by Rudoy, Danil
“I thought it saddened you a little,” he remarked.
“No, not really,” Eleanor shook her head, as if trying to get rid off the mood she was in. “By the way, why are you not drinking?”
“I never drink alcohol. I don’t like it.”
“Really? A rare attitude.”
“I find it a stupid drug: it makes everyone equally dumb and doesn’t do anything else. Perhaps that’s why people like it.”
“And what’s your favorite drug?”
“Certainly not cocaine, if that’s what you were thinking. I never liked it, although every man must try it once to know what traits of his character to eradicate. Cocaine is a moral test, and I already passed mine.”
“What about LSD?” Eleanor continued. “Wasn’t it really popular on our campus?”
“That one is creativity itself, and should be reserved only for artistic self-expression. I respect its power, but the price for the peak is too high for me. It ends up being less than a zero-sum game,” he explained. “I take the elation for granted, and the depression, on top of everything, deeply hurts my pride.”
“Ecstasy? Meth? Good old weed, after all?”
“Ecstasy is for those who haven’t decided yet what they love most. Meth is out of question because I don’t trust my heart after all it’s been through. And weed never appealed to me because I hate to forget what I was just thinking about.”
“He doesn’t smoke tobacco either!” Eleanor cast a beseeching look at Mrs. Charlester. “But how do you relax?”
“I just relax. I lie in bed, stretch out and let the tension go. And I sleep. That’s my favorite pastime.”
The waiter appeared again, carrying a large tray and a tripod. This time arranging the dishes took him longer, and the pause started to feel like a break, but when he was done the table resembled a work of art, with every plate looking so beautiful it was hard to start eating.
“Could you bring another glass of the champagne?” Mrs. Charlester said.
“And don’t forget about the grapes. How do you like it?” he asked Eleanor who was the first one to overcome the aesthetic appeal of the food in favor of its gastronomic qualities.
“I never tried anything tenderer.”
“Would you like to try the duck?” he said, conjuring with the rice pancakes and several variegated sauces that were served with it. “They know how to make it here.”
“Later, maybe. What about you, Ella? Are you not hungry?”
“A little, but I am waiting for the dessert. That’s when the hell will break loose.
“This is surprising: you look like a woman who takes good care of her health.”
“Desert is no enemy to one’s health. Unlike soda. Did you know that Coke takes off car paint? Imagine what it does to the stomach.”
“I don’t drink it either.”
“In college we’d always have tea,” he said, preparing another piece of the duck. “Would you believe that this American girl did not drink more than eight cups of canteen coffee in all four years she spent there?”
“Are you so sure of that?” Eleanor said.
“Yes. Our coffee was so bad the cooks themselves admitted it. It would take some extreme situation to make you resort to it, something like a late night date, or a macroeconomics final.”
“Eleanor, did you always live in New York?” Elisa asked. “You don’t give the same vibe as the people around here.”
“No. I was born in a small town in Washington State and didn’t come to New England until I graduated from high school. Now I consider it my home, though.”
“You must like it here?”
“Yes. Besides, my parents moved to New York City soon after I got into college. We have a lot of family here and, frankly speaking, I never even understood why they lived on the West Coast for so long.”
“What did you do after you graduated, by the way?” he said.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Eleanor gave him one of her ironic smiles. “Do you really not care?”
“I just thought at some point we’d get there inevitably. And here we are.”
“I worked for a publishing company for two years, then got my Masters at Columbia, and now I am a lawyer.”
“In what field?” Mrs. Charlester demanded.
“Legal immigration.”
“And do you like your job?”
“Quite. I wanted to be a lawyer ever since I remember myself.”
“International law, right?”
He closed his eyes, trying to relive one of the strangest feelings she gifted him when, taking her creative flight a little too far, she betrayed a detail about herself that stuck in his heart like a serrate thorn. It was late afternoon, and the dull autumnal sun broke languidly into the living room of a language house where they were drinking tea with students who stopped by hoping to improve their German. She was doing most of the talking, bathing in the admiration of naive freshmen and trusting sophomores who stared at her in unconcealable awe, probably wishing to express themselves as confidently in their mother tongue as she was in her third language. He did not interfere, only occasionally resolving grammar- and vocabulary-related issues, letting her shine uninterruptedly. God knows how they got to law; perhaps one of the unshaven boys thrusted in this crystal dream of his childhood, empowered by a sudden recollection of a sentence he had meticulously crafted for his essay the night before. She smiled benevolently, knowing the stage was set for her final advance, ready to come on, to conquer, to explode in all her glory and mesmerize her listeners with paradoxes they couldn’t imagine, let alone experience. The matter around him, animated and not, was blending together into a plasmatic whirlpool and, enmeshed in it like a crowning ingredient, was her perfume, this maddening, exhausting scent that made his every breath as heavy as if she were standing on his chest, her hands holding his hollow heart like a cumbersome prize she had never wanted. Suffocation creeping up his throat, his ears flooded with her mellifluous voice, he was caught in an inexplicable, inescapable fit of panic, as if he had to run and knew not where, but only that it would be pointless even if he did. Giving up the hope to come out of this sudden nightmare anything other than desperate for death, he bit his lip, expecting the room to dissolve and reveal the grotesque metaphysical pattern hiding behind and upholding the deceptive decor of reality, when, as if through a thousand years of resentment, dejection and insomnia, he heard her sever the German thread she was binding her audience with and announce in response to an insignificant question:
“Because, my dear, being an international lawyer, I will not have less than a million dollars in my annual paycheck.”
