by Louis Begley
To what do I owe my luck? Schmidt asked after they’d sat down at table. Where is Elaine?
In San Francisco with the Mummy. The Mummy isn’t feeling well, and Elaine is suddenly worried about the Mummy’s gold being bestowed on a cat and dog hospital rather than her. Hence the paroxysm of filial attentiveness.
I see. How wise she is! The temptation to disinherit can be powerful.
You’re preaching to the converted, Schmidtie. Napoléon’s worst crime was to write into his code children’s rights of inheritance.
And why are you here? Is The Scarlet Letter now a miniseries?
Unfortunately, yes. Now I’ve got to figure out how to get DT moved to New York. I’m working on it.
Gil, said Schmidt, I’ve gotten you here on false pretenses. I would have liked to have a jolly dinner, and perhaps in the end we will have one, but first I must tell you about Charlotte. He recounted the disastrous failure of the emergency room doctor to stop the bleeding, the D & C that hadn’t worked, the hysterectomy.
Physical gestures of affection between Mr. Blackman and Schmidt were rare. This time, however, he got up and gave Schmidt a hug.
Taking his seat again, he said, you know, these days it’s very common that couples for one reason or another are unable to have children. They adjust. Charlotte and Jon are young. Money isn’t a problem. Probably they’ll adopt.
I’m sure you’re right, answered Schmidt. Thank you! But that isn’t all. His resolve didn’t hold; once again, he couldn’t help himself. He told Gil about the scenes Charlotte had made and the slurs and insults, omitting only the bits related to little Albert. The implications for the baby, and for Carrie and her marriage, were too grave. He couldn’t take the risk. But he recounted the horrid conversations with Jon Riker and his mother. They’re monsters, he said, dangerous evil monsters.
Mr. Blackman remained silent for a long time. Finally, having emptied his wineglass and motioned for the waitress to bring another bottle, he shook his head and said, Yes, they are manipulative monsters, and Charlotte is weaker than I would have imagined. I think that’s how you had better think of her: weak and easily influenced. If she weren’t under their thumb, she would realize that no one is more generous with money than you. She’d also see that her husband has a double agenda: he wants to get your money or very strong assurances that it will be coming his way eventually, but that’s not enough. He also needs to force you to give it; the money alone isn’t enough: he wants to humiliate you. Of course, you’ve played into their hands, my poor dear friend, by letting the Rikers see that you’re a closet anti-Semite.
How can you Gil! Schmidt cried out.
I can because it’s true.
Hearing those words rocked Schmidt. A clear echo of Charlotte’s rebuke. Were they all in league?
Have you forgotten, Mr. Blackman continued, how awful you felt about having Jon the Jew become your son-in-law? If you think it didn’t show, you’re wrong. Jon wouldn’t have missed the signals. Or the song and dance about your going to a Thanksgiving meal at the parents’ house? I can assure you they haven’t forgotten. And those are only the two examples I remember. There must have been others. A kind of leitmotif.
I had my reasons to be unhappy about having Jon first live with my daughter and then marry her that had nothing to do with his being Jewish. Among them was my hope that she would find someone quite simply better, more gentle, and with broader interests. How silly that seems today! Unfortunately, subsequent events have shown that I was right about him. He has behaved disgracefully. His relentless attempts to antagonize and humiliate me are the least of it. You yourself just put your finger on that charming proclivity of his!
That’s all true. But you gave them a little opening through which they have driven one truck after another! Forget—no, don’t forget—what I’ve told you about anti-Semitism. Just don’t let yourself get tripped up by it again. I know you’re harmless, and your heart is in the right place, but I’ve known you practically all my life, and you’re like a brother to me. But it suits those people to cast you as a bigot. Don’t give them more ammunition, and leave them alone. All the Rikers, Charlotte included. Life has countless surprises in store for each of us, some bad or worse, and some good. One of them could work a change in your favor. Charlotte may yet come back and start acting more or less like a daughter.
You’re right, said Schmidt. Anyway, I don’t see what else I can do.
Apropos of nothing, said Mr. Blackman, or possibly apropos of DT, I am thinking of doing something—a feature film—based on Joe Canning’s new book, The Serpent. Have you read it?
Schmidt shook his head.
I thought you wouldn’t have. So I brought a copy for you. Read it if you have a chance.
The next morning Schmidt telephoned Alice, at the office. The need to speak with her was almost physical; it prevented him from concentrating on the simplest routine tasks. She was at her desk, the operator told him. A moment later, she was on the line.
