A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money

by Rudoy, Danil

  “You can’t dismiss the eternal “what if?” question. You prohibit yourself from doing things you consider bad because you’re afraid that, at the end of it all, someone will weigh all your sins and virtues to determine where to send your soul. And you sure don’t want to go to hell.”

  “Aren’t you worried about that yourself?”

  “No. Religion is a man-made game, and I prefer games whose rules I make myself.”

  “And what are the rules of the game you are playing now?” she said, turning to him.

  “Mirrors are a great invention,” he remarked. “Regardless of how you stand I will simultaneously see both your front and back. Both look great, by the way. My rules are simple. Accept responsibility for your life and the actions you take in it, and be ready to face whatever comes at you as a result.”

  “Still trying to understand how that extends into the metaphysical.”

  “It doesn’t need to. The metaphysical extends into it on its own. See, everyone raised in the good old Christian tradition believes we need a list of commandments to know what’s what. Based on that, religion tells us that punishment and reward will find us in afterlife, which is a trick, a lump of sugar dangling in front of a donkey that pulls the cart. All we have is reality, and that’s what we should work with. You see this person is bad? Not because you don’t like his looks, but because he’s a fiend? Take a gun and shoot him dead, if you can: you won’t punish him, because the dead don’t suffer, but at least you’ll cleanse the world a little. If it’s a rare fiend, he should be tortured to death, not just killed. And those who aren’t fiends but simple criminals should be sent to work in places like uranium mines.”

  “Well, I can understand the mine part,” Eleanor said pensively. “But why torture? It’s not going to change what has been done.”

  “First, as an example for others, and second, to punish the guilty. To hope a criminal will suffer in afterlife is irresponsible: we have to take care of it ourselves. Any action must be followed by an adequate reaction: it’s the famous “treat others as you would like to be treated yourself” principle put on an obligatory basis. This world is anything but fair, and to change the status quo humans need to be taught to behave: it must become a reflex grown into evolution. And the most effective method of taming is stick and carrot.”

  “No questions about the stick. What about the carrot?”

  “The clever, the gifted, the honest, those that are most useful to society, must have everything they need. Such people don’t tend to need much anyway. That’s on the individual basis. The overall carrot will come automatically if the world is properly lashed first.”

  “But who will decide who deserves punishment, and who deserves reward?” Eleanor insisted. “How you do tell a regular fiend from a rare criminal?”

  “That’s not what you’re really asking.You want to know how to tell if someone is a fiend at all. It’s simple. Imagine an action. Any action of a human being, anything that comes to mind. Ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “Now, imagine that every human in the world takes that action at the same time. No more doubts about its value, right?”

  “All right,” Eleanor said reluctantly. “I see how this logic could be used to justify the death penalty. But what about things you did? What if everyone in the world sells cocaine? Will they be regular criminals, or simple fiends?”

  “It depends on how you do it. If you shoot innocent people who are in your way, you’re a fiend. If you shoot dealers whom you catch selling stuff to children, you are not. Why are you even asking me these questions?” he added with annoyance. “Do you still refuse to admit that humans are not created equal? This thought must have been sitting in your head for your whole life, and yet you’re still afraid to accept it.”

  “Why do you think so?” Eleanor asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

  “Because I’m sure you’ve noticed how few people are as beautiful or clever as you. It must be the same “What if?” dilemma. This plague ruined too many gifted people; I can’t let the same happen to you.” He put the valises down and began pacing back and forth. “You like people, don’t you? You must: they give you what you like most: admiration. So, people are precious to you, right?”

  “Of course,” she said cautiously, waiting for him to continue.

  “Let’s compare people to diamonds, then. What happens to the price of diamonds if their quantity increases?”

  “It drops.”

  “Correct. Imagine there is a mountain of seven billion diamonds in front of you, and your task is to sort it out. Soon you will notice that most of them are tiny, dull, crooked and blemished, while some are so bright, clean and iridescent they already resemble brilliants. Why diminish their cost by keeping all the blemished ones if you can get rid of those and let the remaining ones shine as much as they should?”

  “But who will remain, Richard?” Eleanor cried, almost indignantly.

  He stopped at once and looked at her.

  “Artists,” he said as if this word had to be his last. “Those who make the world beautiful. Do you know why I loved selling cocaine? Not only because it was making me rich. I knew that, among all the worthless scumbags who’d waste it on nonsense, there would be people who’d turn it into creativity. Poetry, prose, music, paintings, discoveries: life. I wanted cocaine to become art because the desire to create is the only thing that distinguishes us from animals.”

  “I had a different idea of what cocaine does to people,” Eleanor said.

  “Depends on who it gets into, though I agree it’s not the most creative drug. But let’s come back to our mountain. Let’s say that after the sifting we are left with only seventy million gems, but their glare is undiluted. It’s the people the world stands upon. They are honest and unselfish, and they know that power must benefit the common, not the individual. They don’t resort to violence, and they value artistic self-expression above anything else. Poverty and hunger are unknown to them because there are plenty of resources to satisfy their needs and they are prudent to maintain their population on the same level. Won’t you call their world perfect?”

