The City of Your Final Destination (30 page)

Read The City of Your Final Destination Online

Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination

2.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“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 howâI'm just curious; I just wonderâhow 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 teaching 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 UruguayâUruguay!âall 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 Omar. “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. Andâfigure 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 wishâDo 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?”

“Noânot 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.”

“I think about it,” said Deirdre. “I wonder about it.”

Omar said nothing.

“Omar?” Deirdre asked.

Omar said nothing.

“Omar,” Deirdre said again, “can I ask you a question?”

She was looking at him, but he was looking ahead of them, down the sidewalk, which rose and fell like geological plates. He nodded his head.

“Did youâI've been thinking, trying to figure it out. You were so strange. It was all so strange. Did you fall in love with Arden? Is that what happened? I mean, besides the beeâ”

They were passing a house that was built on a slight incline above the street; the lawn was banked and the walkway leading to the front door commenced in a series of steps. Omar sat down on the bottom step and covered his face with his hands; he sat down on the step very naturally, as if this were his house, as if he lived here, and was home, and had the absolute right to live his life, or a moment of it, sitting on the step. Deirdre glanced around, but the
street was empty, the girl on the tricycle had disappeared. She sat down beside Omar.

Omar uncovered his face. His eyes looked a bit blurry and bruised, as if he had ground his fists into their sockets. He had lost weight, she realized; she had never noticed he had eye sockets before. He said, “I just have to get over it.”

Deirdre said nothing for a moment. She was aware of the moment: she and Omar sitting side by side on the steps of some house. This is where it ends, she thought. And we won't ever know whose house it is, or what their story is, what drama is being played out behind us, up the walk and inside the green front door, past the rhododendron bushes. No: we won't ever know that.

“Or not,” she said.

“What?” said Omar.

“You can just get over it,” she said, “or not.”

“I have to get over it,” said Omar. “I have to figure out what I'm doing, or no: what I can do, and do it.”

“Yes,” said Deirdre. “Holding people down while they're tortured in a hospital in Toronto sounds like an excellent way to figure that out.”

“What else can I do?” asked Omar.

“You can do anything you want,” said Deirdre.

“Yes,” said Omar, “and tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.”

Deirdre said nothing for a moment, and then she said: “You could go and love Arden. Or try to, at least. I think it would come easier to you, than holding people down, whilst they are tortured.”

“She doesn't love me,” said Omar.

“How do you know?”

“She told me.”

“Perhaps she was wrong. People are often wrong about these things, you know.” She paused. “Present company excepted, of course. I was not wrong: I did love you, you know.”

“I know,” said Omar.

“Good,” said Deirdre. “I worry about that.” She paused, and then said, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” said Omar.

“Good,” said Deirdre. She touched him. “Good.”

She stood up. “For what's it worth, I don't vote for Toronto. I think you should go to Uruguay.”

Omar laughed.

“What?” asked Deirdre.

“You're always pushing me to go to Uruguay,” said Omar.

“Not always,” said Deirdre. “Just twice.” She held out her hand. “Come,” she said. “We should go back.”