Schmidt Steps Back (14 page)

You missed a good party at Fabien’s, he told Schmidt. Enzo was in great form—he always is when we’re together, he knows I have his interests at heart and am doing what I can, which is considerable, to develop his career—and his girlfriend is a ten. With all due respect, big tits and a big décolleté, I wouldn’t have minded sticking my hand in it.
Pas de problème
, I didn’t do it. He might have tried to slug me and hurt his hand! Unless I tore off his arm first, which with the
Tae Kwon Do training I’ve been getting I probably could have. Either way, it wouldn’t have helped his piano playing. That Canning, I don’t like him. If you pardon my French, he’s an asshole. But Caroline! Nice little tits, and I bet she’s tight. Tight tight tight! The question is, how do I get in?

How indeed?

I’m working on it. What happens if I send him away? For instance I’m thinking of fixing him up with the studios in Hollywood so he can talk about making a movie out of one of his novels. The question is, would she necessarily go with him? Maybe not. She’s writing a book. But if he goes and she stays, I can invite her to dinner here or maybe in New York. New York would be better. No question: I would show her a good time, the kind of good time she can’t have with that dick.

The notion of Mike’s showing Caroline a good time revived for Schmidt the unpleasant memory of just such an occasion Mike had arranged for Carrie, and the big fat pass he’d made at her, almost nipping his friendship with Schmidt in the bud. It was not a subject he wished to pursue. In truth there was no subject that held his interest just then other than what time it was in Paris. When they finally reached Mike’s house it was six-fifteen in the afternoon for Alice. She’d still be at her office or on her way home. He could have asked to use the telephone before lunch was served, but it had occurred to him that it would be good to know first whether she had left a message on his answering machine in Bridgehampton. That meant delaying his call for another hour or more, but perhaps it was just as well. He’d seem less impatient. So he sat through the lunch, which he managed to notice was excellent, and drank
Mr. Mansour’s champagne, cheering him on when his remarks required it and indicating surprise when that seemed appropriate, while his mind traced Alice’s probable itinerary. He had consulted the weather forecast for Paris before leaving the New York apartment and knew it was a bright and sunny day. Very likely she had walked home from the office.

He perked up when Mr. Mansour put to him the question that invariably came up during their
tête-à-tête
meals: The question is, he intoned, the question is whether you’re finally getting a life for yourself. You did a great job in Europe, we know that. But did anything happen that was good for Schmidtie?

He replied with greater candor than he had intended: In fact something very good happened. I met a lady I really like.

Another twenty-year-old like Carrie? Czech or Ukrainian? I hear they screw like bunnies, but if you’re smart you wear a condom.

He laughed gaily and held out his hand to shake Schmidt’s.

Schmidt shook the proffered hand and told Mr. Mansour he wished it were as simple as that. The lady was French, she was a real lady, and she wasn’t a twentysomething. She was younger than he, but not young enough to be his daughter.

You have a photo? If you haven’t bought one of those new cameras I’ll give you one. It’s a must-have. Manuel takes good pictures with mine. We can get someone at my office in Paris to take one of her. You want Manuel to take a picture of you? You could send it to her.

Mike, I can’t thank you enough, Schmidt replied, but we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. Or rather I mustn’t. But I’ll keep you posted.

Pas de problème
, replied Mr. Mansour. You say you like her, but you can’t fool me, you’re in love. The question is, how much does she like you?

I wish I knew!