Alice, he said, this sad business at the hospital has been stabilized. Charlotte will be discharged tomorrow. She’s going home. I want and need to see you. I can be in Paris the day after tomorrow. I can stay the whole weekend, until Monday morning. We can drive to some nice place in the country if you’d like to get away from Paris. Or if you’d rather we could meet somewhere else—in London or Madrid. I have to be in the office most of next week. So if this weekend doesn’t suit you I could come the weekend after, the weekend of the twenty-third. Please say yes to one or the other or better yet to both!
There was a silence. He supposed that she was looking at her pocket calendar. When she spoke, she said that there were so many complications, too many to enumerate, some involving her father and some connected with the office. Could she call him back? At one o’clock his time? Or later, for instance at six in the evening? She was going out to dinner, but she’d go home first to change.
At one please, said Schmidt. I am hungry and thirsty for you.
It was half past one when she called. Something had come up. She was sorry, neither the coming weekend nor the weekend after was possible. Again she cited the complications, all sorts of complications, too boring to discuss. But in the offing there was planned a business trip to the United States that might or might not come off.
Really! Schmidt exclaimed, then come to see me!
Schmidtie, I adore you, she said. Try to remember how hard Mary had to work at her job, and she had such a track record, so much clout! I have to prove myself at every step. If the trip does take place, it will be all business. I can’t imagine being able to get away, but if it turns out that I can, I will. You will be there anyway, won’t you?
This is awful, thought Schmidt. If I were still at college, and she some Radcliffe girl I was pursuing, I would have to say that she’s giving me the runaround. But we’re grown-ups! We have made love. She shrieked when she came, with such abandon, her face wild and joyful. How can this be?
Alice, he told her, every day I am more convinced that what I feel for you is love. Not puppy love, but a man’s love, a grown man’s love: the real thing. I’ve been going through a very tough time. I need to be in your arms. Please find some days—what am I saying, one day!—when you can see me, and I will meet you wherever you like.
Schmidtie, I adore you, she repeated. It’s not so simple. Let’s talk, but not now. You’ll be around, won’t you? All I can do now is send you kisses, bushels and bushels.
There was some Gruyère in the refrigerator, as well as a baguette left over from the past weekend. He ate them voraciously, bread in one hand, cheese in the other. Still hungry, he found a chunk of Hungarian salami and ate that too, not bothering to peel the skin. Making coffee was a bother. He washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth, and went outside. All was quiet in the pool house, but Carrie’s little convertible was in the driveway. She was almost certainly at home.
May I come in? he cried softly so as not to wake the baby.
Just as softly, she answered, Yes.
She was at the kitchen table, the New York Times spread out before her.
Hi, he said. How’s young Albert?
Sleeping, she whispered. It’s about time! He drank me dry.
Smart kid, Schmidt whispered back. It’s such a gorgeous afternoon. Wouldn’t you like to take a dip? Afterward you can run your errands. I’ll stay here and babysit my namesake.
XV
IT WAS TEENAGE BEHAVIOR, really, but the next morning he decided that he wouldn’t call Alice. She had said, Let’s talk, but not now; she had his telephone number; she knew he had an answering machine and listened to messages; and anyway he would be home most of the day. Let her call. He too could play hard to get. He didn’t ask himself how long the game was to go on, but the probable answer, as long as he could hold out, meant this was likely to be a short match. Soon after breakfast he did receive a call from Paris, but it was Mr. Mansour, in an excellent mood. Have lunch with me, he said. Just the two of us. Is Friday good? I’m getting in the evening before. And come to dinner on Sunday night. I’m inviting the beautiful Caroline Canning, her funny husband, and the Blackmans. What do you think? I think it’s a good program.
What was Schmidt to say? As Alice had put it, he’d be around. And so he acquiesced.
The next call was from Myron Riker.
Schmidtie, he said, I thought you’d like to know that Charlotte is at home. I appreciated your smoothing the way for Yolanda to handle the discharge process, but in the end I canceled my patients and drove up there. I also appreciate more than I can say the arrangements with the nurses. Charlotte says that both of them, the day nurse and the night nurse, are very competent and very nice. Of course I am most grateful for your overwhelming generosity, paying those thousands and thousands of dollars. Round-the-clock care is so very expensive!
Don’t mention it, replied Schmidt. I’m glad that all is well.
