by Louis Begley
You are very kind to think about him.
Forget it. You’re not answering my question. As I tell you all the time, I don’t understand your attitude.
The man should have been a dentist. No, the lady who scrapes your teeth with one of the newfangled drills that squirt water. Who else could be so relentlessly repetitious in his investigations?
There is nothing new. Nothing to add. He had to leave my old firm. I’m afraid there is nothing to be done about it, certainly not by me, and I have no idea what other plans he has made.
Michael reached across the table and gripped Schmidt’s forearm. It was a long and affectionate squeeze.
I’ve made it my business to know as much about you as can be found out, he said. After a pause, he added, Including from Gil Blackman. To get the context. You sure don’t make it easy to give you help. That’s a great friend you have there. Gil really loves you. Look, it doesn’t matter. I can figure out most things about you just like that. He snapped his fingers and continued, Instinct and feeling.
Ah, Mr. Mansour and the wisdom of the East. That Gil and he should have talked about Riker was natural, Schmidt supposed. One could wonder who didn’t. In its own minor way, it was a juicy story for people interested in that sort of thing, and that was just about everybody in the Hamptons except the natives who serviced the rich. Schmidt had gotten the Wall Street Journal and had read the dreadful article Jack DeForrest had predicted. He had forced himself to ask the firm librarian to clip and send to him anything else that appeared in the press about the case. Out of pride, so that no one could say he was hiding his shame, or because he wanted Carrie to say something, express an opinion, he would leave the clippings regularly on the kitchen counter, where she was bound to find them. He knew that she read them, although she made no comment. Small wonder. He had thanked her for having gotten him and, for that matter, his daughter through those twenty-four hours, right until that now distant Saturday afternoon when he finally put Charlotte on the bus to New York. But he had not said a word about Charlotte or Jon to her since then, except to mention, in his very best victim’s voice, while he was doing the dishes and she was practically out the door on the way to class, that Charlotte was planning to leave Riker and had asked for money to start a business he had his doubts about. Money that he intended nevertheless to give. That was how he had managed, against all reason, to wall Carrie off at the time when he needed her most. And, against all reason, for the first time ever, he hadn’t turned to Gil Blackman with a family catastrophe. He was, in fact, too ashamed of Jon and of Charlotte. Was that something Gil would have mentioned to Mr. Mansour as well, if he had figured it out, to give him a rounded context?
Look, Schmidtie, continued the latter, we are very different. Don’t laugh, I know we look different. I mean even if we looked like twins, inside we would be very different. That doesn’t stop me from understanding you. I don’t believe you know how well I understand. The point is we don’t think or feel the same, and you’ve never learned to express yourself or to get along with people. If you happen to hit it off with somebody, that’s OK. You’re nice. With most people you show them right away how superior you feel. Same story when they bore you or you don’t like them. Oh yes, right in the face. I’ve watched it at this house, with the people who come here, some of whom I think are very interesting and make a real contribution. Your nose is up in the air, ten stories high. How other people feel is not your business. You treat me OK because you admire me. Ha! Ha! No kidding, you do. And you’ve had fabulous luck with Carrie. She’s the complete package. You should study how she handles people.
You’re right. I have serious faults.
Just now you’re thinking, Where does this guy get the balls to come out and say he understands me? God forbid. A Jew from Cairo claims he can think and feel like Mr. Albert Schmidt. What chutzpah!
Come on, Michael. I’ve got good news for you. I’m beginning to like Jews.
That means you’re getting smarter. All kidding aside, here is how I see it. We have the same kind of intelligence, except that overall I’m smarter and more creative. Don’t let that worry you. You haven’t been brought up by my mother. The real difference is you’re closed up, all tight, whereas, you see, I know how to deal with people, to reach out. Maybe it’s because when I started out I had to. Maybe it’s because I am who I am. In Egypt, in Morocco, even here, when we arrived, yes in the good old days, let me tell you, Jews didn’t deal from strength. There’s one way you resemble me. You’re not satisfied with yourself.
