Free The City of Your Final Destination by Peter Cameron Page A

if I just …”
    â€œArrived?”
    â€œYes,” said Omar. “I didn’t know what to do. It’s been very difficult to get here. But I can come back. If you tell me when, I can come back, and we can talk then. Is there a time I can come back to talk to you?”
    â€œAnd where—where are you staying?”
    Omar looked around, as if a hotel might suddenly present itself. “I don’t know,” he said. “Somewhere near here, I hope. Is there a hotel in town?”
    â€œNo,” said Arden.
    â€œWell, there must be one somewhere,” said Omar, almost petulantly. “If you’ll tell me when to come back, I’ll go and find a place to stay.”
    â€œBut you’re on foot,” said Arden. “And there isn’t a place for miles. Who drove you here?”
    Omar looked back at the road, but the car had long since disappeared. “I don’t know. A man I met in Ansina. I gave him five hundred pesos.”
    â€œFive hundred pesos! You’re crazy.”
    â€œYes,” said Omar. “It seemed a lot. But there was no other way to get here.”
    â€œNo,” said Arden. “I suppose there wasn’t, not from Ansina. But now that you’re here there’s nowhere else for you to go. So you might as well come up to the house with us. You can stay there until we can get you back into town.”
    â€œBut I don’t want to intrude. Really, I can sleep outdoors, or something.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” said Arden. “You cannot sleep outdoors. Look at you. Come up to the house. Here, put your suitcase in the wheelbarrow.”
    Omar put his suitcase and knapsack in the wheelbarrow, and
then began wheeling it up the rutted drive, behind the girl and woman. He felt exhausted, too tired to even worry about making a good impression.
    â€œWhy did you take the bus to Ansina? Why didn’t you come to Tranqueras?” asked Arden.
    â€œNo one in Montevideo seemed to know how to get here. Finally a woman told me to take the bus to Ansina and get a ride from there. I didn’t know what else to do.”
    â€œAnsina!” said Arden. “I don’t know what she was thinking.”
    â€œNeither do I,” said Omar.
    â€œWell, you got here,” said Arden.
    â€œYou seem very far away from everything,” said Omar. “Is there a town nearby?”
    â€œYes,” said Arden. “Tranqueras. Well, about ten miles from here. But you came the other way, didn’t you?”
    â€œI suppose,” said Omar. “I was about to get nervous. I wasn’t sure where that man was taking me. There’s been nothing for miles and miles. Just forest.”
    They turned a corner in the drive and the house came into view. It was very large, made of brick, which at some distant point had been painted yellow, with a mossed-over slate roof. It had a classical, elegant façade, and looked very out of place in the unkempt landscape. Omar stopped for a moment and looked up at it. “Wow,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a monstrosity, isn’t it?” asked Arden.
    â€œNo,” said Omar. “I think it’s beautiful.”
    Arden and Portia started walking again, but Omar did not move. They paused and looked back at him.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Portia said.
    â€œNothing,” said Omar. “It’s just that—I never thought I’d be here. I mean, you read a book and think all about this place, but you don’t really think it exists, you don’t really think you will be there—at least I never thought, never—”

    Arden took the wheelbarrow from him. “Come,” she said.
    â€œNo, no,” he said. He fought her for possession of the wheelbarrow. “Let me.”
    She let him take it. They walked the rest of the way up the drive in silence. There was a flight of stone steps leading up to the front door.
    â€œYou can leave the barrow