  “Sure. But don’t you think those that got sifted out will do everything to prove you wrong and prevail simply because of their number?”

  “Who said there’d be democracy for them? It must be deserved, and humans don’t. Would you consider election results valid if you knew that ninety nine percent of the voters were thieves, rapists and murderers? A similar thing happens in our world where the electorate members care only for their pettiness. That’s why nothing will change. And it grieves me deeply to acknowledge my inability to make this world what I want it to be.”

  “Well, I’m sure ninety nine percent of people would have said “Thank God” here,” Eleanor said with a smile. “But I see another problem. Do you really think you would earn a place among the sifted diamonds yourself?”

  “This is my advantage.” He mirrored her smile. “You just don’t know how much I love maximizing profits. Not only I wouldn’t mind sacrificing my life for such a world, I would consider it the highest achievement of mine. Why should I regret not having consciousness if I have transformed reality from the commonplace into the ideal?”

  “You would have no consciousness to know that,” Eleanor reminded.

  “As long as it’s true, it’s fine with me.”

  They stood and looked at each other as if waiting for something, and the silence was disturbed only by the ticking clock. It seemed to him every second left a tiny scratch in his head before dissolving in the air, and, trying to distract himself, he looked at his watch.

  “It’s nine o’clock,” he said amusedly, as if talking to himself.

  “Call, then,” Eleanor said with relief.

  He fished his phone from the pocket and dialed the number.

  “We are ready,” he said into it, looking at Eleanor. Her face betrayed a slight concern, as if she was ready for something but still hoped to avoid it. �
�No, I’ve already taken one. Okay, I’ll take more. See you soon.” He hung up. “That’s it. The ladies shall depart shortly, and I suggest we do the same. Don’t forget the cup.”

  “Are you going to smash it?”

  “We’ll see,” he said, picking up the valises.

  “Wait a minute. I forgot my phone.”

  “Leave it. Tonight you’re mine, no one else’s.”

  Eleanor gave him a reproaching look.

  “You’re such an egoist, Richard! And you always have been.”

  “No, I become such an egoist only once in a lifetime. But I can’t open the door anyway.”

  Eleanor let him out, and he waited for her to lock the door, surprised at how fast she found the right one on the chain that seemed to have every key she used in life. The street was dark and quiet, and the only noise competing with the sound of jazz music flowing from one of the houses down the road was that of the wind dragging piles of fallen leaves.

  “Wanna guess something?” he said when they began moving along a narrow sidewalk to the place where he parked his car.

  “Your games again!” Eleanor said with a sigh of resignation. “What now?”

  “What color is my car?”

  “Black. Or did you make an exception today?”

  “I did. Black is the color I use for work and funerals.”

  “Then it’s white. I must be wrong because a maniac like you would never dress to the car, but I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Even if I tell you it’s my favorite color?”

  “Especially then.”

  “It’s something a maniac like me couldn’t avoid mentioning. Remember, your professor once asked you to housesit for him, and you invited me over? We drank tea and went for a walk. You were telling me why you always wanted to live on the East coast when I showed you a maple tree which shined like it was on fire. Does it click?”

  “No.”

  He laughed and suddenly slowed his pace.

  “What happened?”

  “I just remembered you always told me I walked too fast.”

  “Didn’t you calculate that your three steps are the same as my five?”

  “Three and a half. I’m surprised it stuck in your head.”

  “If you had to jog every time you walked with me you wouldn’t be.”

  “Usually I don’t walk fast unless I am in a hurry. Only if I am excited,” he said guiltily.

  “Listen, it’s easy! If someone is a foot shorter than you, their steps physically can not be as wide! I can’t believe I am the only one who ever told you that. Or did you date only supermodels? Speaking of which: you still didn’t breathe a word of your exes. You told me all about your money, but nothing about your love.”

  “What exactly are you interested in: quantity, or quality?”

  “Both, unless you start to count every romance you had.”

  “What’s your definition of a romance? But I wouldn’t count anyway.”

  “Richard, have you been in a relationship?” Eleanor asked suddenly.

  He remained silent, trying to decide how to answer. In conversations with Eleanor he always told her the truth but never went into details unless she demanded. She never did, so he could afford amusing himself by touching upon the most delicate topics without fearing to be interrogated. But this time was different.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “But only once.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “Then we were no longer together,”

  “Who called it off?”

  “It was a mutual decision.”

  “A complicated relationship, it seems. And who was to blame?”

  “Both.” He was trying to imagine what she was thinking to tailor responses to her thoughts. “Guilt never lies on one person alone. Especially in love affairs.”

  “Sounds like a Christian truth,” Eleanor remarked.

  “A universal one,” he said, suddenly stopping.

  “Is this your car?” Eleanor said in bewilderment, staring at the scarlet Cadillac DTS in front of her.

  “What did you expect?”

