by Rudoy, Danil
“I think the problem with her is not that she demands appreciation per se” Elisa said. “But too much of it. She is clever, beautiful, knows how to behave and, I’m sure, has a lot of other merits, but she still wants to be considered better than she is. In her defense, I have to say she is not spoiled, which is surprising, given how much attention she must receive from men.”
“I think she believes herself to be as perfect as is humanly possible,” Mrs. Charlester continued, glancing at her daughter with a mixture of discontent and admiration. “Men indulged her so much she seems to have forgotten her beauty is not eternal. She should be fine for another twenty years, but then she’ll start paying the price. And it won’t even come from men: she herself will be disappointed with what she sees in the mirror, and no man, no matter how doting, will make up fot it.”
“You sound like you’re pitying her.”
“I’m just stating the obvious.”
“Whom do you think she’ll marry?”
“Probably a fool who’ll be so afraid to lose her he’ll try to make every day of her life unforgettable. Then she’ll grow tired of him and find herself another one. I really don’t think she’ll go for a man who can match her intellectually, because it will be so much harder for her to control him. But all the same, some twenty years later she’ll be disappointed in all the love choices she made and will begin hating herself for being stupid.”
“Even if she marries a rich man?”
“Do you really expect her to marry a poor one? By the way, Elisa, I am glad you agreed to come. Tonight you saw a perfect example of what a beautiful lady must not be under any circumstances.”
“She’d never be like that.”
“I don’t think so either,” Elisa agreed. “She is such an impeccable hypocrite she must have practiced the art her whole life. And I always hated hypocrisy.”
“Does she play an instrument, by the way?” asked Mrs. Charlester.
“Do nerves count?”
“All the worse. To have such fingers and not play is a crime.”
“I think she never had time for music. She read a lot when she was little, and then she spent most of her time in relationships. You know what just occurred to me? What if she actually took me for an average guy this whole time?”
“Your dessert!” The waiter’s voice almost made him twitch, but the sight of the cup restored all his composure. It was a true masterpiece with an ingeniously curved handle and exquisite engravings around the bottom, and it was as white as he hoped. “Are you satisfied, sir?”
“Quite,” he said, running his index finger over the golden rim at the cup’s top. The clean and high pitch that ensued dissolved his last doubts. “My good man, tell me: where can I find a piano in this hospitable house of yours?”
“Unfortunately we don’t have it anymore. A couple of years ago the owner decided to remove the instrument to increase the number of tables.”
“And, if I may ask, how many of those were crammed in here as a result?”
“Two.”
“Do you know what happened to it? To the piano, I mean?”
“I am not sure, sir, but if I had to guess I’d suppose it was sold.”
“Really, what else do you do with a piano!” he exclaimed jokingly. “Sorry for asking.”
“What are you talking about,” he heard behind his shoulder.
“Pianos.”
“I haven’t seen one yet. Nice cup,” Eleanor said, taking her seat.
“I’m glad you like it. My good man, you can bring the bill, but I would like you to include in it the price of this cup as well.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“I want to keep it. It’s so beautiful I fell in love with it. Tell them I broke it,” he said in a confidential whisper. “And charge thrice the price, so that no one would suspect anything.”
“As you wish.” The waiter hurried away.
“Eleanor, are you sure you don’t want to try this wonder?” Mrs. Charlester pointed at her chocolate cake with the silver spoon. “I got two just in case you’d change your mind.”
“Thank you, Ella, but I can’t.” Eleanor looked ruined as she uttered these words. “Aren’t you afraid to eat chocolate before going to sleep?”
“No.” Mrs. Charlester shook her head.
“I’m so jealous! I wish I could be as slim at your age.”
Mrs. Charlester prepared another impressive piece.
“Quite frankly, I don’t see you having any weight problems.”
“You must have done a lot of sport in your youth.”
“Only ballet, if you consider it one. I always loved being outside, though. Sometimes Elisa and I leave the house in the morning and walk all day long. She even tried to teach me roller-skating, but I can’t do it. I keep thinking it’s for children.”
“I used to love roller-skating when I was a kid,” Eleanor said. “Now I don’t have time for it.”
“Too much work?” he wondered casually, taking another sip. The tea has cooled down to the point when it was no longer scalding but still remained hot, a perfect state for leisure savouring.
“Yes. Sometimes I have so much work I don’t get out even on weekends.”
“The price we pay for the dreams of our childhood. But it can seem exorbitant only if we grew disappointed in them, nicht wahr?”
“By the way, Richard, what did you want to become?” Eleanor said. “I mean, after you realized the speed of light was unbeatable?”
“Who said I ever realized that?” He put his cup down. “You won’t believe.”
“Try me. Just don’t make me guess, all right?”
“You already did. In your study, when I picked Quijote. No memory, right?” he said, catching her puzzled look. “You offered me the third cup of tea, I asked you to take me to your library…”
“Yes, I remember: philology on the Internet.” Suddenly her face fell. “Wait, did you really want to be a professor?”
