A Million for Eleanor: A Contemporary Story on Love and Money

by Rudoy, Danil

  “Like those you did after college? You are not going to kill her, are you?”

  Elisa’s face remained perfectly angelic even as she said that.

  “Of course not!” he cried with indignation.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ask mother if you don’t believe me.”

  “That’s what I think I’ll do,” Elisa said, rising so elegantly it was hard not to compare her to something aerial. “Is she in the library?”

  “Yes. Go talk to her and then tell me what you decide. How does this sound?”

  “Why do you even need me? You must have already planned everything.”

  “Because you’re an indispensable part of the plan. I want to see you all together. All my favorite women at once. If you don’t come, the picture will be incomplete.”

  “There is nothing worse than that in the whole world.” Elisa sighed. “Okay, give me a few.”

  When her steps became inaudible he left the warm cavity of the armchair and sat on the piano bench. From early childhood he considered musical instruments mathematical machines and sometimes considered finding the formula of music itself, but never tried: not so much because he doubted his scientific skills, but because he didn’t know what he’d do if he found it.

  “Try again,” he whispered to himself closing his eyes. His fingers fell on the keys and he ran them up the octave to the notes he was looking for. “You know it’s not the same when you switch tonalities, even if the pattern remains identical. It just doesn’t make you eyes water, as if going through you instead of touching the...”

  Then this thought was interrupted by an explosion of pain; a wave of asphyxiating nausea crashed on his throat, and the world began to spin like a frenzied helicopter propeller. He automatically opened his eyes, seeing not the room but ugly dark-blue blotches floating in front of it. Next second another wave of nausea followed, throwing him on the floor. He felt so sick he lost track of reality, believing that someone was hammering iron nails into his skull. He just couldn’t understand why his head wouldn’t explode, releasing all the pressure and saving him from this excruciating agony.

  When the pain abated enough for him to realise what was going on his first thought was to get up before Elisa would return, but it was too late. He heard quick steps approach him, and then a warm palm landed on his temples, taking away the pain, nausea and vertigo at once and making him feel almost fine. He cautiously stood up, Elisa propping him on his elbow, and returned to the armchair.

  “Elisa,” he said hoarsely, resembling an emperor who had just recovered from a devastating debauch and prepared to make an earthshaking announcement. “Do you know why one must never find the formula of music?”

  “Because there is no such thing?” Elisa supposed, unsurprised by the question.

  “We don’t know that. But what if it exists and we do find it?”

  “Then everyone will be able to write music, right?”

  “Yes. And how will it affect music at large?”

  “Why should it affect it at all?”

  “Because such a formula will turn composing into an assembly line. And with it, your chances of coming across a good melody will drown in copious and tasteless renditions of every imaginable scale. Not to mention that music could be used for manipulating people.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “Certainly not.” He shook his head. “At any rate, if this formula exists, a genius who could find it will never bother to try, while fools who search for it all the time won’t find anything anyway.”

  “Down with music for now, all right?” Elisa looked into his eyes. “It’s not the first attack this month, is it?”

  “It is, I swear. Everything was fine since August. And even then it was my fault. I spent too much time in the sunshine bareheaded.”

  “You can’t blame the sunshine now.”

  “I’m not going to. I’m just very nervous.”

  “What if you get overwhelmed and end up in a hospital like when we were watching that tennis match and your Russian princess lost?”

  “It was the final of the US Open,” he said discontentedly, unhappy that Elisa brought up the subject. “And had it not been for the netball in that break-point rally, everything could have been different.”

  “But it was what it was. You fainted and spent three days on a drip. Thank God she didn’t see how you were taken away.”

  “Oh, please. The drip wasn’t even necessary. And I am still waiting for your answer.”

  “Well, mother told me everything,” Elisa said, landing on the piano bench. “And I decided you would need me tonight.”

  “So, you agree?”

  “Yes. I am curious to see her.”

  “Or you want to see whether I am right in my attitude? Now you know for sure what I think of her.”

  “Maybe,” Elisa shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t really know, but I know I should go.”

  “In that case you can start getting ready for an unforgettable evening. No rush,” he added, noting the worried look she threw at her watch. “Even if she agrees the dinner won’t start until nine.”

  “It’s quarter past four now,” Elisa announced as if they were already late. “What do you mean by if she agrees? Do you think she won’t?”

  “I don’t know. She remains the only woman outside my family who managed to surprise me more than once.”

  Unwilling to take another minute from his sister, he returned to his study, the only room in the house that could be accessed only by him. He automatically locked the door and came up to a huge walnut desk in the middle of the room. On its green felt top stood two fashionable black leather valises that could suit equally well a travelling attaché or a cocaine courier. He had filled them up the day before, and every time he looked at them they made him evoke the plan he was going to realize, testing it for both necessity and sensibility.

