The City of Your Final Destination (6 page)

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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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Marc Antony was sitting at the kitchen table reading one of his big, boring law books. I could never go to law school, Deirdre thought. I'd die of boredom. At least I get to read novels. Although mainly what she read was students' essays. She was drinking some coffee, trying to wake up a little before she started grading her 101 essays. Although there was really no need to be awake to grade them.
“Marc Antony, I said maybe I'll call him,” she said again, loudly.
“Who?” he said. He did not look up. He did this: tried to stay disengaged. It was the only bad roommatey thing about him.
“Just talk to me for five minutes,” Deirdre said. “Five minutes. Then I'll leave you alone.”
“Three minutes,” he said. He closed his book and looked at his watch. “Go,” he said.
“Omar,” she said. “I'm talking about Omar, of course. Who else would I call? He's the only man I would call at”—she looked at the
clock on the kitchen wall—“oh my God it's eleven-thirty already. At eleven-thirty. I was mean to Omar,” she said.
“You're always mean to Omar,” said Marc Antony.
“That's not true,” said Deirdre. “I'm not always mean to Omar. I love him.”
“I didn't say you didn't. I just said you're always mean to him. Whenever I see you together you're always at him about something. Always hectoring him.”
“I don't like that word,
hectoring
. Besides, I don't hector him. I nudge him.”
“Well, you just admitted you were mean to him.”
“I know. I was. And that's why I'm upset. I don't like it when I'm mean to him.”
“Then don't be.”
“I tried, really I tried. But you see, it's impossible to be with him and not be a little mean. Sometimes. He's so exasperating. He fucked up his fellowship and now he might lose it.”
“So. You have to realize that what happens to him happens to him. That he'll learn from his mistakes or he won't and there's nothing you can do about it.”
“You don't think I can hurry him along that learning curve a little?”
“No. You have to accept his pace. As a teacher you should know that.”
“But he's not my student.”
“Then don't treat him like your student.”
“You think I treat him like a student?”
“Yes. Like a student. Or dog. Like a dog student. A dog student in obedience school.”
“But when he does something, well, something stupid like this, like fucking up his fellowship, how should I respond? I mean, assuming you know everything?”
“Be understanding and encouraging. Be sympathetic. Be helpful.”
“Wow. Understanding, encouraging, sympathetic, and helpful. Simultaneously? I think that's a little beyond my ken.”
Marc Antony was glancing at his book.
“So do you think I should call him?” Deirdre asked.
“Yes,” said Marc Antony. “And your three minutes are up.”
Deirdre went into her bedroom and called Omar. His line was busy. She waited about five minutes and then called again. This time he answered.
“It's me,” she said. “Who were you talking to?”
“When?” he asked.
“When? Now. Five minutes ago. I called you and it was busy.”
“Oh,” he said. “I was talking to the airline. I called to get information about flights to Uruguay. It's not that expensive. I mean, it's expensive, but not as bad as I thought.”
“Are you going to go?”
“Yes. I think so. I reserved the ticket. I have twenty-four hours to decide. I'll go right after New Year's.”
“Listen, Omar. I called you because I feel bad about the way I was tonight. I'm sorry if I was mean to you.”
“No,” said Omar. “I don't blame you. If I were you, I would be disgusted with me too.”
“I'm not disgusted with you! Omar! I could never be disgusted with you. You can never be disgusted with someone you love. You can be annoyed. I was annoyed, I admit it, and I'm sorry that sometimes when I'm annoyed with you it triggers these other, negative emotions, but I want to stop that, really I do. I want to help you. I want to be understanding. I want to be understanding and helpful and a few other things I can't remember at the moment.”
Omar said nothing.
“Listen, maybe I should come with you. I think I could help you. I've had more experience than you with stuff like this, and—”
“No,” said Omar. “I think I should do this myself. In fact, I think it is very important that I do this myself.”
“Why?”
“Because. It's important for me. I got myself into this situation and I should get myself out.”
“But if somebody else can help you—If you need help from somebody, it's okay to take it. It's stupid not to.”
“Do you think I'm stupid?”
“No,” said Deirdre. “Of course not! That's not what I meant. I meant letting pride stop you from accepting help, when you need help, is stup——isn't wise. There's nothing wrong with letting people help you.”
“I appreciate your offer,” said Omar. “But I don't want help with this.”
“You appreciate my offer?” said Deirdre. “What does that mean? You appreciate my offer? Omar, it's me, Deirdre. You don't appreciate my offer. Don't ever say that to me again.”
“All right,” said Omar. “I won't.”
“Omar, don't get all weird and distant. I said I was sorry. I want to help. I think you need my help. I think it would be good for us if we do this together. It could be very good for us. It could be fun, and exciting. To go to Uruguay, and solve this problem, and be together and in some place that isn't Kansas. I don't think you should risk going by yourself.”
“You don't think I can do this by myself?”
“Of course I do! I have complete confidence in you. Of course you can! I just think it would be better, safer, and more fun if we go together. Better for both of us. Individually and as a couple.”
“That's funny,” said Omar. “I think it would be better for both of us, individually and as a couple, if I go by myself. I really do.”
“You sound uncharacteristically certain about this. What's happened since I left you? Since you left me?”
“I almost drowned in quicksand,” said Omar. “I saw my life
pass before my eyes and I did not like what I saw. I have resolved to change my life.”
“What were you doing in quicksand?”
“Looking for Mitzie.”
“Mitzie was in quicksand?”
“No. I was. Mitzie was home waiting for me. Mitzie is much smarter than me.”
“Than I. But no, Omar! You're much smarter than Mitzie.”
“Thank you,” said Omar.
