A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money (8 page)

“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 had 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.”

“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.”