Schmidt Steps Back

by Louis Begley

  The toilet attendant, a smiling brown-skinned gentleman—nothing wrong with that man’s teeth!—filled the basin with warm water. Schmidt asked to have it hotter, slowly washed his hands and face, dried them with a good linen towel tendered him on a salver, and put a drop of Visine in each eye. It stung, but the effect was satisfying. A two-euro coin deposited on the same salver discreetly tendered again elicited a broader smile with lots of teeth. Two more attempts to smile at himself in the mirror, and Schmidt was ready to sally forth. Call Alice? No way. He would wait for her to make a move. Tea and drinks were served in the hotel lobby. He found an armchair in the corner, hesitated between a bourbon and hot chocolate, and chose the latter. The tea sandwiches looked good. It turned out they were. Ravenously hungry—he had eaten a yogurt on the airplane, refusing the rest of the breakfast—he kept reordering until a benign warmth spread through his body. At last he began to feel calm.

  More than an hour later, when he was back at the apartment, she did call. He had unpacked and reestablished order among the photographs on the desk in the living room and on the chest of drawers in the bedroom: Mary, Charlotte during her last year at Brearley, Carrie during their first year together, Carrie and little Albert, and Alice, this last presumably forgotten by her, else she would have asked him to return it. Ten years old, she stood on the beach in Deauville, shirtless in a little boy’s short pants, behind her the flat sea.

  Well, vulture man, she said, are you too tired to have dinner tonight?

  No, yes, I mean yes, I would like to have dinner tonight. Where? When?

  Eight o’clock? You said your apartment is on the place du Palais Bourbon. There is a good restaurant on the right-hand side of rue de Bourgogne, in the last block, the block between rue de Grenelle and rue de Varenne. It’s number fifty-something. I’ll make the reservation and meet you there.

  It was one of those restaurants without a vestibule: one walked in directly from the street past a heavy red velvet curtain concealing the first of two rooms where diners were seated. Pulling the curtain aside and greeting Schmidt was a young man in a suit, the manager or the owner, who also took his raincoat and handed it to a young woman summoned from somewhere in the back. When Schmidt said that he was meeting Madame Verplanck, the young man was all smiles and led Schmidt to a table in the first room from which he could see people enter. The restaurant was pleasantly full; the low pitch of the French chatter was pleasant as well. It was ten to eight. That too was well. He had wanted to be the first to arrive. Since the young man assured him that he could make a dry gin martini, Schmidt ordered one and was not disappointed. Then he saw her walk through the door. She wore a light brown overcoat that hugged her figure. Time and recent grief—Popov!—had traced new fine lines in the corners of her mouth and caused her eyes to retreat deeper into their sockets. There was more gray in her hair, more than he would have thought likely for dark blond hair. He thought she resembled Michèle Morgan and was more beautiful than she had been thirteen years earlier, quite simply the loveliest woman he had ever seen. He rose and reached her before the young man had helped her out of her coat. A scent enveloped her that was a mixture of a perfume he didn’t know, her body warmed by a long walk—he was sure she had walked, he would have seen her taxi if one had pulled up—and of the fresh evening air. It overwhelmed him. He had not made a mistake: he loved her. She pulled off her long dark red suede gloves and held out her hand, palm down and bent slightly at the wrist. He knew it was a sign that she expected to have her hand kissed, but he feared doing it awkwardly, like an American. Instead he took her hand—a marvelously warm large hand with long fingers that had traveled over every inch of his body—and shook it.

  He waited until her glass of champagne was served and she had drunk from it to tell her about Charlotte. At some point, perhaps when he spoke about his visits to Sunset Hill, she put her hand over his and left it there until he had finished.

  So now you know, he said. You had to know. The wound isn’t one that can heal, but I’ve learned to live with it. That is a given. It’s very strange, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but now that I’m with you, I am more certain than ever before, more certain than when we were in each other’s arms, that I love you. That is assuming “love” is the correct term for the experience of great happiness due to the other person’s presence and the astonishing need, like the need to get enough air into your lungs, to make the other person happy, to protect her, to surround her by a mountain range of goodness. That is also a given. There is yet another given, which is my age. I will be seventy-eight next month. I am in excellent health, that’s nothing new, I’ve never missed a day of work. Still, something tells me I have only ten years to live. Actually, that’s the most favorable hypothesis, assuming that during those ten years my physical condition, my vigor, and my energy can remain undiminished. I sense that they will. Beyond? It’s anyone’s guess. I tend to think that the worst outcomes are most likely. Considering these facts, if I were your father or your brother …

  My father died, she broke in, his girlfriend too. I have no brother.

  I am so very sorry, Schmidt persisted, but if your father were alive and you sought his advice he would surely tell you I’m not a horse you should bet on. So let me fill in a few details of what I am proposing, and my reasons, and why I believe I am at least entitled to plead my case.

  Oh, Schmidtie. She sighed. What a lot of words.

  Yes, I’m ashamed to run on like this, but do hear me out. It’s been such a long time since we were last together, there is so much to say, and this concerns the most important business of my life.

  Schmidtie, she said, if I must go on listening I shall, but do order another glass of champagne.