The driver of the yellow Rolls deposited Schmidt at his house and told him that while Mr. Mansour and his guest traveled in the bright green helicopter, as usual enraging countless residents on the ground below them, in their houses, on their tennis courts, or beside their pools, and while they later lunched on sweet pea soup, lobster salad, and rhubarb crumble, Manuel drove the black Rolls back from the city, stopped at Schmidt’s house, and carried his bags upstairs. One had to hand it to Mike. If he took charge, nothing was left to chance. The front door to Schmidt’s house was open, which is how he normally left it during the day. He paused and looked around him before entering. The forsythia on both sides of the driveway had reached its peak, and so had the tulips. He liked his house and his garden. Whatever happened, he would have it as a refuge. Whom would he find at home? Carrie and Jason, the man she was going to marry, were surely still living in the pool house on the property, but at this hour on a weekday they’d be working at the marina Jason had bought. Schmidt wasn’t sure whether they had already found a house or an apartment to move into. If it was a house, it would surely need renovation: a perfect project for Bryan, who had finished fixing up the living space above Schmidt’s garage and created a little apartment for himself. Since the deal was that he would occupy it when he was cat sitting he was surely sleeping there, but very likely he too was at the marina. At least Sy would be at home! As Schmidt opened
the screen door and let himself in, a smile broke out on his face. The little Siamese had indeed been waiting for him—there was no other explanation for his energetically wailing
meow meow
—rubbing himself against Schmidt and finally, in exasperation at Schmidt’s slowness to respond, rising on his hind legs to tap Schmidt’s pant leg with one graciously extended paw, making it clear he wanted to be picked up.

With Sy nestled in his arms, Schmidt went into the kitchen. There was a note on the table, but loyalty and good behavior deserve, whenever possible, instant recompense. He set a saucer of milk on the table and showed it to Sy before reading the message in Carrie’s fine schoolgirl hand:
We’re coming to welcome you home this evening after work, all three and seven-ninths of us, and we’re bringing the dinner! Until then have a good rest
. It was signed with the capital letter
C
surrounded by arabesques in which he discerned elements of
J
and
B
. So be it! His lovely Hecate mistress, herself a wondrous child, with a baby due soon. The baby that could be his, a possibility of which Carrie had told him Jason was aware. A baby is a baby, she had told him. Jason knows about you. He loves me. So big deal. If the kid isn’t his, it’s mine, and he’s the stepfather. Presented in that light, the situation had struck Schmidt at first as intolerable. But one makes progress, he said to himself, moral progress of sorts. He found himself ready to accept the ambiguity. Whether the little boy was red-haired with a big nose like his, or turned out to be a Nordic god like Jason, he would be at the kid’s side. Discreetly, and he hoped lovingly.

There was no message waiting on his Bridgehampton answering machine, for the very good reason that the answer function of his telephone had been turned off. He didn’t recall having done it, but whoever had—one of his trio of house
minders or one of the Polish cleaning women—was perfectly right. Not many people called him, but, even so, it made no sense to accumulate messages over an absence of many weeks. But what about New York? Pinned to the bulletin board next to the kitchen telephone was a trove of useful information. Squeezed between the business card of the Wainscott vet who had given Sy his first vaccinations and that of the locksmith, he found the index card on which he had written the numbers he had to dial for access to his 212 voice mailbox. There was only one message—from Alice!—received that very day at 12:42 p.m., just as the helicopter was passing over Southampton.

Bonjour,
mon petit
Schmidtie, he heard her say. Shall we talk later? Kiss kiss kiss … She did not mention the message he had left. Forgetfulness? Had she not listened to it? Could her answering machine have malfunctioned?

His hands on the verge of trembling, he called her number, realizing that he no longer needed to look for it in his pocket calendar. It was now among the rare numbers he remembered. The line went dead, and for a moment he considered hanging up and redialing, but before he had done so, it came alive. He let it ring on and on, waiting for the invitation to speak after
le bip sonore
. Finally—he had stopped counting the rings—the line went dead again. Now there were two probable, equally infuriating explanations: one, she had turned off the answering machine, and, two, it was broken. Did he care which it was? The salient fact, as he used to put it in memoranda to clients, was that she was still out. Quarter of ten, Paris time. If she had gone out to dinner, trying to reach her before six—midnight her time—would be a frustratingly pointless exercise. Normally, after an absence, he would inspect the outside
of the house and the garden, and follow up with a cruise through the interior. But his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he went upstairs and unpacked. One big advantage of the luxurious accommodations Mike had pressed on him was that he had no dirty laundry beyond what he had worn the day before and what he had on his back. The hotel laundry had done it all, far better, it pained him to admit, than Pani Basia, the member of the Polish brigade who had taken charge of his linen and everything else in the house that needed washing and ironing. His suits hung up and shirts, underpants, socks, and handkerchiefs stowed away, he put on his pajamas and lay down. He hadn’t noticed how tired he was, and, fearing that if he fell asleep he wouldn’t wake until the morning, he set the alarm clock for six. That is when he would try her number again. Sy materialized from nowhere. With one leap he was on the bed, pressing his purring body against Schmidt. Perhaps he knew that Schmidt needed company and affection.

