Last Call

On an overcast chilly Saturday in October, Contessa Eleonora moved into the apartment across from mine in Manhattan. At the time, I didn’t know she was a Contessa, just that she arrived with an absurd quantity of belongings and a regal confidence in the way she ordered about the half-dozen people carrying her things into the apartment. I watched through my peephole after being woken by the commotion.

After a few minutes, I returned to bed. Working as an options salesman on Wall Street, I woke at 6:30 a.m. and returned home most nights after 9. My only recreation was an occasional night out drinking with customers, using my own money and hours of sleep that I could never replace.

Having arrived in New York six months previously, I was still curious about everything and everyone.

My apartment was tiny and faced the inner courtyard, a narrow, dark space that would be more properly called a ventilation shaft. Hers faced the street and was three times the size. Curious about my new neighbor, I scrolled through the footage from my Ring camera later that week. While I worked like a dog on Wall Street, my new neighbor went out after 11 a.m. each morning and passed in and out of her door more in one day than I did in a week. She was taller than I had first thought. And always dressed in colorful, fashionable outfits. She had a presence; she never rushed. Even when the elevator took too long, she stood perfectly still, never glancing at her phone as most people do.

Proximity making it probable, we had a chance encounter. One afternoon, without introducing herself, she simply asked, “Could you help me carry this downstairs?” Her gaze dropped to a box in her doorway.

“Sure,” I said, without thinking, and picked it up. It held something surprisingly heavy. I followed her to the elevator, wondering if she had mistaken me for someone else. Holding the heavy box, struggling to maintain my footing, I glanced at her. She looked away. 

“I’m in 9D,” I offered. “New to the building?”

“Yes.” The single syllable carried a European accent. She looked at me. “I’m Eleonora.”

She offered her hand to shake, but mine were occupied with the box. “Welcome to the building!” I said instead.

“What do you do in New York?”

“Options broker.” 'broker' being a euphemism for salesperson.

“Fascinating.” Once outside, she gestured at a black sedan, whose driver rushed over to take the box out of my arms. I took out a business card and pushed it into her hand, just before she and the car departed.

Weeks later, I received a text message from an unknown number.

“Stop by my apartment for a glass of wine at 7 pm? – Contessa Eleonora.”

It confused me. I had several strange coworkers, but none who seemed likely to give themselves the name of Contessa Eleonora. My mind spun trying to figure out who the message was from – ‘Contessa’ would be someone ridiculously high above my social circle in New York, or possibly an OnlyFans user handle. Then I remembered my neighbor. “Happy too."

At seven, I hesitantly knocked on her door, half-expecting a confused, defensive response. I felt immense relief when she opened the door with a welcoming smile.

I entered a realm that bore no resemblance to the world outside. The room looked like a cross between an art gallery and a history museum. She gestured for me to sit on the sofa and pushed a button. BBC News sprang to life on a somewhat modest TV.

“Every night I watch the BBC,” she said and motioned for me to sit on a sofa. As I watched the opening segment about a war someplace, she poured two glasses of red wine before settling in on the opposite end of the sofa.

We watched the news together. She made soft sounds, letting out an occasional “ooh” and “poor things” to images of world disasters and political protests. Her accent was untraceable, almost but not quite Italian. At 8 pm, she stood and said, “Thanks for stopping by,” before going off to rinse the glasses. I was hoping for a second glass. “You can let yourself out.”

As I reached the door, I glanced back. She was watching me with a strange interest. I was halfway out, and it would have been rude to turn around.

I searched the name I saw on the deliveries outside her door: Eleonora di Borromeo. She didn’t have a Facebook account but had a publicist. Photos appeared of her at celebrity-studded charity balls and art gallery openings. Nothing that really explained who she was or what she did in New York.

For the next two weeks, invitations to watch the news with her continued: “To practice English”. Gradually, almost as an afterthought, she began to tell me bits and pieces about things happening in her life. Her dislike of air travel in America. The very talented architect remodelling her family’s apartment building in Tribeca. The way she tipped every attendant at her father’s retirement home on the Upper East Side. Her Italian father (yes, she was Italian) had taken a liking to America at some point in his life, and tried to move their entire family here, and now only he remained.

