesn’t, well—it’s not the end of the world. You mustn’t be so upset about it. Yvonne will understand. It wasn’t your fault. If Mitzie ran away, it’s about Mitzie, it’s not about you.”

  “It isn’t Mitzie,” said Omar. “I could care less about Mitzie. I mean, I couldn’t care less.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Deirdre. “What’s wrong?”

  Omar gulped. Her hand bounced on his back, but she kept it there, pressed lightly against him. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. He was wearing a shirt she had given him for his birthday two years ago: a pale green shirt made of chamois. It looked very nice with his dark hair.

  After a moment she said, “What’s wrong?” again.

  He lifted his face away from his hands and looked at her. “I just met with Lucy Greene-Kessler,” he said. “I told her I was returning the grant. Or returning what’s left of it. I’m not writing a biography of Gund.”

  For a moment Deirdre said nothing. She drank again from Omar’s beer. Then she asked the bartender for a beer of her own. When the frosty pint was placed in front of her she said, carefully, quietly, “Omar, what happened to you in Uruguay? I mean, I know about the bee, but what happened to you that made you not want to write the biography? Tell me, please.”

  “I just realized that I don’t want to write a biography of Jules Gund. I don’t want to write a biography of anyone.”

  “But why? Why not? Did something happen? Did you find something out?”

  “No,” said Omar. “I can’t say. I can’t explain it.”

  “Omar, you can’t let your sympathies get in your way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you got authorization to write the book. That is what matters. Whatever squabbles there were between them, or whatever hesitations they may have expressed—well, you can’t let that bother you. You can’t let it affect you. You’ve got to be a bit ruthless, I think, to write a biography.”

  “I don’t want to be ruthless. I’m giving the fellowship money back. I won’t get my degree.”

  “How can you give the money back? You’ve already spent some of it.”

  “I’ll find a way. I’ll borrow it from someone. Or maybe they won’t make me pay it all back. I don’t know. That’s not what matters. What matters is that I stop this.”

  “Stop what?”

  Omar sat up straight and looked around the bar for a moment. They were the only ones there. He made a vague gesture around him. He said, “I’ve got to stop this,” he said. “I’ve got to stop this life I am leading that is wrong for me. That is not mine.”

  “What do you mean, not yours? Of course it is yours. What are you talking about? Did you call the doctor? Did you make an appointment?”

  Omar looked at her. “It isn’t mine,” he said. “I don’t know what I’ve been doing. I’m sorry, Deirdre.”

  “What about us?” said Deirdre. “Do you feel that way about us? What about me?”

  “I think there is something wrong there too. I’m sorry. I think I am not myself with you.”

  “Of course you’re yourself! Omar! I love you!”

  “I don’t think you can love me,” said Omar. “I don’t think you know me very well.”

  Deirdre regarded her beer. It had a very thick head of foam. She watched it settle, the tiny bubbles collapsing with faint, bursting cries. Then she turned back to Omar. “It hurts me so much that you would say that, Omar. I do love you! And of course I know you. After all we’ve been through. I mean of course I don’t know everything about you, I don’t know you entirely, but no one knows anyone like that. I know you better than anyone else, I think.”

  Omar thought of Arden, who had kissed him. Who he had kissed. Did she know him? It had seemed, in some weird way, that she had. From the first moment he had met her he had felt relaxed in some fundamental way: it was not knowing, of course, for Arden did not know him. But what was it? If not knowing, what?

  “Perhaps you do know me,” said Omar. “But maybe it isn’t that. I don’t think you get me.”

  “Get you? What do you mean? Get you?”

  “You always seem to want to change me,” said Omar.

  “I don’t want to change you! If you think that, you don’t understand. Oh, Omar: I love you. I don’t want to change you. But I do want you to do the things you’re capable of doing, the things that are in your best interest to do. Yes: I want you to do those things. And if I encourage you to do them, that isn’t changing you! That’s encouraging you! It’s helping you.”

  “Perhaps we disagree on what is in my best interest,” said Omar.

  “Oh,” said Deirdre. “Well, what do you think is in your best interest? Do you think not writing the biography and giving the fellowship money back and dropping out of the program is in your best interest?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I think it is.”

  “And how—I’m just curious; I just wonder—how do you think that?”

