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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination

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Caroline looked down at them from her studio in the tower. It was not really a tower, just a room built above the attic, with dormers and windows on both sides. Jules had built it for her, because the rest of the house was so dark: in an effort to re-create Bavaria, Jules's parents had planted thousands of treesâNorwegian spruce, Austrian pine, juniper, larchâand the resulting forest now perpetually shadowed the big house. Caroline watched Pete and Arden sit on the fountain and say nothing to each other. Then she turned away from the window and looked at her canvas. Since she had realizedâor admittedâyears ago that she would never paint anything original or good, she had only made copies of great paintings. It was more sensible that way. Otherwise she would have stopped painting, and she liked to paint. She was now copying Bellini's
Madonna of the Meadow
. She crossed the room and looked out the other side, out across the tops of trees. She looked up: the sky was still a very pale blue, a tired, ancient blue. There were no clouds. She heard gravel crunching and saw Diego walking down the drive. He had come up from the village to fix the hot water heater. Perhaps they would have hot water tonight. She could take a bath. She watched him walk all the way down the long drive. He stood at the end smoking a cigarette, waiting for his son. She went back and
looked at her painting as if it might have changed, reconfigured itself, in her brief absence. It had not. She heard a car and returned to the front windows and watched Diego get into his son's car. The car drove away. She crossed the room and looked out the window at the courtyard. They were eating now, all seated at the table. Candles and a tablecloth. Even though she had been asked, and refused, to join them, she felt excluded. That the exclusion was her of them rather than them of her made it no less keenly felt.

“Are we not being joined by Caroline?” asked Adam, as they began eating.

“No,” said Arden. “She's working and didn't want the interruption.”

“I should go up later,” said Adam. “After dinner.”

“I'm sure she would like to see you,” said Arden.

“She works very hard,” said Adam. “Still, after all these years.”

Arden agreed that she did.

“She wasn't a bad painter once, you know. Terribly derivative, but not bad. Of course, all women artists tend to be derivative.”

Arden refused to be baited. “I like her paintings,” she said. “At least the ones I've seen.”

“Yes, you would,” said Adam. “You know nothing about art, do you?”

“No.” Arden laughed. “Absolutely nothing.” And then, to change the subject, she said, “I received an interesting letter today.”

“Did you? How nice for you,” said Adam. “It has been agesâyears, perhapsâsince I have received any correspondence that could be called interesting. Who wrote you this interesting letter?”

“A student. A graduate student, from a university in the States. He's written some sort of thesis on Jules, and he wants to turn it into a biography. He's received a grant to fund his research and the university press would publish it.”

“And the reason he wrote you?”

“Well, he wants meâhe wants us to authorize it. He needs our authorization to continue.”

“Someone wants to write a biography of Jules Gund?”

“Yes,” said Arden. “Apparently.”

“Is this person reputable?” asked Adam.

“I don't know,” said Arden. “I assume so. He's affiliated with a university.”

“Which one?”

“I don't remember. A state university. Kansas, I think. Or Nebraska.”

“May I see the letter?” asked Adam.

“Of course,” said Arden. She went into the house and returned with the letter. She handed it across the table to Adam, who held it close to the candle and read it. Arden and Pete watched him.

After a moment Adam set the letter down on the table. “Well, a biography could be very good for us,” he said.

“Could it? How?”

“By increasing interest in Jules. And thereby increasing sales.”

“Yes, he mentions that in his letter. But surely that's no reason to authorize a biography â¦ simply to increase sales. And there's no guarantee that it will, is there?”

“No,” said Adam, “but it can't hurt.”

“Can't it?” said Arden.

“I don't see how,” said Adam.

“It could hurt Jules,” said Arden.

“Jules is dead.”

“I mean his reputation.”

“I think you mean that it could hurt you,” said Adam.

“No, I didn't mean that,” said Arden. “How could it hurt me?”

“It would expose youâyour life, after all, was entwined with his.”

“Yes, it was, and in no way that shames me. So how could I be hurt? Besides, I'm not thinking of myself. I'm thinking about Jules.
Would Jules want this? Would he want a biography? I don't think so.”

“Jules is dead. I don't think he is wanting or not wanting much of anything these days.”

Arden frowned, but said nothing.

“Have you spoken with Caroline?”

“Yes,” said Arden. “She said no. She would not authorize a biography. She wants no such thing.”

“Why?”

“She did not say.”

“How like Caroline.”

“I think I agree with her.”

“How can you agree with her without knowing her reasons?”

“I agree with her decision. And we outnumber you, so you will be outvoted.”

“Are we to allow the continuing reputation of Jules Gund to be decided by something so stupid as democracy?”

“How else can we decide? It is certainly the easiest way.”

“The easiest way! Don't you want to do what is best for the estate?”

“Yes,” said Arden. “Of course, but also what is best for Jules.”

“I hasten to remind you that Jules is dead.”

“I know that. But that is not a reason to stop considering him.”

“Isn't it? I would think it is a very good reason. I am hardhearted, I suppose.”

Arden did not reply. She stood and began to stack the plates.

