The City of Your Final Destination by Peter Cameron Page A

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.
    â€œHello,” he said.
    â€œHello,” said Portia.
    â€œMy name is Omar,” said Omar.
    â€œYes,” said Portia, “I know.”
    â€œMay I help you?”
    â€œDo you know how?” asked Portia.
    â€œNot really,” said Omar. “But I can follow your example.”
    â€œIt goes fork, fork, knife, spoon. It would go fork, fork, knife, spoon, spoon on top, but we’re not having soup.”
    â€œDo you usually have soup?” asked Omar.
    â€œNo,” said Portia. “Not with dinner. Do you?”
    â€œNo,” said Omar.
    â€œWe have soup every day at school,” said Portia.
    â€œWhere do you go to school?”
    â€œThe convent of Santa Teresa. She was the little flower of God.”
    â€œWas she?” asked Omar.
    â€œYes,” said Portia. “She drank her own sputum.”
    â€œWhy did she do that?”
    â€œTo mortify herself,” said Portia.
    â€œOh,” said Omar.
    â€œThe spoon goes on the outside,” said Portia. “Fork, fork, knife, spoon.”
    â€œAh, yes,” said Omar. “Sorry.”
    â€œWho is your favorite saint?” asked Portia.

    â€œI don’t think I have one,” said Omar. “I adore all saints equally. Who is yours?”
    â€œSaint 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.”
    â€œI hope nothing too large.”
    Portia laughed. “No,” she said. “Just a feather or something.” “And does he?”
    â€œOnce a little paint fell off the ceiling.”
    â€œReally?” said Omar.
    â€œBut the paint is always falling,” said Portia. “Hey! Why are you folding the napkins like that?”
    â€œYou don’t approve?” asked Omar.
    Portia studied them for a moment. “I suppose they’re all right,” she said.
    â€œShould I do them like yours?” asked Omar.
    â€œNo,” said Portia. “Why are you here?”
    â€œI want to talk to some people here,” said Omar.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYour mother and uncle and …” Omar did not know how to characterize Portia’s relationship to the wife. “And Mrs. Gund.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œA book I am writing. A book I want to write.”
    â€œWhat kind of book?”
    â€œA biography,” said Omar. “Do you know what a biography is?”
    â€œYes,” 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