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Authors: Peter Cameron

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BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
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She stood there until it was dark, or almost dark. The sprinkler went off by itself. It must be on a timer, she thought. It was very quiet then. She had not realized what a racket it had made. She looked up at stars that were just beginning to appear, pricking themselves into the sky. She shivered, although it was not cold: just a little cool, a breeze. If Omar does not get authorization, what will happen? she wondered. What will happen to him? To me? To us?
She closed her eyes. The scent of herbs again, and pine, and wet earth. She felt like she wanted to pray but it went no further than that. But for Deirdre that was quite far.
Omar was delivered to them the next morning in a station wagon masquerading as an ambulance. He had been heavily if not excessively drugged for his journey and arrived in a stupor from which he did not recover until early evening. Deirdre made him some soup—well, she reheated soup that Arden had made—and brought it up to him.
He was lying in bed, a bit glassy-eyed, but alert. His gauze mitt had been removed, revealing an elastic brace that covered his right wrist and palm but left his fingers and thumb free.
“Oh, it's you,” he said.
She was irked by this response—who else would it be?—but tried to remain bright and cheerful. “Yes,” she said. “I've brought you some soup. Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” he said, “a bit. What kind of soup is it?”
“Avocado and cress,” said Deirdre. “I think it's supposed to be cold but I heated it up. I thought something hot would taste good to you.” She put the tray with the bowl of soup and bread and glass of water down on the little table beside his bed. “Why don't you sit
up?” she asked. “Wait, I'll get another pillow from my room. I'll be right back.”
When she returned with the pillow Omar was sitting up, eating the soup. “It's very good,” he said.
“Good,” said Deirdre. She sat beside the bed and watched him eat. He appeared to be very hungry, although his braced hand prevented him from eating neatly or expeditiously.
“Do you want me to help you?” she asked. “Perhaps I should feed you? You're making a mess.”
“No,” he said, “I'm fine.”
She took the napkin off the tray and tucked it into his collar, spread it over his front. He was wearing the purple paisley pajamas again. “Where did you get these pajamas?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he said. “They just appeared at the hospital.”
“Perhaps they're Jules Gund's,” said Deirdre. “Arden might have brought them. Perhaps you're wearing Jules Gund's pajamas.”
“I think they're just hospital surplus,” said Omar. “Probably some dead guy's.”
“I should have brought some pajamas from home for you,” she said. “And a bathrobe. I wasn't thinking.”
“I don't have any pajamas,” said Omar.
“I know,” said Deirdre. “I meant, I should have bought some, and brought them with me.”
“These are fine,” said Omar. “I like these.”
“Omar, they're hideous.”
He looked down at them. “No,” he said. “I like them. I want to take them home with me.”
She decided not to argue with Omar about the hideous pajamas. “Well,” she said. “How do you feel? You were terribly drugged. I don't know what they gave you. I think that doctor is a bit of a quack. As soon as we get home, you must see a doctor and have a thorough physical exam.”
“I'm fine,” said Omar. “Is there any more soup?”
“No,” said Deirdre. “Eat the bread. Listen, Omar. We need to talk. Are you okay? Is your head clear and everything?”
“Of course,” said Omar.
Deirdre moved her chair closer to the bed. “Well, we need to talk strategy. We need to strategize. I've been trying to push things along since I got here but it hasn't been easy. They're all a bit mad, I think. Adam and Caroline mostly, but Arden, too, although at least she's agreed. It's the other two we have to concentrate on.”
“Adam's agreed too. He was for it from the beginning. And I told you, he said he would help with Caroline—”
“That's what we need to talk about. Omar! I talked to Adam yesterday. He told me about your bargain. I can't believe you would agree to that. You didn't, did you?”
Omar said nothing.
“You told him no, didn't you?”
Omar shook his head. “No. I told him I'd do it. The way he talked about it made it seem okay. And he said he would convince Caroline and Arden. I don't know. Maybe I was stupid. But it seemed like the only thing to do.”
“Omar! You're crazy. It's smuggling. You'll go to jail. Remember
Midnight Express
?”