  “I’m sorry, Deirdre. You know my father wanted me to go to medical school. And I couldn’t do that. And I loved books, I love reading, so I thought I would get a Ph.D. in literature, but it’s not right for me. I love books and I love reading but that’s it. I don’t love t
eaching or writing or anything else about this. I’m not good at it and I don’t like it. I’m not like you. I am sorry, but I am not like you.”

  Deirdre said nothing. She drank from her beer. After a moment she looked at Omar. There were tears on her cheeks. “So what will you do?” she asked. “What is it you want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Omar. “I’m twenty-eight years old and I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know anything.”

  “I don’t want to cry here,” said Deirdre. “I don’t want to cry here, at stupid fucking Kiplings.”

  “I’m sorry, Deirdre.”

  “You’re sorry! Oh, how I hate you! No, I don’t hate you, it’s just that, oh, Omar, I wanted so badly, so very very badly, for all of this to happen for you. I suppose selfishly, I suppose it was all about me, me and you, but nevertheless, I wanted it to happen for you. I was so proud of you: going to Uruguay—Uruguay!—all by yourself, and getting authorization, I could see this whole future for you unfolding, this good future, and it seemed right to me, but perhaps you’re right, perhaps I don’t know you or get you, perhaps it is all wrong for you, but I only wanted you to be happy, to succeed and be happy.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone there if it wasn’t for you,” said Omar.

  “Yes. And what did it get you? A bee sting. A coma. A miserable journey home.”

  They were silent a moment, and then Omar said, “I think I’ll go home now. I’m tired. I still get tired. We can talk about this more, later. Can you still make it to Tai Chi?”

  Deirdre looked at her watch. “No,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Omar.

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “But I am.” Omar stood up. He leaned forward and kissed Deirdre’s wet cheek. “I am very grateful to you,” he said.

  “For what? For not getting you?”

  “No,” said Omar. “For loving me.”

  It was like a dream: his headlights tunneled the darkness, revealing Mitzie on the front porch. She looked quizzically at the car, and when he emerged from it, she ran toward him, barking, and threw herself up at him: she remembered him, she had returned, and she was happy, simply happy, to see him again.

  Sometime after Omar went to bed the phone rang. He wasn’t sure how late it was. He got up and answered it.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “I’m calling about your lost dog,” a woman said. “Your little hairy white dog. I have it here with me.”

  For a second, in his grogginess, Omar forgot that Mitzie had come back. Or maybe that was a dream. “Really?” he said.

  “Yes,” said the woman. “Is there a reward?”

  Omar was confused. “Wait a minute,” he said. He put down the phone and went to the kitchen. Mitzie was sleeping in her bed. She looked up at him curiously. He went back to the phone. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said. “I’ve found my dog.”

  “You’re too cheap to pay a reward?” the woman said.

  “No,” said Omar. “That’s not it. My dog is here. She came back.”

  “Fuck you,” the woman said. She hung up.

  Omar went back into the kitchen. He petted Mitzie and drank a glass of water. He ate a horrible sugar-free cookie Gwendolyn Pierce had left behind. Then he got dressed and drove into town. He parked at the bank and walked around, taking down all the LOST DOG signs. It took him a long time because he had to remember all the places he’d posted them. He wanted to make sure he got them all. He had put up twenty but could find only seventeen. Maybe someone had taken the missing three, or maybe they were still posted somewhere.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  February 7, 1996

  Dear Mr. Gund, Mrs. Gund, and Ms. Langdon:

  I am writing to thank you all for the incredibly generous hospitality you showed me while I was in Uruguay. I apologize for descending upon you in what I now see was a very rude and inconsiderate way. My rudeness makes your hospitality all the more remarkable.

  I am feeling much better now. I’m still a little tired, but every day I feel I have more energy and strength. I am very grateful for your, and Dr. Peni’s, good care. Thank you.

  In addition to thanking you I wanted to inform you that I will not be writing a biography of Jules Gund. I wish I could easily explain to you why I have decided against writing the biography, but I’m afraid I cannot. Suffice it to say I have decided to leave academia and pursue other avenues. I’m sorry to have bothered you with my request and appreciate the careful consideration you gave it.