“Listen. It's been quite an evening. What with the Crimea and Constance Garnett and quicksand and all. Let's go to bed. Well, let's you go to bed, I still have to read my 101 essays, but you go to bed and we'll talk about this tomorrow. Let's not resolve all this tonight. Let's talk again in the morning. Okay?”
“All right,” said Omar. “I am tired. Exhausted, in fact.”
“It amazes me that you can sleep at a time like this,” said Deirdre. “If I were in your position, I'd be up all night. Of course, I'll be up all night anyway.”
“Well,” said Omar. “Good night.”
“Omar? I am sorry about before. I do want to help you. In whatever way I can. Okay?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Thank you.”
“I can feel you withdrawing.”
“I'm not withdrawing. I'm just tired. I want to go to bed.”
“All right,” said Deirdre. “Do you know I love you? I love you, you know.”
“I know,” said Omar. “I love you too.”
“I wish you had stayed over,” said Deirdre.
“Tomorrow night,” said Omar.
“Okay. Sleep well. I'll talk to you in the morning.”
He said good night and hung up. Deirdre looked out the window. The movie theater across the street was closing. A guy on a ladder was changing the title on the marquee from one stupid
movie to another. For a moment, when the two titles were combined, it looked like gobbledygook. Gobbledygook. Once Deirdre wrote “Gobbledygook!” in the margin of a particularly illiterate student's essay. The student complained and Nicholson Garfield, the department chairman, told Deirdre to limit her comments to remarks that were within academic parameters. Deirdre showed him the definition of
gobbledygook
in the dictionary. He told her not to be clever at his or the students' expense.
Deirdre lay back on the bed. She could tell when the movie theater lights went out because they stopped reflecting on the ceiling of her bedroom. It was rather dark then. After a moment, she got up and turned on the light. She sat down at her desk and began to read her students' essays on the role of fate in
Tess of the d'Urbervilles
.
Omar had always intended to learn Spanish before he went to Uruguay, but going to Uruguay was always something that was going to happen in some indefinite future, a time before which he would certainly have plenty of time to learn a foreign language. But of course it had not worked out that way: here he was in Montevideo and he spoke not one word of Spanish. Well, maybe a word or two.
He decided that it was too easy to get places. I really should not be in Montevideo so soon. It was better before planes. If I had had to take a boat to Uruguay, I could have learned Spanish on the boat. I would have taken a Spanish boat and spoken with the sailors. And learned a sort of crude but serviceable Spanish that would impress the natives for its authenticity.
It was a problem, not speaking the language. He had hoped that people would speak English or French, of which he spoke a little, but they did not. At least not the ones he had come in contact with. Perhaps if he stayed at a more expensive hotel his chances of encountering English-speakers might increase, but he could not afford
to waste his money on extravagances. Hence the Hotel Egipt. It was really not such a bad hotel. Not having a window was a little weird. Actually there was a window, but when Omar drew the curtains aside he saw that it had been bricked over. If he spoke Spanish he could perhaps ask for a room with a window.
Por favor, yo
—what was want?—
desiro
?
uno cuarto con la
window. Or maybe saying “I want” was rude. He should say “Can I have.” May I have. But in Spanish.
Omar had been in Montevideo two days. Two days of eating all his meals at the little coffee shop—well, he supposed it wasn't called a coffee shop in Spanish—beside the hotel. For breakfast he had
huevos revueltos,
and they were aptly named: they were revolting. The yolk and the white were only lackadaisically intermingled and strange things (maybe bits of mushrooms, which Omar hated) were chopped up and added to the eggs. He wanted to say “No things in the eggs: just eggs.”
Sólo huevos
. Did that mean only eggs or one egg? So he picked all the things out and ate only the eggs and hoped that if he did this often enough they might catch on and leave the things out. But when you picked all the things out there wasn't really much egg. Just enough to hold the mess of things together. For lunch he had
sopa de tortilla
and
cerveza
. And for dinner he had
arroz con pollo
. And more
cerveza
. He kept going to the same place because he thought his chances of learning the language were better if he interacted with the same people repeatedly. The same waitress worked all three meals, so she had served him six times, but she did not speak. Could she be dumb? It would be his luck to frequent a restaurant with a dumb waitress.
Two days had gone by, two nights at a hotel and six meals, and Omar had accomplished nothing. It was not that he had not tried. But he could do nothing until he got to Ochos Rios and no one seemed to know where that was or how to get there. Or at least that is what Omar assumed from his confusing visits to the bus and train station. He had shown his slip of paper with the address carefully
printed in block letters to ticket sellers and they had all shaken their heads and waved their hands dismissively. Could it be that it was a place impossible to get to? Could there be such a place? He had never been able to find it on a map, but he had assumed that was the fault of the maps he had consulted. He knew it existed because he had sent mail there; it had been received because it had been responded to. Perhaps he should write them a letter asking for directions. Of course, it would be much better if he just showed up; if he wrote them first they could tell him not to come, which they could not do if he was already there. They could tell him to go away but they could not tell him not to come. Of course, by refusing authorization they had already told him not to come, in a way. But he couldn't think of it that way. What he had to do was get there and then count on his charm and their mercy. And pray that their mercy was greater than his charm.
Or maybe he should spare himself the ordeal of getting there and being rejected in person. They could be crazy and dangerous, he supposed. Who knew? Perhaps they had guns and shot strangers. It might be better to admit defeat and fly back home. He could tell Deirdre he had seen them, pleaded with them, and been refused. There was no way she would ever know he had not. Of course, he would be ashamed to do that. Like all things, it was a matter of choice: the shame of going home at this point or the probable mortification of continuing.

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