by Louis Begley
Guessed wrong.
Dad, she replied, the syllable stretched into Daaaad, we just can’t, I’m taking a maternity leave from my office—it will have to be unpaid, of course, they only pay for one month—and moving up to Claverack.
Claverack was where she and Jon had bought a house in order to be closer to the senior Rikers’ property, refusing the gift he had offered to make her of his interest in the house in Bridgehampton, the house where she had been brought up.
And what if I scooted up to the city? he asked.
Really, Dad, can you just stop and imagine what’s involved in the move? I haven’t got one moment free.
He noted that she wasn’t inviting him to Claverack.
Yes, she continued, Renata thinks it would be best for me and the baby if I got out of the heat and hassle in the city, and I think she’s right. Jon will come up every weekend, and then he’ll take what’s left of his vacation.
Oh, said Schmidt, and then you’ll come back to have the baby in New York?
I don’t think so. There is a very nice modern hospital in Hudson, just about seven miles away. Low stress, no hassle. They encourage midwives and breast-feeding, which is what I want. You can come to see the baby when we bring him home.
I see, said Schmidt. Very well, thank you for telling me. Good luck. Stay in touch.
Then he did sit down and wished it were later in the day, that the sun were over the yardarm. He needed a drink. Reflecting on his need and the time of day, and the absence of anyone on the premises who might reprove him, he got out the bottle of bourbon from the liquor closet and the quart of milk from the refrigerator and made himself a very tall drink, one-half milk and one-half booze. He allowed it to soothe him. It was too early to call Gil Blackman. He let another half hour pass before trying Gil’s New York office and was told by the secretary that Mr. Blackman was at his country house in Wainscott. She would connect Mr. Schmidt.
The familiar voice cried, Schmidtie, how terrific! Are you in Bridgehampton or are you speaking from Kharkov? If you’re here, would you like to have lunch? The usual? At one?
That’s what I had hoped, Schmidt replied. I’ll see you at one.
The Polish cleaning women were making a racket in the house, running the vacuum cleaner, shouting to one another. Schmidt took a sweater, just in case, and headed for the beach. As often happens in May, when the moon is in the last quarter, the ocean was like a lake, lapping the shore lackadaisically. There was no one else in sight, no footprints on the brilliantly white sand. Schmidt walked fast as far as Gibson Lane, checked his watch, and turned back. He was home by twelve.
The blinking light told him there was a message on the answering machine. Jon Riker’s voice, asking Schmidt to call him at the office. He repeated the telephone number. Quite possibly, Jon was on a peacemaking mission, not a bad idea from any point of view, and, as a practical matter, necessary now that there was going to be a grandchild. Riker came to the telephone at once and said nothing. At a loss for words himself, Schmidt offered his congratulations. Since Riker remained silent, Schmidt told him it was too bad that he had to spend a beautiful May Saturday at the office rather than with his pregnant wife.
That elicited an answer: Can’t be helped, times are bad for the legal profession right now, so we all have to hustle. You should be grateful this doesn’t apply to you; it wouldn’t fit with your established habits.
A stupid and malicious thing to say, Schmidt thought, but he wasn’t about to allow himself to be riled. He said nothing. The silence sank in, and Riker spoke again.
There was a reason for my call, Al. It’s your grandson. What are you going to do for him?
Riker knew very well that Schmidt loathed being called Al. Why was he doing it, and what was it that he wanted? He replied calmly: Can you explain what you mean?
Al, you must know what I mean. Are you going to set up a trust so the kid can sail on his own bottom?
So that’s what it was. The man was a swine.
I see, said Schmidt, and what do you mean by little Myron’s being able to “sail on his own bottom”? Being able to pay his bills? You’re going to charge him room and board and make him pay for his visits to the pediatrician? I hadn’t realized you were broke.
Jesus, Al, don’t play dumb. I’m not talking about room and board or visits to the pediatrician. Have you heard how much nannies cost or preschool or kindergarten or elementary school and high school? I’m not even talking about college and law school or medical school!
I will make myself clearer. Do you earn so little, are you so broke, that you can’t take care of your own family?