“Pay extra,” she told me, “and people will help you later.” 

“Why would they?”

“Just think of all the people who go to work and listen to complaints all day. When something good comes up, who are they going to call?”

As if on cue, her mobile rang.

She began to speak in Italian, or perhaps it was French; I couldn’t tell. She had the tone of giving instructions to someone. When she hung up, she turned to me.

“My friend, Rebecca, her mother’s estate fell into her hands, but is in probate at least a year.”

"In probate?"

"She would like to sell options on Maxna Insurance shares. The ones she's inheriting."

Until that moment, I assumed she hadn’t been listening to me at all. Now it was clear she was aware of my job and that, simply for being her friend, I had been given a client. 

That single trade, done at a hefty premium, cemented my career at FNI Options. I was promoted to Sales Director, no longer a lowly Associate.

With the new title came freedom to be out of the office to scout new business. I was no longer chained to my desk. I began joining Eleonora’s lunches and dinners with her friends from every profession and position. I became to be on a first-name basis with many of them. With a crowd, she was gracious, polite, charming, yet kept a certain distance. Parties ended on time; no one stayed past ten, and there were none of the wild late-night outbursts of a typical American gathering.

Despite our age difference (she seemed 10 years older than I), I felt we had become a team. Perhaps even a couple. I decided to ask her - if we were, something. But I needed to find the right moment.

The next evening, we were watching the BBC at the usual time. As I sipped my glass of Barolo, the BBC presenter talked about the war in Ukraine, an earthquake in Venezuela, a political protest in Berlin, struggles of the new Mexican president. The BBC's coverage of all the tragic events of the world was endless. Eleonora sighed, and oohed, and groaned. 

When the presenter moved on to the world weather report was my chance.

“There’s something I’d like to ask you, Eleonora.”

But her gaze remained fixed on the weather map of the Middle East.

“Eleanora?”

On the television, the image shifted.

“Fascinating,” she said of the heavy rains on the African continent, then added, “Help yourself to another glass; the bottle is on the kitchen counter.” 

Wanting to be agreeable, I went to the kitchen, refilled my glass and watched the rest of the news in silence until she told me to let myself out as usual.

The next night, I didn’t receive a text message. At 7 pm, I knocked on her door. No one answered. I sent a text; she didn’t reply. Two days later, I received a brief message: “I’ll contact you in a few days.”

Weeks passed. I checked my Ring camera; there was only one video of her leaving with a carry-on, the day after we had watched the weather report together. Like an expired call option, it appeared our time together might have expired.

While I was waiting to hear from her, her friends, Rebecca, Stephen, Boris, and others continued to contact me, asking if I had heard anything from her, and what gatherings might she have on the calendar. I said I had spoken to her, a small white lie, and she was fine.

Some mentioned about an ex-husband. Some asked about a medical treatment. Boris about a hotel project in Morocco. They treated me as her close confidant, someone who might know things they did not. I remained non-committal. They called again after a week or two. When they did, I shared gossip about people we knew; I began to ask them for small favors under the pretense that it would ‘help Eleonora’, in return I introduced them to interesting people that others had introduced to me. The absence of Eleonora caused my ‘Eleonora network’ to grow. Business deals arrived at my doorstep. I was given 2% of a real estate project (worth more than I could make in a decade of salary) when Boris needed an American name on a public registry to represent an investor in the Middle East. I learned to impress people with little mentions my connections, to give compliments, to not to ask questions except about happy things, just as Eleonora had taught me.

I hoped for one last call from Eleonora. It never came. The final text I receive was an automated notice her number had been disconnected. Her publicist began posting updates of Countessa Eleonora attending events in London and around Europe. 

Months after she left, movers came to carry her belongings away. I watched for her any hint of her presence, but there was none.

I think often of our time together. Intimate, and yet so carefully distant. What I regret most is never asking the only question that mattered: why me?