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Authors: Peter Cameron

BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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“But I've come all this way,” said Omar. “Can't I at least talk to you all?”
“Oh, of course,” said Arden. “I won't prevent you from doing that. Caroline will be joining us for dinner. And you can see Adam, tomorrow, perhaps. He lives quite close by.”
“And do you all feel the same?”
“I suppose not, since we're all different people. Quite different people, as you'll see. But our decision is mutual, if not our reasons.”
“Oh,” said Omar.
“I'm sorry to bring bad news. I just didn't want you to get your hopes up, now that you're here. I thought you deserved to know what the situation is.”
“Yes,” said Omar. “Thank you.”
“I'll let you finish dressing. I'm sorry to have barged in on you like this.”
“No,” said Omar. “I appreciate your talking to me. It's kind of you. You're different from what I expected. Much different.”
“How?” asked Arden.
“Younger. I guess I supposed all executors were ancient and intimidating.”
“Oh, I hope I'm not that,” said Arden. She thought, I mustn't let him flirt with me.
“And you're beautiful,” said Omar. “I didn't think executors would be beautiful.”
“So your strategy is to flatter us all?” asked Arden.
“Oh, I'm too stupid to have a strategy,” said Omar. “If I had a strategy, I wouldn't be here in the first place.”
Omar finished dressing, but it was still too early to go to dinner. He stood by the window and looked down through a chink in the shutter. He could see a clothesline on which was hung what seemed to be an inordinate amount of women's intimate apparel. Brassieres and panties fluttered radiantly in the twilight. Omar quickly closed the shutter. In a little while he would have to go down there and have dinner with them. And be charming. If I don't get authorization after this, he thought, what will I do? I can't go back. But there is nothing else you can do. You must go back. Maybe it isn't so bad. Deirdre was exaggerating. He could return the fellowship money. What was left of it. The balance he could borrow from his parents, although they had never forgiven him for not going to medical school. They had warned him about becoming an academic and they were right. Perhaps that would make them kindly disposed: when people were right, and you admitted you were wrong, they were inclined to be charitable. But he mustn't give up so easily. Just because Arden Langdon told him it was useless didn't mean she was right. In fact, maybe she was trying to scare him off. It was odd of her to come to his room like that. She's only one out of three.
Maybe she never even told the others about his letter. And of course she would not want a biography. She was the villain, the mistress, the home breaker. Or was it wrecker: home wrecker?
At 7:30 Omar appeared in the courtyard to find Portia setting a round table. The courtyard was empty except for the table, a fountain at its center—a round basin in which a spilling urn stood atop a fluted column.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” said Portia.
“My name is Omar,” said Omar.
“Yes,” said Portia, “I know.”
“May I help you?”
“Do you know how?” asked Portia.
“Not really,” said Omar. “But I can follow your example.”
“It goes fork, fork, knife, spoon. It would go fork, fork, knife, spoon, spoon on top, but we're not having soup.”
“Do you usually have soup?” asked Omar.
“No,” said Portia. “Not with dinner. Do you?”
“No,” said Omar.
“We have soup every day at school,” said Portia.
“Where do you go to school?”
“The convent of Santa Teresa. She was the little flower of God.”
“Was she?” asked Omar.
“Yes,” said Portia. “She drank her own sputum.”
“Why did she do that?”
“To mortify herself,” said Portia.
“Oh,” said Omar.
“The spoon goes on the outside,” said Portia. “Fork, fork, knife, spoon.”
“Ah, yes,” said Omar. “Sorry.”
“Who is your favorite saint?” asked Portia.
“I don't think I have one,” said Omar. “I adore all saints equally. Who is yours?”
“Saint Agnes. They say that roses and lilies fell from the sky when she prayed. I would like to see that. When I pray, I ask God to drop something.”
“I hope nothing too large.”
Portia laughed. “No,” she said. “Just a feather or something.” “And does he?”
“Once a little paint fell off the ceiling.”
“Really?” said Omar.
“But the paint is always falling,” said Portia. “Hey! Why are you folding the napkins like that?”
“You don't approve?” asked Omar.
Portia studied them for a moment. “I suppose they're all right,” she said.
“Should I do them like yours?” asked Omar.
“No,” said Portia. “Why are you here?”
“I want to talk to some people here,” said Omar.
“Who?”
“Your mother and uncle and …” Omar did not know how to characterize Portia's relationship to the wife. “And Mrs. Gund.”
“About what?”
“A book I am writing. A book I want to write.”
“What kind of book?”
“A biography,” said Omar. “Do you know what a biography is?”
“Yes,” said Portia. “Of course. I read a biography of Helen Keller. She was blind and deaf and dumb. Dumb doesn't mean you're stupid, it means you can't talk. Only grunt.” She grunted. “Are you writing a biography of my father?”
“I hope to,” said Omar.
Arden appeared with a tray. On it was a bottle of champagne and several glasses.
“He helped me set the table,” said Portia. “Look how he folded the napkins.”
“Very nice,” said Arden.
“He's writing a biography,” said Portia.
“Is he?” asked Arden.
“Yes,” said Portia. “Of Jules.”