  Done, he said.

  They were silent while they waited for their drinks, and Schmidt, without thinking, permitted himself an extraordinary liberty. He took her hand and caressed it and then brought it to his lips.

  As soon as she had taken a sip, he continued. He was in a hurry to say it all; he couldn’t help himself.

  You remember that I proposed marriage. That offer stands. You would make me happiest by accepting it. Our life together would have a simple, clear structure. But it doesn’t have to be marriage. Live with me, on such terms and on such conditions as you like. In sin! Wherever you wish. Bridgehampton and New York City, they are my home; I know how to live there. The house in Bridgehampton is one that I know you’d like. But I can live most of the year here in Paris. Or anyplace else.

  I’ve inherited my father’s beautiful house in Antibes, she whispered.

  All right, I’ve never been to Antibes, but I’ve always wanted to know the Côte d’Azur. Just a few more words, beautiful Alice, a few more words about you and me. I loved our sex. I can still do it. I can’t imagine I’ll be getting better, but who knows? Little father’s helper pills have been invented that didn’t exist back then. I haven’t tried them, but I’m told they’re good, and I’m ready to use them. Now, why do I dare to speak to you like this? First, because I love you. Second, because you seemed to like me. Third, because I am so very lonely, and I know my life would be transformed, made joyous, if I lived with you. Fourth, because I reason that, unless you have someone else—and if you do, please tell me, and I’ll stop at once—you might also be lonely. Life with me might be an improvement for you too.

  She whispered again: I have no one. And I am lonely. My son, Tommy, is my only family. He’s a professor of mathematics at the University of Melbourne and living with a psychologist who is almost six feet tall. She is teaching him to surf. I went to see them last August. It didn’t go well.

  That’s very hard, he said. Alice, I know that we would do well together, making love, keeping each other company, making sure neither of us feels lonely, cut off from life. Will you risk it? Will you give me a second chance?

  I gave you a first chance, she said, and look what happened.

  But Alice, you gave it to me without setting down the rules, disclo
sing all the terms. I thought that there was no one else then either. I made a fool of myself thinking that, babbling away about marriage and so forth. If I had known about Serge, I wouldn’t have behaved that way. I’m certain of it.

  He knew that his answer was disingenuous. It was impossible for him to know that he would have been willing to share Alice. What he really meant was that, had he known, their first afternoon together would likely have ended when they rose from the lunch table. He did not think that he would have competed for Alice with Serge.

  I know, she said. It was stupid of me. Perhaps wicked. I wanted you to think I was better than I was. I kept on meaning to explain it to you, and then I couldn’t. So I was wrong. I was at fault. But Schmidtie, you showed me another side of yourself, one that was angry and mean. How am I to know that you’ll be able to keep it in check? That you will be able to look at me, touch me, make love to me, live with me, without thinking, This is Serge’s girl. Or whatever horrible way you might put it.

  There is only my assurance. I understand that may not be enough. There is the fact that I have been through a lot since that time. It may sound stupid, but it’s true: I’ve grown up. I’m different now. I can step back from things instead of going off on a tear. A nasty tear it was, I know.

  I see, she said.

  I don’t think I’ve convinced you. I have an idea: why don’t you try me out? Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Alice, give me that chance. Come away with me—to Venice, to Vienna, to Barcelona. Please, Alice!

  You’re such a baby, Schmidtie! I’m a working girl with responsibilities. Even if I were ready to say I want to, I couldn’t fly off with you just like that, on some trial honeymoon.

  Then come to see me in Bridgehampton! Come for a nice long visit. Or part New York and part Bridgehampton. At Christmas!

  She became very serious. I think I will give you that chance. Not at Christmas, but I could come to Bridgehampton on New Year’s Eve. And I might stay for a week.

  She laughed. If you give satisfaction. But there are two conditions: you leave me alone, you let me think until then without being harangued, and you agree that I may change my mind.

  You mean you might not come?

  Yes, that is what I mean. But I’ll let you know, one way or the other.

  They ate almost in silence. When they finished, she said, I’m going to ask them to call a taxi. It’s too late for us to walk. She let him hold her hand. When they were on rue St. Honoré, outside her building, she offered him first one and then the other cheek to kiss. Since she wasn’t turning to punch in the code that would open the door, he took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips, insistently, until she opened her mouth and her tongue joined his. It was a long kiss, her mouth abandoned to him and her body pressed against his.

  I wanted it so badly, she gasped, it’s the only reason I might perhaps give you that second chance. But it’s a bad reason.

  Alice, he answered, it’s the best reason. Please, may I come upstairs?

  No, she answered, not tonight. Wait till I come to see you on la St. Sylvestre, New Year’s Eve. If I do decide to come. Oh, Schmidtie, please go away!

  XXV

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 1, 2009, nine o’clock in the morning. The outdoor thermometer on Schmidt’s front porch showed sixteen degrees. It would warm up later in the day, but not much. The predicted high of twenty-five still seemed a good bet. He picked up the newspaper from the beginning of his driveway and brought it into the kitchen. Sy and Pi were sitting next to their dishes looking alert and expectant, Pi as always silent, Sy making guttural observations that Schmidt knew how to translate—Hurry up, stupid, we’re hungry, and other sentiments to that effect.