Schmidt nodded.
See? I should be satisfied with what I achieved—just like you say I’ve achieved plenty—but I’m not satisfied inside. That’s the key fact. Believe me, when I came to this country I didn’t have much to be satisfied about.
The essential elements of the Mansour family legend were not unknown to Schmidt. During the walk on the beach Michael proposed after Carrie and Schmidt’s first visit to his house, Michael had exposed them quite dryly. Their completeness, certain areas of shade and perhaps improbability, were another matter. It appeared that, from their great prosperity in Cairo, where the family had, like all Egyptian Jews whose stories were worth telling, dealt in cotton, with shipping as a sideline, the ascent of Nasser propelled the Mansour parents, little Michael, and toute la smala to a refuge in Morocco, under the protection of cousins of the mother. This branch of the family was confidential suppliers of jewelry to the court, and therefore hardly less grand. A sojourn in Paris followed, the length and financing of which Michael glided over. The reason for the move to America from the city of such linguistic and cultural affinity for an Egyptian Jew, and more specifically to the Bronx, where the parents were reduced to sewing and selling curtains, was the treachery of two uncles, which went undescribed. Chastened, the Mansour parents saved every penny and mounted a curtain and upholstery business. The pennies accumulated rapidly enough, but in this alien land neither parents nor son grasped that someone of Michael’s talent was suited to attend Harvard, Princeton, or Yale. Instead, comme un con, he went to NYU. If only we had known, mused Mr. Mansour. I can tell you it would have had to be Harvard or Princeton. As it was, he took the subway from Forest Hills—the family had moved—to Washington Square and studied accounting. And that was a good thing, for by the time he graduated, Mansour Curtains had become a big business, ready to be diversified. The rest of the story he absolutely didn’t need to tell. The rise, first of the Mansour parents and then of Michael himself, was part of American business history, recorded in case studies and magazine articles, and, insofar as it concerned more specifically Michael, also in testimony before courts and regulatory agencies. Ever since the car crash on the corniche, along which they were being driven to their new house in Cannes, killed the mother and put the father into a coma from which he would never recover, the son’s activities had been garnished by more than one man’s share of controversy, investigations, and lawsuits, all of them ultimately resolved, one way or another, pretty much in his favor. Oh, he was no Ivan Boesky—just eerily brutal and bright. Reporting on Mr. Mansour’s recent divorce, and on the settlement obtained by the Mrs. Mansour who now occupied his former East Hampton mansion near the Maidstone Club, had also kept reporters busy and, one hoped, content.
The heart-to-heart talk Mr. Mansour was having with Schmidt had quickly become part of their routine. There was no foreplay. Mr. Mansour had a penchant for having you know that he worked behind the scene. In the coulisses. The display of his insights, claimed variously to derive from Gil Blackman’s confidences, his own intuition, and even research performed by his staff, was part of establishing the principle that he always held the stronger hand. He was, Schmidt believed, the only man he had ever met who wanted everyone around him to feel manipulated. Likewise the superiority of his intelligence was a subject to which Mr. Mansour returned fondly and with some frequency, and not only in relation to Schmidt. In fact, it appeared that there was nothing Mr. Mansour wanted to do in business t
hat he couldn’t accomplish, a judgment with which Schmidt was ready to concur. The question was, as Mr. Mansour liked to explain, How do I allocate my energy? How do I use my power? I’ve taken time to build a business; I’m worth between six and eight billion; if I go on building my business, in ten years I could multiply that by a factor of x. You name it. Pas de problème. I think that’s enough. I don’t want to give all my time to business, and I don’t want to own assets unless I give them the attention they deserve. The question is, What do I do with my wealth? That’s the big puzzle. My foundation will get most of it and I must give it more leadership. That too is no problem.
Mr. Mansour might have added excruciating persistence to the list of his principal qualities. Oh, for a shot of novocaine! He asked again: What are you going to do about them, your daughter and son-in-law?
Well, nothing. My daughter says she wants to leave Jon. That’s not an irrational decision.
