The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “It is,” he said. “The book, I mean.”

  “So why?—so what—what brings you here?”

  “I needed to ask you something,” said Omar.

  “Ask me something? You came all this way to ask me something?”

  “Yes,” he said. He moved toward her but the door to the kitchen opened and Portia said, “She’s not back there. She must be upstairs.”

  “I’m here,” said Arden. She came the rest of the way down the stairs.

  “Omar came on the school bus with me,” said Portia.

  “I see,” said Arden.

  “May I have my snack?”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “Why don’t you—get it yourself, darling. Have a pear and a biscuit if you like.”

  “There are no pears,” said Portia.

  “Have a banana, then. Or an apple.”

  Portia stood there.

  “Go,” said Arden. “Get your snack.”

  Portia returned to the kitchen.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here,” said Arden. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “Then why have you come?”

  “I told you,” said Omar. “I need to ask you something.”

  “What?” said Arden.

  Omar could not speak.

  Arden moved toward him; they were standing on opposite sides of the round table. “What?” she asked again, impatiently, almost fiercely.

  It was all happening too quickly, he had not expected it to happen so fast. He did not know what he had expected they would do but he had thought it would be days before they got to this point. He had thought she would know why he had come, and so there would be no need to talk about it until it became clear somehow, acknowledged, and then they would talk about it, almost in retrospect. She was looking at him fiercely and he realized the extent of his foolishness.

  But he had come this far and he could not go back. That is why he had come, why he had done it this way, it was all about being there—being here. Here. He touched the table in front of him. He ducked his head but he looked over at her again and her fierce look had faded, her face had softened somewhat; it was slack with curiosity and patience. It had begun to rain: behind her, he could see it through the windows, falling.

  He said nothing for a moment. He glanced down at the table, and then he looked over at her, but she was staring at the table. He said to her lowered face: “I think I kissed you because I love you.”

  She looked at him. “Do you?” she asked, and then she amended: “Did you? Think that?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Ah,” she said.

  “Why,” he asked, “why did you kiss me?”

  She shook her head. Her face was flushed and she lowered it again, diverted her gaze. “I don’t know,” she said. “It was all very confusing, the book and you and everything.”

  “But you didn’t love me?”

  She looked at him with eyes that were half mean, half sorrowful. “I thought perhaps I did,” she said.

  “But then why, afterward, did you tell me you didn’t?”

  “Because—Oh, Omar, you don’t understand. It isn’t that simple, that easy. It isn’t even about that, really. There’s the past. And—you can’t do this.” Her fierceness rebloomed, suddenly, across her face. “Will you go on like this? Appearing here, intermittently, in these fantastic ways? I think you should not have come like this. I think you should leave, Omar.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Omar.

  “What don’t I understand?”

  “Perhaps I have done it all wrong,” said Omar. “I am sure I have done it all wrong. I’m sorry to have done it wrong. I wish I could have done it right. If there was anything I could give you it would be to do it right, but I don’t know how to do things the right way, the way people are supposed to do things, but—does that mean I should do nothing?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Arden. “You appear here, out of the blue—”

  “I’m talking about I love you!” said Omar. “I’m talking about I fell in love with you. And I thought, I thought I felt, I thought I remembered—although it’s vague, perhaps I’m wrong—I thought I felt that you loved me. Not only when we kissed. Of course then, but not only then. The whole time. Every moment. Every moment.”

  After a moment he said it again: “Every moment.”

  Arden sat on the bench beside the door. She leaned forward and closed her eyes. She sat like that for a long time. It was very quiet and they could both hear the rain falling. Then she abruptly stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said. She was speaking loudly, as if speaking loudly could keep her from crying. “But I don’t love you. And you’re right: it was wrong of you to come like this. To just appear, without phoning or even writing. I’m sorry, but it is wrong. You should never have come like this. You must go.”

  Omar said nothing. He stood there. He could not think what to say. He knew he must be very careful and say the right thing. He must not say the wrong thing. Not now, of all times. After a moment he said, “I love you.”

  Arden shook her head. “Go,” she moaned. “Please, just go.”

  Omar picked up his bag, which he had left on the floor. He paused a moment inside the door, but Arden did not move: she stood there ashen, immobile. She was looking past him, out through the French doors, at the rain falling on the shrouded table.

  Omar opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

  Arden did not know how long she stood there in the hall. Presently the door to the kitchen opened and Portia reappeared. “What’s happening?” she asked. “Why are you crying?”

  Arden wiped her face with her hands. She shook her head. “Did you finish your snack?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Portia.

  They stood there a moment, stupidly, silently.

  Portia said: “Where is Omar?”

  “He’s gone,” said Arden.

  “But I wanted to give him his shoe.”

  “What shoe?”

  “His shoe! The one I found in the meadow. I saved it for him! I told him!”

  “It’s just one shoe,” said Arden. “He doesn’t need one shoe.”