  “I actually remembered you telling me your favorite car was Lamborghini.”

  “There is no point driving them in cities: they accelerate too fast and shake to the core on every bump. Besides, I have a soft spot for Cadillacs. They remind me of battle-cruisers.”

  “You granddad was a sea captain?”

  “You nailed it.” He smiled. “Perhaps for the first time.”

  “Surely not. Will you tell me more about it?”

  “You’ll hear enough of my genealogy tonight,” he said, putting the valises down and opening the passenger door for her. “I’m sure my mother will educate you to your heart’s content. Now, can I relieve you of this cup?”

  “Please, don’t smash it in the middle of the street! You’ll be fined.”

  “Fines I can handle.”

  He took the cup, waited for Eleanor to get into the car and closed the door after her. Then he loaded the valises onto the back seat and wandered leisurely to the nearest trash bin. He lifted its lid and, having glanced around with the face of a bored loafer, flung the cup in. The sound that followed tore the air and infuriated every dog in the neighborhood, suggesting the inglorious vessel was reduced to dust. Somewhat deafened, he cautiously closed the lid and returned to the vehicle.

  “Headache?” Eleanor asked sarcastically, watching him extract a transparent plastic tube with white pills from the glove compartment.

  “It’s just so that I wouldn’t have a sudden seizure while driving,” he said indifferently, swallowing one pill and starting the ignition.

  “When did you begin having seizures? Or will you say you always had, and I never knew?”

  “When that dilettante of a sniper took an extra inch to the left and hit my head tangentially instead of pulling a bullet right through the skull,” he replied, adjusting the rear view mirror.

  “A sniper?” Eleanor repeated mechanically. “You’re joking, right?”

  “The easiest way to persuade you is to let you touch the scar on my head,” he said sullenly. “But I am afraid you’re gonna have to take my word for it.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” Eleanor said after a pause.

  “No matter what business you’re in, it’s hard to make millions without making enemies. But those involved in drug traffic are armed better than the average.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Years ago. Good old San Diego times.”

  “Does your mother know where the seizures come from?”

  “Of course. She knows everything about me.”

  “Really?” Eleanor asked suspiciously.

  “At this point we both are so used to her not approving of my behavior it doesn’t matter what exactly I do,” he elucidated.

  “So she knows you paid me money to become your wife?”

  “She was the first person to find out,” he confessed.

  “Can’t wait to see her!”

  “Do you remember the first time you two met? She came visit in our sophomore year. I had not told her what was going on between us, but she knew everything as soon as she saw you. She gave me such a lecture that I didn’t speak to her for months.”

  “Did she tell you what her impressions of me were?” Eleanor asked.

  “She did. And if you had any hopes of winning her disposition you can forget about it. She never liked you to begin with, and now that I’ve given you so much money she likes you even less.”

  “Why, is she in need?”

  “No. But try to understand her motherly feelings. Her silly son gave one million dollars to a girl who slept with every other guy on campus and rejected her son twice. She probably thought I could have made you agree for less,” he added with a sarcastic smile.

  “And what about your sister? Does she also think I am a whore?”

  “I don’t think she made up her mind yet. But I wouldn’t worry about her. Sh
e is very good natured. Throughout her whole life she had only positive opinions about people, even those who didn’t deserve it.”

  “Are all boys after her?”

  “Inevitably,” he said with sadness. “And not in the way I’d like them to. I don’t see them appreciate her: all they care for is that she is hot and driven in a white Mercedes. The teachers are the same, those scoundrels. Just a month ago I had to ask my boys to throw her chemistry teacher down the stairwell in his apartment building. He wanted her to take private lessons from him to “consolidate the material”, as he was putting it.”

  “Poor guy,” she said quietly, looking askance at his face: lit by the headlights of the rare oncoming cars, it remained absolutely impassive.

  “He deserved every stair of it. He was also a bad teacher; he didn’t even know what element has the heaviest atoms.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Of course. After that he started to give my sister lower grades.”

  “Richard, you’re a grotesque misanthrope!”

  “I hate people only because they don’t deserve a better attitude. Give me a republic run by a philosopher, and I will love its every citizen.”

  “What if there are no artists among them? You’re contradicting yourself, Mr. Socrates.”

  “I don’t. Literature and philosophy are two sublimations of the necessity to create. The only difference is the goals they pursue: literature brings beauty into the world, and philosophy tries to make beautiful the world itself.”

  “Why, then, did Plato banish poets from his ideal city?”

  “All he wanted was to get rid of mercenary bastards who composed false praises. In those times poetry was the main type of mass media shaping public opinions as much as television does today. And, as it always happens, the freedom of speech quickly grew into the freedom of lie.”

  She didn’t say anything, and for a while he stared at the road, tapping on the steering wheel.

  “You know, I really missed this,” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Such dialogues. Did you notice we talk just like we always used to?”

  “You do: I simply react.”

  “No, your contribution is greater. You give me inspiration and don’t put any limits on me.”