Schmidt Steps Back

by Louis Begley

  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 surprisin
g. 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.

  Schmidt raised his eyebrows. One reason, he answered, is the level of corruption in Bulgaria. The foundation doesn’t itself operate schools or think tanks or universities. It gives money to existing institutions and works with them. Gives advice. Finances visits by scholars and political leaders from other countries and visits by local political leaders or potential political leaders to the United States. Sometimes it organizes seminars and lectures. We fear that any money we gave to practically any institution in Bulgaria would be at high risk of being stolen.

  I resent that. Popov had raised his voice.

  You asked the question, said Schmidt, so I’m giving you the answer.

  Popov glowered at him: You think it’s worse than in Romania or Hungary, where you do have offices?

  It’s a matter of degree, but yes, we’ve been advised it’s worse.

  I resent that, Popov repeated.

  Schmidt noticed Alice’s hand on Popov’s sleeve. If she meant to restrain him, she didn’t succeed.

  You may be ignorant of my personal saga, Popov continued.

  All I know is that you were born in Bulgaria and at some point during the war or later became a refugee. A displaced person of sorts.

  You are very ignorant, Popov declared. My father was the last minister of justice serving Tsar Boris III, the heroic ruler murdered by the Germans because he wouldn’t let them send Bulgarian Jews to Auschwitz. My father’s father was, until he died, His Majesty’s court chamberlain. My grandfather died of old age in his own bed in his own palace, but my father was murdered by the Communists, along with the tsar’s brother, Prince Kyril, and other members of the regency council and other high patriots. I had the good fortune to be taken into exile by Her Majesty the Tsarina. My education at boarding school and at Harvard was graciously paid for from the imperial purse. I am on terms of personal friendship with Tsar Simeon II. He is younger than I, but we have known each other since early childhood. I find your discrimination against the country of my birth intolerable.

  He assumed a gloomy and superior expression that took Schmidt back to the occasions, fortunately infrequent, when Popov would unexpectedly appear in the suite that Schmidt and Gil Blackman shared at college and jump into whatever discussion of politics and modern European history happened to be taking place. The accent when he spoke English had remained almost the same: an element in it of something unidentifiable but Slavic, and now that he lived in France, and presumably spoke French much of the time, an admixture of something Gallic. The gurgling that accompanied the flights of eloquence, ire, or hilarity hadn’t changed either.

  That is a very grand and, of course, very sad story, replied Schmidt. I can only hope that your Bulgarian connections make it possible for you to help bring better government to your country—now that it’s no longer under Communist rule.

  There is more of my story that you don’t know, or you would not be suggesting so blithely that I immerse myself in Bulgarian politics. That had been my hope at college and graduate school and also when I became the editor of Currents. I don’t suppose you were a reader of that journal.

  Schmidt confirmed that unfortunately he wasn’t.

  I’m not surprised. Then you don’t know the defining effect of that seminal journal on political thought in intellectual milieus in the U.S. and Western Europe. But not long after I assumed the direction of the journal, I met my wife. She is a member of one of France’s great noble families, and it was out of the question that she settle in the United States, where Currents was obliged to return because of funding considerations. She found the philistine and petty bourgeois mentality of ninety-nine point nine percent of your countrymen intolerable. A form of mentality, I am forced to add, that I too could tolerate less and less. So it happened that I entered the world of publishing in France, where you now find me. We were, alas, soon brought low by fate in a way that further reduced my availability for service to my country. My wife was among the last victims of a polio epidemic. Tanny LeClercq was stricken in 1956; my Solange
even later, in 1959, soon after the birth of our second boy. Paralyzed from the waist down.

  I am deeply sorry, said Schmidt.

  Popov made a snorting noise. Yes. Of course, now that we have disagreed about Bulgaria, and you have seen how you have misjudged my position, you will be hostile to the proposal for the Middle Eastern literature prize.

  Far from it, said Schmidt.

  There are persistent themes in history, Popov continued, history of men and of nations. Resentments play their role. Wilhelm II. Churchill. De Gaulle. I too have been accustomed to being resented. At school and then at college. Don’t try to deny it. I carried my head too high, I was too fully conscious of my real position, so far superior to what it appeared to be.

  He sank into even greater gloom.

  Alice, who had remained silent until then, spoke up. We must really go now.

  She called the waiter and, to Schmidt’s surprise, paid the check. It had been so clearly stated that it was Popov who was inviting Alice and him to lunch that he refrained from protesting.

  They parted in the street, going in different directions, Schmidt first to the store on rue de l’Université in the window of which he had seen a layette that might just do as a baby present for little Albert and then to the shirtmaker on place Vendôme, where he might buy a necktie or two. For big Albert, he whispered. He had not covered more than a few yards, however, before looking back. He wanted to see Alice once more, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. He did see her. She and Popov were walking fast toward rue du Bac, with their arms around each other’s waists, except that Popov’s hand was actually lower. He was patting Alice on her bottom, investigating through her summer dress the valley between her buttocks. Lot’s wife looked back on Sodom and was turned into a pillar of salt. Schmidt was spared that fate. But Alice, perhaps sensing his eyes upon her, turned her head in his direction. She raised her eyebrows by way of acknowledgment of his gaze and smiled comically, helplessly. He smiled back, set his teeth, and went on to run his errands.