“He said it wasn't. I really don't think he'd ask me to do something that was dangerous, or illegal. I know that sounds naive, but I trust him.”
“Well, I don't. And you're not smuggling things out of the country for him. I told him that. He got a bit testy and threatened to change his mind—”
“Deirdre! Adam can't change his mind. If he changes his mind, there's no way I'll get authorization.”
“Don't worry. I think he was just being contrary. I don't think he likes women. Strong women. He's one of those homosexuals who find women intimidating, I think.”
“Well, then you shouldn't talk to him. Everything was fine. He liked me.”
“Of course he liked you. You're cute and you were going to smuggle for him. What's not to like? But that's not the way to get authorization, Omar.”
“Well, what do you propose?”
“I don't know. That's why we have to talk. Caroline is even more difficult, because she's genuinely loony, I think. She can't be reasoned with. I tried.”
“I wish you had just stayed out of it,” said Omar. “I was doing fine. Everything was fine.”
“Everything was not fine, Omar! You were in the hospital and on the way to jail. That is not fine!”
“Well, I was doing it. I was doing it my way. And it was working.”
“But it wasn't working, Omar. If it was working I wouldn't be here.”
“I didn't ask you to come here,” said Omar.
“Oh,” said Deirdre. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry I flew twelve thousand miles or whatever because I heard you were in a coma—a coma! I'm sorry I've hung out with a bunch of lunatics for three days trying to convince them to authorize a book you need to write. I'm sorry—”
“Stop,” said Omar. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I just meant I wish you wouldn't treat me like a baby.”
“Then don't act like a baby! Don't agree to smuggle contraband! Don't fall out of a tree!”
“Falling out of the tree was an accident.”
“You know what I think about accidents.”
Omar attempted to throw the crust of bread he was eating across the room, but his injured wrist prevented it from traveling beyond the foot of the bed. “Yeah, and I'm fucking tired of you making me feel guilty! I'm not a moron. I'm not inept. Accidents happen to people, Deirdre. We're not all perfect like you.”
Deirdre retrieved the bread. She put it on the tray, and wiped her hands. “I'm not perfect,” she said. “I know I'm not perfect. I
don't think I'm perfect. And I'm sorry if I've acted that way. I'm just trying to help you, Omar. Because I love you.”
“I know,” said Omar. “I'm sorry.”
“Do you really wish I hadn't come?”
“No,” said Omar.
“Because I can leave. I can leave whenever you want.”
“No,” said Omar. “I want for you to stay.”
She took the empty bowl of soup from him and put it back on the tray. She took the napkin and began to wipe his face but he pushed her hand away.
“Omar!” she said. “You've broken your wrist. Please let me wipe the soup off your face.”
“Okay,” said Omar. He submitted to this indignity and then turned away from her.
“Why are you so angry? Are you sure you feel all right?”
Omar said nothing.
“Omar?”
He turned to look at her. “I'm sorry,” he said.
“No,” said Deirdre. “Don't be sorry. Just—” She reached down and touched his face. “Just rest,” she said.
Arden and Pete were working in the garden. Pete was hoeing and Arden was weeding. It was amazing, how quickly the weeds grew, Arden thought. It seemed almost impossible. It was almost as if you could watch them.
Suddenly she was aware of being in shadow. She looked up to see that Pete was standing above her, hands resting on the hoe.
“What?” she asked.
“Will you miss them?” asked Pete. “When they are gone?”
“Who?” she said, although of course she knew who, but she did not want to speak to Pete about them, she did not want to speak to anyone about them, she just wanted them to go away.
“Omar,” said Pete. “Omar and Deirdre.”
Arden sat back on her haunches. For a moment she felt blinded, but then she realized Pete had shifted and the sun was shining full in her face. She closed her eyes. Pete shifted again and the shadow returned. She opened her eyes.
“No,” she said. “Why would I miss them?”
“I think I will miss them,” said Pete. “I mean Omar. I will miss Omar.”
“It must be lonely for you here,” said Arden. She pulled a weed from the ground and dropped it into the bucket. She crumbled a little clotted earth between her fingers.
