by Rudoy, Danil
“Agree to what? You have to be specific,” he demanded.
“Agree to marry you, Richard Charlester, tomorrow at two fifty two p.m.”
And then he realized Elisa was right about Eleanor’s voice: it suited her, magnifying the physical appeal to staggering proportions. He always watched Miss Universe contests trying to understand why their participants caused nothing more in him than the idle interest of a museum visitor who looks at the exhibits with curiosity but forgets them as soon as they fall out of sight. Now the reason was more evident than ever: it was the same one that made him go to opera, a place where he would try to match the female voices he liked to the images of women he found attractive.
“It is the best thing I could possibly hear from you,” he said, finally emerging from his contemplations.
“I am glad you are not disappointed, for a change.”
“I’m happy,” he assured. “Just happy.”
“Is that what it really feels like after so many years?”
“You have no idea,” he said, sensing the sphere roam inside. “The longer you wait for something you want, the more precious it becomes when you finally get it. Unless you stop wanting it.”
She smiled in a way that would have seemed genuine had her eyes not remained so fixed upon him. He distrusted her more than ever, and yet kept looking at her, unwilling to jeopardize the addicting effects of the sphere by a sudden move.
“A little awkward for a culmination, don’t you think?” Eleanor said finally.
“If you mean the silence, I don’t mind. I believe that most of the best things in the world happen when nobody talks. I wouldn’t call this a culmination either. It’s only an inception.”
“Sounds like you have something else planned.”
“Nothing extraordinary: I simply want to take you out to dinner with my family.”
“Dinner with your family?” Eleanor’s eyes squinted a little.
“With my mother and sister, to be precise. My father is busy at the moment.”
“Sounds interesting, but don’t you suppose I should start preparing for the ceremony tomorrow?”
“You can take care of it when the day comes,” he smiled, uncertain of how to continue. “Listen,” he added, hit by a sudden realization. “Do you still have your graduation dress?”
“I probably do, why?”
“I think that was the best dress you ever wore in your life,” he said earnestly. “Don’t get me wrong: I am not saying that that was a nice dress, or that you looked beautiful in it. When I saw you in that thing I thought “perfect”, and, believe me, I don’t have such thoughts about clothing too often.”
“Even if it is in this house I have no clue where to look.”
“How about you start with your wardrobes?”
“Do you even realize how much clothes I have?”
To his surprise, she uttered these words with no pride whatsoever.
“No, but I know you can find it if you try.”
Eleanor hesitate for a moment.
“Do you really want me to?”
“You can’t even imagine how much.”
“Okay. But no expectations, all right? I’m not sure it’ll fit me even if I do find it.”
“Oh, please!” He exclaimed jokingly. “If there’s one thing you haven’t gained since the last time I saw you that would be weight.”
“You do understand I can say the same about you?”
“It won’t be a compliment,” he returned, and for a couple of seconds they were but smiling at each other.
“You may want to make some more tea,” she said finally. “I have no time estimates for the excavation.”
“Why not? But pray, tell me: where does this horror come from?” He gave the green cup’s handle a flick with his finger.
“I don’t remember, why?” she said, frowning. “There were plenty of other cups in the cupboard.”
“For some reason, and I don’t know why,” he began, watching her reaction. “I think this item belonged to one of the men you dated. Am I right?”
“What exactly do you want?” she said sharply.
“Why did you not get rid of it?” He ignored the tone of her voice. “Or was it he who dumped you?”
Without saying a word, Eleanor turned around and walked out. The very next instance the sphere was gone from his lungs.
He reached for the kettle and switched it on, waiting for the hiss to turn into swirling. When the sound hit the right pitch he silenced it with a quick touch and went through the tea selection again, this time choosing a blend of tropical fruit. As he was filling the cup with water, his eyes fell on the open valise and he remembered the face of the teller at the bank whom he addressed with the cheerful “My good man, would you mind filling these guys with cash? Half a million in each, please.” He wondered what thoughts ran through the teller’s head while he was performing the operation, but whatever the man was thinking about he couldn’t be further from the truth.
Five minutes later Eleanor was still gone, and he could not understand whether the absence was caused by her search, or moodiness. Eleanor’s cup he was drinking from now was smaller than its green counterpart, which was timely due to the disappointing quality of the beverage. Perhaps some milk would have offset the artificial fruity taste of the brew, but finding it in the fridge required standing up. Unwilling to move, he tried the crackers instead. Dry and salty, they reminded him of the times when he used to spend all his pocket money on such delicacies before going to his favorite park where, dodging sweaty joggers and dog-lovers dragged by their pets, he contemplated humanity and what could possibly become of it in the long run.
He was already growing tired of waiting when Eleanor returned.
“Didn’t find it,” she announced. “Wanna see other options?”
“Just tell me the colors,” he asked, cautiously examining his feelings in search of the sphere. It was nowhere identifiable. “Main colors, if there are patterns.”
“Azure, green, dark blue or scarlet.”
