Schmidt Steps Back (3 page)

At breakfast, he had not so much as scanned the first pages of the
Times
. Now he retrieved it from the kitchen and soon
found the only piece of half-decent news: Al Franken continued to lead the deplorable Norm Coleman in the Minnesota recount, but only by fifty votes. Recount! Schmidt had hoped never to hear that word again, after that interlude of thuggery carried on all the way up to the Supreme Court that had put W in the White House. Other than that, only tales of horror and perplexity. The day before, Hamas had fired a rocket from Gaza that reached eighteen miles deep into Israel killing a mother of four. According to the UN, the Israeli assault on that wretched strip of land had already killed three hundred seventy Palestinians, of whom sixty-two were women and children. What did those figures prove, other than the futility of killing large numbers of Palestinians? It had hardly broken their will to fight. On the other hand did Hamas try to spare Israeli women and children? That issue was not touched upon by the
Times
. Would Hamas and Hezbollah settle for anything less than pushing Israel into the sea? Probably not, but if they pushed hard enough, the Israelis would drop the bomb. Just where they would drop it was a good question to which he was willing to bet not even Mike Mansour had an answer. And if the Iranians too got the bomb, they would surely use it on Tel Aviv in response, a catastrophe for the Jews on the scale of Auschwitz, whereupon the Israelis would nuke Tehran and Kharg Island, the latter move starting a chain reaction of chaos for every country dependent on Iranian oil. Wouldn’t someone—Russians or Pakistanis or the Chinese, or even North Koreans—come to the aid of their Iranian and Arab friends? And do what? At that point Schmidt gave up. He didn’t know, and he wasn’t a
Times
columnist required to pretend that he did. With any luck he’d be dead before the answer was revealed. Another article touched on a subject nearer his old
expertise. The SEC was sticking to its guns defending mark-to-market accounting, which required financial institutions to write down daily the assets carried on their balance sheets to whatever amount a buyer would be willing to pay that day. Schmidt adamantly believed that if the rule were suspended or abolished, the banks would rob the public blind. Anyone who had ever dealt with them had to come to the same conclusion. There was, however, a reasonable counterargument that the journalist hadn’t mentioned. It held that an asset wasn’t necessarily worthless just because there were no takers for it at a given time. Should such an asset then be really written down to zero on the bank’s balance sheet? It would be the same as saying that your house on a shady street in Scarsdale, for which you paid two million dollars three years earlier, was suddenly worth zero just because the Dow had crashed and for the moment no buyers were to be found. Another headaching puzzle. Perhaps Mike Mansour had the right answer. When Alice and he saw Mike at dinner that evening, he might ask him. The great financier was never short of convictions or shy about pronouncing them. One could mock Mike’s high-roller style, but when he opined about financial matters, it was well to pay attention. Schmidt had learned that lesson in October 2007, when Mike told him to sell shares and buy treasuries and gold.

Had he dozed off? How long had she been in his room? He became conscious of her presence only when she said, Knock knock, it’s the lady from Paris. So silent when she moved, so like his cats, and his lost Carrie, Alice stood before him smiling, barefoot, toenails painted a red he found heart-rendingly gallant, clad in a beige sweat suit that he realized,
when he put his arms around her, was made of a cashmere so soft it felt as if he were touching her naked body. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head and said, Schmidtie, I’ve come for a serious talk. (That was the name she had discovered by which his friends called him; he disliked his given name, Albert, and its odious diminutives.)

Of course, Alice, he said, we can have a serious talk, but will you allow me an opening statement?

She nodded.

It’s very simple: I love you. I’ve gone over everything I told you when I saw you in October. I meant it then, and I mean it now. Please give me a second chance and live with me wedded or in sin, here in this house, or in New York or Paris—or anywhere, so long as we are together and I give full satisfaction.

He wasn’t sure what kind of response he expected, but he was relieved to see her smile. Schmidtie, was that the opening statement or the conclusion? What do lawyers call it? Prayer for relief?

A bit of both, he answered, but please remember that I haven’t rested my case.

Then go ahead and rest it, Schmidtie. She giggled. Don’t keep me waiting.

He took one long step approaching the armchair where she sat. Sinking to his knees, he put his arms around her legs and pressed his face against them.

Wait, wait, she whispered, I too have something to say. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you, if I didn’t want to be with you. But thirteen years have gone by. At our ages that is like a lifetime. Do you remember how you told me I shouldn’t tie myself to an old man? Now you’re even older. But I’m not
afraid of that, Schmidtie. I’m more worried about what you will think of me. Now I’m old too with an old woman’s body.

His notion of what the occasion demanded moved him to protest. He told her that she had not changed, that she was still the magnificent blond beauty he’d fallen in love with, that she had never been more desirable. The wonder of it, he realized, was that he was telling her the truth.

Hush, Schmidtie, she said, I know you’re chivalrous. Do you also have to be silly? Have you asked yourself what you’ll find when I take off my clothes?

She took his hand and guided it under her top, pressing it to her breast. Can you feel how it has changed? It’s flabby. My whole body has changed. Puff and flab.

He renewed his protest, but she said: Shush! This afternoon will be all right, because it will feel new, like doing it the first time. But tonight, and then tomorrow? You’ve such good manners that you’ll probably try to make love to me every day while I’m here. But it will feel like a chore, not because you don’t love me or don’t want to give me pleasure, but because we’re old. What will you do? Use those pills? On the sly, of course. You’re so very proper.

Oh, Alice, he whispered. No more talk.

But I told you that we must talk. How can we just forget that dreadful party in Water Mill? And then you had me come to London. For what? To berate and humiliate me. To make sure I knew that you were in a rage? And that awful loveless sex that followed. More like rape. And then all those years of silence, until you reappeared out of nowhere. Why? Because you had figured out that I’m available. Am I right?

Alice, we both know what happened thirteen years ago. I
was a fool. An idiot. I’ve admitted that, I’ve begged your pardon for it.

And I’ve told you I’m not angry, not anymore. I accept my share of blame. But let’s make sure that this time we don’t stumble. I couldn’t bear it.

She had done nothing to make him take his hand away from her breast, and he had kept up the caresses, extending them to the other breast. Equal treatment. She began to moan.

Wait, wait, she said. Listen. Please, no more talk about the future. Not now. Don’t make me think you are foolish. Let me propose marriage to you. When I think we are ready.

I promise, he answered. I promise.

A
LICE WAS ASLEEP
, lost in such great depths that he was able to turn on the lamp on the dresser and collect his clothes without disturbing her. The little noise she made in response was, he thought, a moan of contentment. Then she buried her head under the pillows. There was nothing surprising about sleeping so soundly after a night in the plane followed by sex that had ended in an exuberant climax, but he couldn’t help taking it as proof that he was a good host. The thought made him feel proud even though he knew it was childish. He too had sunk into slumber but only for a short while. He awoke to find an arm thrown around him. Her body was glued to his. All that ardor, her unabashed concentration, as if she’d been straining to hear from afar some impossibly high note that would set off the explosion of joy! That was also how he remembered their first time. Eyes closed, body arched, she had abandoned herself to pleasure, on her own terms and as frankly and completely as Carrie. Certain gestures that Carrie had taught him were now brushed away, without comment or anger. How little they mattered, whether welcomed or banned! The protocol of making love to Alice was in reality not unlike the one he and Mary had adhered
to during more than thirty years of a decorous and mostly affectionate marriage, but the result was profoundly different. Mary had almost never reached an orgasm. Buried somewhere inside her, he was convinced, was the fear that doing so would give him the upper hand. She’d sooner settle for adolescent pleasures of making out on the living room sofa, foreplay prolonged beyond reason, and, after the act, a clammy letdown. Probably she thought that the corollary—his feelings of guilt or humiliation—were well deserved. Shameful to make comparisons, he knew that, but could he avoid them? Alice and he would never reach the terrifying fury he had known with Carrie, but Carrie had brought him to the outer limit of his body’s endurance. He didn’t think that he could have followed her there much longer.

