Schmidt Steps Back

by Louis Begley

  The Jesuit high school teachers had eschewed poetry other than big chunks of the Aeneid, and his quondam enthusiasm for Latin led him to catch up in college. He had read and reread Catullus, and now lines from one of the poet’s diatribes against his mistress Lesbia supplied the captions for the slideshow: Now that I know you I burn even hotter, but you seem lighter and cheaper. You ask how can that be? Such injuries / force a lover to love more, and also to wish well less. What injury had Catullus suffered? That Lesbia was unfaithful. Wasn’t that true of Alice as well, a comical difference being that Popov, as the lover with clearly the more ancient title, had more to complain of than he!

  Her plane was due at two. If there was no delay, she’d be at the hotel around four. The sparkling sunny day was perfect for another walk in Hyde Park. On his way out, he stopped at the porter’s desk to make a reservation for a late lunch for one at the hotel and ordered that summery flower arrangement. For heaven’s sake, he loved her! He had been pining for her! The little devil wont to whisper in his ear tittered. You’re hedging your bets, my boy, are these flowers really an homage of love or a private joke, a sneer! Well, which is it? Shut up, Schmidt replied, I don’t know. Restaurants generally gave Schmidt reason to believe in the inevitable decline not only of the West but of every corner of the planet. No wonder then that to find the dining room so charming and the maître d’hôtel a paragon of practiced courtesy improved his disposition. A decision ripened as he consumed his excellent lunch. Alice had told him at Bill Gibson’s party that she would explain in London. Well, let her. There were three full days for her to do so, and he was in no hurry. If it so happened that in the interim he treated her like a tramp, that was too bad. They were in Evelyn Waugh country. As a character in Vile Bodies might put it, hard cheese on Alice.

  In fact, as soon as the bellhop who brought her suitcase into the bedroom had disappeared—the magical powers of Mr. Mansour’s secretary had transformed the double Schmidt had asked for into a suite—Alice opened her arms and said, Here I am, Schmidtie, do with me what you will. On the plane I touched myself under the blanket just thinking about it. You made me come.

  Let’s get undressed, he whispered in reply.

  The bed was very wide and very long—some sort of oversize king—larger than the one at home and built for sleepers of greater girth and weight than he and Alice, and the bedroom, although it gave on Carlos Place, was wonderfully silent. He had worried that he would not be equal to the demands of this tryst, but to his astonishment he was. A combination, he supposed, of sexual hunger unappeased for more than six weeks, the relative novelty of making love to Alice, a certain humility of Alice’s he was discovering that made welcome certain gestures and demands she had previously resisted, and of course the account of her masturbating on the plane. Crucial new facts were disclosed after the first frenetic embrace. Lying back against the pillows, the covers thrown off, her hands on her breasts teasing the nipples, she told him that she had brought herself to a climax twice before falling asleep, her hand still in her underpants. So the stewardess found her when, upon the announcement that the plane was entering a zone of turbulence, she lifted Alice’s blanket to make sure that her seat belt was fastened. Suddenly awake, feeling her face turn red, she saw the stewardess wink and burst out laughing. Her neighbor in the window seat, an old British battle-ax who would not have been amused, fortunately had remained fast asleep. The salaciousness of this account of Alice’s arousal, and her accepting as perfectly natural that thinking about him should arouse her, aroused Schmidt in turn, with a force that reminded him of his prime. He wanted to take her over and over and to drive into her with all his strength. But he was careful. Even in the heat of their transport, he avoided saying he loved her or speaking of a shared future. He told her only that she was making him unimaginably happy, to which she, panting, would reply, I want to, I want to. And it was she who murmured more than once Schmidtie, I love you.