“Not scarlet, heaven forbid!” he cried. “Any saturated red slaughters your finesse. Is it also a present from one of your exes?” Eleanor’s face turned into a mask of steel, with her eyes piercing him like two needles. “Tell me better where the emerald comes from.”
“Straight from Paris. It was a Christmas gift from my mom.”
“Good thing you told me. Forget about it.”
“Why?”
“Because I dislike France and everything that comes from it.”
“Did your mother make you go to a French école where some monsieur Toujours hit you with a ruler all day long?”
“She wanted to do that. But I won the battle.”
“She must have been very disappointed.”
“More than you think. But my sister had already been born, so she knew she’d have another try. Two options left, right?” He leaned back on the chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Do you want to choose yourself? This will be fair.”
“What if you’re disappointed?”
“I won’t be, provided we are talking about decent evening dresses.”
“Don’t worry: my garderobe won’t taint your reputation. Now, since you’re giving me such liberties,” Eleanor continued. “I also want to take a shower. And fix my hair. How much time do we have?”
“The reservation is for nine, and it shouldn’t take us more than an hour to get there, so you can decide how late we will be.”
“What about your mother and sister? When are they coming?”
“I’ll call them when we are ready. They are closer to the place anyway.”
“Okay, I’ll try to be quick. Sorry I have to leave you alone again. You don’t want more tea, I presume?”
“No, but I’ll be fine if you let me check out your books.”
“This way.” She invited him to follow her with a move of her hand and stepped into the hallway. He did and soon found himself in a small room with nothing but a wooden table,
an armchair and at least half a dozen bookcases. One glance was enough for him to know a venerable age of the collection: it was betrayed by a complete absence of colored spines.
“I see you practice what you preach, Dr. Nietzsche,” he said with a playful smile. “Wasn’t it you who said one shouldn’t even touch a book if it’s less than a hundred years old?”
“Possibly. I don’t find contemporary literature particularly appealing.”
“That’s because in the past it required a talent to be a writer, while all you need now is marketing. Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?”
“Be my guest. I hope you’ll find something interesting here.”
“I already have.” He cautiously extracted a large fragile-looking volume from one of the shelves. “El Quijote himself. An illustrated one, too! I bet I know the name of the guy who made these drawings…”
“Can you read Spanish?” Eleanor asked suspiciously.
“If there is one good thing about being a cocaine dealer it’s that you can’t avoid picking up that language. But pray, tell me: does this treasure come straight from Spain?”
“No, I got it here. You’ll never guess how much it cost.”
“Let me try.” He began perusing the book’s back cover. “Edición conmemorativa, tercero centenario… I think you paid about ninety nine cents.”
“Richard,” Eleanor said quietly, almost whispering. “How on Earth did you know it?”
“Elementary. You must have gotten it at a sale liquidating the nearest library, and the most common price at such unfairs is ninety nine cents, so that the average consumer wouldn’t think he is overpaying for whatever masterpiece of world literature had the misfortune of falling into his hands. But, had it come out this year, you’d have to fork out at least fifteen bucks.”
“Is this why you became an English major?” Eleanor said suddenly.
“What do you mean by “this”?”
“Literature books are the cheapest. Not to mention that most of them can be borrowed from the library.” Her eyes were shining brighter with every word. “Textbooks for physics, math, chemistry and such are very expensive, but literature can be read even on the Internet.”
“You are astounding!” He looked at her with admiration. “But you missed this one as well. My books were paid for by the college.”
“Why philology, then? Why not physics? Math? Economics, after all? Why did you choose the most idiotic major?”
“How about this: because I like reading?”
“Nonsense,” she said in a peremptory voice. “Come on, you must have thought of what you’d do after college. Or did you want to become a tenured professor until one day your eyes opened and you realized your vocation was cocaine?”
“Why do you care so much?”
“Because your life doesn’t make sense!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Literature and astrophysics, cocaine and tobacco, misanthropy and love…”
“Is it just now that you discovered I am made of contradictions?”
“I just don’t get you, that’s all,” she said, as if giving up on him.
“Well, do you know what I don’t get?” He closed the book and looked into her eyes. “I don’t get how a woman who buys a hundred year old Quijote instead of a brand new Manual for an Aspiring Bitch can sleep with complete morons just because they have rich parents. What did you even talk about with them?”
“What do you talk about with women?” she said spitefully.
“Depends on the woman. But weren’t you going to take a shower? It might be a good idea now.”
Eleanor looked as if deciding how to punish him and walked out of the room. A minute later, after a deafening slam of a bathroom door which reverberated through the entire house, he heard the muffled sound of shower water and sat in the armchair, ready to dive into Cervantes’ imagination.
