The City of Your Final Destination by Peter Cameron Page A

tried to read more—by him and about him. And there was none of either. Or nothing I could find. The woman who taught the course on the Diaspora was my thesis advisor. She encouraged me to work on Gund. And so here I am.”

    Arden sipped her coffee. It was a little bitter. “Do you take sugar?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I forget to ask you. Or cream?”
    â€œNo,” said Omar. “I like it black.”
    â€œIt’s bitter,” said Arden.
    Omar said nothing.
    â€œIt’s odd that you’re here,” she said, after a moment. “I mean, not just the surprise of your showing up like you did.”
    â€œHow do you mean?” asked Omar.
    â€œI don’t know if I can explain it,” said Arden. She held her hands together, fingers aligned, as if she were praying, and then rubbed them back and forth, lightly against each other. “It just seems odd … I suppose it is because I meet so few people. So that now, when I meet someone, I think, How did this happen? Why?”
    â€œBut you know why I am here,” said Omar.
    â€œYes, of course,” said Arden. She almost said, I know why you are here for you, but I do not know why you are here for me.
    â€œI wonder if …” Omar began, but hesitated.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLast night, when you came to my room, you said there was no chance you would change your mind. I wonder if you still think that?”
    â€œYes,” said Arden. “I think I do.”
    â€œBut you’re not sure?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Arden. “I’d like to help. I would. But the thing you want, it’s the one thing—it’s a complicated thing for all of us: Jules’s life. It—well, even though he’s been dead three years, we’re all still very much engaged with him in some way. I don’t think we’re ready to let him go. Which is what you seem to be asking, in a way.”
    â€œI’m not asking that at all,” said Omar.
    â€œI know you’re not. I mean, intellectually I know that. But emotionally, you must understand—or perhaps you can’t—what it is you’re asking.”

    Omar looked troubled, but said nothing. He sipped his coffee. It was bitter.
    â€œI thought about writing a biography myself,” said Arden.
    â€œOf Jules?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œJust recently. Because of you. After we made our decision, I thought, Well, why don’t I write a biography myself? I thought it couldn’t be so hard. I went so far as to buy note cards. I wrote something I knew on each of the note cards, one fact about Jules on each, and I thought I would just arrange them chronologically and then elaborate upon these facts. And then fill in the blanks.”
    â€œI see,” said Omar. “So that’s why you don’t want me to do a biography.”
    Arden laughed. “No!” she said. “That’s not it at all. I’ve given up on doing a biography myself. I gave it up very quickly.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThere were too many blanks,” she said. “It scared me, actually. I stopped out of fear.”
    â€œFear of what?”
    â€œFear of what I didn’t know about Jules.”
    â€œWhy did that frighten you?”
    She looked at him. She shook her head. After a moment she said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”
    â€œOh,” said Omar.
    â€œUnder the circumstances, I don’t think it’s right.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “You shouldn’t be. I brought it up. I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”
    They sipped their coffee for a moment, and then Omar said, “I wonder if I could—well, at some point that was convenient, perhaps speak with all three of you together: you and Mrs. Gund and Mr. Gund.”

    â€œOf course,” she