It’s unfeeling.
Is it? Perhaps you’re not taking into account her feelings. Anyway, she has to make the decisions about her life. What would you suggest I do one way or another?
I’ll tell you what my father would have said. Make them feel you’re on their side. You are one family. Riker never gave the brief to the woman lawyer. That’s bullshit. Please believe my instincts. Your firm screwed him. Maybe it’s because he’s a Jew. Have you thought of that?
What nonsense! Lew Brenner’s a Jew, he is one of the most powerful partners, and Jon was working for him. Why would Brenner let a thing like that be done to Riker if it wasn’t right?
No problem. I know Lew and his wife. They’re at every fund-raising dinner. From my point of view, that guy is about as Jewish as you. Who knows? Do you have enemies there? They could be getting at you through your son-in-law. It doesn’t matter. The question is what you do next. You should give them your support and enough money so they’ll be all right until he clears his name and gets his career going.
You can’t clear your name from being thrown out by Wood & King. Believe me, he’s a knave or a fool. Anyway, I think it’s over between Charlotte and him. There is a man with whom she wants to start a new business. They’re together in other ways too. I am giving her money for that, more than I can afford.
He described the arrangements with Charlotte and Mr. Polk.
Tell them to talk to Larry Klein at my office. If he thinks it makes sense, I can help them. You know, having me as a client is like a guaranty of success. Maybe I can’t straighten out your family, but I can make sure you don’t lose money!
It will be her money, but thank you. I’ll ask Charlotte to call for an appointment. But don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from her.
What are you talking about? I’m trying to help.
Charlotte wants money, she doesn’t want help. I mean my help. If I ask her to call you, she’ll think I’m meddling, and she doesn’t want me anywhere near her projects. It’s been like that since before she got married to Jon Riker. Maybe earlier. Since her mother died.
Then you met Carrie and started living with her. That made it worse.
Yes, she’s been unpleasant about it, but the trouble started, and got bad, before she found out about Carrie. Actually, Carrie was terrific with Charlotte when she came here last month.
So now you’ve got a problem with your kid and you’ve got a problem with Carrie. Que c’est bête. What are you doing about Carrie?
The houseman served key lime pie, which Schmidt recognized as coming from the establishment where he got his daily croissants. It was delicious. He wasn’t going to let Mansour’s questions interfere with his enjoyment. He pointed to his wineglass. Wine was poured. One good thing could be said of Michael: he drank red wine with meat and fish alike and did not skimp on quality or quantity. But that habit went together with other, less attractive ways with money, which were not unrelated to Schmidt’s doubts about the man’s fundamental generosity. Were his gifts freely given, or were they purchases of kudos and useful allies? He squinted at his host through the beautiful and precious liquid. The filter improved the face. Perhaps it came down to this: Mr. Mansour was a busy man, with many things on his mind and countless claims on his attention. One couldn’t expect him to make fine distinctions, for instance between an ally and a parasite.
These matters having been weighed, Schmidt lit a cigarillo and asked whether his host was remaining in Water Mill for the balance of the week. The watchful Manuel appeared, bringing an ashtray. A harsh judgment had been reached by that paragon, surmised Schmidt: Why does this guest take it upon himself to smoke at table when no ashtray has been provided? Well, that was just too bad.
I’m going into the city this afternoon, but I’ll be back on Sunday. I want you to come to lunch. No, make it dinner. I’ll get Hillel to play before we eat. You’ll see, we’ll have an interesting group of people. You like the idea?
Michael had taken to flying Hillel in his jet to and from cities across the country, and in Canada as well, where the great cellist had engagements, often sending along Jason, the security man with a gift for shiatsu massage. Sometimes, he traveled with the artist himself. I help him relax, he would explain. We go over his schedule. Half the time, we don’t talk at all or we talk about his investments. They’re on his mind quite a lot. With me he can unload. I give him advice on bookings too. Some places are key; others he shouldn’t even think about. After that, when I go to the concert and hear him, it’s a whole different thing.