He dived into the azure of her eyes, not saying a word.
“What a life have you had!” she said almost enviously after a pause.
“An ironic one. And painfully so, too. Why?”
“To me it seems wonderful. Knowledge, money, power, poignancy: there are people who’d kill just for one of these things, and you’ve had them all.”
“You’re missing something,” he said. “Love.”
“But you did love, that’s what you keep telling me ever since I met you.”
“Loving and not being loved back isn’t even ironic,” he said pensively, a grimace of resentment flashing over his face.
“You have been lucky in everything else. What if this is your price?”
He looked at the black leather book the waiter had just put in front of him and felt profound hatred, as if someone flicked a switch in his head. It was on the surface this whole time, all these years he was asking himself why he lived his life, entirely indifferent to everything that made up the worlds of others. The shackles of existence; the disgusting feeling of being betrayed that struck him every time he woke up and persisted until he’d fall back asleep; the spite he felt when momentarily enjoying some trifle of the physicality, scorning himself for what felt to him like stealing… all this burst in him at once, blood rushing to his face and throbbing in every vessel of his head. It was done to him once again, in the very same way he could not stand for its mocking, derogatory arbitrariness; he did not care who or what was standing behind this rule that generously gave him everything except for what he wanted. He simply wished to channel the unbearable pressure inside into his last battle, a battle he was destined to lose just like any other he had, but the one that would finally disqualify his essence from the slavery of existence and let him dissolve in oblivion, the only thing he desired more than Eleanor’s love.
“Richard?” He heard her voice in the distance. “Are you all right?”
Still silent, he looked at the bill, reached for his wallet and stuck a batch of banknotes
into the leather book. Then he leaned on the back of the chair, stretching himself as if he had just woken up, and said:
“Are you all ready to go?”
“Give me a minute,” said Mrs. Charlester, standing up. “Please don’t leave before I return.”
“I’ll join you,” said Elisa.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said when his mother and sister disappeared.
“But your mother...”
“That’s precisely what makes me think we should go. Don’t worry, she won’t be heartbroken,” he added, rising to his feet and extracting the valises from under the table. “Don’t forget the cup.”
He waited for Eleanor to her lips with a serviette and led her to the entrance. There were surprisingly many visitors in the house, but at this late hour they were about to leave. He looked around, trying to spot something worth thinking about, but his eye didn’t catch anything. The brokers had agreed where to move the market, the producers had chosen the future stars, and even the loser actress seemed happy, let alone her macabre cavalier. The world had just arrived at another Sunday, and again, nobody noticed it, but at least no one distracted him from preparing to the last leg of his nine-year long journey.
“Did you enjoy the dinner?” he asked when they left the building and began walking toward the Cadillac.
“I absolutely did. You shouldn’t have tried to scare me. Your mother and sister are so sweet.”
“You haven’t seen my dad. He is the nicest man I know.”
“Is that what you call breeding?”
“Yes, that’s what I call breeding. As opposed to sleeping around with random people.”
“I was talking about marriage.”
“And I am talking about the general principle. Making children is the closest we come to gods; too bad people don’t understand that every child is a universe capable of becoming anything. And what do we see? Wasted potential, and a continuation of the vicious circle that has been around since time immemorial: useless people making children that are doomed to suffer, grow into replicas of their parents and extrapolate their own acquired uselessness in time.”
“Would you prohibit people from procreating?”
“Most people. But not those who live life well and responsibly. The very diamonds we sifted from the pile.”
“But even perfect people can have imperfect children. Didn’t Plato write about it, too?”
“He was making a different point. As a matter of fact, even if my parents had ten other children, each of them would be a success. If you are noble-hearted, clever, beautiful and married to the same kind of person, the only thing that can negatively impact your progeny is random variance. That’s why when I hear about indecent children born to decent families I want to ask their parents what drugs they used to do in their youth.”
“So, you agree drugs are bad, and because of you many people will have defective children?”
“I never said drugs were good. But do you think all the cocaine I sold would have evaporated had I become a professor? The dirtier the business, the better soul should run it. Bad deeds will be done anyway, but the worthy man will minimize the damage.”
“A perfect excuse,” Eleanor said seriously, waiting for him to open the Cadillac’s door for her.”
“Do you remember Katherine?” he asked when the car took off. “The German girl who always wore black to emphasize her blond hair? Once we got into an argument in an ethics class, and those were the words she threw at me when I explained why celebrities have no moral right to complain about paparazzi.”
“I hope similarities between us end there?”
“Did you not like her? You two must have been in love with the same guy.”
“She always thought herself prettier than she was.”
“Well, she was attractive. If I didn’t know you, I would probably even fall for her.”
“You are disappointing me! I can’t think of anything in her that would be worth falling for.”
“What about her hair? You don’t see a color like that too often.”
“I’ll show you. In the nearest supermarket.”
“Do you want to destroy my illusion? You’re cruel, you know that?”
