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Authors: Peter Cameron

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BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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“Wombs! I am surrounded by women who are preoccupied with wombs.”
“I was merely speaking of the Latin roots of the word,” said Deirdre. “I am not preoccupied with my womb. Or the wombs of others.”
“And I am so glad to hear it. I meant to say that I am unpracticed in the art of speaking directly, as everything we say to one another here at Ochos Rios is convoluted at best. And I want to speak to you plainly, and directly.”
“Please do,” said Deirdre.
“I will try. The day before poor Omar encountered his poisonous bee, I had a talk with him. Actually, several talks, but it is one of our conversations that concerns me.”
“About the biography?” asked Deirdre.
“Yes,” said Adam. “among other things. In fact, we made a little bargain. And I am worried that in his present infirm state he may forget his obligation.”
“It is about that little bargain that I have come to see you,” said Deirdre.
“Ah! So he has not forgotten. He has told you about it?”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “He mentioned it.”
“Good. Then he has not forgotten.”
“I think perhaps he has. I mean, he remembers you made a bargain, but he doesn't remember the details.”
“It is really quite simple: My mother brought paintings with her when she came here—fled here—from Germany. I would like to sell these paintings now. Omar agreed to take them to New York City for me, to a dealer who would arrange their sale.”
“Do you mean smuggle them?”
“No.”
“And Omar agreed to do this?”
“Yes, he did.”
“You said it was a bargain. What was your part?”
“I guaranteed him authorization. I convinced Arden to change her mind.”
“In other words, you blackmailed him.”
“Smuggle … blackmail. You have a romantic imagination. No doubt you read too many nineteenth-century novels.”
“No: I am a modernist. And Arden told me she changed her own mind.”
“Of course Arden thinks she changed her own mind. That is the only way to change someone's mind—to allow them to think they have changed it themselves. Caroline will think the same.”
“Perhaps you should forget this bargain, which seems both coercive and ridiculous to me. Perhaps you might concern yourself instead with Omar's recovery.”
“Of course that concerns me! I am not heartless. But by all accounts he is out of danger and progressing splendidly. I am sure he will be gathering honey in no time.”
Deirdre stood up. “I am glad to hear that,” she said. “If you'll excuse me, I think I will return to Ochos Rios. I am feeling tired.”
“Wait,” said Adam. “Please.”
Deirdre had headed toward the door, but she turned around. “What?” she asked. “You know, I think it was really wrong of you, manipulating Omar like that! I'm sure what you've asked him to do is illegal. I will not allow him to do it. And besides, he is the wrong person to do something like that. It would be better if you found someone else.”
“I agree with you,” said Adam.
“Oh,” said Deirdre.
“It is precisely about that that I wish to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About Omar being all wrong for the job. About finding someone else.”
Deirdre said “Oh” again, and loitered near the door.
“Will you come sit down? For just a moment. You don't look tired at all.”
“I am tired,” said Deirdre, somewhat petulantly. But she sat back down.
“I asked Omar to transport the paintings to New York for sale—which is, I assure you, my moral right to do—because he was the only person available to transport them to New York. But I agree with you, he is hardly the ideal man for the job.”
“What do you mean: moral right? Is it legal or not?”
“You are obsessed with semantics. It is the curse of the academic mind. Try for a moment to rise above it.”
“Yes, tell that to the border guards! Tell them to rise above it!”
“Calm down. May we forget, for a moment, the legality of the issue? Or can your mind see no other perspective?”
“I don't know why you're telling me all this. If you think Omar is going to transport the paintings, you're mistaken. And neither am I. So it is pointless to talk about this any further.”
“You seem so sure of yourself. You will not even listen to me? What better thing have you to do?”
“I'm tired,” said Deirdre. “And I'm worried about Omar. You've no idea how worried I am. He is not well. I cannot concern myself with smuggling paintings at a time like this.”
“I have never understood that expression: a time like this. Surely you mean at this time, not a different time similar to this time?”
“Now who is obsessed with semantics?” Deirdre stood up.
