Schmidt Steps Back (16 page)

There was no message from Alice waiting at the hotel, but she called at dinnertime to say she had just returned from a weekend with friends in the country. If he was free, and hadn’t eaten, they could have dinner together.

At my hotel? he asked.

Yes, the food is so good, and so are the memories.

They did not make love after dinner that Sunday as he had half hoped. Not tonight, she told him, soon after they sat
down at table, we do have tomorrow, don’t we, and perhaps a few more days. She had told him she was born in 1945. Therefore, she was fifty. If she had been a few years younger, he might have thought the obstacle was her period. It was too bad, but he was grateful that she had made clear right away how the evening would end. There would now be twenty-four hours of additional purification, and he did not need to spend the time they were at dinner thinking of her as a redoubt he must prepare to storm and take. She was, he was finding, as splendid as when he had discovered her one month earlier, almost to the day, when he called on her at her apartment on rue St. Honoré. Her physical beauty had never been in question, not since the day he danced with her at her wedding reception, but now he was noticing so much that had eluded his attention earlier: the enchanting grace of her every gesture, her willingness to laugh, the simplicity and ease with which she questioned the maître d’hôtel about the recipe for the cold tomato soup they were having, instantly charming that stolid functionary. He admired the way she dressed. The trousers were the ones she had worn to lunch on their first Sunday together. The top too was an old friend; she had worn it when he came to dinner at her house. But the jacket, white and summery, was new to him, perfect for the exceptionally warm day that was ending. She spent little on her clothes, that seemed clear, and he asked himself whether she had less money than one would have expected of Tim Verplanck’s widow. In that case, it would be a joy to put some wind in her sails. But it was just as likely that she knew her own talent for mixing and matching, for attaining ineffable chic with small means.

But Alice’s hands were the greatest discovery of the evening:
almost as large as his but fine, with delicate elongated fingers, they were the hands of a mime, reminding him, as she gesticulated, which she did often when telling a story, of Jean-Louis Barrault in
Les enfants du paradis
. He imagined those fingers making shadow puppets for the delight of some child, and, at some point, he heard himself ask whether her son, Tommy, had a serious girlfriend. She seemed surprised and answered that because of the distance from her he insisted on keeping she couldn’t be certain, but there was at least no sign of his being gay. Horrified at having made her feel that was the answer she needed to give, he told her he was simply imagining what a good mother she must have been and how good she would be at playing with her grandchildren. Immediately he became conscious that this too was a tactless remark, but she took it in stride, somehow intimating to him that he hadn’t offended her, and said that she thought she had indeed been a good mother until the disaster with Sophie, for which she couldn’t blame herself, and the derailing of her relationship with Tommy, about which she felt guilty. Grandchildren! They were a distant happy dream. Her own father had been so good with Tommy and poor little Sophie.

And what about your Charlotte? she asked in turn.

She’s only thirty, he had answered, but she and her husband have been married for three years and, as they’d put it, they were together for two years before that. So it’s about time. At one point the marriage was on the rocks, but they’ve made up. Perhaps they’ll think they should celebrate by making a child. I wish I knew. My relations with Charlotte aren’t easy.

As he said this, it crossed his mind that it wasn’t impossible that Charlotte would accept the presence of Alice in his life
and that Alice might make things better between him and his daughter, the way her mother, Mary, had when she was alive. Perhaps even between him and Charlotte’s odious husband. The list of potential improvements seemed infinite. There was nothing that Alice could not make better.

She was busy at lunch on Monday, a business lunch of which there were so many. New York editors spent their lives at lunch, if Mary and her colleagues were a fair example. Apparently French editors were no different. But they had dinner together, and he spent the night with her, at her apartment. The following morning he called Mike Mansour and told him he would like to spend a few more days in Paris, for instance until Sunday, and asked whether the report on Bucharest and Warsaw could be deferred until the first board meeting in June. The great financier chuckled and said
pas de problème
if he was going to spend those days with the nice lady. Schmidt averred that such indeed was the case, whereupon he was invited, no ordered, to go on using Mike’s suite.