  Good morning, cats, replied Schmidt, and Happy New Year! Keep your shirts on. It’s coming.

  He meant their daily portion of a half can of cat food each and, in addition, out of deference to the bargain struck between the Cat that walked by itself and the Woman, for each a bowl of milk with a small spoonful of the Swiss yogurt that was Schmidt’s favorite.

  Because of the holiday, Sonia wouldn’t be coming. It was just as well; he had looked forward to preparing breakfast for Alice and himself, with croissants he’d bought the day before at Sesame as the plat de résistance. He found they didn’t need to be heated and so set them out on a plate, got butter out of the fridge, and from the cupboard local honey from a farmer in Water Mill and, as a special treat, bitter orange marmalade that was distinctly not local. The next step was to make coffee in the push-through device and to heat milk. He took his coffee black, but Alice might want café au lait, so it was best to be ready. The truth was that he didn’t recall ever having had breakfast with her. All his preparations were a shot in the dark. But if it turned out that she wanted eggs sunny side up with bacon, she wouldn’t be disappointed. He was ready to display his talents as a short-order cook. It would have given him wonderful pleasure to take a tray up to her, but she had made a point of telling him when she awoke that she wanted to have her breakfast in the kitchen, exactly the way he did every day.

  Although they had gone to bed late—after Mike Mansour’s party, there had been necking and toasting the New Year at home—she had awakened early because of the change in time zones, and when she began to stir, he woke up too. Then he remembered: contrary to Alice’s injunction that she would sleep in his bed but they would only cuddle—a restriction for which he, fearful of being put to the test, had been grateful—they had in fact made love. She made it clear she wanted it. They had gone to bed naked; he was lying on his back, drifting into the vague space that separates sleep from waking, when he felt her buttocks on his thigh. She was rubbing against him, warm and moist and, he had no doubt, open. How to respond without spooking her? Making her think that he had forgotten that only cuddling was allowed? Was this perhaps only a more advanced form of cuddling? The refrain of a Frank Sinatra song rose up from wherever sixty-year-old memories are stored: Easy does it, yes easy does it every time. He began to respond to the rhythm of her pressure but very mildly, staying, he thought, within the vast land of the cuddle, joyous to find her movements and her breathing accelerating and the flow of moisture confirming that she was ready. But was he? He thought so. A discreet movement of his right hand reassured him. And then he felt, heard her come! Sweetie, he asked, would you like to? The question was fair; he had learned that her first rapid climax was most often only a prelude. She turned and pulled him toward her until he was between her legs. At once she raised her knees. Almost unbearable happiness, he thought, intense, profound pleasure that was a homecoming.

  The cats had licked their dishes and bowls clean and now, like a vaudeville team, sat before the door leading to the garden. Right away, Schmidt said, at your service, but remember it’s cold. If you don’t like it, come back quick. The kitty door is open. He held the screen door while they sniffed and surveyed the situation. No rush, Schmidt told them, I like to freeze. Then they were out. Schmidt watched them, Sy limping slightly, Pi way ahead. Arthritis, that was what the vet had told him. He’s a senior cat. That was the truth: he might live happily another five years, half the time Schmidt envisaged remaining for himself. Left behind, Pi would be disconsolate. If it turned out that Alice liked cats—No, you idiot, Schmidt reproved himself, the question is whether it turns out that she likes you—all right, if Alice likes him, and likes cats, Pi might get to bring up an Abyssinian or Siamese kitten as carefully as he had been brought up by Sy. Everything depended on Alice.

  The water in the electric kettle was boiling; the milk was hot; he was ready to argue his case, with hope of prevailing in the capital affair of his life. He heard her footsteps on the uncarpeted back stairs that led directly to the kitchen. That she should descend them, as though the house were hers, that she should be barefoot, enchanted him. Had he developed a foot fetish? Once more he noticed with great emotion the bright red she always painted her toenails. His gaze traveled up to take in the celadon peignoir, white nightgown embroi
dered with tiny red and green flowers, the hair loose, the lips, the body that had lately clung to his.

  Bonne année, mon Schmidtie.

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the eyes and then on the lips. A long, gentle kiss, unlike the kisses that had taken command of his mouth, probing for something deep inside him.

  What a beautiful breakfast!

  Yes, she liked both honey and marmalade, and did take milk.

  Having drunk her cup of coffee, she said: I have a statement to make. I am definitely keeping you. But are you ready to be kept on my terms? I won’t marry you; not now, perhaps never, though perhaps after a while. I won’t leave Paris until I am obliged to retire. That won’t be for another year. If I’m allowed to stay on as some sort of consultant, I’ll probably want to. It wouldn’t be for long. It will be better for us if I continue working. My conversation will be more entertaining. But I’ll spend as much time with you as you like, and as work permits. Here, if you prefer. But I’d be very happy if you spent a lot of time with me in Paris. And one thing more: I will be faithful to you, Schmidtie, because I love you. What do you think? Is it a deal? With these terms, will you have me?