  The days passed more quickly than Schmidt had expected, great chunks of each day spent in bed. It was already Monday. The next day she was to take an early morning plane to Paris; he was going home in the afternoon. But by the time they sat down to dinner on Monday evening, she had not mentioned Popov’s name or given the promised explanation. His resolve to let her take the initiative had held. More than once it crossed his mind that being in this sort of no-man’s-land was not disagreeable, that perhaps saying good-bye without anything having been explained or settled was the best outcome, provided he could keep her. But could he? Wasn’t that the rub right there? And on what terms? At the cost of repeated humiliations, such as on Bill Gibson’s lawn? Was he ready for some French version of polyandry? Sharing her body with the odious Popov?

  Schmidtie, she said after the wine steward had filled their glasses, I have promised you an explanation. I’d prefer not to give it, but I think you expect it.

  He almost said, Don’t, let’s remain as we are. I am not ready for the scaffold. But he couldn’t pull it off and felt his head nodding, as if of its own accord.

  It’s really quite simple, she continued. I know you’ve figured out most of it. I’ll just add some history. You’ll understand me better. Perhaps you’ll judge me less harshly. Yes, Serge and I have a relationship. It’s a very old one. It began the summer before I went to Radcliffe. He was working for a publishing house in Paris—Flammarion at that time, not the one where we both work now—and he’d come to Washington to talk to my father about General de Gaulle. Someone, a well-known political figure, was planning a book about his wartime years, and before signing it up Flammarion dispatched Serge to do some fact finding, to gather from my father whether de Gaulle had been portrayed fairly. My father invited Serge to dinner at the embassy, and that’s how we met. I thought he was very serious and sophisticated. After that it all happened very quickly. He was the first man I slept with. Then Serge went back to Paris, and in the fall I went to Radcliffe. Serge was already married to Solange; she was already paralyzed; they had their children; he couldn’t have afforded visits to Cambridge to see me even if he had thought of such a thing; and nothing was ever said about a divorce. I guess I knew it was out of the question. Even if he hadn’t gone back to Paris, if we had lived in the same place, I don’t know that I would have been willing to go on with a married man. I was heartbroken. Afterward there were Harvard boys I went out with, but none of it was very serious. Then I met Tim in Washington, and before long we were engaged and married. You know all that.

  He nodded and said, Alice dear, eat your soup. It’s supposed to be eaten hot.

  The remark was so stupid that they both burst out laughing.

  You know, she continued, that Solange’s parents are very mondains—very social. At the time when Tim and I moved to Paris, they entertained on a grand scale at their place on rue de Lille. There is a big garden in the back—more like a small park—and in the summer season, in Paris it’s June, they always give a famous garden party. Le tout Paris, everyone who counts in Paris, is there. Anyway, because of my parents, Tim and I found ourselves on their list, and the first time we went I naturally ran into Serge. It’s awful, isn’t it? I hadn’t seen him since Washington, and I hadn’t thought about him for years. He has never said that he had thought about me. But he invited me to lunch. I was already quite unhappy in my marriage. His marriage, ever since Solange fell sick, had been reduced to taking care of her and bringing up the boys. Right after lunch we picked up where we had left off. It didn’t take very long at all before it became a regular thing! I didn’t want to meet in hotels—I was much more proper then!—so he rented a studio apartment near the publishing house. Now he owns it. He has been very good to me, Schmidtie. Helping me get my job is just one example. I would never have gotten it without him. But it was the emotional support that really mattered. I wouldn’t have been able to get through those awful years with Tim and Bruno if I hadn’t had Serge to turn to.

  I see, said Schmidt. I take it this began before that awful summer of
eighty-five, before you found out that Tim was gay.

  She hesitated.

  Yes, she answered. Tim was neglecting me. We were hardly ever together. I mean he hardly ever made any effort to sleep with me. It was hateful.

  She wiped a tear from each eye.

  But were you already suspecting that he was in fact gay?

  Yes and no. Serge told me that Bruno had that reputation, and I began to connect Tim’s lack of interest in me with that, but I had no proof until that time. This will seem odd to you, but until then I had never met anyone who I knew was homosexual!

  Old Lew Brenner is still batting a thousand, thought Schmidt, but in reality what difference does it make when she found out? It’s all so stupid.

  Schmidtie, please try to imagine how badly I needed someone to lean on!

  I do understand that, I do understand that very well.

  That was the truth. He had moved on to a more important question and decided to put it.

  Alice, he said, what I don’t understand is, where do I come in? You’re still with Popov. That is clear to me, and you don’t deny it. Why did you sleep with me when I came to Paris the first time? Why did you sleep with me the second time? Why did you sit there and let me say I love you and I want to marry you—I did use those words—why did you let me carry on like that? And why did you invite me to that preposterous lunch with Popov? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the U.S. with that man? For that matter, why are you here?

  She wiped more tears and then answered: Schmidtie, that’s really quite simple! I wanted to. I wanted to get in bed with you. You said you fell in love with me in Paris at first sight. Can’t you see that something like that happened to me too? I’m not used to talking about being in love. But in my own way I am! I want you! Please don’t send me away.

  Oh, Alice, he said, that’s the last thing I want. You’re my dream of happiness. My only dream. But what about Popov? Does he know about me?

  No, she said, looking sadder than when she was crying. I’ve not told him. He thinks I’m visiting a friend who is married to a don at Oxford. Those times we had in Paris he was away.

  Yes, said Schmidt. That part, I mean his being away, had crossed my mind. But I want to be sure that I really understand: you are not thinking of telling Popov about us. Let me put it more simply, you don’t intend to put an end to that relationship. Is that right?

  She nodded.

  But you also intend to continue to see me?

  Oh yes, she said, so very much!

  But why, Alice, why? Why do you want to deceive Popov? Please forgive me for using that word, but that is the right word. Why do you want to sleep with two men? What is there about me to make you do it?

  Schmidtie, you don’t understand. Serge isn’t like you. He has never been like you. We make love so very rarely! He likes it to be known among his friends that we are together; he likes to be seen with me; he likes to lie in bed with me and talk. It’s always been like that. Very little of the real thing, of what I do with you. Now we hardly ever do it. Please understand. The thing with Serge is like an old marriage. If I left, I would be destroying him. I can’t do that. You wouldn’t do it if you were in my place.

  They had finished the main course and the bottle of wine.

  Let’s have a good dessert, Schmidt said, something to go with champagne.

  So it’s all right? she cried. You understand, and it’s all right.

  He didn’t answer for a long time, not while he ordered the champagne, which arrived at the table with great speed, not while they decided on a soufflé, not until the waiter had filled their glasses.

  This is terribly, terribly sad, he told her. That’s really all I can say now.

  That was the truth. He wanted to tell her that it was all right but did not think he could live with the answer she wanted. Or with the answer he feared was the only one he could give.

  Schmidtie, don’t you see, can’t you feel that we are happy together? Why do you want to give up our happiness?

  He drew a long breath. All right, he said, I’ll try to explain. It’s a case of having started out on the wrong foot, a case of mistaken assumptions. I didn’t think I was having a fling with you—I use the word “fling” because it’s the mildest term I can think of—I wouldn’t have dared to think that you’d want such a thing. I really and truly fell in love, with all the sincerity and seriousness I’m capable of. There is surely something very wrong with the way I think and respond, but I can’t go into reverse and say all that serious stuff about love was a silly mistake, Popov stays in the picture, but Alice and I can meet when he’s away or otherwise engaged and have a grand old time. I just can’t. I can’t eat the crumbs that fall from Popov’s table. So I suggest we finish our soufflé, finish our champagne, have coffee and a brandy as good as the one we had in Paris. And after all that let’s go back to the hotel and have a great night in the sack! Isn’t that in a nutshell what you propose?

  I don’t think I deserve that, she said. Or perhaps I do. Perhaps it’s exactly what I was asking for. Let’s do it that way. A night in the sack and then good-bye. But I hope you will remember what I’m about to tell you: you’re making a horrible cruel mistake. One that you’ll never stop regretting.

