The City of Your Final Destination (7 page)

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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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Arden and Portia were filling a hole in the drive with gravel when they heard a car stop outside the gate. They turned around to see somebody clamber out of it with a suitcase. The car sped away, and the person, who was a young man, stood there in the hot sun and roiling dust, just outside the gate.
“Who is that?” asked Portia.
“I don't know,” said Arden.
“Is he coming to us?”
“I don't know.” She waited a moment, but the man just stood there, looking around himself. He seemed a bit dazed. He put the suitcase down on the road and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. Then he picked up the suitcase and began walking toward them up the drive.
“He's coming,” said Portia.
“Yes,” said Arden. Who can it be? she wondered. Getting out here with a suitcase. As the man drew closer he revealed himself to be rather good-looking, tall and slim with dark hair and features and skin. He looked tired and dirty and his clothes were rather a mess.
“Buenas tardes,”
said Arden, as he approached them.
“Yes,” he said.
“Buenas tardes.”
He put down the suitcase, as if it were impossibly heavy. And then he said,
“¿Habla usted inglés?”
“Yes,” said Arden.
“Oh, good,” he said, and smiled. His teeth were very white. “I am looking for—is this Ochos Rios?”
“Yes,” said Arden. “This is Ochos Rios.”
“My name is Omar Razaghi. I am looking for Arden Langdon.”
For a moment Arden didn't answer. She didn't know what to do. He was a strange man on the road toting a suitcase.
Portia answered. She looked up at her mother and said, “That's you.”
“Yes,” Arden admitted. “That's me.”
“Oh, good,” said Omar. He smiled again. “I'm lucky. I'm very happy to meet you.” He held out his hand.
Arden didn't particularly want to shake it, but she did. It was easier to shake it than to ignore it.
“I wrote to you a couple months ago,” Omar said. “About the biography of Jules Gund. And you wrote me back. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” said Arden. “Of course.”
“Good.” He seemed to not know what else to say.
“And …” Arden prompted.
“Yes,” said Omar. “And … and I wondered if I could talk to you? About the book? You, and the other executors. Not now, but at a time that would be convenient to you.”
“But didn't you get my letter?” asked Arden. “We decided not to authorize a biography.”
“Yes, I know,” said Omar. “But I wondered—if … well, I'd still like to talk to you.”
“You've come all this way to talk to us?” asked Arden. “Or did you just happen to be passing by?”
“No,” said Omar. And then he said, “Well, yes, in fact I have. But I really just want to talk to you. I'm sorry to appear like
this. I mean suddenly, out of nowhere. I was going to call you but I couldn't find a public phone and then someone was driving this way and I thought it might be easier, better, if I just …”
“Arrived?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “I didn't know what to do. It's been very difficult to get here. But I can come back. If you tell me when, I can come back, and we can talk then. Is there a time I can come back to talk to you?”
“And where—where are you staying?”
Omar looked around, as if a hotel might suddenly present itself. “I don't know,” he said. “Somewhere near here, I hope. Is there a hotel in town?”
“No,” said Arden.
“Well, there must be one somewhere,” said Omar, almost petulantly. “If you'll tell me when to come back, I'll go and find a place to stay.”
“But you're on foot,” said Arden. “And there isn't a place for miles. Who drove you here?”
Omar looked back at the road, but the car had long since disappeared. “I don't know. A man I met in Ansina. I gave him five hundred pesos.”
“Five hundred pesos! You're crazy.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “It seemed a lot. But there was no other way to get here.”
“No,” said Arden. “I suppose there wasn't, not from Ansina. But now that you're here there's nowhere else for you to go. So you might as well come up to the house with us. You can stay there until we can get you back into town.”
“But I don't want to intrude. Really, I can sleep outdoors, or something.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” said Arden. “You cannot sleep outdoors. Look at you. Come up to the house. Here, put your suitcase in the wheelbarrow.”
Omar put his suitcase and knapsack in the wheelbarrow, and
then began wheeling it up the rutted drive, behind the girl and woman. He felt exhausted, too tired to even worry about making a good impression.
“Why did you take the bus to Ansina? Why didn't you come to Tranqueras?” asked Arden.
“No one in Montevideo seemed to know how to get here. Finally a woman told me to take the bus to Ansina and get a ride from there. I didn't know what else to do.”
“Ansina!” said Arden. “I don't know what she was thinking.”
“Neither do I,” said Omar.
“Well, you got here,” said Arden.
“You seem very far away from everything,” said Omar. “Is there a town nearby?”
“Yes,” said Arden. “Tranqueras. Well, about ten miles from here. But you came the other way, didn't you?”
“I suppose,” said Omar. “I was about to get nervous. I wasn't sure where that man was taking me. There's been nothing for miles and miles. Just forest.”
They turned a corner in the drive and the house came into view. It was very large, made of brick, which at some distant point had been painted yellow, with a mossed-over slate roof. It had a classical, elegant façade, and looked very out of place in the unkempt landscape. Omar stopped for a moment and looked up at it. “Wow,” he said.
“It's a monstrosity, isn't it?” asked Arden.
“No,” said Omar. “I think it's beautiful.”