“You are a less interesting person than I thought you were,” said
Adam. “Although I like you. You are invigorating. It is a shame you have no sense of adventure. You submerge your life: you read too many books—or perhaps you don't even read books anymore. You probably just read criticism of books: you live vicariously. You come all the way to Uruguay, but do not concern yourself with what you encounter here. You will regret it all your life. Or no: it will take you a while to regret it—one day, when you are old and decrepit like me, you will think, Why did I not smuggle those paintings?”
“So it is smuggling. I was right.”
“I prefer to think of it as private relocation.”
“Why must it be done privately?”
“In order to maintain provenance, the paintings must seem to have remained in Germany. The man in New York has someone who will take them there—smuggle them, as you are so fond of saying—and then they will be sold there. The jewelry is another matter. That can easily be sold in New York.”
Deirdre stood up. “Well, I'm sorry,” she said, “but neither Omar nor I will be able to help you with these transactions. You must consider your little bargain with Omar dissolved. I am sure we can get Caroline to agree to authorization without your help.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well,” said Deirdre. “We can only try. Honestly try, without resorting to bargains and blackmail and manipulations.”
“You shall take the high road, so to speak,” said Adam. “Yet it seems odd to me—odd and a bit stupid even, if I may be so blunt—that you would alienate me in this way. After all, what is stopping me from changing my mind?”
“Oh,” said Deirdre. “I understood that you wanted the biography. I did not think your support was variable or to be bought. I did not think there was any issue there.”
“There are issues everywhere, my dear.” Adam stood up. “While I admire your gumption, I think it would be best if this situation
is resolved between Omar and me. The agreement was made with Omar; it is up to him to dissolve it. Well. I have so enjoyed our chat, but I usually take a siesta about this time. Will you excuse me?” He left the room, and Deirdre heard him climbing the stairs.
She waited a moment, but it was quiet. She went out into the hall, but he had disappeared. She felt foolish standing there, so she went out the front door. She was not sure how to walk back to Ochos Rios. She supposed she should walk up the lane to the road and then head in either direction. One of them was bound to be right.
How tiresome these people were, Deirdre thought as she walked toward Ochos Rios. Poor Omar, having to deal with them. It was really a good thing she had arrived, and could straighten things out. Perhaps his accident had been a blessing in disguise.
The school bus was letting Portia off at the gate as she approached. Portia waited for her, clutching her satchel.
“Hello,” called Deirdre.
“Hello,” said Portia. “Where have you been?”
“I was visiting your uncle,” said Deirdre. They began walking up the drive. She tried to think of something nice to say to Portia. She was about to say what a pretty dress she was wearing when she noticed Portia was wearing a uniform. She could think of nothing else, so she said, “How was school today?”
“Good,” said Portia.
“Omar and I are both teachers,” said Deirdre.
“Are you nuns?” asked Portia.
“No,” said Deirdre. “We don't teach at a Catholic school. We teach at a university. A public university.”
“Oh,” Portia said. Apparently she was not interested in the subject.
“What do you want to be, when you grow up?” Deirdre asked her.
“I want to be a nurse,” said Portia.
“Why not a doctor?”
“I would rather be a nurse.”
“Why?”
“Because then if the people die it's not your fault. If you're a doctor it is. But if they do get better the nurse helps them.”
“Oh,” said Deirdre. Then she said. “I saw a nurse today. In the clinic where Omar is.”
Portia looked at her. “Of course,” she said. “That's where nurses work.”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. They did not speak the rest of the way; the nice thing about children was that you could ignore them if you wanted: they didn't take it personally.
Arden was waiting in the front hall. She hugged Portia and said to Deirdre: “Dr. Peni called. He said he might release Omar tomorrow. If he has a quiet night.”
“Oh, good,” said Deirdre.
“But he said he couldn't travel for at least a week. That he'd have to spend most of his time in bed, resting.”
“I suppose I should stay here, then, and go back with him. Is that all right?”
“Of course,” said Arden. “How was your talk with Adam?”
“It was fine,” said Deirdre.
“I don't suppose he offered you lunch. You must be hungry.”
“Can I have my snack?” asked Portia.
“Yes,” said Arden. “Can I get you something?” she asked Deirdre.
“No, thank you,” said Deirdre. “I'm tired. I think I will take a nap now.”
“Of course,” said Arden. “We'll eat around seven. Do you eat meat?”
Deirdre said she did, and asked if Caroline would be present at dinner. Arden said she was not sure.