The question is, Mike continued, the question is does she now like you as much as you like her?

I don’t know for sure, Schmidt replied, but I very much hope so.

He was beginning to think that perhaps she did. During the subsequent nights she gave herself to him with such abandon that he was left incredulous and hollowed out by her hunger, a hunger somehow miraculously inseparable from a will to make sure that the pleasure was shared equally. They made love at his hotel; she preferred going home afterward to having to get him out of the way before he could encounter Madame Laure. Not that I’m fooling her as it is, she added cheerfully,
and in truth Schmidt wondered why it was easier for that estimable housekeeper to note that Alice came home every night at two or later—because most often she would fall asleep for an hour or two, her head on his breast, before going home—than accept his presence at breakfast. Twice they had lunch together near her office on rue de l’Université; the other days she had more of those business lunches. He reverted to his student days, making the rounds of museums, going on long walks, eating a hard-boiled egg or a sandwich at the counter of a café.

One of the days when Alice was busy, he had lunch with the lawyers at W & K, which had been proposed to him by Hugh Macomber, a younger partner heading the Paris office, whom he knew and liked. On the way back to the office after lunch he walked with Macomber ahead of the others and found himself asking whether the office had been able to retain the clients brought in by Tim Verplanck. For the most part, Macomber thought it had, which was not his doing but that of Bud Horsey, the partner who was Tim’s immediate successor and his own predecessor. A good deal of holding on to them, he said, appeared to depend on the goodwill of Tim’s buddy Bruno Chardon, the rather flamboyant investment banker. Horsey had made a real effort to cultivate Chardon.

And you? asked Schmidt.

I’ve been somewhat remiss, Macomber replied. He’s not exactly our kind. It’s too soon to tell whether there will be defections.

What do you mean not our kind? Schmidt pursued.

Oh, you know, as I said he’s got a flamboyant side. Molly—that’s my wife, I’m not sure you remember her—she doesn’t get good vibes. I think you’d understand right away what I
mean if you met him, you know, if you saw the cut of his jib. Lew Brenner knows all about it, and he’s told me to do my best but not to feel obliged to go overboard. Probably even if I did it wouldn’t make much difference.

I see, said Schmidt. I don’t suppose you see much of Tim’s widow.

Macomber shook his head. We don’t really know her.

Toward the end of the week Alice announced a change in their plans. She told him that her colleague Serge Popov, who had been on a book tour with one of his authors in England, would be back on Friday and had asked whether the three of them could have lunch together that day.

Really, said Schmidt, it’s his idea and not yours?

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, I can’t imagine why he wants to see me any more than I want to see him, but he restrained himself.

Yes, it’s his idea, she assured him, he told me your name brought back so many memories. Please say yes. It would be at one. Oh, and there is another thing. My father’s lady friend is unwell, and he is feeling very anxious. I’ll have to go down there on Friday afternoon, after lunch.

He told her he was doubly and triply sorry, for her father, for the lady, and for himself. He too would leave Paris on Friday, in that case, on the last plane for New York, if he could get a seat. They were having dinner in the courtyard of his hotel, the evening was beautiful, and they had just finished what she told him were the first wild strawberries of the season. It made him sad, irrationally, he supposed, to amputate Saturday and most of Sunday from his stay, and he returned to the plans he had been making. If he came back in a month, would she like that, would she be there?

She nodded. Yes, I would like that very much.

And would you come to see me in Bridgehampton during the summer? For your vacation? Anytime—and for as long as you can stay. Forever would be best!

Something like the wisp of a cloud passed over her face.

I don’t know, she replied. I may have to be here to help my father and Janine. That’s his friend. The other thing is that I’m hoping that Tommy will realize that his grandfather is now very old and will want to come to see him. If that happens, I will want to join them. Let’s talk about all this in June, when you return. By then, everything should be much clearer.

Salve
, Schmidtie! A man who had to be Popov, since he was rising from a table where he had been sitting with Alice, stepped forward and extended his arms to embrace Schmidt. How long has it been since our freshman year? Forty-five years! You haven’t changed, you old thief! The same red hair and the same sourpuss expression.

