The City of Your Final Destination Page 6

  “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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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 Jul
es 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 clos
ed 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.”