Caroline did not join them for dinner. “I would like to talk to her,” said Deirdre, as the meal concluded. “Do you think I might?”
Arden paused. She knew that Caroline considered social interaction she had not herself initiated an intrusion, but she saw no reason to protect Deirdre from Caroline. She was trying very hard to like Deirdre, as she thought not liking Deirdre would be petty and mean-spirited, but she was finding it difficult to like Deirdre. She was perfectly nice, considerate, polite, appreciative, even helpful—she helped with dinner and offered to help with the cleaning up—but there was something just a bit unperceptively aggressive about Deirdre that put her off. Like this asking to see Caroline. And asking to see Adam. She was, after all, the guest here, and it seemed odd to Arden that she was initiating all the meetings. She had been very unforthcoming about her meeting with Adam: Arden had asked her about it again at dinner and her reply had been equally terse and vague. Arden supposed that meant it had gone badly, as so many meetings with Adam were apt to go, and she felt that Deirdre would not fare much better—or worse, perhaps—with Caroline. In a way, she did want to protect Deirdre by dissuading her from accosting Caroline (for that is how it would seem to Caroline), but then she thought: Is it Deirdre I want to protect or Omar? And she thought: This is absurd, I should just stay out of it all.
She told Deirdre that she would probably find Caroline in her studio in the tower at the top of the stairs.
Something about climbing up to the tower intimidated even Deirdre. She paused outside the closed door and tried to listen, to
intuit if Caroline was in fact there. But before she could discern any sound the door opened.
“Hello,” said Caroline. “I thought I heard someone coming up the stairs.” She was wearing a man's white dress shirt, untucked, over a pair of beige slacks. She had her hair pulled back and twisted and stuck up with a paintbrush.
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”
Caroline corroborated this supposition by not refuting it. She just stood there, holding the door open, smiling a bit oddly at Deirdre.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Deirdre continued. “But I can come back, or meet you elsewhere later …”
“No, no,” said Caroline brightly, having seen the effectiveness of her pause. “Come in. Now is fine. Come in and sit down.”
Deirdre entered the studio. She looked around for a painting to compliment, but all the canvases were turned toward the wall. There was only one painting visible, resting on an easel, a rather insipid-looking still life, one of those paintings Deirdre hated, in which a bunch of hard-to-paint things that didn't belong together (in this case grapes and dead rabbits and a crystal decanter filled with wine) were thrown together on a table so the artist could show off. “It's very nice,” said Deirdre, nodding at the painting.
“It's a Meléndez,” said Caroline.
Deirdre was not sure if this referred to an artist or a technique—she had mostly snoozed through Art History—so she said nothing.
“Sit,” said Caroline, as if Deirdre were a dog.
There was a low, modern—well, fifties—couch mostly covered with art books, and an easy chair facing it. Deirdre shifted a pile of books and sat on the couch. Caroline sat opposite her.
“It's lovely,” Deirdre concluded. “Those grapes look delicious!” She realized this sounded absurd, but Caroline's wary, silent regard of her was unnerving. “Do you only paint still lifes?” she asked.
“No,” said Caroline, without amplification.
Deirdre looked around for another painting to comment on, but her initial impression was accurate: all the other canvases were turned against the wall. It seemed to Deirdre that although Caroline sat facing her, smiling faintly, she, too, was also, somehow, turned against the wall: there was something absent, almost hostile, about her presence. “What a lovely room,” said Deirdre. “It must be wonderful to paint up here.”
Caroline acknowledged this remark by slightly amplifying her tight-lipped smile. Then, after a moment, she said, “Would you like a drink? I have some scotch.”
“Please, yes,” said Deirdre.
Caroline got up and went over to a table, where she poured some scotch, neat, into two glasses. “Water?” she asked. “I'm afraid I haven't got any ice or soda.”
“A little water, please,” said Deirdre. She watched Caroline pour water from a plastic bottle into one of the glasses, and return with the drinks. She handed one to Deirdre and sat back down.
“How is Omar? I assume you've seen him.”
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “He's doing well, considering. I believe he will come home tomorrow—well, come here, I mean.”
“Ah, good,” said Caroline. “And then you will leave?”