Arden and Portia started walking again, but Omar did not move. They paused and looked back at him.
“What's wrong?” Portia said.
“Nothing,” said Omar. “It's just that—I never thought I'd be here. I mean, you read a book and think all about this place, but you don't really think it exists, you don't really think you will be there—at least I never thought, never—”
Arden took the wheelbarrow from him. “Come,” she said.
“No, no,” he said. He fought her for possession of the wheelbarrow. “Let me.”
She let him take it. They walked the rest of the way up the drive in silence. There was a flight of stone steps leading up to the front door.
“You can leave the barrow here,” said Arden. “I'll take it around back later. Just grab your bags.”
Omar took his bags and followed them through the door.
Caroline was descending the stairs from the tower as Arden climbed them. Arden heard her and waited on the landing.
“Who was that?” Caroline asked. “I saw you coming up the drive with a man.”
“It's the biographer!” exclaimed Arden. “The one who wrote to us.”
“What's he doing here?” asked Caroline.
“He wants to talk to us. He wants us to reconsider. He's come all the way from Kansas.”
“He's come all this way for that?”
“Yes,” said Arden. “Apparently.”
“Is he mad?”
“Apparently,” said Arden. “He took the night bus to Ansina and paid someone five hundred pesos to be driven here. And he has no place to stay.”
“So he's staying here?”
“At least for tonight. What else could I do?”
“Nothing, I suppose. He's not crazy in any dangerous sort of way, is he?”
“No,” said Arden. “Just misguided. He's taking a bath. I told him we'd have dinner about seven-thirty. Should I call Adam?”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “No—wait. Maybe it would be better if
tonight it's just us. Adam—well, you know Adam. It might be calmer if it's just us, at least at first. With Adam things will be difficult.”
“Yes,” said Arden. “I was thinking the same.”
“Have we got anything decent for dinner?”
“I was going to make a risotto. And baked eggplant.”
“What's he like?” asked Caroline. “He looks dark. Is he African?”
“No. He's Egyptian or something, I think.”
“How old would you say he is?”
“Oh,” said Arden. “It's hard to tell. Twenty-five. Thirty? He must be desperate to have come all this way. Or crazy. I think he's a little stunned.”
“Perhaps he's not very bright,” Caroline suggested.
“I think he's just addled. It's probably coming on the night bus. He said he would sleep outdoors! Apparently he thought there would be a hotel in town. A Holiday Inn, no doubt.”
“Well, it's a new face at the table, if nothing else.” Caroline began to reclimb the stairs, but turned around. “Let's have some decent wine tonight. I'm tired of plonk.”
“What do you want?”
“How about champagne?”
“Champagne? Won't that give him the wrong idea?”
“I don't really care what idea we give him. It's just an excuse to drink the champagne.”
Arden was about to slice the eggplant when she heard the water draining out of the tub upstairs. She laid down her knife and then climbed the back stairs, and walked down the hall. The door was closed and she knocked.
“Yes,” Omar said.
“It's me,” said Arden. “Arden Langdon.”
She waited, and after a moment Omar opened the door. His hair was still wet and uncombed. He had on a clean pair of pants and a pressed shirt but was barefoot. The shirt was unbuttoned and a slice of his dark, hairy chest was exposed. He smelled clean and fresh.
“Hello,” he said. He had closed the shutters and the room behind him was dark. He had opened his suitcase on the bed. She noticed that it was neatly packed.
“Was your bath all right? Was there enough hot water?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Thank you.”
“You must be tired. Could you sleep on the bus?”
“Not really,” said Omar. “But I don't feel tired. I think it's the excitement of being here. Of getting here. I wasn't sure I would. In fact, for a while I was sure I wouldn't. It isn't an easy place to get to.”
“Yes,” said Arden. “I know.” She paused for a moment. “I'd like to know why you've come,” she said. “I'm sorry to be rude. It's just that it's odd to have you here and not really know. Are you really here to try to change our minds?”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Why?” asked Arden.
“Because I need to,” said Omar. “I want to write a biography of Jules Gund. And I can't write the book without your authorization.”
“But of course you can. People write unauthorized biographies all the time.”
“Well, yes,” said Omar. “Theoretically, I could. But you see, it's complicated. It involves a fellowship, and the university press, and they won't give me the money or publish the book unless it's authorized.”
“Oh,” said Arden. “That is a problem. No wonder you're here.”
“I'm sorry to be trouble,” said Omar.
“You're not trouble,” said Arden. “I'm just sorry you've come all
this way. Because you won't change our minds. I'm afraid our minds are well set.”
It was Omar's turn to say “Oh.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I think I could write a very good biography. And I'd like to work closely with you, and respect your wishes. That's what I wanted to tell you all. I understand that things are complicated, and I'd be willing to be, well, tactful, you know, or silent, as you wanted.”
“Oh, no,” said Arden. “It isn't out of a wish to censor or silence that we're withholding authorization. You mustn't think that. That's not it at all.”
“Then why?” asked Omar.
“I'm really not at liberty to say,” said Arden. “I'm sorry to be so vague, but you must take my word for it. You'd be wasting your time if you thought you could change our minds. And I just don't want to see you wasting your time.”

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