About Schmidt (20 page)

He took the
New York Review
and moved from the kitchen table to his rocking chair. He leafed through the magazine until he reached an article about women that seemed to span the period from the Renaissance through the nineteenth century. The author was an Italian professor called Craveri, whose name he did not recall having seen before. What a well-managed life she must have led to know so much! He imagined
perfect index cards with notes on everything she had read, filed in color-coded folders. Or did this lady have perfect recall, might she be one of those people who can rattle off the dates of the Council of Trent and name the day of the week when Napoleon and Alexander met on the river raft? And such orderly exposition! Schmidt had never filed anything. His notes, taken on yellow pads, accumulated in stacks and were of questionable utility when he was still working on the problem to which they related, because he remembered what was in them. Afterward, when he had finished, they had no value: to put them in order would have taken too much time, and where should he keep them? In his own office or in the firm’s central files? The question would be answered by tossing them vengefully into one of those boxes for papers to be shredded that the mail-room staff occasionally brought around. Thus during his last days at the firm he had erased his personal record of his work, month by month, year by year, disposing of the leftovers in an orgy of self-mutilation that astonished even Mrs. Cooney, whose knowledge of his work habits was unsurpassed. Isn’t there anything you want sent to the country? she kept asking, not even your correspondence? No, he had replied, what difference does it make what I wrote in ’83 to the Southern Trust Company about fraudulent conveyances? The statute of limitations on my negligence has run out, and if it hasn’t, and the firm is sued, the boys will find what they need in the central files. Mementos of closings followed to the trash the rich blue-and-maroon-bound volumes of transaction documents: tombstone ads laid to rest in Lucite, miniatures of products associated with various borrowers, his name on tarnished
Strips of fake brass glued to the base on which they were displayed—among them airplanes, oil tankers, trucks, and earth-moving equipment, and one large black telephone, and framed photographs of him signing opinions or, more often, hovering behind some borrower’s president, ostensibly to make sure that potentate wrote his name in the right place. Unlike many of his partners, he had not used these articles as paperweights or displayed them on his window ledge. On his good days, when he knew that a principal involved in the transaction was due at his office, he would rummage in his closet and, if he could find it, put the appropriate toy in a place of honor on the coffee table or lean the photograph against the bound volumes on his bookshelf. Really, it was like the system Mary and he had for dealing with paintings they bought from artists who were friends or, far more dangerous, paintings that artists had given to them: there was a nail from which they would hang the work in question (usually it was Mary who remembered it had to be done) just before its creator came for a meal or for the weekend. Otherwise, since artists, like pigs in search of truffles, immediately head for the place where they last saw whatever work of theirs one had acquired, it was necessary to invent a theory of migration: the painting or drawing wasn’t there because, depending on the circumstances of the visit, it was in the country, in the city, at the framer’s because it had buckled, or, in extreme circumstances, at Schmidtie’s office. A high-wire act, given the investigative skills of most artists.

Craveri’s article took an unexpected turn; he had been reading about peasant women in England gathering animal turd for use as fuel in the kitchen fireplace—an activity he
had never heard of—when the author, without transition, launched into an anecdote about the hour at which the prime minister wanted dinner served. The chef was in the wrong. Disraeli insisted that the sweets had begun to melt before they reached the table. There was more to it, but he couldn’t find it on the page. He rubbed his eyes. Where was his cigar? Not in the ashtray, not at the edge of the end table where he sometimes balanced it. He stood up abruptly, frightened that the thing was burning somewhere. The cigar rolled from his lap to the floor. It had gone out. He brushed off the ashes, relit the cigar, and carried the whiskey glass to the sink. The running water made him realize he badly needed to go to the bathroom. When he came back to the kitchen, he saw it was past one in the morning.