“Not for a week,” said Deirdre. “The doctor says he can't travel for at least a week.”
Caroline said “Ah” again.
Deirdre sipped her drink. “Mmmmm,” she said. “Thank you. It's lovely.” Then she remembered she had said the painting and the room were lovely. Lovely, lovely, she thought: everything can't be lovely or she'll think I'm simple. She sipped again. “Smoky,” she said. “Is it single malt?”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “Laphroaig.”
Deirdre could feel the warmth of the scotch spreading in her. Her father had called alcohol “Dutch courage.” Take courage, she thought: be brave. She took another sip and then said, “You must wonder why I want to speak with you.”
“In fact, I don't,” said Caroline, pleasantly.
“Oh,” said Deirdre. This was a rather dampening response. But, courage. “Well,” she said, “may I tell you?”
“Of course you may.” Caroline laughed.
She's really horrible, thought Deirdre, she's enjoying this. These people are awful. They're all thwarted and poisonous. They need lots of therapy.
“Well,” she said, “I'm aware that you are the only executor who is withholding authorization. I don't know what Omar has told you, but I'd like to assure you that he intends to work very closely with you all on the biography, and respect your wishes. You have nothing to fear.”
“I do not withhold authorization out of fear,” said Caroline.
“Of course,” said Deirdre. “I didn't mean fear, per se.”
“What did you mean?” asked Caroline.
“I meant—I meant … well, why are you withholding authorization? Perhaps if you told me, I could address your concerns.”
“I have already discussed this with Omar. Several times. Forgive me if I do not see the need to discuss it with you.”
“I'm sorry,” said Deirdre. “I don't mean to be rude. Really, I don't. It's just that if you knew what this meant to Omar, how very much is dependent upon his getting authorization and writing this book, I think …”
“You think what?”
“I think you might reconsider. At least, I hope you would consider reconsidering.”
“But my decision has nothing to do with Omar. I don't doubt for a moment what this means to him. After all, his coming here—well, what better illustration is there of his need? But I am not concerned with his need. I have other—different allegiances in this matter.”
“To Jules Gund, you mean?”
“I don't think it is really any of your business, what I mean. But, yes—to Jules Gund. And to myself, for that matter.”
Deirdre thought for a moment. It was all going wrong. These people were impossible. She had wanted to fix it all for . It was a gift she wanted to give him, the authorization. She had pictured herself handing him the form, complete with its triumvirate of signatures, when he returned from the hospital. Perhaps they would have a little celebration, to welcome him home and toast the biography. And he would be so pleased and grateful. If only these people listened to reason!
She looked over at Caroline and said, “I'm sorry. I think I'm wasting your time.”
“Time is not such a precious commodity here,” said Caroline.
“Yes,” said Deirdre. “But nevertheless. I feel you've made up your mind. There's really no point in me, or Omar, talking to you.”
“We made up our mind months ago. Before Omar came here. We made up our minds then.”
“But Arden changed her mind,” said Deirdre.
“Yes,” said Caroline, “she did. But I will not change mine.”
“Then I am wasting your time,” said Deirdre.
“If that is the only reason you are talking to me then yes, I suppose you are,” said Caroline. She seemed a little hurt.
Deirdre stood up. “I'll leave you, then. I'm sorry to have bothered you.”
“You have not bothered me,” said Caroline.
I wish I had, thought Deirdre: I wish I could. “Thank you for the scotch,” she said.
“You're welcome,” said Caroline. She stood up and opened the door. “Good night,” she said.
Instead of going back into the house Deirdre crossed the courtyard and walked out through the arch in the back wall. She didn't really want to deal with anyone at the moment, not even Arden. There was something a little weird about Arden, too: something she
couldn't put her finger on. She seemed to think too much about everything she said and did, so it all came out perfect.
The sun had not yet set but the tall, dark pines planted all around the house created an early dusk. If I lived here the first thing I'd do is cut down some of these trees, Deirdre thought. She walked out the gravel path and through the arch in the hedge. She paused at the garden fence. A sprinkler set up on a sort of platform in the middle of the garden cast long, shaking spurts of water. The plants were all dripping in the fading light. The air smelled of herbs. Some large black birds—crows perhaps—were pecking at the moist earth.
BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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