by Rudoy, Danil
“I hope you are not a vegetarian, are you?” Mrs. Charlester inquired. “The fowl courses in this place are scrumptious.”
“I’m not.”
“Can I make a suggestion, then?” Elisa ventured. “Try the Cranberry Turkey. It’s heavenly.”
“It will make her sleepy,” he remarked. “My pick for her is the Sour Cream Quails.”
“What about the Bohemian Pheasant?” Eleanor asked, diligently perusing the menu. “Sounds poetic.”
“They will cook it for so long you’ll forget what you’ve ordered,” said Mrs. Charlester.
“I am really lucky to have come to this place with you. Sounds like you know it inside out.”
“My mother discovered this restaurant a long time ago and loved it ever since. So do I. They keep things that work here and try to change only those that don’t. That light, for instance,” he pointed at the fountain. “The first time I came here it was pink. Then it was green. Then red.”
“I think they finally got it right,” Mrs. Charlester said.
“It certainly is better than anything else, but I’m still not sure it’s optimal.”
“I am tempted to go for the Pineapple Chicken Breasts. Is it any good?” Eleanor said.
“Tender like a kiss of an angel,” he assured. “But please, don’t take French fries with it. It’s for hopeless cases, like the couple sitting two tables away to your right.”
“Who is there?” Mrs. Charlester asked Eleanor. “I don’t want to turn.”
“A man and a woman,” she said, casting a furtive look in the indicated direction. “They aren’t eating yet, though.”
“And what do they look like?”
“Like a mediocre gangster who killed people and a loser actress who doesn’t care where and with whom she spends the night if the guy will pay the bill,” she said, charmingly.
“Excellent!” He gave Eleanor an approving look. “I would add it’s their first time. And, most likely, the last. And here is our good man!” He smiled at a tall dark-haired waiter with a thin moustache who appeared before them.
“Good evening.” The waiter bowed. “Are you ready to make your orders?”
“We are,” his mother responded to his inquiring look.
“Are you?” he asked Eleanor.
“Sure.”
“What can I get for you?” the waiter inquired, producing a little notepad and a pencil.
“Go ahead, darling,” Mrs. Charlester said to Eleanor.
“The Shark Fins’ Soup and the Pineapple Chicken Breasts with rice,” she said. “And a glass of Château Latour, nineteen fifty four.”
“Excellent choice, my dear,” Mrs. Charlester said. “I will take the Shrimp Salad and a glass of pink Dom Perignon.”
“What year would you prefer, madam: nineteen eighty, or nineteen eighty-two?”
“Richard, which one do you think’s better?”
He paused for a second.
“Either is fine,” he said. “The first has more divisors, but it’s easier to make a hundred out of the second.”
“How exactly do you make a hundred out of nineteen eighty-two?” asked Eleanor.
“Can I borrow your pencil?” he asked the waiter.
“Sure,” said the latter, handing him the item in question. He quickly scribbled (1+9)·(8+2)=100 on a napkin and showed it to Eleanor.
“Eighty-two be it,” said Mrs. Charlester with conviction.
“Anything else, Madam?” the waiter said cautiously. “The Shrimp Salad’s portions are rather modest, as far as the quantity is concerned.”
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.” Mrs. Charlester smiled amiably.
“As you wish. What will the Mademoiselle choose?”
Elisa looked at the waiter as if considering answering in French.
“Mushroom fricassee, Greek salad and pineapple juice. No ice, please.”
“Certainly. You, sir?”
“A bowl of noodle soup with yoke, the more yoke the better, a Caesar and a Peking Duck,” he said, astounded by the speed with which the waiter was taking notes. “A bunch of black grapes. Seedless. Cranberry juice. Mix it with carbonated water, half-and-half. Thank you.”
“I bet you and Richard weren’t getting this kind of food at college,” Mrs. Charlester said to Eleanor when the waiter disappeared.
“No, but we didn’t complain either.”