“Is he?” asked Arden.
“I only said I hope to,” said Omar.
“Would you like a glass of champagne, Omar?” asked Arden.
“Champagne?” asked Portia. “Why champagne?”
“Caroline wanted champagne. Why don't you go up and tell her that dinner is ready? Now that the food is cooked and the table is set she may make her entrance.”
Portia entered the house.
Arden looked at Omar. “Champagne,” she said. “Yes? No?”
“Yes, please,” said Omar.
Arden poured two glasses of champagne and handed one to Omar.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Sit down,” said Arden.
Omar sat. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Yes,” said Arden. “Cheers.”
They both sipped from their glasses.
“It's very kind of you to let me stay here,” said Omar. “I want to apologize again for intruding.”
Arden shrugged. “In a way I admire you for showing up like that.”
Omar seemed to blush a little. He sipped his champagne.
“Not many people would have come all this way on the basis of so little,” said Arden.
“No,” said Omar. “But there was nothing else I could think to do.”
“So you came all this way.”
“Yes,” said Omar.
“Well, I think that entitles you to at least a glass of champagne.”
They were silent a moment. Omar looked around the courtyard, then up at the house, which surrounded them. “I like your house very much,” said Omar.
“It's falling apart,” said Arden. “Of course, everything is falling apart, but things seem to be falling apart here a bit more quickly than usual. One day it will all come tumbling down, I'm sure.”
“Is it very old?”
“No. The decay makes it look older than it is. It was built in 1935, when Jules's parents came over. It's supposed to be a replica of their
schloss
. They wanted the comfort of familiar architecture, so they tried to re-create a bit of Bavaria here in the new world. I think something got lost in the translation, though. Quite a bit, in fact.”
“Why did they come here?” Omar asked.
“To get away from Hitler,” said Arden. “Jules's mother was Jewish.”
“Yes, of course,” said Omar. “I knew that. I mean why here, why Uruguay, why this spot?”
“Oh,” said Arden. “Jules's family was in the mining business. There was a magnesium mine near here. Or a supposed one. They came under the pretense of running that. Uruguay let them in because they brought money with them, and promised to keep the mine open, and people employed, for a certain number of years. And they built this house, and dammed the river, and made the lake, and brought the gondola and almost everything they owned across the ocean.”
They were silent a moment and then Omar asked, “How far is it to the lake?”
“About three miles,” said Arden. “Maybe a bit farther. The road's washed out, so you have to walk. There's a shortcut through the woods.”
“And is the gondola still there?”
“Yes,” said Arden. “It's rotting in the boathouse. There is a key here somewhere. Or was. Things disappear.”
“I would like to see it,” said Omar.
“It's rather hideous,” said a voice behind them. They both turned and saw Caroline standing in the doorway, very beautiful in a blue dress with a black silk shawl. She wore a necklace of hammered silver leaves, and silvered leaves hung from her ears. “Or at least I always thought it was hideous,” she continued. “Gondolas look so silly away from Venice.”
Omar stood up as she approached the table. “Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” said Caroline. “I am Caroline Gund. I'm afraid I don't remember your name.”
“Omar Razaghi,” said Omar. He shook her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“You have surprised us,” said Caroline.
“I'm sorry,” said Omar.
“Oh, don't be sorry,” said Caroline. “We have so few surprises here. Champagne! Another surprise! How good it looks.”
“You're the one who wanted champagne,” said Portia.
“Yes, but it is still a surprise. We do not always get what we want. Perhaps you would pour me a glass, Mr. Razaghi.”
“Ah, yes,” said Omar. “Certainly.”
He poured a glass and handed it to her.
“We don't usually drink champagne,” said Caroline. “Lest you get the wrong impression.”
“It's very good,” said Omar, somewhat stupidly.
“Yes. I think if you're going to drink champagne, you might as well drink the best,” said Caroline. “It is the one thing about which I am a bit of a snob. I used to be that way about clothes, too, but living here prevents that. For some reason one can get quite decent champagne here for very little. I'm sure it is contraband of some sort. It is one of the advantages of living in a godforsaken, lawless place like this: strange things wash up on the beach.”
“What beach?” asked Portia.
“I was speaking metaphorically,” said Caroline. “Alas, we are all too far from
la playa
.”
“You live in Kansas?” asked Arden.
“Yes,” said Omar. “For several years I have. I am getting my Ph.D. there. Or trying to get it. I'm afraid my succeeding is somewhat contingent on writing this book.”
“Have you always lived in Kansas?” asked Arden.
“No,” said Omar. “I was born in Iran. My parents left when the Shah was deposed. We moved to Toronto, Canada. I lived there until I started graduate school.”
“Iran, Canada, Kansas—where is your home?” asked Caroline.
“I don't really know,” said Omar. “Kansas now, I suppose.”
“You will stay in Kansas?” asked Caroline.
“It's difficult to get a job teaching college,” said Omar. “If they offer me one, I suppose I will stay there. Or go wherever I can find a job.”
“That seems a bit strange to me: to allow a job to decide where one lives. Surely you are not so cowed by reality as that?”

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