  Having gazed at the valises long enough and come to the same conclusion, he walked up to the window and opened it, letting in a gust of wind that would have gladly picked up some papers from the desk, had its surface not been as clean as a freshly moaned tennis court. A serene October afternoon was nearing its end, and even though the twilight was not to be expected for another hour, the sunshine had already lost its intensity, fading into the sharp blue translucency of the sky. He took several deep breathes through the nose, trying to imbue himself with the subtle scent of fallen foliage, looked at the people walking the street so busily as if theirs were the most important affairs, and shut the window, killing another gust of wind that stormed into the room in search of prey. Then he took a cell-phone from his pocket and dialed a number, looking at the valises again.

  “Good afternoon, my good man,” he said into the phone. “How do you do? Very well, thank you. Do you think you could do me a favor? I am looking to get an iridium ring with a few lines engraved inside… That’s correct, iridium. As pure as you can get. Solid. How about Monday, around seven? Perfect. I will see you there.”

  He put the phone back into the pocket and sat down on the couch, a neat item capable of unfolding itself into a bed of considerable size and acceptable resiliency. He grabbed a thick book in a red worn-out cover from the nearby shelf and tried to read, but every word triggered too many unrelated associations and memories. After a minute of unfruitful struggle he threw the book back on the shelf and lay down. He knew he would not fall asleep, but there was nothing else for him to do until the daylight behind the window would grow grey and the street lamps would turn on their illumination, marking the beginning of the night he had been waiting for for the last nine years of his life.

  ***

  Trying to suppress the nervousness that began tickling his guts as soon as he saw the wanted white two-storey house, he ascended its porch, put the valises down and took a deep breath. For a few moments he was looking at the door as if considering walking straight through it; then he exhaled and pressed the doorbell button which produced a disturbingly lo
w ding. For a minute everything was quiet, but then he heard a slight shuffling of house slippers.

  “Who is there?”

  “A friend of your youth,” he said, knowing she’d recognize his voice. The next moment the door swung open, throwing an avalanche of light into his face. The abrupt change of luminosity hit his eyes like a razor, but when his pupils contracted enough to discern the slim silhouette standing in the doorway he forgot about the pain.

  “Good evening, Eleanor,” he said, savoring her name as if it were a delicacy.

  “Richard? Is that you?”

  “Yes.” He bowed. “How are you?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  There were still no welcoming notes in her voice.

  “I came to visit you.”

  “Oh my god! Are these bags yours? Are you in trouble?”

  “Not that I am aware of. Why, do I look it?”

  “No, you don’t,” she admitted after a quick examination of his white silk suit. “How did you find me?”

  “You have no idea how much one can find out about another person knowing their name. Sorry I didn’t call, I wanted to make a surprise.”

  “Congratulations. You are the last person I expected to see.”

  “Whom did you expect?” he asked with interest.

  “No one. That’s why I have a Taser in my pocket.”

  He reluctantly took his eyes off her face and examined her attire, baggy grey sweatpants which could conceal a machine-gun, and a tight hacky T-shirt emphasizing all the admirable qualities of her bust, surprisingly voluminous for her fragile constitution.

  “Cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket, and the other one’s prepared to shoot,” he sang, waiting for her lips to be touched by the first smile of the night. “Now that I know you’re armed, will you let me in?”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly, frowning, but then something sparked in her eyes and she did smile, looking almost bashful and relaxing a little.

  “All right,” Eleanor said. “Sorry for my lack of hospitality, but you really did take me by surprise.”

  “Let’s make sure it’s a nice one, then,” he said casually, grabbing the valises and stepping inside. Crossing the threshold, he caught the smell of her perfume, a scent unfamiliar to him and sweeter than the one he was so accustomed to he could tell whenever she had just been to the room. She wasn’t the only one who used that blend, but somehow he always sensed if it was her who left the trail.

  “I need to change.” Eleanor slammed the door, interrupting his internal monologue.

  “Do what you have to. I won’t steal anything, I promise.”

  “Then why don’t you go to the kitchen and make yourself a cup of something?” she said, already ascending the flight of stairs.

  “Shall I make something for you?”

  “No,” he heard.

  Valises in his hands, he moved ahead through the hallway and found himself in a spacious kitchen paved with white tile. The first thing he saw there was a huge transparent glass table that was lit so ingeniously it almost dissolved in the air. The other elements of the interior reminded him of the flat he used to consider home for the first seventeen years of his life: there was everything necessary here, but the imposing utilitarian proportions of the stainless sink, black stove, white fridge and multicolored plastic chairs left no room for creativity.

  He shoved the valises under the table, noting how cryptic they looked through the top, filled the kettle with water and searched the cupboards for tea. By the time the water boiled, he had found at least a dozen different boxes and two remarkable cups. One was a horrid pale-green vessel, almost as wide as it was tall; the other was a nice, albeit small, white mug with the name ELEANOR monogrammed in peculiar curls.

  When she returned, some fifteen minutes later, he had already brewed tea in a brushed-steel teapot which he found on the table, filled both cups and completely forgotten what he was just thinking about. She was wearing black velvet trousers and a white blouse which, given his pathological inability to distinguish between the elements of women’s clothing, could have been a skirt or virtually anything else.