“Do you love him?” asked Pete.
Arden looked up at him. “No,” she said. She shook her head. “No,” she said again. “I don't love Omar.” She stood up. “I've got a headache,” she said. “I think I'm going to lie down.”
She took off her gloves and tossed them in the bucket, on top of the mound of weeds. She left the bucket there, in the middle of the row.
In the kitchen she saw the saucepan in the sink. This irritated her. Why had Deirdre heated the soup? It was supposed to be cold, it was best cold, the freshness of it, the flavors would all be compromised by heat—but you are being absurd, she thought: it doesn't matter at all. It doesn't matter.
She went upstairs and lay on her bed. It was awkward having Deirdre here. It was a strain for her. But it was good. If Deirdre were not here, she would have to be nursing Omar, and that would not be good. With Deirdre here she could avoid Omar. She would avoid him and then he would be gone, in less than a week, he would be gone. Perhaps he would not leave. Perhaps Caroline would change her mind, and he would stay to work on the book. Deirdre would leave, but he might stay. For quite a long time, perhaps, working on the book. But Caroline would not change her mind.
She was sure Omar did not remember their kiss; she almost did not remember it herself, so completely had the immediately ensuing emergency obliterated, superseded it. Yet she knew it had happened, they had kissed, sitting up there, outside the boathouse, in the hot sun. They had kissed. Perhaps he did remember. Or perhaps he would remember, and it would mean nothing to him. It is hard to know what a kiss means. She did not think Omar was in the habit of indiscriminately kissing women, but that did not mean that their kiss had meant anything in particular to him. Meant anything! How stupid she was. How pathetic. It was these years of living alone, living away from things, people, men. These years of not being kissed. She had had one affair since Jules's death. It was with the brother of the van Deleer sisters, friends of Caroline. He had come to visit them for a month; she had been invited to dinner, and somehow they had ended up in bed together. Although it had not seemed very curious at all at the time: from the moment she encountered him on the van Deleers' loggia, where they had drinks before the meal, she had known, and she had known that he had known, that they would sleep together. His name was Henrik. It had been very nice, but he had gone away, of course, at the end of the month. He had a wife in Cape Town, and a daughter, who was oddly enough named Portia. Of course she had fallen in love with him, it was impossible for her not to have under the circumstances, but it was a heady, superficial love that did not leave much of a stain. She had kissed him that first night, the first night she met him at the dinner party. She had got up to use the bathroom after dinner and he had followed her; as she emerged he was waiting in the shadows of the dark hall; he stood there waiting, watching her. To return to the party she had to walk past him. The hall was narrow. She thought for a moment he was waiting for the toilet but he was not, he was waiting for her. She thought: It is stupid to pretend I don't want this; I won't do that. I won't be like that. I want this. She walked toward him, in the dark narrow hall, and kissed him.
The sisters van Deleer found out, of course, and never much
liked her after that. Arden was sure they had probably told Caroline, but Caroline never mentioned it to her.
The attraction had been very clear—very apparent, overt—with Henrik, but with Omar it had not been clear. It was all murk, weird fumbling and murk, and then that one odd, sunstruck kiss. Perhaps, she thought, we do love each other in a way, for the kiss had been—what? Real? Yes, the kiss had been real, so perhaps we do love each other, but it is not a practical love. It was all right. The fact of it happening doesn't mean anything: it doesn't mean it's meant to be acknowledged, or fostered, or consummated. Consummated! She thought of what it would be like to make love with Omar. He was very beautiful. His skin, and hair and eyes … she was touching herself, gently, in the strange half-light of her bedroom. Why had Pete asked her if she loved Omar? What did Pete know? Had Omar spoken with Pete? While they were netting the trees? What had he said? Had he told Pete he loved her? That they had kissed? She got up off the bed. She went into the bathroom and washed her face with cold water. She looked at her face in the mirror. Sometimes she could look at herself and see that she was beautiful, but she was never sure. Something always looked wrong. It went back to when she had been in movies: it was awful, seeing her huge face on the screen. She had not been pretty then.
BOOK: The City of Your Final Destination
6.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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