A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money (12 page)

“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 almost 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?”

“Tied her up, poured some tequila into her mouth and sent her home. What else could I do?”

“Kill her. Weren’t you afraid she’d tell the police?”

“No. She was smarter than that. Besides, beautiful women shouldn’t be killed. Firstly, beauty is precious. Secondly, a beautiful woman will most likely have beautiful kids. Thirdly, she can become a muse of an artist and make him come up with a masterpiece. This world is too short on the good to deprive it from its last.”

“Why are you so focused on the art? You have nothing to do with it.”

“I am its active consumer. Besides, I feel for the artists who suffer the pains of unrequited love.”

“Don’t you think it’s unfair, though, that they never love actual women?”

“What do you mean?”

“Artists love only what they made up themselves and don’t care for what their muses actually are. And the worst part is that they have the audacity to blame women for not living up to their expectations, even though they never ask to be made into muses to begin with.”

“You’re right,” he nodded with a sad smile. “It must be true. Women don’t want to be muses. All they want is money, and, since our patriarchal society makes it hard for them to earn it, they prefer to obtain it through bed, in whatever form they can.”

“You seem to consider all women whores. I understand, you had a lot of negative experiences, but don’t you think you go too far?”

“I don’t, but even if I did: just an hour ago you yourself were saying how rare it was to meet a good person. The overwhelming majority of people, men or women, are below average, and then you have a small number of our diamonds who balance the world out into a functioning mechanism. Such are the rules of the game, and the only trump we have is our mortality. But that’s precisely what makes life a game in which you cannot lose. No matter what you had to endure, the end will come still, paying for the horrors you suffered with absolute absence.”

“You know that I totally disagree with you, right?”

“I do. But you belong to a rare breed: you can appreciate words even disagreeing with them. Besides, I love you too much to stop: in your presence thoughts compose in my head automatically, and not sharing them would mean leaving them to oblivion. It will happen to me after I die, but as long as I breathe I want to interact with Eternity on more convenient terms.”

“How did you manage without me all these years?” she said without any mockery. “It must have been very hard.”

“At times. Especially when I found myself in situations when I knew we’d both have thought the same.”

“You make me feel bad now. I didn’t think about you much.”

“I’m surprised you did at all. Though I must have been associated with something. Please, don’t tell me it was Socrates. I won’t bear that.”

“I don’t even know.
Maybe… archaeopteryx? I did think about you when I learned what it was, I thought you looked just like it.”

“So, you thought about me in paleontological museums? At least it explains the frequency.”

“I thought of you thinking about college. But that didn’t happen too often.”

“Why not?
Haven’t you accumulated enough pleasurable memories? But what am I talking about, it takes to be bored in the present to think about the past, but how could you be bored with all those publishers and masters of Columbia? Some of them had to be attractive enough to keep you busy.”

“Richard, you’re unbearable.”

“No, it’s your conscience. But if you feel remorse you’re not hopeless. You know, I actually think that, if hell and paradise existed, you’d end up in the better of the two.”

“But that means we’ll never meet in afterlife.”

“You can barely tolerate me in this world, why would you want to see me in the other? But rest assured: the wardens of both heaven and hell would do everything to keep us apart: we’d simply destroy either place if we met there.”

“Do you really think we’re such an ideal couple?” Eleanor said after a pause.

“Yes. Together we’re invincible. We can be only killed, not disproved.”

“Even though I don’t love you?
Don’t you think it undermines our invincibility?”

“Not the intellectual one anyway.
But perhaps you’re right,” he said after a pause. “I must have read too much romantic literature and began thinking like one of its pathetic heroes.”

“And blaming the cruel woman!
Oh, literature!” She exclaimed with a sly smile. “A solace for the author, a moral test for the reader.”

“This one I failed.
Completely.”

“At least you didn’t become one of those who spend their lives juggling words, trying to compose them in such a way that everyone who is patient enough to get to the end of the sentence would understand how right they are about everything.”

