About Schmidt (17 page)

Thus at five before the hour, in order to be neither early nor unduly late, in his better blue blazer, too stylish for O’Henry’s but exactly right for the Blackmans’, equipped with presents (CDs for the parents and the elder, presumably absent daughters, and a cologne spray for Lilly, in Schmidt’s opinion sexually advanced and much maligned), Schmidt stepped into his ice-cold car. Under a moon so fine and bright it could have shone over the palace of Osman Pasha, he drove to Geórgica. There stood Gil’s cottage. Not a car in sight—neither
on the circular drive nor among the giant azaleas where a guest fearful of blocking others and indifferent to the welfare of the lawn might have parked. They would, in fact, be alone. Schmidt sniffed the greenery wired to the brass knocker, rang the doorbell, and entered. In the hall, under a majestic tree, packages had accumulated. He added his shopping bag. Was this a new extravagance of the Wandering Jew, to hang a wreath and dress the tree during Advent each time he pitched his tent for the night, or were the Blackmans actually planning to spend Christmas in Wainscott? Schmidt directed his steps to the library. Ho, ho, ho, he called out, here comes Schmidtie, the ruddy-nosed reindeer!

Gil rose from his wing chair and opened his arms. A huge, silent embrace—Schmidt felt a contraction inside his chest, as though his heart too had been squeezed. They had, after all, remained friends. When he took a step backward, away from Gil, his heart moved again. Gil had on a thick silky cardigan, beautiful as Joseph’s coat of many colors. It was the sort of garment that Schmidt knew Gil would not have bought for himself. Elaine had given it to him. Here was proof she was still in love, physically. She wanted her husband to be gorgeous. Schmidt imagined the sweater he might have received from Mary: the best kind of lamb’s wool, burgundy or dark green, to go with his tweed coat, and probably crew-necked, so that he could on occasion wear it without a necktie. There was nothing wrong with the rustic approach to decorating one’s husband; in truth, Schmidt thought it quite appropriate in his own case. He might have added that it had never occurred to him that he was a glamorous object of desire. Nevertheless, as he turned to kiss Elaine on the cheek,
he wondered how much of that was in the eye of the beholder: What would it have been like to be married to a Jewess? He might ask Gil about that. Gil had drunk from both wells.

The exotic lady in question hugged Schmidt in turn. It’s so wonderful about Charlotte, she whispered. I don’t know the boy, do I? They’ll be so happy. If only Mary could have seen it!

The Blackmans were having champagne—silver bucket, large silver tray, tulip glasses. A mound of dark gray caviar on a crystal plate showed signs of recent erosion. Schmidt put his back to the fire, asked for a martini, and watched Elaine load the caviar on rounds of black pumpernickel.

Is lovely Lilly here?

She’s at her father’s, sleeping over, Elaine told him. It was perfect scheduling. The juvenile delinquent he screws is visiting her parents in Scranton, so he has time for his daughter, and I don’t have to worry about Lilly being embarrassed by the way they carry on.

You see the symmetry? Gil had returned with a martini in a silver goblet. He handed it to Schmidt together with a little linen napkin and a piece of bread brimming over with caviar.

Gil continued: Our juvenile delinquent leaves her mom’s home where she lives with the man who was crazy enough about her mom to abandon his own daughters and their mom, and goes to visit her real pop. In the meantime, the unrelated juvenile delinquent her pop is screwing, who could be his daughter, goes to visit her own mom and pop. If we only knew about the pop in Scranton—is this really his daughter?—we could extend the frieze.

You are revolting. Lilly isn’t a juvenile delinquent.

Neither is Judy! She is a rising rock artist who works very hard. I wish we could say as much for dear Lilly.

Now, now, said Schmidt. Time out. Is there more martini in that silver shaker? Have you taken the family silver out of the vault just for me? Or does the decoration mean you plan to spend Christmas here?

Elaine made a sniffing noise that Schmidt thought might be real.

You tell Gil he is a brute. He used to listen to what you say. Maybe he still does. The tree is for Lilly. She is having a party tomorrow afternoon for the kids from the stable.

Halsey’s! Mary and Charlotte used to do that until Charlotte decided riding took up too much time.