Caught in a bear hug accompanied by a Slavic-sounding grunt, but ducking the proffer of Popov’s cheeks or lips, however Popov’s gesture was to be interpreted, Schmidt kissed Alice on her cheeks, sat down, and examined his host. He was thinner and more stooped, his hair once a brilliantine-smeared brown had gone gray and wispy, but the shiny double-breasted black suit, which, in Schmidt’s opinion, cried out for the services of a dry cleaner, was a replica of the one that Popov had worn day in and day out as an undergraduate. None of this was surprising. Schmidt imagined Popov’s glee at taking stock of what changes the years had wrought in him, assuming that Popov bothered to look and remember. Having ordered lunch, Popov emptied his glass of wine, refilled it, and addressed to
Alice a rapid stream of anecdotes, interrupted only by his chortles over the author he had accompanied on the book tour and a variety of literary and publishing figures to whom he referred by first name only. Schmidt didn’t mind being left out of the conversation. It was not unlike the old days: chatter among Mary and her editor and agent friends. Presumably Alice hadn’t seen Popov since his return the previous day and, absorbed by what Popov had to say, didn’t attempt to draw Schmidt in. That too was more than all right with Schmidt. Being allowed to eat his leek salad in peace was better than what he had expected. However, as soon as his smoked haddock had been served, the respite ended.

Popov turned for the first time in his direction and announced: You have become a powerful philanthropist. Quite a step up for a lawyer!

It wasn’t clear to Schmidt how this observation, which he found offensive, was meant to be taken. Never mind, he was not going to rise to the bait.

I’m not very powerful, he replied, just lucky that my country neighbor Michael Mansour recently decided to give me a job. You may not know it, but I retired from the practice of law just about three years ago, soon after my wife died.

Such a loss, cried Popov. That splendid Mary Ryan, that was her name at Radcliffe, her maiden name! Mary Ryan, Lois Witherspoon, and Ginny Burbank: three roommates, each more beautiful and intelligent than the other! I bet you didn’t know that I was close to them, Schmidtie. They were three years behind us in college, but I took them out. I’ve always liked younger women.

Here he looked at Alice and punched her playfully on the arm.

I don’t think you knew Mary at college, but I got to know her well, he continued. You, my friend Gil Blackman, my roommate Kevin, all of you left after graduation, but I stayed on, doing graduate work. When I went into publishing a number of years later, Mary and I reconnected, of course! What a powerhouse she was! Nobody in American publishing measured up to her.

That’s what I’ve always heard, replied Schmidt.

He felt the stirring of a better feeling toward Popov. It was good to have him praise Mary in Alice’s hearing.

Ach yes, and what good times we would have at the Frankfurt Fair!

Popov rolled his eyes and smacked his lips. After a short silence, he spoke again.

I had a special reason for asking Alice to bring us together. It’s your neighbor and employer, Mr. Mansour. A group of us in publishing think this is the right time to establish a prestigious and important annual prize to honor the best work of fiction and the best work of poetry written in Arabic. The jury would be of very high quality. We think that given his Middle Eastern background, Mr. Mansour might be open to such a project and that you would be the right person to present it to him.

Was that the reason for this lunch? Schmidt asked himself. If it was, and if Popov and his friends had done nothing so far about approaching Mike, they must believe in the power of wishful thinking. What else would have brought about the fortuitous meeting between him and Schmidt, who just happened to have a connection to Mike, and Alice, who was Popov’s colleague?

It’s not impossible that he would be interested, Schmidt said. He does read a good deal, even if it isn’t belles lettres. If you have a proposal, you should send it to his adviser Bruce Holbein. At Mansour Industries’ main office. Since this is outside the scope of the foundation’s work, Mike would anyway give it to him, and not me, to review before he looked at it himself. I’ll be glad to mention to both of them that you have spoken to me.

That is very good of you, Popov said. I have another request or maybe question. Alice has told me about the foundation offices you have been visiting. Why isn’t there one in Sofia? In Bulgaria? You may not know it, but I have an important connection with Bulgaria, and I consider the omission a slight.