Myron made an umm sound, and continued: Actually I don’t think that all is well. From what I hear, Charlotte has behaved very badly. I don’t know how to speak about it. But I want you to know that in my opinion, for what it’s worth, you have behaved like a good father and a gentleman. I can imagine how you must feel, and I want you to know I’m sorry.
It’s my turn to thank you, said Schmidt. It’s the first kind word from—what shall I call it?—your side. Poor Charlotte isn’t herself. I guess anything can be forgiven her. But look, I’m going to be very frank. I don’t believe Charlotte would say the things she says if Renata didn’t put her up to it. That’s something I don’t understand. What is your opinion? Why does she do it? What do you think is going on?
Another umm sound. Then speaking very slowly, Myron said, Renata has been through a very rough time too, for reasons that pertain to her and reasons that pertain to Jon. It sometimes happens even to good and experienced analysts like her that they confuse their private lives with their profession. They step out of their role. They find themselves suggesting certain constructs to impressionable people. I think that’s what happened here.
You’re not telling me that Renata is treating Charlotte?
Of course not. But she’s become so involved with her that there is almost the same transference and the same impressionability on Charlotte’s part.
And what should be done?
I hope that Jon will find his footing. That would help. Charlotte will soon feel better physically. That will help too. I am going to try to get Renata to put more distance between herself and Charlotte and Jon and their marriage. Let’s talk again, but first let’s allow some time to pass.
Lunch was served on the deck, the table set under two Roman umbrellas. The ocean was flat, the beach empty, the sun at its zenith, and Mr. Mansour resplendent in a navy-blue silk shirt and yellow silk trousers. The shirtsleeves were rolled up, for comfort and perhaps also to show off the great financier’s powerful forearms and the wafer-thin Piaget watch on his left wrist. The right wrist was encircled by a copper band. Why did all rich people—at least the ones Schmidt knew—believe in the magic power of those bracelets? He was barefoot. The worry beads were out, doing a brisk business.
No shoes, he said, noticing Schmidt’s downward glance. It’s just the two of us. The feel of teak is good for your feet. Go ahead and take off those ridiculous L.L. Bean things.
Schmidt obliged. It was exactly what he had wanted but hadn’t dared to do.
That’s better, Mr. Mansour continued. If you give me your shoe size, I’ll get you some better moccasins; you know, suitable for your age. You’ve got average feet. The man I have in Paris will build them for you.
I like these shoes, Schmidt protested.
That’s because you don’t know any better! You should have been with me in Paris. Sorry, of course I know you had to get back. You haven’t told me: is your daughter out of the hospital?
Schmidt nodded.
You should go to see her on Sunday. Emil—that was the name of the security man who had driven Schmidt from Albany to Hudson and then back to Bridgehampton—will take you out there and bring you back. No use spending the night over there; you’d wear her out.
Thank you, Mike! said Schmidt. It’s what I would like to do, but this weekend is too soon.
He had decided not to tell Mr. Mansour about any aspect of the quarrel with Charlotte and Jon. Since it touched in part on money, Mike would consider it a problem he was uniquely qualified to solve. He would offer to step in to mediate, a prospect even more horrifying for Schmidt than the dismal current situation.
This weekend I’ll stay here, he continued, and I look forward to your dinner. You’ve been so thoughtful and kind about everything that I’m overwhelmed by gratitude.
Pas de problème, pas de problème.
I’ve got one more thing to say. You’ve told me that you’re my friend. Now I really know it’s true. And I am yours.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Mr. Mansour smiled. You’re getting smarter all the time. There’s no telling how it will end! What was I saying? You should’ve been in Paris. You didn’t know it, but Caroline and Joe Canning were there as well. I didn’t take them with us on the plane, but I brought them back. Another thing you didn’t know: I got Canning into a writers’ retreat at Royaumont. Do you know about Royaumont? It’s a medieval abbey north of Paris that used to belong to a rich family called Gouin. Rich, rich, let’s say they thought they were rich. They fixed it up and gave it to a foundation. Clickety-clack clickety-clack. I’m a member of a committee of leading businessmen that runs business programs there. As you can imagine, I’m influential. The foundation also has important cultural programs, and that’s where Canning comes in. He jumped at the chance to participate with five or six other well-known writers. Very prestigious! Ha! Guess why I arranged it!
Because you’re a good guy.