  “Did you get bored?” she asked, stopping in the doorway.

  “I did not. Your tea smells fantastic.”

  “Did you make “Venetian Carnival”? Great choice. My mom gets it for me.”

  “It’s convenient that we both like tea. Remember college? The coffee line was always the longest, and the hot water tap was rarely touched at all. We met at that tap at least once a week,” he said without any nostalgia, as if trying to get through the inevitable small talk as soon as possible. Having noticed this, Eleanor stepped into the kitchen and sat down at the opposite end of the table, observing her guest with a temporizing smile and not saying a word. He moved the green cup closer, took a sip from it, looking at her through the steam that was rising up, and said:

  “You didn’t think of me at all over the last five and half years, did you?”

  “Was I the only thing you were thinking about?” she replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Not all the time, but often. And I also missed you, if you can imagine.”

  “Sure. It must have gotten so unbearable in the end that you stopped by on the way from the airport.”

  “Why not to the airport? What if my flight was delayed due to a rainstorm?”

  “Tell me, then: what part of the world is being plagued by such a horrible weather?”

  “This world is full of parts and corners. Pick your favorite one.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Wherever I am at a given moment.”

  “This kitchen,” Eleanor waved her hand, “is not the most amazing place on Earth.”

  “It’s your presence that makes it a paradise.”

  “Sounds just like another one of your compliments.”

  “The first one in many years. Do you question its sincerity, or do you just wish you heard it from someone else? But pray, don’t answer!” he added before her lips parted. “You’ll lie anyway.”

  “Sorry, I forgot I’m hosting Honesty itself. What rare luck!”

  “Deities should be lucky all the time.”

  “You never considered me one.”

  “Because I never gave up the hope to sleep with you.”

  “I’m glad you finally acknowledged it.”

  “I thought I made it clear on the very first day we met. By the way, do you remember it?”

  “The day we met? You reminded me enough times.”

  “Now it’s your time to remind me.”

  “I get it!” Eleanor laughed, her head leaning backwards. “You suffered amnesia, forgetting everything about your life except for me, and now you’re here to find out who you are!”

  “You’re making it dangerous.” He smiled. “You haven’t even touched the tea yet, and you’re already throwing at me the thing I love most about you.”

  “Are you now waiting for me to ask what that thing is?” Eleanor said sharply.

  “Not until after I hear about the day we met.”

  “All right, if that’ll make you happy. I was walking down the road with a bunch of my friends; you were walking up the same road with a bunch of yours. One of your friends knew one of mine, and we all stopped. You looked at me and said you had never seen such translucent eyes or something. We somehow exchanged phone numbers and kept going.”

  “Yes.” He sighed, suppressing the wish to complement the adumbrated story with a few omitted details. “And an hour later you looked me up in the students’ directory and sent me an e-mail inviting to grab lunch together.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember having lunches with you until later.”

  “That’s because I rejected that invitation.”

  “Oh, that’s right! You suggested taking a walk to the hills instead.”

  “I can’t stand canteen dates,” he confessed with a smile.

  “I wasn’t thinking about dates back then.”


  “You thought about them all the time. Just not with me.”

  “I don’t know if you heard about it, but there is such a thing as friendship in this world.”

  “Not between you and me. I loved you too much to have friendly chats with you knowing you are sleeping with someone else.”

  “Are you here to remind me of your feelings? I’m afraid we won’t get too far if you keep singing the same tune,” Eleanor said tiredly.

  “How can I keep from singing?” He laughed. “But don’t worry: this is an interlude. I do have something you’ll find interesting.”

  “You better. There are crackers in this bowl.” Eleanor’s finger pointed at a miniature porcelain article next to the teapot.

  “Tea will suffice. Will you finally join me?”

  “I’m fine for now. So, what is it?”

  “It’s about these guys.” He knocked on the table top with his fingernail.

  “You mean the bags?” Eleanor cast a quick look down.

  “Certainly not the crackers.” He pushed one of the valises from under the table and put it on an empty chair next to her. “Open it.”

  “It has locks.”

  “Twenty O-one on the left, twenty-ten on the right.”

  Eleanor fiddled with the locks that refused to give in at first, but then two clicks heralded the success of the operation. For a moment she stared at the revealed contents as if thinking about everything except for what she saw, then she looked at him and said:

  “What is it?”

  “Money,” he admitted, noting to himself that he had never heard her voice sound so coarsely. “Would you like some tea now?”

  “What money?”

  “One million, if you are wondering about the total count.”

  “Please, Richard, don’t be difficult!” she exclaimed. “Why did you bring it here?”

  “Because it will be yours if you agree to do me a favor.”

  “Favor? What favor? What are you talking about?”

  Now her voice was ice-cold, and he marveled at the ease with which it changed. The diapason of intonations available to her in a conversation was staggering, but he never knew if she herself was aware of what miraculous timbres she came up with. Still wondering, he sustained a theatrical pause, along with her heavy gaze, and delivered his next line with such disarming honesty as if she wanted him to declare something self-evident: