A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money (5 page)

“As you wish,” she said with unexpected tones of resignation.

“
Eleanor
, do you agree to marry me, Richard Charlester, tomorrow at two fifty-two past noon in exchange for one million dollars?” he asked, piercing her with a most penetrating stare he was capable of.

“Can I make sure I understand everything right?” she asked cautiously.

He nodded, still eyeing her.

“You say the million will become mine if I agree to marry you tomorrow at two fifty two p.m.?”

He nodded again.

“And I have the right to divorce you on the very next day, or this coming Monday?”

“Yes.”

“Which will not affect your decision to leave me the money?”

“Correct. The million belongs to me only until you say “yes”.”

“In that case, it doesn’t belong to you anymore,” Eleanor said, smiling bewitchingly. “I agree.”

“Agree to what? You have to be specific,” he demanded.

“Agree to marry you, Richard
Charlester, tomorrow at two fifty two p.m.”

And then he realized Elisa was right about Eleanor’s voice: it
suited
her, magnifying the physical appeal to staggering proportions. He always watched Miss Universe contests trying to understand why their participants caused nothing more in him than the idle interest of a museum visitor who looks at the exhibits with curiosity but forgets them as soon as they fall out of sight. Now the reason was more evident than ever: it was the same one that made him go to opera, a place where he would try to match the female voices he liked to the images of women he found attractive.

“It is the best thing I could possibly hear from you,” he said, finally emerging from his contemplations.

“I am glad you are not disappointed, for a change.”

“I’m happy,” he assured.
“Just happy.”

“Is that what it really feels like after so many years?”

“You have no idea,” he said, sensing the sphere roam inside. “The longer you wait for something you want, the more precious it becomes when you finally get it. Unless you stop wanting it.”

She smiled in a way that would have seemed genuine had her eyes not remained so fixed upon him. He distrusted her more than ever, and
yet kept looking at her, unwilling to jeopardize the addicting effects of the sphere by a sudden move.

“A little awkward for a culmination, don’t you think?” Eleanor said finally.

“If you mean the silence, I don’t mind. I believe that most of the best things in the world happen when nobody talks. I wouldn’t call this a culmination either. It’s only an inception.”

“Sounds like you have something else planned.”

“Nothing extraordinary: I simply want to take you out to dinner with my family.”

“Dinner with your family?”
Eleanor’s eyes squinted a little.

“With my mother and sister, to be precise.
My father is busy at the moment.”

“Sounds interesting, but don’t you suppose I should start preparing for the ceremony tomorrow?”

“You can take care of it when the day comes,” he smiled, uncertain of how to continue. “Listen,” he added, hit by a sudden realization. “Do you still have your graduation dress?”

“I probably do, why?”

“I think that was the best dress you ever wore in your life,” he said earnestly. “Don’t get me wrong: I am not saying that that was a
nice
dress, or that you looked
beautiful
in it. When I saw you in that thing I thought “perfect”, and, believe me, I don’t have such thoughts about clothing too often.”

“Even if it is in this house I have no clue where to look.”

“How about you start with your wardrobes?”

“Do you even realize how much clothes I have?”

To his surprise, she uttered these words with no pride whatsoever.

“No, but I know you can find it if you try.”

Eleanor hesitate for a moment.

“Do you really want me to?”

“You can’t even imagine how much.”

“Okay. But no expectations, all right? I’m not sure it’ll fit me even if I do find it.”

“Oh, please!” He exclaimed jokingly. “If there’s one thing you haven’t gained since the last time I saw you that would be weight.”

“You do understand I can say the same about you?”

“It won’t be a compliment,” he returned, and for a couple of seconds they were but smiling at each other.

“You may want to make some more tea,” she said finally. “I have no time estimates for the excavation.”

“Why not? But pray, tell me: where does this horror come from?” He gave the green cup’s handle a flick with his finger.

“I don’t remember, why?” she said, frowning. “There were plenty of other cups in the cupboard.”

“For some reason, and I don’t know why,” he began, watching her reaction. “I think this item belonged to one of the men you dated. Am I right?”

“What exactly do you want?” she said sharply.

“Why did you not get rid of it?” He ignored the tone of her voice. “Or was it
he
who dumped you?”

Without saying a word, Eleanor turned around and walked out. The very next instance the sphere was gone from his lungs.

He reached for the kettle and switched it on, waiting for the hiss to turn into swirling. When the sound hit the right pitch he silenced it with a quick touch and went through the tea selection again, this time choosing a blend of tropical fruit. As he was filling the cup with water, his eyes fell on the open valise and he remembered the face of the teller at the bank whom he addressed with the cheerful “
My good man, would you mind filling these guys with cash?
Half a million in each, please.
” He wondered what thoughts ran through the teller’s head while he was performing the operation, but whatever the man was thinking about he couldn’t be further from the truth.

Five minutes later Eleanor was still gone, and he could not understand whether the absence was caused by her search, or moodiness. Eleanor’s cup he was drinking from now was smaller than its green counterpart, which was timely due to the disappointing quality of the beverage. Perhaps some milk would have offset the artificial fruity taste of the brew, but finding it in the fridge required standing up. Unwilling
to move, he tried the crackers instead. Dry and salty, they reminded him of the times when he used to spend all his pocket money on such delicacies before going to his favorite park where, dodging sweaty joggers and dog-lovers dragged by their pets, he contemplated humanity and what could possibly become of it in the long run.

He was already growing tired of waiting when Eleanor returned.

“Didn’t find it,” she announced. “Wanna see other options?”

“Just tell me the colors,” he asked, cautiously examining his feelings in search of the sphere. It was nowhere identifiable. “Main colors, if there are patterns.”

“Azure, green, dark blue or scarlet.”

“Not scarlet, heaven forbid!” he cried. “Any saturated red slaughters your finesse. Is it also a present from one of your exes?” Eleanor’s face turned into a mask of steel, with her eyes piercing him like two needles. “Tell me better where the emerald comes from.”

“Straight from Paris. It was a Christmas gift from my mom.”

“Good thing you told me. Forget about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I dislike France and everything that comes from it.”

“Did your mother make you go to a French
école
where some monsieur
Toujours
hit you with a ruler all day long?”

“She wanted to do that. But I won the battle.”

“She must have been very disappointed.”

“More than you think. But my sister had already been born, so she knew she’d have another try. Two options left, right?” He leaned back on the chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Do you want to choose yourself? This will be fair.”

“What if you’re disappointed?”

“I won’t be, provided we are talking about decent evening dresses.”

“Don’t worry: my garderobe won’t taint your reputation. Now, since you’re giving me such liberties,” Eleanor continued. “I also want to take a shower. And fix my hair. How much time do we have?”

“The reservation is for nine, and it shouldn’t take us more than an hour to get there, so you can decide how late we will be.”

“What about your mother and sister? When are they coming?”

“I’ll call them when we are ready. They are closer to the place anyway.”

“Okay, I’ll try to be quick. Sorry I have to leave you alone again. You don’t want more tea, I presume?”

“No, but I’ll be fine if you let me check out your books.”

“This way.” She invited him to follow her with a move of her hand and stepped into the hallway. He did and soon found himself in a small room with nothing but a wooden table, an armchair and at least half a dozen bookcases. One glance was enough for him to know a venerable age of the collection: it was betrayed by a complete absence of colored spines.

“I see you practice what you preach, Dr. Nietzsche,” he said with a playful smile. “Wasn’t it you who said one shouldn’t even
touch a book if it’s less than a hundred years old?”

“Possibly.
I don’t find contemporary literature particularly appealing.”

“That’s because in the past it required a talent to be a writer, while all you need now is marketing. Are you sure you don’t mind me being here?”

“Be my guest. I hope you’ll find something interesting here.”

“I already have.” He cautiously extracted a large fragile-looking volume from one of the shelves. “
El
Quijote
himself. An illustrated one, too! I bet I know the name of the guy who made these drawings…”

“Can you read Spanish?” Eleanor asked suspiciously.

“If there is one good thing about being a cocaine dealer it’s that you can’t avoid picking up that language. But pray, tell me: does this treasure come straight from Spain?”

“No, I got it here. You’ll never guess how much it cost.”

“Let me try.” He began perusing the book’s back cover. “
Edición conmemorativa, tercero centenario
… I think you paid about ninety nine cents.”

“Richard,” Eleanor said quietly, almost whispering. “How on Earth did you know it?”

“Elementary. You must have gotten it at a sale liquidating the nearest library, and the most common price at such
unfairs
is ninety nine cents, so that the average consumer wouldn’t think he is overpaying for whatever masterpiece of world literature had the misfortune of falling into his hands. But, had it come out this year, you’d have to fork out at least fifteen bucks.”

“Is this why you became
an English major?” Eleanor said suddenly.

“What do you mean by “this”?”

“Literature books are the cheapest. Not to mention that most of them can be borrowed from the library.” Her eyes were shining brighter with every word. “Textbooks for physics, math, chemistry and such are very expensive, but literature can be read even on the Internet.”

“You are astounding!” He looked at her with admiration. “But you missed this one as well. My books were paid for by the college.”

“Why philology, then? Why not physics? Math? Economics, after all? Why did you choose the most idiotic major?”

“How about this: because I like reading?”

“Nonsense,” she said in a peremptory voice. “Come on, you must have thought of what you’d do after college. Or did you want to become a tenured professor until one day your eyes opened and you realized your vocation was cocaine?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because your life doesn’t make sense!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Literature and astrophysics, cocaine and tobacco, misanthropy and love…”

“Is it just now that you discovered I am made of contradictions?”

“I just don’t get you, that’s all,” she said, as if giving up on him.

“Well, do you know what
I
don’t get?” He closed the book and looked into her eyes. “I don’t get how a woman who buys a hundred year old
Quijote
instead of a brand new
Manual for an Aspiring Bitch
can sleep with complete morons just because they have rich parents. What did you even talk about with them?”

“What do
you
talk about with women?” she said spitefully.

“Depends on the woman.
But weren’t you going to take a shower? It might be a good idea now.”

Eleanor looked as if deciding how to punish him and walked out of the room. A minute later, after a deafening slam of a bathroom door
which reverberated through the entire house, he heard the muffled sound of shower water and sat in the armchair, ready to dive into Cervantes’ imagination.