Are you trying to be funny? You do know that my parents are hard up. My mother has said that she told you. So I’m helping them. Doing what’s needed.
A hideous weight of fatigue had descended on Schmidt.
Look here, he said, I can’t help wondering which one of you thought up this request—if that’s what it is—your father, your mother, you, or Charlotte, and I guess I don’t much care. You tire me. There is no end to the trouble you make.
Jesus, Al, you’re off the reservation!
Oh yeah? thought Schmidt, where had Jon learned that expression, the favorite locution of the same W & K presiding partner who had booted Jon out of the firm.
Shut up, he told Jon. I’m telling you the truth. Now listen carefully, and if you like make a tape of what I’m saying. One, Charlotte is my daughter and my natural heir. Unless she drives me up the wall—I don’t really care what you and your parents do or say—she will inherit money on my death. I’m not saying all my money; she’s already had a lot. Two, Charlotte’s children will be the natural object of my generosity. I mean just that: natural object of my generosity. I don’t exclude—depending on how you and Charlotte are fixed financially—helping pay for your children’s preschools, schools, and so forth. You forgot to mention summer camps: yes, I’d help even with summer camps. But I won’t be badgered by you or Charlotte into making gifts to little unborn Myron or any other kid you may have that aren’t currently needed and that under the tax laws are murderously expensive. Have you heard about the gift tax? Or the generation-skipping tax? Why should I throw my money out the window to pay unnecessary taxes? When the time comes, I will be generous, but that time isn’t now. As for your helping your parents, that will be part of your financial circumstances I will consider. I am truly sorry about their difficulties. Being a psychoanalyst today and not getting paid can’t be fun.
Thereupon Schmidt hung up. It was the first time he had hung up on a member of his family and one of the exceedingly rare times he had hung up on anyone other than a salesman making cold calls.
“The usual” was O’Henry’s, where at one time Schmidt had felt obliged to evade the attentions of superannuated and misshapen literary widows who regularly lunched there, and where he and Mr. Blackman had accustomed themselves to meeting because the hamburgers and steaks were good and the wine, if they overpaid, met Mr. Blackman’s exacting standards. The great filmmaker was already there, at the table to which his worldwide fame, assisted by Schmidt’s standing as Carrie’s former sugar daddy, entitled them. As though their greeting had been choreographed, each opened his arms to embrace the other. They had not seen each other since before Schmidt’s first April visit to Paris. Mr. Blackman had been filming a television miniseries based on The Scarlet Letter, to be released in the fall. Great to see you!, spoken by them in unison, resonated in the half-empty restaurant. They ordered rapidly.
How did it go? asked Schmidt.
The filming? I’m pleased. I’ve got little Kyra Sedgwick playing Hester. She’s marvelous. Chaste as new snow atop a volcano of passion.
Fabulous! And Dimmesdale?
Sam Waterston. He’s perfect. Great actor and the contrast between him and Kyra is perfect too—it leaves me speechless. I’ll just say it’s exactly what I had hoped for. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Elaine is on a tear about the amount of time I’m spend
ing in L.A. Of course she knows what I’m doing is important and brings in big bucks; of course I’ve told her that she is welcome to join me there, but entre nous that’s a disingenuous offer. I know she hates Southern California and wouldn’t stay more than a week. The truth is that she has a very good sense of smell. She knows I’m not spending all my days on the lot and my evenings planning the next day’s shoot. Her solution is to make my life miserable when I’m there by calling every fifteen minutes in the evening and, when she gets me, by complaining. She says she’s going to invite the Mummy to come and stay!
The Mummy was Gil’s sobriquet for Elaine’s aged, rich, and, to hear him tell it, prodigiously mean mother.
How are you really spending your evenings, you old rascal?
Remember my old flame Katerina?
How could I forget?
Katerina had been Gil’s secretary, a Greek beauty of the sort Cole Porter must have had in mind when he wrote of a two-timing husband that his business is the business that he gives his secretary, who had left Gil for a stockbroker and fellow Greek she met over a holiday in Jamaica.
I can’t either, replied Mr. Blackman, every time I do it with my new girl I think of her. She’s the same type, half Greek and half Italian—a dynamite combination! Guess what her name is!