  When her alarm clock rang in the morning, he reached for the telephone to order breakfast. She stopped him, shaking her head angrily but saying nothing. She locked herself in the bathroom afterward. When she emerged she was dressed. Her little suitcase was ready—she had packed it before they went to bed. She swooped it up and walked out, slamming the door behind her. In the meantime he had pleaded for forgiveness, begged her to speak, asked for another chance. She ignored him.

  The champagne, most of which he had drunk? Fury at her and Popov? At himself? No sooner had she told him that he was making a mistake that he would regret than he realized that she was right. But how to recant? Then once they were in the sack—those words, those awful words—he made love to her without uttering a loving word, without tenderness, transforming each caress into an assault. He turned into exactions gestures she had accepted before, indeed had seemed to welcome: the finger exploring her anus, the fellatio demanded and received, the endless cunnilingus. The cunnilingus he drew out until she screamed in one more paroxysm, after which he treated her to a triumphant recitation of those qualities of her cunt that made him appreciate it more than any other he had known. After they had finished, he came to his senses, and he begged her to forgive him. But it was her turn to be silent. She said nothing, not another word. As though he had stifled her. A great night in the sack! Those words, he feared, were destined to resound endlessly, unto his doom. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror after she left. His face was white, bloodless. He was a ruin.

  XVIII

  OF COURSE, there was no letter from Charlotte waiting for him. He wrote again, a shortened version of the first letter, and sent it Express Mail, together with a long-sleeved shirt of blue and white stripes, of the kind she used to like, bought when passing through Jermyn Street on his first day in London. He’d wait ten days for her to answer or call; in his letter he reminded her that she could call him collect at home, at the office, or at the New York apartment. If he didn’t hear from her by then, he would ask Myron’s advice. Should he get in touch with the director of Sunset Hill or Dr. Townsend to see about arranging a visit? Did Myron have a different idea? Or was he condemned to waiting for some word from Charlotte, some indication of an improvement? Work, concentration on the foundation, in the meanwhile, was the prescription for him. That and avoiding ill-considered or impulsive actions.

  He had arrived in Bridgehampton late in the evening. The next morning, before he had brushed his teeth, before his first cup of coffee, he called Mr. Mansour’s preferred florist in Paris and ordered a mauve orchid to be delivered to Alice. Judging by the price, it was an orchid tree. Just as well. He wanted something that would shout “contrition.” What would the card say? He understood the question the salesc
lerk asked in French and tried to dictate the reply in English: I behaved like a lout. Please forgive me. Signed, Schmidtie. The florist’s employee got stuck on the word “lout,” stubbornly, insisting it should be “louse.” That was perhaps an improvement, but not one he was ready to adopt. There was also trouble over “Schmidtie.” She insisted on “Schmidt.” Merde, he said in English, and settled for a message in baby French he knew for sure was grammatically correct: S demande pardon. Hard cheese on Schmidtie. Some hours later, while he was eating his lunch of sardines and Gruyère, the florist called. The same young woman. Madame Verplanck had refused to accept the delivery. His credit card would be credited with the price of the plant, minus the cost of delivery. Shame, burning shame, overwhelmed him. What was he apologizing for? The harsh, unloving sex and the lecture on the quality of her cunt? Definitely. Was it a vaster apology, encompassing a withdrawal of his preposterous claim to her fidelity? He had made no such claim. What he had demanded from her was honesty. She should have told him about Popov. Had she done so, the question of fidelity would have never arisen. He would not have accepted a time-share. The refusal sprang from something buried deep inside him that could not be reached or altered.

  Such was his frame of mind when he met Gil Blackman for lunch in the city at the Four Seasons Grill in the Seagram Building, a restaurant that sleek New Yorkers like Mr. Blackman treated as their club, the headwaiters and the owners having memorized or entered into the computer their idiosyncrasies, whether concerning dietary preferences or the table at which they felt most self-importantly happy.

  Triumph? cried Mr. Blackman.

  Defeat.

  I can’t believe it. You went to London and blew it. Why? How?