“Some did,” he said. “And she was friends with some of them.”
“I don’t think there was a single friend of mine of whom he approved,” Eleanor said to Mrs. Charlester, feigning a confidential tone.
“They all were quite a homogenous group. Spoiled brats, lazy and useless. Some dreamt to become the president, some dreamt to win the Superbowl. Not much difference otherwise.”
“I’m sure she had other friends,” Mrs. Charlester said. “Didn’t you, dear?”
“That’s what I believe,” Eleanor said. “He could never be persuaded, though. But then again, his taste in people is rare. I’m not even sure he had any friends at college.”
“What makes you think I didn’t?” he said in a surprised tone.
“Because you always ate alone.”
He took a long sip of water from his glass and looked at her bemusedly.
“You know, there are things I shall never understand about people. One of them is their pathological fear of canteen loneliness. Did you ever notice that most friendships among freshmen started on the “who will be my eating buddies?” basis? And those touching phone calls of martyrs left alone before dinner! How desperately they searched for someone who hasn’t eaten yet, so that they wouldn’t have to spend the entire meal pretending they are reading a book. The smartest planned ahead.” Now he was talking to Elisa. “They would make arrangements beforehand, sometimes multiple if they weren’t sure what dining hall they’d end up in. And the funniest thing is that those people had the audacity to consider me a loser. In fact, some of them avoided joining me even if I was the only person in the canteen they knew.”
“Were they afraid of you?” Elisa asked in disbelief.
“Not me. Their friends. Imagine: you belong to a tight circle whose members habitually ridicule the weirdo who always dines at the same place, always alone. Now, what will they think about you if you will be spotted in his company?”
“You don’t want to say you felt comfortable eating alone, do you?” Eleanor asked.
“Comfortable is not the right word. I enjoyed it. Firstly, I appreciated the good food we were fed, and secondly, I love people-watching.”
“Oh, really? Sorry, but to me it sounds like an excuse of someone who had no friends.”
“I had no male friends, true, but you forget about the girls. Even our relationship could be called friendship. At least you never had other words for it. Not to mention that one must feel guilty to look for excuses.”
“Eleanor, I am still thinking about you, though,” Mrs. Charlester said, also taking a sip of water. “There is something I struggle to reconcile. I can’t believe you were real friends with other girls because I know how much they hate beauties like you, while boys look for something different.”
Eleanor was about to answer, but he interjected.
“She was in bad shape. A few girlfriends, mostly from the Theater department, a long trail of athletes, and an occasional big shot’s son. I saw worthy people with her only two or three times, but none could endure the vortex.”
“That was a merciless rendition,” Eleanor said with a sarcastic smile. “Sounded like I had no friends at all.”
“You disagree?” His eyebrows curved up. “In that case tell me, who among those people you are still in touch with?”
“I think you are not doing her justice,” Mrs. Charlester said. “Dear, I apologize if we hurt your feelings. But you are so beautiful I can’t help wondering who you used to spend time with. Even crows like the shiny, and people aren’t much better. I bet you had to deal with a lot of shame and envy. You don’
t have to defend yourself,” she added, noticing that Eleanor was about to speak. “I am saying this like someone who had to go through the same ordeal. But let me tell you: if there is one good thing age does to women, it’s that it lets them choose their parties more wisely.”
“Do you really think I demanded too much from her?” he said to Mrs. Charlester as if she were talking to him. “But even if I did, is it my fault that I didn’t know the things that were obvious to me back then wouldn’t occur to others until forty?”
“Don’t you think you hurried?” It was Eleanor’s turn to interject. “Perhaps you should have waited another fifteen years before ringing my doorbell?”
“One of the inherent beauties of life is that no human can be sure he or she will live even to the next birthday,” he said enchantingly. “Neither am I.”
“When is your Birthday, by the way?”
“Less than half a year after yours.”
“And what’s your astrological sign? Taurus? Gemini? Cancer?”