Adam leaned back in his chair and then said, “May I ask you again why you do not wish to encourage this biography? Perhaps you can explain your reasons to me.”

“I don't believe in biography,” Arden said.

“You don't believe in biography?”

“No,” said Arden. “Well, not the biography of artists. Or writers. I think their work should speak for itself. I think their work is
their life, at least publicly. And biography can only interfere with the workâit taints the work somehow.”

“How?”

“By offering an alternative narrative. To have that out there, set alongside his work, for us to countenance that, and perhaps benefit from thatâI feel that is wrong.”

“Wrong? How wrong?”

“Just wrong. I don't know; I can't explain. I'm not an intellectual. I'm sorry I can't be clearer. It's just something I feel, strongly.”

“I understand and appreciate your feeling,” said Adam. “But think for a moment. You may not be an intellectual but you are a thoughtful and intelligent person. Think: we have before us the request to write an authorized biography.” He touched the letter on the table. “Do you understand what that means?”

“It means he can't write it without our permission,” said Arden.

“No,” said Adam, “it does not. It means that in exchange for our permission and cooperation, in exchange for our making available to him Jules's papers and our reminiscences of him, we have control of the content of the book. We can withhold, or cause to be withheld, any information we do not wish, for any reason, to be included. This young man writes the book, yes, but its content is entirely controlled and vetted by us. That is an authorized biography. That is what this young man is proposing to write. If we decide, as you propose, not to cooperate with him, to withhold authorization, there is nothing to prevent him from writing his biography anyway. It would be more difficult, of course, without our help, but he would in that case be free to write whatever he wanted. We would, in effect, be handing the story of Jules over to him carte blanche. We would be sacrificing Jules out of pride, stubbornness, stupidity.”

“I don't think he could write a biography without our cooperation,” said Arden. “How could he?”

“That is the job of biographers. They are clever, vindictive,
ruthless people. You must see that our withholding authorization is like throwing him the gauntlet. It is much better if he is on our side.”

“Perhaps I'm naive,” said Arden. “In fact, I'm sure I am. But I don't see the world like that. I don't presuppose that people will act ruthlessly or vindictively. I think people are reasonable and respect privacy. It's a nice letter, the letter he wrote. Polite, and respectful.” She reached out and touched it. “You are too cynical, I think, Adam.”

“Well, about one thing, at least, you are correct.”

“What?”

“You are naive.”

Arden picked up the stacked plates and carried them into the house. Pete stood up and walked across the courtyard, out through the archway, into the night. Adam sat alone for a moment. He looked up at the light in Caroline's room. He could hear Arden and Portia talking in the kitchen. He went looking for Pete. He found him smoking near the garden. They stood beside each other for a moment, not talking, and then Pete said, “You were nasty, I think.”

Adam took the cigarette from him and dragged on it. He gave it back. Exhaled. “Was I?” he said.

“Yes,” said Pete. “I think you'd have a better chance of changing her mind if you were a little kinder.”

“Oh, please,” said Adam. “Arden knows I am not kind.”

Pete flicked his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. Then he picked up the butt and put it in his shirt pocket. “I don't suppose you want to walk home?” he asked.

“No,” said Adam. “I'm tired. And I've got to talk to Caroline.”

“So you want me to get the car?”

“Yes,” said Adam. “Please.”

Pete began walking around the house, toward the drive.

“Wait!” Adam called. “Do you want me to get you a torch?”

“No,” said Pete.

“It's dark,” said Adam.

“It's okay,” said Pete. “I know the way.”

Adam made his slow way up the steps to Caroline's studio. She was working at the easel and did not turn around as he entered the room. He had the feeling she had not been working, that she had assumed this position only at the sound of his footsteps on the stairs; certainly his slow ascent had given her plenty of time. He stood behind her and watched her paint. Her intentness seemed artificial. He found a chair and sat down.

“It looks quite good,” he said. “Although the colors are all wrong.”

“Good evening, Adam,” said Caroline. She did not turn around.

“Good evening,” said Adam.

“Please don't say anything more about my painting,” said Caroline.

“All right,” said Adam. “Except really, the colorsâ”

“Please,” said Caroline. She turned around and smiled brightly at him. “Did you come up for a drink?”

“No,” said Adam. “I was left alone, and saw your light.”

“And so you came up for a drink,” said Caroline.

“I wouldn't refuse a drink,” said Adam.

Caroline poured two glasses of scotch and gave one to Adam.

“I wish you and Arden would coordinate your liquor,” Adam said. He sipped his scotch and looked again at the painting. “It's Bellini, isn't it?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Caroline. “But please don't look at it.”

“You can draw very well,” said Adam.

“Yes,” said Caroline. “I can draw. But I cannot paint.”

“Yes you can,” said Adam. “Or you could, at least. I was just telling Arden what a good painter you were.”

“Yes,” said Caroline. “Were. Can we not talk about the painting?”

They were silent a moment, and then Caroline said, “Did Arden show you the letter?”

“Yes,” said Adam.

“And what do you think?”

“I think I am old and tired. I think this scotch is excellent. Where did you get it?”