The City of Your Final Destination Read online

  “Are we not being joined by Caroline?” asked Adam, as they began eating.

  “No,” said Arden. “She’s working and didn’t want the interruption.”

  “I should go up later,” said Adam. “After dinner.”

  “I’m sure she would like to see you,” said Arden.

  “She works very hard,” said Adam. “Still, after all these years.”

  Arden agreed that she did.

  “She wasn’t a bad painter once, you know. Terribly derivative, but not bad. Of course, all women artists tend to be derivative.”

  Arden refused to be baited. “I like her paintings,” she said. “At least the ones I’ve seen.”

  “Yes, you would,” said Adam. “You know nothing about art, do you?”

  “No.” Arden laughed. “Absolutely nothing.” And then, to change the subject, she said, “I received an interesting letter today.”

  “Did you? How nice for you,” said Adam. “It has been ages—years, perhaps—since I have received any correspondence that could be called interesting. Who wrote you this interesting letter?”

  “A student. A graduate student, from a university in the States. He’s written some sort of thesis on Jules, and he wants to turn it into a biography. He’s received a grant to fund his research and the university press would publish it.”

  “And the reason he wrote you?”

  “Well, he wants me—he wants us to authorize it. He needs our authorization to continue.”

  “Someone wants to write a biography of Jules Gund?”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “Apparently.”

  “Is this person reputable?” asked Adam.

  “I don’t know,” said Arden. “I assume so. He’s affiliated with a university.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t remember. A state university. Kansas, I think. Or Nebraska.”

  “May I see the letter?” asked Adam.

  “Of course,” said Arden. She went into the house and returned with the letter. She handed it across the table to Adam, who held it close to the candle and read it. Arden and Pete watched him.

  After a moment Adam set the letter down on the table. “Well, a biography could be very good for us,” he said.

  “Could it? How?”

  “By increasing interest in Jules. And thereby increasing sales.”

  “Yes, he mentions that in his letter. But surely that’s no reason to authorize a biography … simply to increase sales. And there’s no guarantee that it will, is there?”

  “No,” said Adam, “but it can’t hurt.”

  “Can’t it?” said Arden.

  “I don’t see how,” said Adam.

  “It could hurt Jules,” said Arden.

  “Jules is dead.”

  “I mean his reputation.”

  “I think you mean that it could hurt you,” said Adam.

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” said Arden. “How could it hurt me?”

  “It would expose you—your life, after all, was entwined with his.”

  “Yes, it was, and in no way that shames me. So how could I be hurt? Besides, I’m not thinking of myself. I’m thinking about Jules. Would Jules want this? Would he want a biography? I don’t think so.”

  “Jules is dead. I don’t think he is wanting or not wanting much of anything these days.”

  Arden frowned, but said nothing.

  “Have you spoken with Caroline?”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “She said no. She would not authorize a biography. She wants no such thing.”

  “Why?”

  “She did not say.”

  “How like Caroline.”

  “I think I agree with her.”

  “How can you agree with her without knowing her reasons?”

  “I agree with her decision. And we outnumber you, so you will be outvoted.”

  “Are we to allow the continuing reputation of Jules Gund to be decided by something so stupid as democracy?”

  “How else can we decide? It is certainly the easiest way.”

  “The easiest way! Don’t you want to do what is best for the estate?”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “Of course, but also what is best for Jules.”

  “I hasten to remind you that Jules is dead.”

  “I know that. But that is not a reason to stop considering him.”

  “Isn’t it? I would think it is a very good reason. I am hardhearted, I suppose.”

  Arden did not reply. She stood and began to stack the plates.

  Adam leaned back in his chair and then said, “May I ask you again why you do not wish to encourage this biography? Perhaps you can explain your reasons to me.”

  “I don’t believe in biography,” Arden said.

  “You don’t believe in biography?”

  “No,” said Arden. “Well, not the biography of artists. Or writers. I think their work should speak for itself. I think their work is their life, at least publicly. And biography can only interfere with the work—it taints the work somehow.”

  “How?”

  “By offering an alternative narrative. To have that out there, set alongside his work, for us to countenance that, and perhaps benefit from that—I feel that is wrong.”

  “Wrong? How wrong?”

  “Just wrong. I don’t know; I can’t explain. I’m not an intellectual. I’m sorry I can’t be clearer. It’s just something I feel, strongly.”

  “I understand and appreciate your feeling,” said Adam. “But think for a moment. You may not be an intellectual but you are a thoughtful and intelligent person. Think: we have before us the request to write an authorized biography.” He touched the letter on the table. “Do you understand what that means?”

  “It means he can’t write it without our permission,” said Arden.

