A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money (9 page)

“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.

“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: