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Authors: Peter Cameron

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BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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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 an 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.”
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. You 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.
“This is Las Golondrinas,” said Pete.
“What does it mean, Las Golondrinas?”
“It is a bird. I'm not sure what you say in English. A little bird that sings and flies.” They crossed over a wide but shallow stream. The wooden bridge clacked ferociously beneath the truck. Then they climbed up through vineyards. The house was on top of a hill
that rose up out of the flatness. It was surrounded by large trees, and several outbuildings. The house was two stories, made of stucco, and painted almost pink. Pete parked the truck in the shade of one of the acacia trees. They heard a dog barking, and then he appeared, charging the car: a large copper-colored dog, with a cowlick all the way down his spine.
A woman came out of the house and clapped her hands. “
Cállate
, Faustus,” she yelled at the dog. “It is all right,” she called to the men in the truck. “He is all bark and not bite.” She was about fifty, casually dressed in jeans and a tank top. Bare feet. Her hair was dyed blond.
Omar got down from the truck but Pete waited until the woman had grabbed the dog by the collar. He was still barking.
“¡Cállate!”
she shouted again, and hit him hard on his snout. He shut up then.
“Come out, come out,” she said, rather impatiently, to Pete. “He won't hurt you.”
Omar appeared from around the truck. “Hello,” he said to the woman. “I am Omar Razaghi.”
The woman went to shake his hand and discovered his infirmity. “I've had an accident,” said Omar.
“Apparently,” she said, laughing. “I am Donatella. Gianfranco and Caroline are around back. We were just sitting down to lunch.”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Omar. “We didn't mean to interrupt your meal. We can wait here until you are through.”
“Nonsense,” said Donatella. “There is plenty for you both. But your trip has made you a bit a dusty, I think. Come inside first, why not?”
They ate lunch—a very delicious lunch—on a patio covered with wisteria at the back of the house, overlooking the vineyards. When Caroline had finished her espresso, she stood up and tossed her linen napkin onto the table. “Well,” she said, “perhaps Omar and I
should take a stroll.” After the lovely leisure of the meal her abruptness seemed a little weird, as if it were Omar who had been setting the pace, languishing, and needed to be hurried. She wore white tailored slacks and a pink cotton shirt with a wide squared neck. She had perched her black-framed sunglasses atop her head during the meal, but she lowered them now, and smiled at him with her mouth.
He stood up. “Of course,” he said, “that would be great. Excuse me. Thank you again, for the delicious lunch,” he said to his hosts.
Caroline had already stepped down from the patio and was walking away from the house, down a gravel path beneath a pergola that was also overhung with wisteria. Omar caught her up.
They walked for a moment or two in silence. Flicks of sunlight fell through the leafy canopy above them and dappled the ground, dappled Caroline's nearly bare shoulders. She had picked a blossom from the vine and was methodically dismembering it: first the petals, then the stamens.
“Thank you for letting me see you again,” he said.
She shrugged. “I'm sorry you had to drive all this way. Or Pete—poor Pete.”
“It was just that I had an idea I wanted to share with you.”
“What idea is that?” she asked.
“Well, you know what the situation is. Arden and Adam have both agreed to authorize the biography. And you have not.”
“Yes,” said Caroline.
“I don't know what your reasons are—”
“But I have told you!” She turned to him, exasperated. “I have a letter from Jules, stating very clearly, in no uncertain terms, that he did not wish a biography—”
“I know there is no letter,” said Omar.
“What?”
“Please don't pretend there is a letter from Jules. I know there is not.”
“How do you know that? Who told you that?”
“Pete told me. Adam told him.”
Caroline tossed the little wrecked flower to the ground. “They had no right to tell you,” she said.
“It doesn't matter,” said Omar. “Until just now, I believed in the letter. What I wanted to say was that I don't know your reasons, and I don't need to know your reasons. Your reasons are private. If you don't want a biography of Jules I understand. You have that right. But Arden and Adam have a right too. I have a right.”
“I think you have no rights in this matter—”
“No,” said Omar. “I do. I have the right to write a biography of Jules Gund. You have the right not to cooperate with me. That is my right and that is your right.”
“And I have the right to withhold authorization,” said Caroline.
“Yes,” said Omar, “you do. But that will not stop me from writing the biography.”
“I thought you cannot write it without authorization.”
“That is incorrect. Only my grant is dependent upon authorization. And the publication by the University of Kansas Press. But I can still write a biography of Jules Gund. And I can have it published elsewhere.”
“But can you? Will you?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“I think not. I think you are bluffing.”
She turned and continued walking down the path. Then she paused again, and turned to him. “You said you had an idea. What is your idea?”
“My idea is that you grant me authorization. And then share with me what you like. Or nothing, if that is what you want. Don't talk to me. Don't show me Jules's letters to you. Don't cooperate at all. I will work with Arden and Adam and other sources. I can even put some sort of disclaimer in the book, that you have not sanctioned the biography.”
“Yes, and then I will look like a monster.”
They had reached the end of the shaded alley. Another gravel path bisected the one they stood upon, and beyond that the land fell away steeply in a series of terraces, down to where the vineyards spread out in the effulgence of midday. A carved stone balustrade ran alongside this path, and behind that, cypress trees were planted at regular intervals, separating the vista into panels. They loitered for a moment, beneath the leafy carapace, looking out at the view.
Then Caroline went and sat in the sun on the balustrade with her back to the view. “How tiresome this all is,” she said. “Let's just sit for a moment.”
Omar stepped out into the brightness and leaned against the stone wall, a few feet away from Caroline. She had twisted herself around, away from him, so she could look out over the regiments of vines.
BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
13.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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