Venus.
Wrong! Aphrodite. The Greeks carried the day.
And you call her Aphro?
Guess again. No, you’ll never get it: DT.
By Jove! Pardon me, by Zeus!
You wouldn’t believe, she’s so great, and not just in the sack. She has ideas and a point of view, she can talk, and she’s talented, really talented.
A starlet?
No, she’s in production. The plain fact is that I can help her, I can make her career, and she knows it. It will keep her on the straight and narrow. She wants to move to New York, so we can be together more easily once I’ve finished editing.
Is that a good idea? With Elaine’s acute sense of smell? And anyway hadn’t you told me after Katerina that you were going to bury your staff certain fathoms in the earth?
True, true. I am a repeat offender. I love Elaine, and when I don’t give her reasons to get on her high horse she is the best of wives, but when I’m with DT, when I touch her skin, when I have her breasts in my hands, it’s so good that my head spins. What can I tell you? I want her. Every inch of me wants her.
I understand that. And you think you can keep her on a string because of her career? Aren’t you setting yourself up for real trouble?
Mr. Blackman reflected. Real trouble? I don’t think so, because I’m not going to give her a job in my organization. Anyway my organization doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. I’ll help her get in with other people. That may not be very nice, but at least it’s not illegal. The bigger picture? Let’s be realistic. Why would a girl like DT let herself be banged on demand by an old schnook like me? It’s not for my pretty teeth or beautiful eyes or abs of steel. One gives what one has. And what about you?
What’s left at the bottom of this bottle won’t last us while my tale unfolds.
They ordered another bottle of wine, and Schmidt told his story. The story of the first meeting with Alice in Paris and being smitten and having almost at once hit a home run. He withheld what she had told him about Tim Verplanck. It had no bearing on his feelings for her. He continued with the events of the second visit to Paris, and confessed the escapade with Danuta. The rape of Schmidt by an oversexed Pole!
Schmidtie, my dear Schmidtie, heaven is smiling on you! Alice seems made to order. Court her, humor her, don’t crowd her with commitments. She’s got a job she likes, she lives in a fabulous city, don’t ask her to move to your château in Bridgehampton and give up the world. That’s like taking holy orders! She can come here—especially if you pay the airfare—and you can pop over to Paris. You’ll have fun! I’m so happy for you, and I can’t wait to tell Elaine.
Thank you, said Schmidt, that’s exactly the kind of advice I needed. I will follow it. I think I can do it. And what about Danuta? You don’t think that episode means that I’m not really serious about Alice?
My dear old pal, you and I have been made to want to screw. What was it you told me? That you think there will be no Danutas if you get to live with Alice? I think that’s exactly right. But even if some enchanted evening you succumbed to the charms of Danuta’s little sister, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Not if you were very discreet about it and Alice didn’t find out. Do you remember the film I made of Rigoletto years ago?
Of course, great film.
Not half bad. Well, I’m thinking of going back to filming operas. My next project will be Così fan tutte!
They had gotten around to dessert, and since it was late it seemed right to follow the waitress’s recommendation: rhubarb pie. Coffee later.
It’s time for comic relief, said Schmidt. I had a bizarre lunch with Alice and your old pal Popov.
Gil listened to Schmidt’s account and said, Popov, Popov, you’ve always had a thing about him. Such a surprise in the case of the broad-minded, unprejudiced, thoroughly rational Albert Schmidt, Esquire! What have you got against him except that he doesn’t bathe or change his underwear?
That’s only a part of it: you forgot pompous and full of himself. Also: Having Alice set that lunch up on my last day in Paris, when I had hoped to be with her alone, and letting Alice pay for it. And the stuff about having married a member of the high aristocracy! As the kids in the W & K mailroom used to say, give me a break!
Poor Popov! That’s part of the problem: he is poor. The wife—Chantal? Ghislaine? Isabeau? one of those funny names—is the daughter of a duke.
Solange.