He was flowing through the text with ease, oblivious to both Eleanor and the impending enterprise. His thoughts were in a Mauritanian jail into which he was thrown by the enemies, and which he had to escape in a frail boat, trying to disregard the fact that the very idea of sailing across an open sea in it was optimistic. He knew the ending of the chapter, and yet kept reading with unabating interest, expecting, if not another glimpse into the wisdom of the masterpiece, another encounter with a beauty that was at stake here. He never paid much attention to fictional heroines, knowing they were inserted in the text for the author’s own good, but when it came to Cervantes he felt he had to pay a tribute to him. The proud old man inspired too many generations of romantically inclined European boys who, their heads full of Spanish Claudias, would relentlessly fall in love with local Maries, Marias and Marthas and try to revive chivalry in their own England, France, Germany, or whatever else.
When Eleanor returned, wearing a dark blue dress and sapphire earrings, he was still reading, looking like a monk immersed in the Bible. For a couple of seconds she stood still, waiting for him to notice her, but, even though he saw her out of the corner of his eye, he did not move, fearing he wouldn’t be able to meet her eyes in the way he wanted.
“I am ready,” she said finally, having grown tired of waiting.
He closed the book and looked at her.
“You sure are,” he said.
He didn’t believe what he saw, but that very fact was the most reliable reality check he could have. In a mere hour, Eleanor had transformed herself from a housewife forced to deal with an uninvited guest into a heroine of a suspense thriller which had to end in at least one horrific death. Judging by how much sharper her facial features shined, she must have put on a lot of makeup, but, had it not been for his sister’s words that suddenly surfaced in his head, it would not even occur to him to seek the roots of Eleanor’s stupendous beauty in artificiality. She looked like an empress preparing to step into the center of attention, her every move showing that she was ready to rule anyone and anything, with or without mercy, and the sphere that duly stirred inside, this time around the solar plexus, reminded him there was only one man who could match this unconquerable image of hers.
“Excellent choice, darling, but isn’t this blue shot with violet?” he asked in mock urgency.
She gave her dress a quick look.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Of course not. Everything is just perfect,” he assured, admiring and adoring both her courage and composure.
“Okay, look, I need to ask you something.” Eleanor’s face became very serious. “My family still has no idea about what’s going on, and…”
“Great. Keep it that way, at least until tomorrow,” he said, getting up and returning the book to the shelf he took it from.
“Do you understand what a daughter’s wedding means for a mother?”
“Whatever that is, yours has already had her share of it with your older sisters. Besides, you’ll divorce me on Monday anyway, won’t you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.’
“You haven’t decided yet! Well, you still have some time.”
Suddenly he realized that he was blinking slower than usually, trying to imprint her image on the backs of his eyelids. Even disappointed, she still looked royal and, much as he tried out of his irresistible perfectionism, he couldn’t spot a single blemish in her appearance, seeing only Perfection incarnated in female flesh and outlined by the smooth contour of blue satin. The dim shine of its glossy surface seemed electrified and, surrendering to the maddening impulse, he stepped toward her, put his palms on her waist and slid them down the sleek slopes of her hips, feeling the heat of her body under the fabric. She stopped his hands at once with hers, but as she did so he leaned forward and, having moved aside a lock of her hair with his nose, kissed her on the lips as gently as if it were a rose bud with petals still bearing drops of morning dew.
“Not now.” She took a step backwards and pushed him away with a palm of her hand. “We’ll be late.”
“I had to do it,” he said with a reconciling smile. “I never
saw you this perfect. And we wouldn’t be. Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss and not an invitation to bed.”
“Not when it comes from you.”
He was still standing close enough to her to smell her perfume, feeling every breath saturate the insatiable sphere that began travelling around his lungs again, until he realized this was the first time he ever kissed her. Baffled by this epiphany, he took an involuntary step backwards, trying to restore his disarrayed thinking, and Eleanor, having caught on to his dismay and possibly sensing its reason, ran her palms over her hips, as if ridding herself of the memory of his touch, and said:
“Can we go please?”
“Give me a moment,” he whispered coarsely and walked to the kitchen.
“Are we taking them with us?” Eleanor asked when he returned with the valises in his hands.
“Yes. Could you do me a favor and grab the green cup? It’s still on the table.”
“What for?” she asked suspiciously.
“I want to get rid of it. That monster is loathsome; I cannot let you have it, you are too exquisite for that.” Eleanor was about to object but he continued. “It’s for your own aesthetic good. Not to mention it is unethical to hang on to a token from your ex if you intend to get married. I will replace it, I promise.”
“You’re so immature,” Eleanor announced.
“No. It’s just that details invite interpretations, and some of them are annoying. Do I really need to grab it myself, though?”
Hesitantly, she obliged his request and they both advanced into the hallway. She paused for a minute, putting on a pair of high-heeled shoes almost matching the shade of her dress and checking herself in the mirror.
“You still can’t accept that your future wife has a bad taste?” Eleanor said, having caught his discontented reflection.
“I’m just irritated with the unfortunate changes that it has undergone. They must have come from your former lovers: those always leave imprints on our lives.”
“So if we’re married long enough I might go for cocaine?”
“I don’t think you’ll get a chance. Besides, you’re too good for that.”
“What do you mean?” Eleanor said, looking almost offended.