  Portia said nothing. Then she said, “You were crying.”

  “Yes,” said Arden.

  “Why?”

  Arden said: “Sometimes people cry when they feel—when they feel too much.”

  “Is that what you feel?” asked Portia.

  “Yes,” said Arden.

  Omar was thoroughly soaked by the time he reached the millhouse. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He tried to open it, but it appeared to be locked. Then he remembered that it stuck, so he pushed hard and it opened. It was dark inside. If no one is here I can sleep on the couch, he thought, and tomorrow morning I’ll walk into Tranqueras. I think I know the way.

  He stood in the hall, dripping on the stone floor. He heard a door open far above him and a light appeared on the top landing. Adam stood there in his bathrobe, looking down at him.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “It’s me,” Omar called up. “Omar Razaghi.”

  “Omar! What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Omar. “I came to see Arden, and—it’s a long story. I wonder if I could stay here tonight. Or if you could drive me to Tranqueras.”

  “I don’t drive anymore,” said Adam. “Besides, Pete has the car. He’s in Montevideo. Come up, come up and tell me your long story. I’d descend but I’m in bed with a touch of la grippe. There’s a bottle of scotch in the kitchen, bring it up with you. I’ve been longing for it all day.”

  “Where’s the kitchen?” asked Omar.

  “Straight ahead of you, through the living room,” said Adam. “You might have to wash some of the glasses in the sink if you can’t find clean ones. I’m afraid I am not the housekeeper Pete was. I’m returning to my bed. Hurry.”

  He disappeared back through the
doorway. Omar found the kitchen, and the scotch, and washed two glasses, and brought them upstairs. Adam was sitting in a very large bed. He did not look well. There was one lamp lit on a table beside the bed, casting a small golden pool of light. The rest of the room was quite dark.

  “Drag that chair over here and sit down. Good Lord! You’re soaked. Are you wet through?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “Well, you’d better undress, and dry off. There’s a nice warm robe of Pete’s hanging behind the door. Put that on. But first pour me a scotch.”

  Omar poured some scotch into a glass and handed it to Adam. Then he went over and undressed in the gloom by the door, and put on the woolen robe that was Pete’s.

  “You need something for your feet. In the top drawer of the dresser there are socks.”

  Omar found a pair of socks and put them on.

  “Now, come sit down,” said Adam. “Move that chair. No, the other one. Over here, near the bed. And pour yourself a scotch, and tell me your long story.”

  Omar followed all of Adam’s instructions save the last. He did not know where to begin, or how to tell, his story. He sipped his scotch, and then regarded it.

  After a moment Adam said, “I take it you need prompting.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I suppose. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “I am, as you might have discerned by now, a traditionalist. Begin at the beginning.”

  “I suppose that would be when I came here last time,” said Omar. “In January.”

  “It can’t be a very long story,” said Adam, “if it only began then.”

  “Well, of course there are parts before that, but that is when things changed.”

  “What things changed?”

  “I think I changed,” said Omar.

  “How?” asked Adam. “Why?”

  “I changed—in many ways. For one, I think, I fell in love with Arden.”

  “Did you?” said Adam. “What a silly thing to do. And what about your lovely girlfriend? Doris?”

  “Deirdre. We’ve broken up. It wasn’t right, between us.”

  “And so you have come back to declare your love for Arden?”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “You see, we kissed. The day I got stung by the bee, and fell out of the tree. We had walked up to see the gondola. And we kissed, outside the boathouse.”

  “How romantic. And then you were stung by a bee, and puffed up, and became comatose.”

  “Yes, and when I came to Deirdre was here. And I didn’t know what had happened with Arden, I felt something had happened, but Arden was so weird and distant and then I went back.”

  “And wrote us that lovely letter telling us you had changed your mind about the book.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I’m sorry about that. I mean, I’m sorry I caused you all so much trouble. Anyway, I came back to see Arden, to ask her if she loved me, to tell her I loved her, but she—she told me it was wrong of me to come. She was awful. I think I hurt her in some way. She told me to go. So I left. And it was raining and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to come except here.”

  “And here you are,” said Adam.

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of things. Of just about everything.”

  “Drink your scotch,” said Adam, “and pour me a little bit more.”

  Omar poured more scotch into Adam’s glass and sipped at his own. “What do you think I should do?” he asked. “What can I do?”

  “You must go back to see Arden tomorrow. Of course she threw you out today, it was right of her. You cannot descend upon people from out of the blue and proclaim your love and expect them to reciprocate. A traditionalist like me knows that.”

  “What must you do, then?” asked Omar. “What must I do?”

  “You must go back tomorrow and apologize. You have taken her for granted—”

  “But I didn’t! Really, I did not!”

  “Well, it appears as though you did and that’s what’s important. You must go back and apologize. She may send you away again. If she does you must go away, but you must not give up. Arden loves you.”

  “Does she?” asked Omar. “How do you know?”