“I thought that was the easiest way to be useful to people,” Eleanor said meanwhile.
“Really? I thought everyone chose law to make money,” Mrs. Charlester remarked.
“I didn’t. I actually wanted to make a change in the world, at least to some extent.”
“The most amazing thing is that she is completely honest right now.” He carefully put his knife and fork on the empty plate and moved it aside. The restoration was complete. The thorn was removed. The memory seemed nothing more than an ephemeral ghost unsure of its own existence. “Although she may not even realize that herself.”
“But are you realizing your good intentions?” Mrs. Charlester said, smiling thankfully to the waiter who brought champagne and grapes.”
“Somewhat. It wasn’t until recently that I understood how idealistic I had always been.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, people want nothing but money, so everything good that happens in the world is only a side effect. Those who genuinely care for others are virtually non-existent, and every time I see a person like that I feel like I am seeing an angel.”
“What a pity you didn’t get to meet with my father!” Elisa exclaimed. “You’d appreciate him immensely! He spent his whole life working with patients who were considered hopeless and saved so many of them. He wouldn’t sleep, woul
dn’t take vacation, he’d ignore his superiors’ orders, he’d do about everything to rescue someone’s life.”
“And the greatest part is that he never got any reward for it,” he said. “Other than profound satisfaction.”
“How come? Isn’t he supposed to be a medical celebrity?”
“No, because he saved only the poor. And the only reward they could give him was to promise never to end up in his hands again.”
“Did he work on a charity basis?”
“Yes, I guess you can say that. The hospital’s officials ignored his liberties because there are only two or three other specialists of his caliber in this country, if not in the whole world, but they treated him like a slave. They probably considered not kicking him out as a favor, but that was all he needed. Every life is precious to him, so as long as he was able to keep saving them he was fine.”
“What’s his specialty?”
“He’s an oncologist,” Mrs. Charlester said.
“That’s about cancer, right? And how did you meet him? I’m sure it was a thrilling story.”
“An Englishwoman marrying an American is always a story,” Mrs. Charlester smiled. “But I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in ours. He came to study to the university I attended as an exchange student, and we fell in love with each other. One day, shortly before his departure, we made a vow that neither of us would marry anyone else so long as the other one lived. I kept mine, and he kept his.”
“But how did you reunite? And why it was you who came to America?”
“Sometimes we joke that our lives were decided by universities. He got into the medical school he dreamt about, and I had no choice but to leave England. For a long time I hoped to bring him home, but I knew he’d never be as happy working anywhere else as he was in the hospital he ended up in after the school. He still works there, by the way.”
“And what’s your occupation, Ella?”
“I was an English teacher. Never became an American one, though.”
“Would you say American students differ from English ones?”
“Immensely,” Mrs. Charlester said. “The English student inherently expects his teacher to be an authority figure. The American one expects nothing but entertainment from her.”
“For some reason I just thought of Pink Floyd,” Eleanor said almost apologetically.
“And I was reminded of Britney Spears.”
“That’s it!” He said suddenly. “I couldn’t remember her name!”
“Another guest for the New Year’s party?” Mrs. Charlester said with discontent. “At least the rabbit-costume will suit her better. The previous one was too skinny for it.”
“You know that’s exactly why I chose it! What’s the point of ordering entertainment if it’s not funny?”
“Do you invite pop-stars to your parties?” Eleanor said in amazement.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“So that the people who know me had another reason to hate me.” He laughed again. “I also find it amusing to watch those stars step down to earth. I never realized how much of their charisma was owed to the camera until I started seeing them face to face.”
“Ella, you can’t really regret having moved to the States, can you?” Eleanor exclaimed. “Where else would your son become a multi-millionaire at such a young age?”
“She has a point,” he said to his mother. “But money has never been important to my family. I am the only exception. And the more I think about it, the more it seems I became one because of you.”
“Why?”
“Before I met you I had always thought it was enough to be outstanding to win the heart of the woman you love. You made me realize one also had to be rich.”
“Don’t you think money corrupted you just as anyone else? It’s so vulgar, to order Britney Spears to a party and dress her as a rabbit.”
“Not if you make her read Shakespeare all night long. You should have seen the guests. I invited every executive of the company and told them about the costume beforehand. Imagine their shock when she started to read about swearing by the moon that monthly changes in her circled orb. It wasn’t Spears, though…”
“How come she agreed? I bet she can’t even read.”
“You’d be surprised. But why wouldn’t she? I pay cash.”