“If I look like a Taurus that’s because my mother is an Aries. And the Cancer here is Elisa, though it’s not her fault. Be careful, though: she is a keen astrologist, this little sister of mine; she might tell you all sorts of things you wish to hear.”
“Oh, please!” Elisa exclaimed.
“I should be much obliged, but only if they are true.” Eleanor looked at his sister askance. “You must be a Gemini. Elisa, do you care to tell how complimentary Geminis and Aquarii are?”
“It’s a perfect match, for both love and friendship,” Elisa said reluctantly. “They are Air signs and provide ample space for each other in life and conversation. But the Gemini always changes, while the Aquarius is remarkably conservative: that’s the main root of their problems.”
“You die the same you were at birth, but your nature does not always deserve to be cut in stone,” he concluded.
“Neither is yours. And you guys don’t always change to the better.”
“Sometimes we do, don’t we? The trick is to know where to move and dodge bullets along the way.”
Eleanor was ready to come back at this, but the waiter returned, bringing their salads, soups and drinks. Apologizing profusely for the inconvenience he was causing, he quickly arranged the bowls and glasses on the table and disappeared.
“I have a toast,” he said, raising his glass and waiting for the others to pick up theirs. “Let our lives depend on no one but those we love.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Charlester said. “I especially appreciate the brevity.”
“Cheers,” said Eleanor.
All four clinked their glasses and drank.
“Do you think its manufacturer could guess the candles in it would be once substituted by electric bulbs?” he asked Eleanor, having noticed that she was staring at the chandelier above the fountain.
“You shouldn’t have skipped the graduation ball,” she said suddenly. “I know you hated our classmates, but it’d be worth it.”
“That’s a leap. Though I’d be the last one to judge nostalgia. How did you get there?”
“The chandelier,” she said, and he saw the blue shade of her whites become velvet-like. “We had a similar one in the Assembly Hall. See how the petals shake in the draft? I was dancing with a friend of mine... an actual friend, not what you thought,” she added sharply.
“I did not think anything,” he shook his head, drowning in her eyes.
“I swung backwards and I saw it,” she continued, as if talking to herself. “I was right underneath the chandelier and saw how it shook. I thought I could hear the clinking through the music. It hit me, everything at once, all the four years I was leaving behind. I wished for the damn thing to go down on me,” she concluded sadly, looking at her companions as if it were only now that she noticed them.
“I didn’t know you two graduated in the same year,” Elisa said after a pause when Eleanor seemed to have shaken off the mood she was in. “What did you major in?”
“Philosophy,” Eleanor said. “And German.”
“Why did you choose that language?”
“I always liked how it sounded. It seemed to leave no semitones.”
“And who is your favorite philosopher?” Mrs. Charlester inquired.
“Why don’t you try to guess?” he suggested.
“Let me try,” Elisa said. “Doesn’t look like either Kant or Marx…”
“Unless we’re talking about “The Capital”,” he remarked.
“I just hope it isn’t someone like Fichte.” Elisa stared at Eleanor unblinkingly. “No, it can’t be. Leibnitz is also out. Who’s left? Hegel, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche?”
“If we’re considering the main ones,” he said with a smile.
“Then Nietzsche.”
“You got it, dear.” Eleanor laughed. “Bravo.”
“She’s thinking I told you beforehand,” he said, also laughing.
“He didn’t!” Elisa exclaimed. “Eleanor, I swear he didn’t.”
“I believe you!”
“It’s a shame you don’t let her take German,” he addressed Mrs. Charlester, trying his soup. “It’s a great language.”
“She will continue with French,” Mrs. Charlester said in a peremptory tone.
“She is already fluent in it.”
“Still has an accent.”
“Do you not like Germany because of the World Wars?” Eleanor inquired innocently.
“Tell her,” he said cheerfully.