Wrong. Because you can’t bring your wife or your husband! For this retreat only the participants are allowed to stay at the abbey! No husbands and no wives! So I told the Cannings they could have a weekend in Paris, at no expense, organized by me, as my treat. While Joe is at his retreat, I take care of Caroline. After the retreat is over, I bring them both back to New York with me. Pas de problème. It all worked out! Joe had his seminar, and I had Caroline.
You’re a devil, said Schmidt. You should be ashamed of yourself. They’re a good married couple.
Who says they aren’t? But does Caroline have a life with that schmuck? I tell you she doesn’t. She likes the books he writes. All right. He likes the books she writes. All right. He gives it to her maybe once a month for old times’ sake. That’s all right too. She likes it—somewhat. What choice does she have, who can she compare him with? No choice and no comparison. Here is where I come in: I show her a really good time—the best restaurants, the best hotel suite—and then we do it like she’s never had it before. No comparison! A woman I’ve laid never forgets it, never gets it out of her mind!
That was not Gil Blackman’s theory, as Sch
midt remembered; Gil was convinced Mike was a one-night-stand artist and even on that schedule was hardly able to get it up.
What’s your secret, Casanova? asked Schmidt.
Size. And I like doing it. Pas de problème. Oh, and I’m rich. Ha! Ha! Ha!
Wonderful formula, said Schmidt. No wonder I haven’t had your successes. And what happens later? I mean, if she can’t get you out of her mind?
Nothing. She’s smart. If she wants a refresher course, a couple of hours here, a couple of hours there, that can be arranged. Where’s the harm, I ask you? I haven’t taken anything from that silly schmuck. She’s still with him, just as beautiful, just as intelligent. What more can he ask? If she’s learned a new trick or two, maybe she’ll show him. He comes out ahead. I’ll tell you something else. She’s clean! And she smells good!
You’re atrocious, said Schmidt.
Sure—who’s disagreeing with you?
Dessert had been served. Key lime pie. Mr. Mansour helped himself to two pieces right away and asked for a third. It’s the best, he announced. Let’s talk about you. What about this Riker guy? Have you seen him? Do you want me to send him some work? I’m looking at buying a public company out of Chapter Eleven. It could be right up his alley.
Mike, Schmidt replied, you’re atrocious but also very kind. Sure, I’d like to send him some work. He’ll do a first-rate job. But please do it so that there is no mention of me, our friendship, and so forth. You know what I mean. The way things have shaped up, I need to be out of the picture.
Pas de problème. I’ll tell you how it goes.
What is it about me, Schmidt asked himself, as he was getting dressed to go to dinner at Mr. Mansour’s, that makes me such a square? He liked Caroline and disliked Canning. Why should he begrudge her a good time? Why should it get his dander up that Mike has slept with her? Envy? He had never thought of Caroline that way. A stupid sort of conformism, wanting people to behave correctly? Painful though it was to admit, he thought the more likely answer was envy. Not envy of this particular exploit of Mike’s, but envy of people who are lighthearted, who can break rules without suffering his kind of sour remorse. One thing was certain: when they met at dinner, he would see Caroline and Joe, and indeed Mr. Mansour, through new lenses, ones ground to the great financier’s prescription. This dazzlingly serious and learned woman had succumbed to Mike’s blandishments, had been hypnotized by his billionaire tricks, and had experienced the wonders of size! Good heavens, if that was possible, then the sky was the limit for conjugal misbehavior! Did she also have sex with Joe—Mike had said she did, but how would he know? Schmidtie, you dodo, replied an inner voice, he knows because he asked her, and she told him during an interlude between one orgasm and another. And if Joe and she do sleep together, once a month or once a week, for old times’ sake, as the Egyptian fiend had reported, does she smile from ear to ear through the ordeal thinking of the Egyptian and his outsize tool? He had to give Mike credit: without question, he could have—perhaps he had!—a lifetime supply of hot and cold running starlets and models eager for the cornucopia of good things he could offer. But no, he had gone for a woman in her fifties, only a few years younger than he; he had gone for class, Caroline’s intellect and charm as well as her fine body and lovely face. Or was this instead Mr. Mansour’s kinky side: his need to see whether he could cuckold the celebrated novelist and seduce the noted biographer, a desire for a richer-than-usual taste, such as connoisseurs seek in Auslese wines or in well-hung grouse? And Joe! For all his touted penetration of the secrets of the heart, he had left Caroline in Mansour’s care just so he could shoot the breeze with a roomful of French intellectuals. He had earned his horns.