“By the way,” Mrs. Charlester said, as if remembering something important. “Richard: what’s worth more, a pound of gold, or a pound of one hundred dollar bills?”
“The latter,” he replied without pausing to think. “At the current price it takes about sixty five pounds of gold to make a million, and only thirty five pounds of cash. Now you know what you’re in for.” He winked at Eleanor. “If you want real money for the weight, go for californium: over six million per gram. Not a smart investment, though, if you are prone to misplacing things.”
“Now I know your love for numbers is also inherited.” Eleanor smiled at both him and Mrs. Charlester.
“Is this californium then the most expensive matter that exists?” Elisa asked.
“Among the things we know – most likely.”
“What about the dark matter?” Elisa insisted. “Do you think it would be more valuable still?”
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I don’t even know whether or not the Earth would be destroyed if a single gram of it were delivered here.”
“But you sure wouldn’t be afraid to try, hoping for the best!” Eleanor exclaimed. “That is: that everything would instantaneously go to hell.”
“You’re exaggerating. I think the Earth is gorgeous, it’s just the people that spoil the sport.”
“Ella, tell me: has he always been such a misanthrope?” Eleanor asked imploringly.
“I don’t think so.” Mrs. Charlester shook her head. “College changed him a lot. Before that, he was a happy boy who loved science fiction and dreamt to exceed the speed of light.”
“I still dream about it. I haven’t been to Betelgeuse yet.”
“Do you think it’d be worth it?” Eleanor said.
“Yes, simply because there wouldn’t be a single living soul within the nearest six hundred and fifty light years.”
“Would you take me with you?”
“Would you go?” he said, genuinely surprised.
“If that was our last journey – yes.”
“And when would you embark on it?” Mrs. Charlester asked with curiosity.
“She used to want to die at twenty eight,” he said just as Eleanor was about to speak. “But back then her idea of human age must have been different.”
“Twenty eight!” Elisa cried. “You must be joking!”
“No, it’s true.” Eleanor sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t forget. But I don’t think so anymore, obviously.”
“And by how much did you extend the limits?”
“I don’t think we need them at all. We’re busy enough to worry about something Providence will inevitably take care of.”
“Well, that’s certainly true,” he said. “That’s why we shouldn’t get distracted from what’s really important. Such as the dessert.”
“Finally!” Mrs. Charlester smiled. “I thought I’d have to call it myself.”
“I think I’ll pass here.” Eleanor shook her head regretfully. “I’m already full.”
“Darling, you have no idea what chocolate cakes they serve here,” Mrs. Charlester said. “You will not find anything like that even for a million dollars.”
“Some other time, maybe,” Eleanor replied firmly.
“Maybe.” He waved to the waiter. “But tea, I hope, you won’t refuse?”
“I will not,” Eleanor said, looking into his eyes with a remarkably neutral expression.
“What can I get for you?” The waiter inquired, notebook in hand.
“A cup of Earl Grey with whipped cream and two ‘Vienna’s Magic Forests,” Mrs. Charlester said.
“Dandelion tea and the ‘Flying Castles of Spain’,” Elisa sai
d.
“Mint tea, nothing else,” Eleanor said.
“What about you, sir?”
“I’ll take Earl Grey, but please, bring it in the most wonderful cup you have in the house. No faience, no remnants from ruined sets: I need something you wouldn’t be ashamed to serve to the Queen of England. And most importantly: it has to be white, like a virgin’s wedding dress, or the snow at the top of Mount Fuji. Did you write it all down?”
“Sure, sir,” the waiter replied with an imperturbable aspect. “But maybe you’ll still have a look at our today’s…”
“No. I prefer having my desserts in bed.”
The waiter nodded, dextrously collecting the used dishes, and left.
“I thought you’d forget,” Eleanor said.
“I promised.”
“Does he always keep his word?” Eleanor asked Mrs. Charlester.
“As far as I know – yes. Do you, Richard?”
“Once I didn’t,” he said after a surprisingly long contemplation. “Ten years ago I promised to play you your favorite nocturne, but never finished learning it. Is there… is there a piano here?” he asked absentmindedly.
“There must be. And I know who you should ask about it.”
“I beg your pardon, I must leave you for a minute,” Eleanor said, wiping her lips. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she added as if waiting for the other ladies to join her.”
“Over there.” He indicated the right direction with his hand and watched her make her way among the tables, wondering if anyone would notice her passage. No one did, and when she disappeared behind the fountain he sighed and said in a sad voice:
“Much as I hate to talk about people behind their backs, I have no choice. So, my dears, what do you think of Eleanor?”
“I was afraid you’d ask!” Mrs. Charlester smiled.
“I wasn’t,” Elisa said seriously.
“I am all ears.”
“On the one hand, she is exactly what I expected, but on the other she managed to surprise me,” said Mrs. Charlester.
“What did you expect, and what was surprising?”
“From what I remembered of her, I expected a self-assured coquette demanding appreciation from everyone. And I saw that. What took me by surprise is how clever she is, and how well she disguises her true colors.”