“In October nineteen forty a German bomber destroyed the house of my mother’s parents,” Mrs. Charlester explained. “Their life was never the same afterwards.”
“Imagine,” he said. “Just a minute ago you thought you were going to die, but now the alert is over and you are leaving the shelter. The street was hit by several bombs, and you can smell blood in the air, but what does it matter now that your family is safe? You are full of optimistic thoughts, but when you finally reach the place where your house has always been, you see a heap of ruins. In one moment, everything you possessed becomes nothing. Your dresses? Your books? Your furniture? Forget it. The jewelry? That’s a better call, because you kept it in a heavy malachite box, and even if the box broke its contents had to remain relatively intact… But there is not a chance you’ll find those precious sparks in this mess. The only good news is that you have some time before the alert goes off again.”
“Okay, I did.” Eleanor nodded. “Now what?”
“Now imagine there is a man standing next to you whom you married some eight years ago, who is the father of your little daughter and who loves you. He holds you in his arms and whispers that everything will be alright, that the war will be over, and you’ll live better than ever. You are in deep shock, you can’t say a word as you stare at the grave of your past, and every thought or feeling in you is so painfully sharp that you wish to faint, but can’t.”
“Okay, I did.” Eleanor nodded again.
“Really?” Mrs. Charlester said. “And what are you feeling?”
“Fear and loathing, mostly. Bitterness. Disappointment. Disgust.”
“And now the last detail,” he said, taking another sip from his glass. “You come to work the next day having spent the night in the very shelter you were so happy to leave, and your boss summons you and tells you he knows what has happened to you. He invites you and your daughter to live in his manor in exchange for becoming his mistress. He also tells you that if you deny the offer you will be fired immediately, which means poverty under the circumstances. You ask for a day to think and tell everything to your husband. Sad and somber, he says you are free to do whatever you think is best, and that he will still love you.”
“Is it me who has to decide now?”
“You don’t have to. You already know what my great-grandmother chose.”
“It seems the members of your family always listen to their hearts.”
“It’s true, ” Mrs. Charlester affirmed. “And it never betrayed any of them. I
’m sure Richard didn’t tell you, but there wasn’t a single divorce in the entire history of our dynasty.”
“Don’t you think this tradition will end at some point? Simply based on laws of mathematics?”
“It is possible. But undesirable.”
“Even if the divorce lies entirely on one party’s conscience? Doesn’t it redeem the other?”
“No. The other party has to foresee the possibility. Humans are blessed with the ability to think; marriage is one of the best applications of it.”
“It’s impossible to disagree with you,” he said, smiling.
“Then don’t. Eleanor, how do you like your soup?”
“I haven’t tried it yet,” she admitted apologetically.
“It’s all our fault: we are keeping you busy with our stories,” Mrs. Charlester said. “I have to tell you: I felt uneasy when you ordered it.”
“Why?” Eleanor scooped a spoonful from the bowl and swallowed it. “It tastes fantastic.”
“I used to love the dish myself, but then I learned a horrible fact… I don’t even know if I should tell you while you’re eating.”
“My heart’s already numb, Ella: you may well go ahead.”
“Well, the fins are the only part of the shark that’s edible. That’s why, after they are cut off, the shark is thrown back into the sea.”
Eleanor froze with the spoon almost touching her lips and looked at Mrs. Charlester incredulously. He was scanning her with a most attentive stare but still couldn’t decide whether she was acting. Finally, she dropped the spoon back into the bowl.
“I did not know that.”
“I still recommend you finish your portion,” he said. “Your refusal won’t help the shark.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up!” Mrs. Charlester sighed. “At least not before you’d finish. I’m really sorry! I was shocked just as much when I learned about it myself.”
“It’s all right,” said Eleanor, wiping her lips with a serviette and taking a long sip from her glass.
“At least don’t let this ruin the whole dinner for you. How do you like the wine, by the way?”
“It’s excellent, Ella. Just excellent,” Eleanor said gravely.