  I will always remember my time at Ochos Rios (despite my illness) as a wonderful period in my life. I learned a lot from all of you for which I am grateful.

  Again, I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused you.

  My best wishes to you, and to Pete and Portia as well.

  Sincerely,

  Omar Razaghi

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lucy Greene-Kessler had an end-of-semester barbecue in her backyard. Omar was sitting at a picnic table when he felt two hands on his shoulders, gently shaking, and then massaging, him. Deirdre sat beside him. She had rather a lot on her plate: barbecued chicken and potato salad and fruit salad and macaroni salad. “Long time, no see,” she said.

  “Hello,” said Omar.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” said Omar. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” said Deirdre. “I can’t believe you’re here. You’ve sort of disappeared.”

  “I was lying low.”

  “Very low,” said Deirdre. “Thank God for Lucy Greene-Kessler’s ascension. Although I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I wasn’t going to come,” said Omar. “But then I realized I did want to say goodbye to people.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m moving back to Toronto. I’m going to live with my parents for a while.”

  “And do what?”

  “My father got me a job at the hospital. I’m going to be a physical-therapy aid.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Hold people down while they’re tortured, I think,” said Omar.

  “When do you go to Toronto?”

  “As soon as Yvonne returns. The first week in June.”

  “Are you really going to live with your parents and work in a hospital?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “For a while, at least.”

  “Will you wear a uniform?”

  “I suppose,” said Omar.

  “Will you be okay?”

  “I think so. People don’t die of wearing uniforms, and living with their parents in Toronto.”

  Deirdre wanted to say: Yes, they do, in ways they do, in ways they don’t know, can’t see, they do. But then we’re all dying, she thought, in ways we can’t see and don’t know. She pushed her overladen plate away.

  “Do you want to go for a little walk?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Nowhere. Around the block.”

  “Now?” asked Omar.

  “No,” said Deirdre, “years from now.”

  Lucy lived in a nice old neighborhood: houses with manicured shrubs and porches and seasonal wreaths or flags on their front doors. They walked up the driveway and began ambling along the sidewalk, the slabs of which were cracked and upset by the spreading roots of the large old trees that lined the street. They said nothing until they turned the corner.

  “I got the job at Bucknell,” said Deirdre.

  “Did you? Congratulations! That’s great.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just a one-year appointment. Totally exploitative. But I figure what the hell.”

  “It’s a good place to teach,” said Omar. “It’s in Ohio, right?”

  “Pennsylvania. In cow fields. No big lights, bright city for moi.”

  “When will you go?”

  “Not till August. I’m teaching summer session here. Oh, Omar. Are you really going to Toronto?”

  “Yes,” said Om
ar. “At least for a while. Till I figure out what I want to do. Or what I can do.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Omar. “That’s what I’m going to Toronto to figure out. There’s no point in my staying here.”

  “You could get a job here,” said Deirdre.

  “Yes,” said Omar, “selling shoes at the mall.”

  “I just can’t picture you working in a hospital.”

  “It’s just for a while. I need to make some money. And—figure things out.”

  Deirdre pulled a new leaf, a fat green baby leaf, off a tree and shredded it.

  “Have you heard from them?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who. The folk from down below.” She nodded at the buckled sidewalk.

  “No,” said Omar.

  “Do you wish—Do you still think you made the right decision?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “You don’t want to talk about this, do you?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “Do you not want to talk about this or do you not want to talk about this with me?”

  Omar shrugged. They stepped aside, giving right-of-way to a young girl manically pedaling a tricycle. When she was past them, Deirdre said, “It’s so weird. I know we’re not a couple anymore, we’re not intimate, we don’t talk every day the way we used to, but it seems so strange, so weird, that my concern for you should just cease. Desist. Because it doesn’t.”

  “Concern?” said Omar.

  “I don’t know the word,” said Deirdre. “Maybe love. I don’t know. It’s been so hard, not being in touch with you. It’s made me feel sick.” She flung the pulpy bits of leaf down onto the sidewalk.

  “I just want to forget about it all,” said Omar.

  “Us?”

  “No—not that. Of course not that. I meant the end, the trip, the book, all of that. I want to forget that.”

  “Why?” asked Deirdre.

  “No,” said Omar. “Not forget it. But just let it be. Let it alone. Not think about it, or talk about it.”