  “No,” said Adam, “it does not. It means that in exchange for our permission and cooperation, in exchange for our making available to him Jules’s papers and our reminiscences of him, we have control of the content of the book. We can withhold, or cause to be withheld, any information we do not wish, for any reason, to be included. This young man writes the book, yes, but its content is entirely controlled and vetted by us. That is an authorized biography. That is what this young man is proposing to write. If we decide, as you propose, not to cooperate with him, to withhold authorization, there is nothing to prevent him from writing his biography anyway. It would be more difficult, of course, without our help, but he would in that case be free to write whatever he wanted. We would, in effect, be handing the story of Jules over to him carte blanche. We would be sacrificing Jules out of pride, stubbornness, stupidity.”

  “I don’t think he could write a biography without our cooperation,” said Arden. “How could he?”

  “That is the job of biographers. They are clever, vindictive, ruthless people. You must see that our withholding authorization is like throwing him the gauntlet. It is much better if he is on our side.”

  “Perhaps I’m naive,” said Arden. “In fact, I’m sure I am. But I don’t see the world like that. I don’t presuppose that people will act ruthlessly or vindictively. I think people are reasonable and respect privacy. It’s a nice letter, the letter he wrote. Polite, and respectful.” She reached out and touched it. “You are too cynical, I think, Adam.”

  “Well, about one thing, at least, you are correct.”

  “What?”

  “You are naive.”

  Arden picked up the stacked plates and carried them into the house. Pete stood up and walked across the courtyard, out through the archway, into the night. Adam sat alone for a moment. He looked up at the light in Caroline’s room. He could hear Arden and Portia talking in the kitchen. He went looking for Pete. He found him smoking near the garden. They stood beside each other for a moment, not talking, and then Pete said, “You were nasty, I think.”

  Adam took the cigarette from him and dragged on it. He gave it back. Exhaled. “Was I?” he said.

  “Yes,” sa
id Pete. “I think you’d have a better chance of changing her mind if you were a little kinder.”

  “Oh, please,” said Adam. “Arden knows I am not kind.”

  Pete flicked his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. Then he picked up the butt and put it in his shirt pocket. “I don’t suppose you want to walk home?” he asked.

  “No,” said Adam. “I’m tired. And I’ve got to talk to Caroline.”

  “So you want me to get the car?”

  “Yes,” said Adam. “Please.”

  Pete began walking around the house, toward the drive.

  “Wait!” Adam called. “Do you want me to get you a torch?”

  “No,” said Pete.

  “It’s dark,” said Adam.

  “It’s okay,” said Pete. “I know the way.”

  Adam made his slow way up the steps to Caroline’s studio. She was working at the easel and did not turn around as he entered the room. He had the feeling she had not been working, that she had assumed this position only at the sound of his footsteps on the stairs; certainly his slow ascent had given her plenty of time. He stood behind her and watched her paint. Her intentness seemed artificial. He found a chair and sat down.

  “It looks quite good,” he said. “Although the colors are all wrong.”

  “Good evening, Adam,” said Caroline. She did not turn around.

  “Good evening,” said Adam.

  “Please don’t say anything more about my painting,” said Caroline.

  “All right,” said Adam. “Except really, the colors—”

  “Please,” said Caroline. She turned around and smiled brightly at him. “Did you come up for a drink?”

  “No,” said Adam. “I was left alone, and saw your light.”

  “And so you came up for a drink,” said Caroline.

  “I wouldn’t refuse a drink,” said Adam.

  Caroline poured two glasses of scotch and gave one to Adam.

  “I wish you and Arden would coordinate your liquor,” Adam said. He sipped his scotch and looked again at the painting. “It’s Bellini, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “But please don’t look at it.”

  “You can draw very well,” said Adam.

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “I can draw. But I cannot paint.”

  “Yes you can,” said Adam. “Or you could, at least. I was just telling Arden what a good painter you were.”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “Were. Can we not talk about the painting?”

  They were silent a moment, and then Caroline said, “Did Arden show you the letter?”

  “Yes,” said Adam.

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think I am old and tired. I think this scotch is excellent. Where did you get it?”

  “Sebastian brought it. What do you think of the letter?”

  “I think what any sensible person would think,” said Adam.

  “And what is that?”

  “It is an excellent opportunity for us. We would be fools not to encourage him.”

  “Ah,” said Caroline.

  “I understand you think differently.”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “I am not as sensible as you.”

  “Apparently no one is,” said Adam. “Or at least no one to whom this matters.”

  “Not Arden?”

  “Arden sees this as a romantic opportunity—to be the noble grieving widow, protecting her husband’s good name. It is absurd.”

  “Why?”

  “For several reasons. First of all, if anyone should play that role—which no one should—it is you. Second, it is stupid and impractical. And selfish. I could go on and on.”

  “I’ve no doubt you could.”

  “And I think, for some strange reason I can’t fathom, she wants to align herself with you in this matter. And so I depend upon you to be sensible.”

  “You keep mentioning sensibility, as if you are the arbiter of it. You are not, Adam. We make our own sensibilities. You cannot impose yours on others. At least not upon me.”

  “Why don’t you want this biography?”

  “It is of no great concern to me. It is not something I want or don’t want.”