He went down to the kitchen, fed the cats, made himself a cup of tea, and drank it while he finished reading the arts section of the
Times
, which he had left downstairs. Then he washed in the guest bathroom so as not to disturb Alice and dressed for dinner. He looked at his watch. There was no hurry. Alice could sleep another half hour and still have plenty of time to get ready. Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a bourbon and cut a chunk of the Manchego he had bought for lunch. So armed, he went out on the back porch. An exquisitely drawn new moon hung over the pond. There was no wind, and the only sound was the distant rumbling of the surf. The temperature had dropped considerably, the outdoor thermometer reading only twenty degrees, and before long the cold began to get to him. He retreated to the kitchen.

The Connecticut station was playing Beethoven’s Ninth. The music enveloped him, insistent, questioning, and premonitory. During an intolerable pause, the fate of every living
being remained suspended, uncertain. Then, in a leap, came the exultation of the summons to joy. He responded with assent: yes, joy and gratitude. As though she too had been summoned by the triumphant crescendo, Alice appeared in the door, regal and slender in a floor-length black velvet sheath that left her shoulders bare. Some small part of Schmidt’s admiration yielded to perplexity. Was it a mistake, her wearing a dress she must have bought many years ago, when she still had a young woman’s skin? Would he dare suggest as much? Did she even have with her another dress she could change into? He walked toward her and opened his arms. Vast relief: Alice’s shoulders were smooth and creamy. He kissed them, inhaling deeply, wanting the smell of her body to fill his lungs. Such unexpected and undeserved good fortune that she should be so beautiful, that his lips should be so welcome, that she should be smiling at him!

Schmidtie, look at me, she said, don’t just stand there and nuzzle. Do you think I look all right? I want the truth: can I get away with this if I throw something over my shoulders?

“Something” was a scarf made of two lengths of silk of different colors, emerald and wine red, sewn together, that she held out at arm’s length.

You’re sure it’s all right? she asked. I don’t want to embarrass you.

He smiled and nodded.

With or without the scarf you’re perfect.

He had let the Audi’s engine run for ten minutes with the heater turned on. The interior would be toasty now. If only they still made front seats like those of the Nash he used to borrow for heavy dates at college, Alice would be pressed against his side, perhaps nibbling his ear. Instead, her hand was
on his knee, communicating by varying degrees of pressure momentary panic at headlights that she was sure were blinding him, the menacing bulk of tailgating SUVs and pickup trucks, and, at intersections, unseen cars surging out of the night to join the flow of traffic.

We’re almost there, he said to soothe her.

It’s all right, really. Excuse me. What will the party be like?

As such events go, not bad. You’ll get an excellent dinner. And very good wine. Mike doesn’t skimp on quality or quantity.

He had noted the power of her memory. She forgot nothing—not a single telephone number or date. She would have remembered what he had told her in Paris about Mike’s billions and how they continued multiplying in years when others lost money; his beginnings as an Egyptian Jew whose family had fled Nasser; as well as the work of the foundation at the head of which he had placed Schmidt. As though to prove him right, she reminded him that in Paris, when he regaled her with stories of Mike’s antics, his tone had been acerbic. Had that changed? Yes, he replied. I’ve changed and he has changed. He has been an extraordinarily loyal, close friend. On top of that, I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. Without the foundation job I wouldn’t have made that trip in ninety-five to inspect the foundation’s offices and I wouldn’t have seen you!

Mike has been twice married and divorced, he continued, but in all the years I’ve known him he hasn’t had an official girlfriend. There is a lady in his life now, but it’s a closely guarded secret. She’s Caroline Canning, a biographer married to a novelist. She and her husband are always there, at all his parties, and even at small, intimate dinners. You’ll surely see them tonight.

Is the novelist husband Joe Canning? Alice asked hesitantly. He’s one of our authors.

That’s the one, replied Schmidt. I hadn’t realized he was published in France. Let’s see … who else will be there? Gil and Elaine.

And we are to have dinner at their house tomorrow.

Glancing at her sideways, he saw that she was biting her lip.

After a silence that seemed to him very long, she spoke again. Schmidtie, she said, I’m so worried about all this. We will be opening a wound that’s barely healed.