He was tired, and yet once again so wide awake that, if he went on reading downstairs, he knew there would be no going to sleep without a strong pill. It would be better to read in bed. He got a glass of soda water for the night and was beginning to turn out the lights when he heard a series of rapid knocks at the front door and then the doorbell. The man? Burglars of more than usual impudence? In a passage off the kitchen that served as a mud room stood an ax handle he had bought years before intending to use it on the pair of unknown black dogs that had taken to rooting in the flower beds next to the back porch and clawing at the porch itself, presumably to get at a rabbit burrow underneath it. As if forewarned by the purchase, the dogs stopped their visits. He grasped the weapon, strode to the front hall, and turned on the outside light. Peering through one of the narrow windows at the side of the door, he saw a figure he had not expected:
it was Carrie, in the same red ski parka and black tights she had worn when he and Gil saw her on the sidewalk outside O’Henry’s. Her hands were bare. She was rubbing them together. When he opened to let her in he realized that the night had become very cold.

Come in quick, he told her. You must be freezing.

I am.

She wanted to keep her parka on until she warmed up. This is quite a place, she said. You weren’t asleep? I was going to drive off if you didn’t come to the door right away.

And then, seeing the ax handle, she made a hoarse giggling sound that was like a flashback to the nights he had spent listening to jazz on 52nd Street, and added, You were going to whack me!

Not you. The intruder. I will give you a drink.

She refused his offer of whiskey or coffee. She wanted a glass of milk. He told her he hadn’t any; having returned that very day, he hadn’t done his shopping. They settled for tea. She followed him into the kitchen and watched while he fussed with the kettle and teapot, her head, always somehow too heavy for that delicate long neck, pressed against her shoulder and fist as though she were going to snuggle it under a huge wing, her whole body leaning against the arm of the rocking chair. Schmidt thought that was what she must look like when she went home after those long hours of work to that apartment in Sag Harbor—he wondered whether in reality it could be more than a furnished room—and that he mustn’t allow himself anything like those feelings of excessive and proprietary compassion that regularly overcame him each time a dog, without an owner in sight, followed him
from the beach to the car and yelped, wagging his tail and rubbing his face against his knee, as though an adoption deal had just been consummated. This was a complicated young person, apparently quite able to take care of herself, who happened to work as a waitress. The advice he had given himself to be cautious remained valid.

Would you like to have your tea here? he asked her. I think I will have a cup too, and a whiskey as well, although I have already had several.

Can we go to the living room? I’d like to see this house. This is quite a place, she repeated.

My wife inherited it years ago, from an old aunt.

He thought that might make living in such a house more acceptable, much less a symbol of incalculable riches. On both sides of O’Henry’s there were store windows of real estate brokers with photographs of properties for sale, usually with the asking price. This child would have a fairly accurate idea of how much the house was worth on the market.

And then he added, In fact this place doesn’t really belong to me. I am just entitled to live here. When I die it will automatically become my daughter’s. But, as she is getting married quite soon, I plan to give up my squatter’s rights and move to a much smaller place. Then she and her husband will have this house without an old fellow getting in their way.

That’s too bad!

Not really. It may be a nice change.

The Polish brigade had been hard at work. The living room had a disorderly but unlived-in appearance.

Now that you have seen the salon, he said to Carrie, let’s try the library. It should be more cozy. There may even be wood in the fireplace.

After he had put down the tray and lit the fire, while they were still standing, she gave him a little punch on the shoulder, the same as in the parking lot.

You haven’t asked me why I’m here. Aren’t you surprised?

I hadn’t even thought. I guess that’s because I’m glad to see you. Of course, I was surprised. That’s why I was carrying that stick.

Oh, yeah. I’m not even dressed up, or anything. I came over from work.

Of course.

When he asked her to sit down, she remarked that the fire was so warm she might as well take off her parka, and threw it into a corner of the room. The garment she was wearing over her tights turned out to be a man’s shirt. She lowered herself carefully into the middle of the sofa that faced the fire, pulled off her sneakers, and massaged and wiggled her toes. Then, with a little moan, she stretched out her legs.

You mind if I put my feet on the coffee table? she asked. It sure feels good to get off them. You just going to stand there?

