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

by Rudoy, Danil

  “What limits?”

  “Intellectual indifference. You really are perfect for me. You have always been so indifferent to me romantically you could lend me all of your intelligence. Your presence made me ponder finest philosophical matters, and I knew I could voice any conclusion without fearing to face your prejudice. Imagine, though, what would others think if they overheard us?”

  “That you should be locked up as soon as possible?”

  “I’m not talking about the facts. People would think they’re reading a novel. No one would believe this conversation happened in real life, yet we never talk otherwise. What would always happen in college when we ate together and had others join us? Those you weren’t involved with, I mean? They all would fall out of the talking within a minute because no one could keep up with us.”

  “Is it really that much of a problem to find someone to talk to?”

  “Depends on what you want to talk about. My disadvantage is that I spend most of the time with people who consider themselves rich. You have no idea how disgusting they are. They all think they are the most precious things that ever happened in the world and won’t realize their worthlessness even on the deathbed. And, on top of everything, they honestly take themselves for good people.”

  “You consider yourself better than they, don’t you?”

  Her voice betrayed sarcasm, but he anticipated the question.

  “Of course. Compare me to a man who killed his wife’s lover. Has he done a bad deed? Absolutely. But is he as bad as a psychopath who kills for fun?”

  “How many people did you kill?” Eleanor said suddenly, this time taking him by surprise.

  “Why? Are you afraid I will kill you?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Don’t you know that I always keep my word even when it is easier not to?” he continued after a little pause. “I have promised the money would become yours upon giving a consent, and it’s yours. I wouldn’t even touch the valises, but your place wasn’t safe, and you’d find them too heavy to carry. Speaking of which: do you know how much a million dollars weighs?”

  “No.”

  “Remember, once we ended up in the same class on macroeconomics? I still don’t understand what we were doing there: a philosopher who read half the European literature in the original, and a philologist whose favorite writer was Plato.”

  “The only thing I remember about it is that I wrote the final exam until three a.m. and still nearly failed it.”

  “I almost did, too, although I was the first one to submit it. Do you recall our professor? You should, he’s your favorite type: a football star back in the day.”

  “Why do you think so? He was fat.”

  “What do you think athletes’ muscles become with age? It’s just the practices that end: the habit to eat twice what your body needs doesn’t. I didn’t like him either. He didn’t give a damn about us and never even tried to hide it. Yet I am glad he asked that question.”

  “He asked us a lot of questions. If you came to class more often you would have noticed it.”

  “It was an eight a.m. class. I saw no reason to get up so early to spend two hours among a bunch of students who were ready to sell anything and anyone to become richer and a professor whose ties physically nauseated me.”

  “Didn’t you want to see me?”

  “I did. That’s why I didn’t drop that class: it was the only one we ever shared.”

  “You know, that’s something I always hated about you,” Eleanor said suddenly. “You start a thought, and don’t carry it through.” She turned her head and was now looking at him. “It is so annoying. Do you know how many times you did it tonight?”

  “Once? Many people told me about it, but I still don’t understand. If a question leads to a series of segues that are as interesting as the answer itself, why not enjoy the ride instead of cutting its loose ends?”

  “Because that’s how people talk.”

  “Let them talk as they please. What I don’t understand is why you are getting annoyed. You don’t even care for the answer.”

  “I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “Just like in that joke: please, continue, I always yawn when I’m thrilled.”

  “What question did he ask?” Eleanor cried. “Richard, I swear to God: I shall explode if you don’t answer!”

  He turned to her and pushed the gas pedal. The engine whose soft murmur was scarcely heard before roared, and she felt her body pressed into the seat.

  “Careful,” she whispered, watching the asphalt run toward her faster and faster. “We’ll crash.”

  For a couple of seconds he admired her radiant ivory profile standing out against the grey leather of the interior. She was as beautiful as a woman could be, and he had to acknowledge it once again.

  “You are more dangerous than seizures,” he said, turning back to the road and slowing down. “It takes one look at you to lose one’s mind. We’d make a terrific sight if we crashed, though: two dead bodies and a new million which would remain intact because the valises are fireproof.”

  “It seems you would rather die than finish what you were saying.”

  “How much does a million dollars weigh? See how insipid it becomes when the suspense is over?”

  “At least we returned to the beginning,” Eleanor said, trying to hide her disappointment.

  “But what was the price?” He laughed. “Now you’re hating me even more, and the question is still unanswered. What surprises me is that you’re not trying to count. It’s not that hard.”

  “Maybe I don’t care?”

  “You will when you have to carry it.”

  “Why don’t you hire a porter for me?”

  “Why don’t you hire one yourself? You can easily afford such trifles now. Though I can tell you from personal experience: there are very few people who can be entrusted with this kind of burden.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?”

  “Not entrusted: you were given it in exchange for a little favor.”

  “A small one, indeed.”

  “Did I ask for something extraordinary? What can be more natural for a woman than getting married?”

  “Doing it premeditatedly.”

  “Speaking of which. How were you going to explain everything to your boyfriend? Or have you already forgotten about him?”