What a nuisance: Schmidt’s own eyes filled up with tears. He blew his nose elaborately, drank half of his second martini, and ate another wallop of caviar. Angry at the tremor in his voice, he announced: I have a problem with this Christmas.

Of course, said Gil, it must be very tough. Why don’t you spend it with us? We are going to Venice, just a few couples. We’ll be at the Monaco. If you decide quickly, I bet I can still get a room for you—or you and Lilly can share.

That’s the only condition on which I would go. I’d like to have you and Elaine as my parents-in-law. But it’s more complicated than that. I don’t think Venice is the right idea, although I am really very grateful.

Tell us over dinner. I am going to put the food on the table.

In fact, it was a small Oriental, an almost entirely round, elderly woman, shifting about in powder-blue felt slippers, who served the dinner. Elaine spoke to her with emphasis; either
she was deaf or there was a question about how well she understood. The food was a succession of Chinese dishes of the kind Schmidt remembered eating before Hunan and Szechuan restaurants invaded New York, and afterward every shopping mall—peas, pea pods, and water chestnuts swimming in white sauces among mushrooms and alternating chunks of chicken and shrimp. It had a comforting taste. He ate with pleasure, hungrily, using his fork and knife, observing the Blackmans click their ivory chopsticks. These were linked at the top by thin silver chains—a new refinement, so far as Schmidt was concerned. The wine was fruity and strong. He was drinking it too fast, and Elaine kept his glass full.

A little Merlot that goes with anything, I get it directly from the Sonoma Valley producer, Gil informed him; would Schmidt like to be included for a couple of cases in the next order? Thereupon, he resumed needling Elaine about the education of teenage girls, Lilly in particular. Unless they had talent—and he challenged Elaine and Schmidt to point to a single case of a talent that lay in hiding, waiting to be discovered—they should not be allowed to fool themselves into thinking they were special. The proper question was: How could they make themselves useful and financially independent?

It occurred to Schmidt that Gil had not applied this theory with full rigor to his own daughters. But it was not for him to bring that up. He was to be a buffer state. That was why they were having dinner à trois. Therefore, taking another gulp of wine, he asked, Who else is going to be at the Monaco?

Then you will come with us, cried Elaine. It will be so much fun! We even have another lawyer!

She named a partner in the most profitable firm in New York, the husband of one of her cousins, a man Schmidt disliked but didn’t know, although they had been at law school at the same time; a writer and his wife who also wrote, both of whom had been published by Mary; and a man whose name Schmidt recognized as being that of a movie producer. I don’t know whom Fred will bring, she added, but I hope it will be Alice. She is such a good sport!

I don’t think I can. You see, I’ve made all kinds of nice overtures to the parents of Charlotte’s fiancé, and they have asked me to spend Christmas with them—in Washington, of all places! I said I’m not up to it this year, which is quite true, and everybody—the parents, Charlotte, and Jon—will take it badly if instead I go off on a party in Venice. Besides, I’m not sure I am up to Venice either.

It was Gil’s turn to be practical.

Then what will you do, old friend? he asked.

I don’t know. To put an end to the discussion, I told them I would go away to someplace that has no associations with Christmas. The trouble is I can’t think where that would be. And it’s kind of late. Christmas is practically here. Perhaps I will just stay here and pretend I am somewhere else—let’s say Kyoto!

That won’t work. They’ll ask for your telephone number, they’ll want you to call them, they’ll expect presents from Kyoto when you return.

That was the practical side of Elaine.

I think you are right.

Kyoto is not a bad idea, said Gil. Of course, it will be cold and humid and the gardens won’t seem like much—except the Moss Temple, which is best in the winter. I shot some scenes there one January. Why don’t you go to a place like Bali? You will be in a marvelous hotel, you will have the beach, and you will get a real rest.

And have all those couples all around me, enjoying the best years of their lives?

He’s right, said Elaine. It would be like going alone on a cruise in the Caribbean.

How do you know? You’ve never been on a cruise. That’s just where people go to find a lover. Bali’s the thing. There must be lots of men who go alone to study the topless Balinese, and women too. I don’t mean only lesbians; women who don’t mind being near men who have been put in the right frame of mind.

You are really disgusting. I know what Schmidtie should do. Let’s send him to our Amazon island.

What’s that?

Gil, you tell him about it.

That’s exactly the place for you, and I think it can be done. We went there in the summer, which is not the right season, three or four years ago, after my film opened in Rio. You remember Marisa, the Brazilian who played the mute whom Jackson finally marries?

Certainly.

Her family arranged it, when we told them we were exhausted and needed a place to be alone and rest. It was the best thing we have ever done. We flew to Manaus from Rio, and there we chartered a tiny plane that could land on a tiny
clearing in the jungle on an island in the middle of the Amazon, about an hour west of Manaus. The island itself is the size of your hand and the river is very wide; I think the shore was almost two miles away, on either side. At one end of the island, near the landing strip, there is a village of caboclos—that’s the word for Indians of mixed blood who have more or less joined the twentieth century. They live by fishing and are obviously very poor, but there are a couple of television sets in the village and so forth. Toward the other end of the island, completely surrounded by jungle vegetation, is the guest house. It’s owned by some Brazilian company that runs it like a club for invited guests—usually not more than two couples. But I think you could have it all for yourself, as we did, if it hasn’t been booked. An amazing structure: imagine an octagonal house, made entirely of native Amazon woods and very airy. The walls don’t quite reach either the roof or the ground—no nails, indeed no metal components in the construction, except in the bathrooms and in the kitchen. Caboclo servants, very silent, moving like polite shadows. You only see them when you want something, and they seem to know it without being called. And rather wonderful food. Strange fruit juices and jellies that are supposed to prolong your life and do other things for you that are even better, flat bread, and river fish. For a couple of days, we had chops, that’s really what they were, carved from a fish like a huge river monster. An absolute delicacy! To drink, there is beer
and pinga
—a Brazilian rum with the kick of a buffalo. If you want anything else, you will have to bring it.

Did they speak English? Or is speaking Portuguese another one of your attainments?

You don’t need to speak. The other thing is that you won’t have to stay in the house all day and all evening reading and listening to the parrots and the monkeys. We had a guide who met us on the island and acted as the majordomo as well as guide. He told the caboclos what to do. He is German—in fact I wonder if his name wasn’t Herr Schmidt!

My Doppelgänger.

Gil, his name was Lang, and you never called him Herr.

That was just a nice idea. The man’s name is something else; more like Oskar Lang. He is a biology student from Hamburg, who came to Manaus right after the war. He intended to study Amazon fish—actually, he says
Studien
instead of study—but in the midst of
Studien
he got hooked up with an Indian woman and never left, except for funerals, when his mother and then his father died. He married his Indian. She became a nurse in Manaus and he became a river guide, working for people doing documentary films and scientific expeditions. He is quite an expert on fish.

And breasts! He kept on pointing out to Gil that white women’s breasts fall as they get older—here he would look at me—while his Indian woman has boobs that stayed small and hard. Like
mein
fist only nice, so nice and small, was how he put it!

That’s true. He showed us a photo with boobs he had taken of her in one of those round backyard pools made of blue plastic, right behind his house in Manaus. Anyway, Schmidt—I mean Lang—had a comfortable long rowboat with an outboard motor. He also had an assistant, the most beautiful young Indian boy you can imagine, who paddled when we went out in the canoe instead. And what eyesight
that boy had! He would say something very quietly to Lang and point and, there, in absolutely impenetrable foliage or hidden in the reeds near the riverbank was just the bird we had said to Lang the day before we especially wanted to look at. Every morning, Lang and he took us out on these nature trips or to visit another caboclo village, which was more primitive, on an island nearby, and once to a village that was pure Indian and pure Lévi-Strauss. That was probably the most remarkable experience we had during our stay. A place of complete serenity: huts on stilts, women grinding food in wooden bowls, naked children dozing in the dust under the huts, and then the arrival of the men in canoes filled to the rim with fish. The women met them at the edge of the river, and the men threw them the catch, still jumping. They didn’t have to ask for the fish—we couldn’t see any connection between the givers and the takers. It was distributed like manna. Then, at night, Lang would take us out to look at alligators. We would drift near the bank. Suddenly, he would turn on his flashlight and there would be those burning red eyes. The whole bank seemed to come alive!