She continued to wiggle her toes while he poured her more tea. Definitely, the sofa was to be avoided. He moved one of the spare dining room chairs over to the coffee table where he could sit facing her, with his back to the fire.

I’ll tell you why I came even if you’re not curious. It’s because I acted sore this evening. Did you notice?

Certainly. Was there a reason for it?

The way you came in. You didn’t care about seeing me. Like you didn’t greet me. Just hello, here I am, bring me a drink. You could have given me a hug or told me what it was like where you were. But there was nothing. Like I was a machine. Or a waitress in a drive-in. You hurt my feelings.

I am terribly sorry. If you want to know, I thought you were treating me coldly—from the moment I saw you! Usually, you say something friendly, and come over to chat, but this evening you didn’t. That’s why I didn’t try to tell you about my trip. I figured you didn’t want to be bothered.

Am I supposed to believe that?

It’s the truth. Don’t you know I’m your friend? I wrote postcards to you. I left a Christmas present for you.

She interrupted. Yeah, you took it over to the restaurant on my day off!

I am sorry. That was stupid of me. It was my last day in Bridgehampton and I didn’t know where to find you.

You could have asked at the restaurant!

I didn’t think you would like that.

Why? I’m not ashamed of you. You’re ashamed of me! You didn’t write your name on the package. I figured out why you put your postcards in envelopes. It was so that nobody would know you were writing to me.

Carrie, I used envelopes because that’s more private and friendly. Also, it gives one more room to write.

All I know is you don’t want anybody to think you like me.

She emptied her cup. As though she were withdrawing from the world, she drew her legs under her on the sofa and looked at him cheerlessly.

I don’t want to embarrass you, that’s all. It seems to me that a beautiful, young girl like you would hate to have people tease her on account of an old man.

If you liked me, you would let me worry about that.

Can’t you tell that I like you quite a lot? Why else would I go to O’Henry’s so often? It’s not for the cuisine.

Should he leave his chair and sit down on the sofa, keeping
prudently to the corner? Repeat with Carrie the dumb show of the hour or more he had spent holding hands with Renata? Attempt a more daring scene? They could, for instance, look at photographs of the Grand Canyon. There was no reason why the book he had used with Corinne wouldn’t be on the same bookshelf, in its old place. It occurred to him, simultaneously, that ruses were unnecessary, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to succeed, and that his breath must be awful. He stood up, poked aimlessly at the fire, and added a log.

Hey, Schmidtie, you really mean it?

Was it possible to fall in love with a girl’s voice?

She moved like a cat. The unforeseen embrace—she got up on her toes to reach his mouth and held him by both ears—and the weight of her body caught Schmidt off guard. He steadied himself, put his arms around her, and very tentatively stroked the back of her head. It was miraculous that the hair, indeed the head, he had studied so attentively, and in such secret, should be so available. He ventured to touch her tiny, tightly formed ears. When she ended the kiss she ran her tongue over his hand and then remained pressed against him, her head quiet and obedient in the hollow of his chest.

After a while, she whispered, You want to sit down on the couch?

She grabbed his erection and squeezed hard.

He’s nice. Too bad that’s all you’re getting tonight.

But on the sofa—Let’s sit quietly side by side, I want you to talk to me, she told him—she took hold of him again right away, while rebuffing, with her free hand, the caress Schmidt attempted, in part, at least, out of the feeling that he should reciprocate.

I said, no monkey business. You’re going to talk to me.

He found that difficult. It was like using the one foreign language he had learned and forgotten, his high school French. Each word had to be looked for, found, and mouthed. What came out sounded like someone else speaking. The subject of the assignment had seemed evident: he began to describe to her how the strangeness of Brazil had struck him, at the same time as the intensity of the heat and light, as soon as he found himself in the open air in Manaus, intent on following the driver who had met him inside the terminal building—until then, when he wasn’t on a plane, he had had the impression of sleepwalking in the air-conditioned chaos of the Rio, Saõ Paulo, and Brasilia airports. That wasn’t, though, what she wanted.