The City of Your Final Destination by Peter Cameron Page B

said. “I’ll invite Adam to dinner this evening. You can talk to us then. For what it’s worth.”
    â€œIt’s awkward being so dependent upon your hospitality,” said Omar. “Perhaps I could take you all out to dinner someplace. Is there a nice restaurant nearby?” He thought: It can’t cost that much, restaurants in this part of Uruguay. But would he be able to use a credit card? Did he have enough cash? He had used so much of it paying the man who drove him here.
    â€œI’m afraid there really aren’t many decent restaurants in the area,” said Arden. “We’re in somewhat of a backwater here, culinarily speaking. And we can’t have you spending your money on us.”
    â€œPlease,” said Omar. “I’d like to. You’ve been so kind, letting me stay here, and feeding me.”
    â€œOh, yes!” Arden laughed. “Stale bread and bitter coffee! Like prison!”
    â€œAnd champagne and jam and honey, and that delicious risotto last night. Please: I’d like to take you all out to dinner.”
    â€œWell, I’ll phone Adam. He’s sometimes very agoraphobic. Other times he quite likes to go out. We’ll see what kind of mood he is in. He won’t go out to a restaurant unless he wants to.”
    â€œWell, I hope he will say yes,” said Omar. “And his boyfr——his partner, too, must join us, please, if we go.”
    â€œI’ll call them,” said Arden. “Now perhaps you should go up and see Caroline. I think she wants to talk to you. She’s in her studio. Did you know she paints?”
    â€œNo,” said Omar. “I’m afraid I know ridiculously little about any of you.”
    â€œWell, that’s reassuring,” said Arden.
    â€œCaroline paints?”
    â€œYes. Apparently she is quite talented. Or was, I am told. But she suffered some loss of confidence and now only paints imitations.”

    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œShe makes copies of paintings. It’s not about her anymore, her art. She has taken herself out of it.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Omar.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Arden. “Perhaps you should ask her.”
    There was a special staircase that led up to Caroline’s studio in the attic. Omar crossed the courtyard and opened the door that Arden had pointed out and climbed the stairs with considerable trepidation. He stood outside the closed door for a moment before he knocked.
    â€œYes,” a voice called.
    â€œIt’s Omar Razaghi,” said Omar.
    â€œ Entrez ,” said Caroline.
    Omar opened the door and stepped into the room. It was not at all how he had expected: it was large and full of light. Caroline was sitting near the windows, in a dilapidated wicker chair. A large book of paintings was open on her lap. “Hello,” she said. “Come and sit down.”
    Omar sat in the chair she indicated.
    â€œI’m sorry I’ve got nothing to offer you up here. Unless you’d like some scotch?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” said Omar.
    â€œYes, it is a bit early for that, isn’t it?”
    Omar agreed it was.
    Caroline closed the book: The Drawings of Alberto Giacometti. “Do you know anything about painting?” she asked, after a moment.
    â€œNo,” said Omar. “I’m afraid I don’t. I like paintings, very much, but I don’t know a lot about art.”
    â€œWhat sorts of paintings do you like?” asked Caroline.
    Omar looked around the room, as if he might see one that fit
into this category. All he saw were a lot of canvases turned to the wall, and one displayed on an easel: a blue-shrouded Mary holding a baby Jesus. It’s odd, he thought, you never see a painting like that and think, Oh, there’s a mother with a child on her lap; you always know it’s Mary and Jesus. He looked at Caroline. “Well, I like the Impressionists—Monet and