I was on a sleepover, she said, when he told her that he had called repeatedly the previous evening.

Sleepover? he asked.

Yes, she replied, one of my colleagues gave a dinner at her house in St. Cloud. It was going to end too late for me to get back to Paris easily by train, I didn’t want to drive, and I didn’t want to get a lift home with anyone else, because there would be too much drinking. So I spent the night at Claude’s and got a lift from her to the office this morning. She always brings her car.

It was hard: names he didn’t know, houses he hadn’t seen and would probably never see, customs he wasn’t used to.

How very nice! he said.

Yes, she said, Claude is my best friend at the office. Perhaps my best friend,
tout court
. You’ll like her! She works on scientific books about modern society. You’d really like her husband too. He is a very well-known lawyer, François Larbaud. A
pénaliste
. Can you say that in English? He represents defendants accused of big crimes. There is talk of his being the next
bâtonnier
. That’s the president of the Paris bar.

Another glimpse of Alice’s mysterious world. How would he find his way in it?

I think you’d say a criminal lawyer, he said. Perhaps white-collar-crime specialist, if it’s nonviolent cases. I suppose the boys at the W & K office know him.

Immediately he wished he hadn’t mentioned the firm, but she didn’t seem fazed.

Tim certainly did—in part through me. They had lunch regularly.

My love, Schmidt said, sensing that the conversation was going nowhere. All the feelings I had for you have only gotten stronger. I want you, and I want to be with you. I wish you were here just now. It’s so beautiful here in late April and early May. My forsythia have never looked better, the peonies are getting ready to bloom, the dogwoods and the magnolia are glorious. Couldn’t you rush over for a long weekend?

Now? she asked. Now is impossible. And we’ve just seen each other!

That hurt, but he brushed it off.

All the more reason to rush over, answered Schmidt, but I guess we can’t do what’s impossible.

As he said that, he remembered from high school French that if you want to say that you’ll try very hard, you say
je
ferai l’impossible
, I’ll do the impossible. But French class was one thing, and courting Alice another. Without missing a beat—anyway that’s how he thought it came out—he continued: I’ve another idea. I must take another look at my Eastern European charges, especially the Polish office, which I haven’t seen. How would it be if I came to Paris for the weekend of May twenty-sixth?

May twenty-sixth, May twenty-sixth, she repeated, oh but Thursday, May twenty-fifth, is Ascension Day. Everything in France shuts down from Wednesday until Monday. We call that a
pont
—a bridge—an extra goody. I’ve accepted an invitation from friends, in St. Tropez. I’m also going to drop in on my father in Antibes.

Oh, said Schmidt.

Wait, I need to take a look at my calendar. Yes, the following Sunday, June fourth, is Pentecost Sunday. I think the publishing house will close on Monday, June fifth. If I can swing it, I’ll stay in St. Tropez through that weekend.

That was a strong dose of Catholicism for Schmidt to absorb. She was a Protestant, just like he. Why were these holidays important? Don’t be a dope, because they gave an excuse to Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, and Jews alike to stay away from the office! Religion wasn’t the issue: the question was, as Mr. Mansour might say, what plans one made to take advantage of it. Clearly, none of Alice’s was sufficiently elastic to include him, not even in a supporting role. No, there was no use fighting city hall or shadowy friends with houses in St. Cloud or St. Tropez.

I have another idea, he said. Perhaps this one will work better. What if I came to see you around May fifteenth?

Alice’s calendar was consulted once more.

That would be lovely, my darling Schmidtie. And it’s sooner!

Then she asked about Oklahoma City and whether it was true it was the same Muslims who had tried to blow up the World Trade Center, and he told her that for the moment no one knew.