  She turned her head to the right, pretending to stare through the side window.

  “The front view is better,” he said mockingly. She remained silent and motionless as if she hadn’t heard. He didn’t see her face but knew the role she was playing: that if a hurt lady caught up in a stream of recollections, this time flashing before her eyes along the road curb. He regretted she was indulging in it, and yet appreciated the situation because most women could give in to such a state only in complete solitude.

  “You know,” he said a minute later. “That’s what I hate about you.”

  “What?” she said reluctantly, still looking aside.

  “That you will pretend you are hurt whenever you think it gives you an advantage. You smell weakness miraculously, and use it mercilessly. I don’t even know how many times you played this trick on me.”

  “Why would you let me?”

  “Because I loved you! I thought playing by your rules would make you happy. Back then I didn’t know how women worked: I simply wanted you to feel good.”

  “You wanted me to feel good next to you,” she said sharply.

  “Yes,” he agreed, ignoring the dramatic tension in her voice. “If you felt good with others, why couldn’t you feel good with me? When we met the probability of us dating was much higher than that you would sleep with that baseball player… the one who broke his arm climbing a tree to get into his friend’s room. I still can’t believe you slept with that idiot.”

  “Every relationship is a sacrifice; don’t you know?”

  “The question is: what should be sacrificed? Everything but money, of course!” he added hastily. “We kno
w it buys everything but luck, don’t we?”

  “And health.”

  “That’s right. As our friend Schopenhauer says, the stupidest thing one can do is to exchange health for money because happiness depends on the former more than on anything else.”

  “Didn’t you go against this? You could die because of cocaine, and you did it for money.”

  “That’s not the same. Death is the end of suffering: what can be better than that?”

  “Is this a millionaire talking?”

  “A philosopher. See, one must be attached to bodily pleasures to like life, and I never even managed to have sex without contempt.”

  “This must be the downside of excessive spirituality.”

  “Could be. Spirituality is a tricky thing, after all. You can enjoy it on your own, but, when surrounded by people you hate, even the ability to see beauty where everyone else sees nothing doesn’t rescue you. It is the same as to be the only sighted man in a country of the blind: you have all the beauties available to you, and no one to share them with. I’ll tell you a little secret,” he said confidentially. “I don’t think I’d keep living had it not been for my family.”

  “I’ll never believe that!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Even though tomorrow I will become its part.”

  “You’re flattering yourself. Family includes only those who love me, and you aren’t one of them. You can remain silent now, because any attempt to object will be refuted immediately and with extreme cynicism.”

  “That’s something you never lacked,” she said slowly. “That’s why I never loved you.”

  “Lie. And, since you’re saying it just to insult me, I’ll call it dirty. You didn’t love me because I was poor. And you should know I resort to cynicism only if someone sins against the truth.”

  “Is our friend Socrates back?” Eleanor asked venomously. “I thought he was buried in my house.”

  “Thought, or hoped?” he parried. “At any rate, we’re almost there, so I suggest you start excavating the best of you.”

  “And what is it that’s waiting for me? A nuclear attack of Mrs. Mother? I bet she’ll order a steak and eat it like it’s torn from my body.”

  “As you wish,” he said indifferently, diving into his thoughts.

  The rest of the journey took but a few minutes which passed in sepulchral silence. When the car parked, he got out, opened the passenger’s door and offered her a hand. She touched it reluctantly at first, as if afraid it would electrocute her, but then she leaned on it with confidence, sliding outside without giving her dress any chance to wrinkle. He picked up the valises, locked the doors and invited her to follow him.

  They began walking toward a monumental granite edifice with tall Corinthian columns that looked like a public library or a hotel rather than a restaurant, two figures almost dissolving in the Saturday noise of a big city, drifting through the air with such tranquility as if they had an eternity in front of them. It seemed to him the surrounding space along with Eleanor by his side shrank to a dot and disappeared among the neurons of his brain, letting his imagination take over. The grey stones of the pavement, the evasive smell of gas and the wrangle of distant klaxons all seemed as illusory, unreliable and deceptive as a dream from which he was about to wake, and all he wanted was to keep dreaming and remain a prisoner of this blissful thoughtlessness. But when Eleanor’s heels hit the marble stairs leading to the entrance, a loud clatter ensued, hitting his ears like a razor and cancelling every memory of the fleeting serenity he had just enjoyed.

  “Are you afraid it’ll crack?” Eleanor asked, making her every step resound in the air as loudly as possible. “It’d be a disaster: it must have endured so much in its lifetime.”

  “It was already washed away by the rain,” he said, trying to suppress the urge to search for the oblivion lost.

  They ascended the last flight and saw a doorkeeper, a pale old man of intimidating height dressed in an old-fashioned brown double-breasted jacket with tasseled shoulder-straps. He bowed, pulling the door open and revealing a spacious hall resembling a waiting area of a railway station. They stepped inside, and a youthful maitre d’ in a white vest and black trousers grew in front of them, his every move showing there was nothing he wanted more than to please his guests.