“But I still have pity for those scoundrels. Even though you’re right about one thing: if I came to you in the rank of a poet, you’d kick me out before I’d finish reciting the first sonnet dedicated to you.”

“We’re arguing in the end of the trip again. It’s a bad habit.”

“Something tells me we’ll cut it here,” he said, driving into the street where their trip began. “So, my precious,” he added casually when the engine stopped. “Do you think I can count on another cup of tea from you?”

“Why not?”
Eleanor said with a charming smile. “Now I even have a proper cup.”

“In that case you take care of it, and I’ll deal with the luggage.”

A minute later a mysterious couple of shades, the white and the blue, detached from the red Cadillac and swam through the quiet autumnal dark like two spirits watching over the night and guarding the languid calm of the cool air, so thick one could taste it. The pale dots of silver stars twinkled blindly in the impenetrably black sky and seemed to whisper to the wind that rustled over the dusty asphalt. The only missing detail necessary to turn this silent street into a stage was the Moon: she had disappeared from the cosmic dome the night before and was yet unready to remind the indifferent constellations that she was the only faithful satellite of this world, destined to eternal loneliness.

They entered the house and he put the valises on the floor, looking at Eleanor. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to leave the cup; then she placed it on the glass shelf in front of the mirror and met his eyes in the reflection. She was just as
velvetly blue as a few hours ago in the library, but, sliding down the curves of her body with his gaze, he felt nothing but the very disappointment he had expected. He finally got what he used to desire so vehemently, but it didn’t arouse him more than the memories of the girl he lost his virginity to: almost randomly and without much satisfaction, mostly because of the concern that the next opportunity would not come around for a long time. He was about to make love to the woman whose perfection he didn’t doubt for nine years, but, instead of setting him on fire, this realization bounced in his head like an amorphous cloud of fog. He had counted on the sphere to touch him but it only wallowed between his lungs and trachea like a drunk imp who possessed a wrong body and struggled to get out. He collected all his volition trying to shake off the stupor and kiss her, but couldn’t because he knew there wouldn’t be any love in that kiss.

“Are you not well?” Eleanor whispered worriedly, still not turning around. “You’re pale as death.”

Not answering, he stepped toward her and put his hands on her shoulders, his lips lingering over her hair. She turned to face him and put her hand on his chest, her fingers sliding under the jacket’s lapels and making their way to the buttons of his shirt. When she touched his skin he realized he had held his breath for so long he was now suffocating, and inhaled greedily. It helped him. The distracting sensations started to wear off, growing more vague and distant with every moment, while Eleanor herself was consuming more and more of his attention. Her eyes were shining with the very shade of blue that made his heart stop and, inspired by this recollection, he enclosed her in his arms and pressed his lips onto hers.

Without letting him go, Eleanor drew them toward the bedroom, simultaneously releasing herself from her dress like a snake from its skin. When they got there, he took off his clothes in a few resolute movements and - Eleanor still in his arms - fell on the bed covered with a soft squishy comforter. He pressed his body onto hers, surprised at how firm it felt on his skin, and dived into her like into the Mariana Trench, but his feelings remained stale even then. Hot waves of electrified current rushed through his body along with its movements but he was indifferent to them, waiting for Eleanor’s face to be enlightened
with the most profound rapture a mortal woman was capable of. And he was prepared to wait for it as long as it would be necessary, no matter how much more disappointment he would have to endure before that.

***

He opened his eyes as he felt Eleanor slide from the bed, although, judging by the cautiousness of her moves, she tried to avoid disturbing him. A bright morning was slowly waking up behind the window, soft and clear sunrays struggling into the room through the yellow curtain. Its pattern seemed familiar, but he couldn’t understand why until he realized that similar curtains used to hang in his own bedroom, a tiny cubicle where he spent at least five thousand nights.

Eleanor was getting dressed with her back turned to him, and it seemed she was surrounded by a reddish halo shimmering in the room’s twilight. This hypostasis of her was unknown to him, but he couldn’t enjoy it fully because of the treacherous thought about all those men who had woken up just like he did without any understanding of who they spent the night with.