  “It was apparent to me from the moment you arrived. Perhaps even before: perhaps she loved you when you sent the letter. It is ridiculous how, and how easily, people fall in love. Especially Arden : she was very ripe for the picking; if a baboon had knocked on her door she may well have fallen in love with it.”

  “So you don’t really think she loves me? It’s just, just the circum——”

  “Of course she loves you. She loves you now probably as much as she ever will, because she knows you so little.”

  “It feels as if we know each other, though,” said Omar. “There was something, some connection, right from the beginning, from the very first night.”

  “I’m glad I was spared witnessing that. No wonder Caroline fled. Have you heard? She has moved to New York City. She has abandoned us.”

  “Portia told me. What is she doing there?”

  “Her sister died, and left Caroline her apartment. I cannot tell you what she does there. What did she do here? Nothing. What does anyone do anywhere? Nothing.”

  “Perhaps she is painting,” said Omar.

  “My point exactly,” said Adam: “Nothing.”

  “And Pete is gone too?”

  “Yes. I didn’t need you to smuggle the paintings after all. Pete found his own way out. The woman he sold to in New York has set him up very nicely in Montevideo. He comes back from time to time, when he is in the area, looking for junk.”

  “Do you miss him?” asked Omar.

  “How brutal you are! You are a biographer, after all. Asking brutal questions.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Omar.

  “Of course I miss him,” said Adam. “But it is better this way. Isn’t that what people say: it is better this way? Meaning I cannot bear it but I will. I will close my eyes and stumble forward into the darkness.”

  “I’m sorry,” Omar said again.

  Adam said nothing. He held out his empty glass, and Omar poured some more scotch into it.

  “How odd,” said Adam, after a moment. “I believe in God: I was lying up here, in bed, thinking about the scotch bottle all the way downstairs in the kitchen, knowing I was too weak to walk down and get it—more precisely too weak to walk back up after having gotten it—but wanting it, oh, yes, wanting it, wanting just a little bit of scotch, a wee dram to warm me, to dull me, to make me feel round and warm and content and sleepy, and then you appeared. Is that not proof of God? I know no better reason to believe.”

  “Is there anything else you want? From downstairs? Have you eaten?”

  “I don’t know what you could find down there that’s edible. Why don’t you go look? There may be tins of soup somewhere.”

  “All right,” said Omar.

  “And could I prevail upon you—it is really too mortifying, but I feel somehow you will not mind—there is a chamber pot beneath the bed full of my water. Could you empty it into the toilet downstairs?”

  “Of course,” said Omar.

  He stood up and found the pot: a large ceramic bowl, beneath the bed. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  He carefully carried the bowl of urine down the three flights of stairs and emptied it into the toilet. Then he went into the kitchen. He could find no tins of soup. There were some apples, and a loaf of bread and jar of honey. Omar put these on a silver tray and carried them back up the stairs.

  Adam was asleep. Omar stood beside the bed and watched Adam sleep. He had a dignity, a beauty, that was apparent—that was more apparent—when he was sleeping. Omar did not wake him. He took one of the apples and some of the bread and left the rest on the tray and turned out the light and went back down the stairs.

  He ate the apple and bread standing up in the living room. There was an afghan folded across the back of the sofa. He turned out the lights and lay down and c
overed himself with it. He felt very far away from everything. But, he thought, Arden was wrong: it was not wrong to come here. Not if you understood it. She did not understand it, she did not understand him. No one understood him. That made him sad. He felt sad and alone and unconnected and lost. And cold, too: despite Pete’s woolen robe and the afghan, he felt cold.

  The next morning Arden waited with Portia at the gates for the school bus, and after it drove away she stood there for a moment. She did not want to return to the house. I will go see how Adam is, she thought, and began walking toward the millhouse. It had rained all night and the road was damp. A residual version of rain continued in the woods: a persistent, loud dripping.

  When she turned the corner and saw Omar walking toward her, she panicked. She thought about running into the woods, hiding in the woods, but she could not. He had seen her. For a moment they both stopped walking, and stood about fifty yards apart, on the wet, deserted road, looking at each other. Then she began walking toward him, and he began walking toward her.

  They stopped a few feet apart. “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning,” he said. He looked down at the road, quickly, and then looked up at her. “I was coming to see you,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I was coming to apologize. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “No,” she said. She held out her hand, baring her palm, as if she were stopping traffic. She said no again.

  He said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just scared.” Her hand was still extended and she reached it a little farther and touched him. She clutched the lapel of his jacket and then smoothed it, then touched it again, laying her palm against his chest. Then she took her hand away. “I can’t really explain it—after Jules, after what happened with Jules—I felt as if I had forfeited my right to be in love, to be loved. And I didn’t think I could bear it. I’m scared. I don’t know how I can bear it.”

  “Bear what?” asked Omar.

  “The—the impossibility of it. You coming here. And then coming back, again. How could it happen? It all seems so random, so fragile. Like glass waiting to break.”