  “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

  “You bet,” he said, studying the maitre d’s vest which had the name of the house embroidered on its every button. “Under “Charlester”.”

  “Sir, your party has already arrived. Please follow me into the cloak room – you will be able to leave your luggage there.”

  “We’ll take the valises with us.”

  “In that case I must ask you to open them. Out of precaution, you understand.”

  “Are you serious?” Eleanor exclaimed with indignation.

  “Madam, such are the rules,” said the maitre d’. “I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience.”

  “Before we proceed, I want you to know the stuff’s hers, and I’m just a porter,” he said, winking at the maitre d’. “Although you can consider me guilty by association,” he added, walking up to the receptionist’s desk attended by an old portiere. The man observed him with an expression of professional boredom, but only until the contents of the first valise were revealed. Then he flinched, as if presented with a jar of tarantulas, and looked at Eleanor perplexedly.

  “Would you like us to open the other one as well?” she said charmingly.

  “If that’s okay,” the maitre d’ said in a weak voice.

  “This might be timely: you still haven’t seen what was in the second one. What if I brought you only a half?”

  “You didn’t.” Eleanor sighed. “You never stop half way.”

  He quickly scrolled the locks and opened the second valise.

  “Perhaps you’d like to feel through the batches?” he said to the maitre d’. “In case there is a bomb or poisonous snakes underneath.”

  “This won’t be necessary, sir” the man said, regaining his composure. “Please follow me.”

  The maitre d’ opened a mirror-panelled two-fold door and led them into a large area with some three dozen tables scattered around a tall marble fountain lit by violet lights. He eyed the visitors with great interest, wondering if a single one of them would catch sight of Eleanor or him, but as far as he could tell their passage remained completely unnoticed.

  “There they are,” he exclaimed joyfully, nodding at a table straight ahead. Two ladies were sitting at at, an older and a younger one, and they looked so alike it seemed most logical to assume they were sisters. The older one wore a dark green dress with a surprisingly deep yet perfectly discreet décolleté, while the younger one’s was light blue with no décolleté whatsoever. They were engaged in a conversation, but turned their heads and looked at Eleanor as soon as she neared the table. Her face showed the most amiable smile he had ever seen on it, but he knew she was tense on the inside and ready to improvise.

  “Thank you, my good man,” he said to the maitre d’.

  “Your waiter will be with you momentarily, sir,” the maitre d’ said solemnly. He waited for the man to go away and turned to his family.

  “My dearests! Please allow me, after so many years, to introduce to you Eleanor.”

  Her head shook slightly when she heard her name; then she took a quick breath and said:

  “Mrs. Charlester, Elisa. Good evening. I am delighted to meet you.”

  “Just Ella, my dear,” Mrs. Charlester said, standing up and shaking Eleanor’s hand.

  He looked around once again, hoping to spot an artist among the visitors, someone who wasn’t consuming his late dinner in the company of a dear mistress or a despised wife and could appreciate a handshake between his mother and Eleanor who seemed two goddesses competing for the right to embody Elegance in human flesh. The only two obvious similarities between them were the hair color and the physical appeal, so staggering it seemed to muffle the clatter of cutlery. But he h
ad a clear sensation that they shared another important trait which allowed them to look at each other with such dignified confidence, as if acknowledging their equality. He marvelled at how suave their greeting was and caught himself thinking they looked like they knew they were supposed to meet in this very place, a long time ago, long before he conceived of the idea himself. And then he felt tremendous pity for the people sitting around, bankers, brokers, bosses and whoever else, monotonously devouring their delicacies and destined to miss a spectacular show that was about to begin.

  When their hands parted, Elisa got up.

  “Dear Eleanor,” she said, hugging her. “It’s so nice to see you!”

  “Same here. Richard told me so much about you.”

  “He did?” Elisa sat back down. “He must have praised me a lot, but let me tell you, I don’t deserve half of his praises!”

  “She’s always like that,” he sighed, shoving the valises under the table and inviting Eleanor to take a seat. “Despite all those things she beats me at. But at least she is as modest as our father.”

  “What are those things? Tell me, Elisa.”

  “Let’s start with music,” he said before his sister could open her mouth, taking the last free chair. “Why don’t you tell us about the contest you’re taking part in next week?”

  “It’s just a contest.” Elisa shrugged her shoulders as if unsure of what more to say.

  “Something like a Pulitzer prize for musicians,” he explained.

  “What instrument do you play?”

  “Piano, mostly.”

  “In addition to harp, violin and flute. I didn’t even learn the guitar, and she has the audacity to say she doesn’t deserve my praises!”

  “He is lying,” Elisa said to Eleanor. “He plays the guitar very well.”

  “Really? I never knew that.”

  “That is strange indeed,” said Mrs. Charlester. “There are several serenades he is particularly good at. Didn’t he ever perform those for you?”

  “Mother, you know that those are barcaroles,” he said, studying the menu. “I recommend you start familiarizing yourself with your options,” he added, talking to Eleanor. “The variety is overwhelming.”