“Did you really believe it was her natural color? It’s not even foolishness, it’s more like shortsightedness.”
“You made me believe beautiful women don’t paint their hair.”
“Beautiful – maybe, but she… Do you remember her nose, that ugly German potato? And her mouth?”
“Her nose was beak-like, true, but dear me, what heavenly inspiration illuminated her face whenever she thought she was right about something!”
“Are you sure you weren’t in love with her? I can forgive the color-blindness, but not the inspiration.”
“Bereft of your love, could I not seek a substitute?” he said jokingly.
“So, you cheated on me? And with whom! With a blond-painted burgher-girl! I am speechless. Are you even sure you came to the right place? Perhaps the million should have been sent to Germany? But then again, the euro’s worth more than the dollar, so you’d have to invest more. Plus airfare… Richard, did you decide to save on your marriage?”
“No. There was only one doorbell I could ring with this kind of deal.”
“How come, did all the others stop working? Speaking of which: how about you finish the story you were telling me earlier?”
“What story?”
“About your relationship. The only one you ever had. For some reason I feel the doorbells worked fine there.”
“You’re damn right,” he said somberly. “Perhaps I even should have used it.”
“Please, treat me! I’m sure you know everything about my private life, but this will be the first time I’ll find out anything about yours!”
“Why do you think I know much about your private life?”
“Because I don’t believe in fortuitous coincidences. You came on the day my boyfriend was out of town, so you must have been spying on me.”
“I wasn’t. I just sent him away,” he said casually.
“What do you mean, you sent him away?”
“I paid someone to throw him an invitation he couldn’t refuse. By the way, did he tell you where he was going?”
“He said he went on a business trip.” Eleanor frowned.
“Oh, that’s not a business trip, I can assure you.” He smiled. “Grill him yourself, though: I don’t want to talk about that man.”
For a minute, Eleanor kept silence, staring in front of her perplexedly.
“All right,” she said, still staring ahead. “But he actually does go on business trips often. Why didn’t you come one of the previous times?”
He sighed sadly.
“I knew you wouldn’t know.”
“Know what?”
He considered half a dozen of possible ways he could answer, but none of them gave him the feeling he was looking for.
“Eleanor, what day is it today?” he said at last.
“Saturday.”
“It’s already Sunday.” He pointed at the trip computer showing a clock. “The twentieth of October, two thousand and ten.” He touched the screen, and it displayed 20/10/2010.
“Why do you have the day before the month?”
“Because I find it as pointless to think about the month before you’ve determined the day as to speak of a decade not knowing what century it belongs to. Now, flip the last two digits. What do you get.”
“Two thousand and one?”
“Yes.” He finally felt the sphere stir in his chest. “October twentieth, two thousand and one is the day we met. The day when we walked the same street, each with our own parties. The day when I knew I wouldn’t be able to love anyone but you. The day that was just the same for you as any other day before or after it.”
She was silent for a very long time, watching the display as if waiting for some hint, but it kept glowing with its soft bluish light, the black digits seeming almos
t three-dimensional.
“Nine years,” she said finally.
“Yes.” He nodded aloofly, absorbed in the incipient sensations. The sphere was gradually growing, now extending itself upward into his throat and applying pressure to his eyes.
“Nine years,” she repeated. “And you’re still terribly fond of your effects.”
“At least you are not calling them cheap.”
“At least you didn’t throw them at me in the beginning. Or did you? Twenty-ten on the right, twenty O-one on the left!” she exclaimed.
He didn’t reply.
“Okay, look: you got it, alright? I am smashed, speechless, stunned, dumbfounded and flabbergasted. I am everything you ever wanted me to be. Seriously,” she added, noticing his ironic smile. “But, now that I am absolutely won, can you indulge me with a story about your ex?”
“Good thing it’s not the money that wins you in the end.” He sighed. “All right, I should tell you anyway. Do you remember, I said my best friend died in San Diego?”
“The one who introduced you to the business? Of course.”
He took a quick pause to gather himself up.
“I killed him.”
“What?” Eleanor looked astonished, but then her face lit up. “Wait, did he…”
“He did.” He gulped a couple of times, but the sudden dryness in his throat persisted. “Best friends do it sometimes.”
“And… did you kill her as well?”
“No. Although I have never been closer to killing a woman. Especially when she screamed he should grab the gun and shoot the freaking hell out of me.”
“You shot him first?”
“No, I slit his throat. I used to carry a cigarette case with a blade in it. Never thought I’d have to use it that way.”
“Was she a fashion model?”
“She actually was.”
“Describe her!”
“I don’t know how to describe women. Very tall, some six foot, slim, shoulder-length blond hair, long face, green eyes, thin lips, fine nose,” he was listing the traits automatically, trying not to think about the whole they made in his imagination. “Are you really getting much from this?”
“Fine nose? An indispensable requirement for a perfect woman,” Eleanor said absentmindedly. “And what did you do with her?”