That’s right: Solange. She’s the daughter of a duke who is poor and a duchess who has bags of money. It’s lucky that Popov can tap into the money because the care of Solange costs a mint. Of course I’m sure he enjoys having a huge apartment on rue de Lille in the ducal palace and vacations he can spend at the ducal château, and so on, but he’s really hard up. That’s why he and Solange are still together. Money and real estate: that’s what keeps marriages intact, not children. Not that I feel too sorry for him. The last time I saw him, four or five years ago, he told me that he had somebody on the side. Didn’t tell me who, but someone he thinks is pretty great.
And the young duchess? She has no objections?
Who knows? She was paralyzed right after those boys were born. Is it possible to have sex with someone paralyzed from the waist down? I’ve no idea. Maybe it’s fantastic. I’d assume that she thinks it natural that Popov find relief elsewhere.
You’re probably right as always. Now some family news: Charlotte informed me this morning that she’s pregnant, and it’s a boy! He’s due in September!
Fantastic. Congratulations! Wait till I tell Elaine. This news on top of Alice—she’s going to dance a jig.
You are my best and dearest friends. Schmidt’s voice broke. The little boy’s name will be Myron. Same as Jon’s father. That’s OK with me. But let me tell you about my conversation with Jon. Please don’t mention it to Elaine. You understand. I’m stuck with that guy. One day he and Charlotte may start coming here again.
Mr. Blackman listened to the account of the telephone conversation, nodding his head.
It’s awful, he said. Jon is a prick. Come and have dinner with us tonight.
It was close to four by the time Schmidt got home. He tried Alice’s number, on the off chance. There was no answer. Evidently she was in Antibes. Sy wanted to play, and afterward he made it clear he needed a treat.
So did Mr. Schmidt. He was going to take a nap before dinner with Gil and Elaine.
XI
SIX HOURS’ DIFFERENCE. Noon eastern daylight saving time equals GMT + 1:00; noon in Bridgehampton, six in the afternoon in Paris. Schmidt was growing to loathe this calculation, of late repeated too many times each day. He made a log to keep track of his calls. Saturday afternoon around four, ther
efore ten in the evening in Paris, Alice doesn’t answer. Sunday morning at ten, therefore four in the afternoon, still no answer. So she hasn’t returned from Antibes. The same result at one in the afternoon (an effort to catch her before dinner in case she had returned but was going out) and also at midnight. He didn’t dare to call any later, although she had told him that if she is awakened by the telephone and talks to someone, she has no trouble going right back to sleep. That’s the sort of thing people say; it’s not necessarily the truth. The next call was at nine on Monday morning, three in the afternoon Paris time. Partial success. The housekeeper answered and informed Schmidt that Madame was au bureau. At least now he knew that she had returned to Paris and was alive. At noon, six o’clock her time, he called again. No answer. Of course, she was at the office or between the office and Lord knows where.
This exasperating activity could have gone on much longer had it not been for the call of duty. Mike’s invitation to lunch at one had been faxed to Mr. Schmidt while he was at the hotel in Paris and confirmed by the great financier’s secretary by phone that morning, but Mr. Schmidt had not yet shaved, bathed, or otherwise prepared himself. He attended to those tasks and, resisting the temptation to sneak in one more call to Alice, got into his car.
We’ll talk about the Bucharest and Warsaw offices at the board meeting tomorrow, said Mr. Mansour, unless there is something you want to tell me privately or something you want me to think about before the meeting. By the way, I suggest you go up with me by helicopter. Take off at five. I can’t invite you to dinner because I’m having dinner with the governor. The guy’s brain is the size of a pea. He’s the governor of New York, and he likes to eat early! So you’re coming with me?
Schmidt nodded.
First rate. You should stay in the city Tuesday night too and go with me to the ballet. We’ll have dinner afterward with Wendy Whelan. She’s really something. And what a dancer! You’re on?
Of course, with great pleasure.
The arrival of Manuel the houseman, ready to serve lunch, cut off the possibility of continued effusions on the subject of Mike’s thoughtfulness. In most circumstances, Mike believed that food comes first and talk later, and Manuel was serving his employer’s favorite dish, lobster salad, which the latter wolfed down with dollops of additional mayonnaise. You had to hand it to Mike’s chef. The lobster was, as Mary had used to say, sinfully good. So was the wine. The first hunger assuaged, Mr. Mansour wiped his mouth and spoke.