  “Then why did you tell Arden you did not want it.”

  “I told her I would not grant authorization.”

  “Why did you tell her that?

  “Because Jules did not want a biography. He told me that once.”

  “When?”

  “Years ago. When The Gondola was first published.”

  “That was over twenty years ago.”

  “Yes. Ages ago. Aeons. But when he said it is not important.”

  “And because of something Jules may have said to you twenty years ago, you are now going to refuse to authorize a biography that is undoubtedly in all of our best interests?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “It seems logical to me. Sensible, even.”

  “I’m sure Jules said many things to you twenty years ago,” said Adam. “For instance, he said he would love you always, didn’t he, when you were married?”

  “Yes,” said Caroline.

  “And you did not hold him to that,” said Adam.

  “I did not need to. Jules didn’t stop loving me. He stayed married to me.”

  “What you had, at the end, was not a marriage,” said Adam.

  “Was it not? Who are you to say? Again, I think it is a matter of sensibilities. And what does any of this have to do with the biography? Nothing, I think. Or, I might add, with you.”

  “I think it does,” said Adam. “I was his brother. I was not his wife, or his mistress. Ours was a fairly dispassionate relationship, and I think I can see this present situation a little more clearly than either you or Arden. And I think it is a situation that needs to be looked at clearly. Dispassionately.”

  “And you are the one to do it,” said Caroline.

  “I’m sorry if I have offended you,” said Adam. “That was not my intention.”

  “You haven’t,” said Caroline. “We just think differently about this, that is all.”

  They heard a car and saw its lights coming up the drive.

  “Here is Pete,” said Adam. “And it is late. Perhaps we should talk about this some more, the three of us, and come to a decision. We must respond to the letter, after all.”

  “Well, my mind is made up.”

  Adam stood up. “Please don’t say that, Caroline. At least have the grace to listen to what I have to say, and consider it. I expect that rigidity of Arden, but not of you.”

  “Of course I will listen to you,” said Caroline. “I did not mean that.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Will you come to lunch? And bring Arden with you? And we can discuss this all calmly and rationally.”

  “I’ll come to lunch,” said Caroline. “And bring Arden with me, but whether we can discuss this calmly and rationally is another matter.”

  “We can try,” said Adam.

  “Yes,” said Caroline.

  “You’ll tell Arden?”

  “Yes. Go now. Pete is waiting. How is Pete?”

  “Pete is unhappy. Surly. He is getting tired of living in the middle of nowhere with a nasty old man.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Caroline. “Pete loves you.”

  “And I love Pete. But nevertheless, he is unhappy. Good night.”

  Adam kissed her. She closed the door and listened to him go slowly down the stairs. She heard the car door open and close and then she heard the car drive away. It was quiet. Then she could hear, from somewhere lower in the house, a bath filling. Good, she thought, there must be hot water.

  Arden was saying good night to Portia. She sat on the bed and combed Portia’s hair, which was still damp from her shampoo, “Where did you go before, with Pete?” she asked.

  “What?” asked Portia.

  “Before dinner. You and Pete disappeared. Where did you go?”

  “Nowhere,” said Portia. “For a little wa
lk.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  “To the beehive,” said Portia.

  “You are supposed to stay away from the hive,” said Arden. “You could get stung.”

  “I know. But I thought with Pete it would be all right. We wanted to see the bees fly home. They come back at sunset.”

  “Yes,” said Arden, “I know.”

  “And then we listened to the hive. We didn’t stand too close. We were behind the well. We could hear it from there. The humming.” She made a purring noise low in her throat. “Pete says the bees talk to each other, and dance.”

  “Yes,” said Arden. “I’ve heard that they do. There. Your hair is nice and dry. And it smells lovely. Get into bed.”

  “First I must say my prayers,” said Portia.

  “I forgot. Yes. Say your prayers, if you want.”

  Portia knelt beside the bed, but looked over her shoulder at her mother. “Go away,” she said. “Don’t listen. Prayers are private. They are between God and me.”

  “All right,” said Arden. “But God can’t tuck you in. Call me when you’re ready.”

  She went out into the hall, from where she could hear her daughter mumbling a very long and complicated prayer, the particulars of which she could not, in spite of her efforts, discern.

  Although Arden and Caroline lived in the same house they saw each other infrequently. Without ever having discussed or acknowledged it, they had come to an arrangement of passing through the house, of inhabiting certain rooms at certain times, of rising, eating, sleeping, and bathing, that allowed for little or, on some days, no contact.

  Caroline’s habit was to stay awake much of the night and sleep far into the day. After Adam left her she drank another scotch and sat looking at her rendition of Madonna of the Meadow. She was copying it from a large color plate in a book on Bellini that had been published in Dresden in 1920. It was one in a series of books that had been brought over by Jules’s parents. Of course the colors were all wrong; probably printed poorly to begin with and now faded even further. She had tried in her version to replicate the colors she supposed were in the original painting—the brightness of the past—but she knew she had failed.