A fantastic idea, replied Schmidt. Of course, we’ll come.
Excuse me. I want to go back to Carrie. The question is, What are you willing to do to keep her? Have you got a plan?
Coffee having been served, Schmidt was prepared to be more assertive. Do I need a plan? he asked. Why?
You’re kidding me. So you think you can just go on like that.
Of course. We are happy together. That’s about it. Nothing to plan or discuss.
How much longer? That’s the question.
As long as we are happy. What else do you have in mind?
Lots of luck to you! That girl will go nuts, she’s so bored! It is no problem. I can see it from beginning to end. All right, so right now I’m here pretty much all the time. You come over. She gets to see people I work with. They’re doing important things. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve had some young people over. Just for her. What do you do for her? I’ll give you the answer: nothing. Zero. You don’t even take her to the movies or to a restaurant. I’ve talked to her about the best restaurants out here. She doesn’t know them, she hasn’t been anywhere. And in September you expect her to go on with the college routine. Classes in the morning, homework in the afternoon, to bed with Schmidtie after an early dinner. The question is, Are you kidding yourself or her? Maybe you think you’re some sort of Michael Jordan in the sack?
Schmidt hoped he wasn’t really changing color. This oaf and his sensitivity! To paraphrase Mr. Mansour, the problem was the proportion, in his prodigious rudeness, of sadism to well-intentioned meddling. No, it was not well intentioned; the force behind it was vanity, the need to show off. Of course, he was saying nothing Schmidt had not said to himself over and over. But Schmidt wanted to keep those dirty little secrets hidden under the layers of his habitual self-deprecation and scoffing. Thanks to Mr. Mansour it turned out that they weren’t secrets at all. Obvious to Mr. Mansour. Therefore to his herd of clients as well. To the Polish brigade. To Gil and Elaine Blackman. Of one thing he could be sure: Carrie had not been disloyal. Because she would never, never have complained to Mansour. It might be that she did not look inside herself skeptically enough—although what was her refusal to marry him but proof of self-knowledge. Nonetheless, he thought he could be sure that for the time being—even if possibly not for very long—the life they led, whatever Mansour might think of it, was the life she wanted. His Carrie among jocund derivatives traders and with cocained-faced models they brought out for weekend partying at the new clubs in Southampton? Never
! Were those the entertainments Mansour had in mind? Schmidt’s vision of such establishments derived from local press accounts mixing in his mind with memories of brothel scenes by Degas. Consequently, he was convinced he could imagine the requisite little black dresses cut in back so low as to invite the most obscene of caresses, unbearably long legs intertwining with the legs of hirsute men, their hairy hands and thick fingers. Never! Really, Schmidtie, never? Why not?
You insist on talking about things I would rather not discuss, he told Mansour. This has been a delicious but very long lunch. I think I’ll go now.
Somewhere on his person Mr. Mansour surely wore an electronic device that enabled him to summon a security man or, indeed, Manuel without pressing any visible call button. Faster than one would have thought possible—but perhaps he had been waiting all the while in the passage leading to Mr. Mansour’s study, the door to which was open—Jason was behind Schmidt’s chair, kneading his shoulders.
Schmidtie, said Mr. Mansour, I’m trying to give you advice, like a brother. Stop wiggling. You can’t get away from Jason until he lets you, so don’t try. And don’t be like that, all tense. That’s right, relax, or he will hurt you. You should take an apartment in New York and let the kid have a life. She should meet people. I’m willing to arrange it.
Like claws, the fingers were getting right at the pain.
Michael, please tell Jason to stop. Jason, stop it. I know it’s very effective but please stop.
A movement of Mr. Mansour’s eyelids. Jason gave Schmidt’s neck a parting squeeze and was gone.
Thank you, Michael. Jason’s a good masseur, but I don’t want a massage just now. Look, Carrie doesn’t want us to have an apartment. I’ve already offered it and she said no.
You’re kidding yourself. Here is the problem: Does she want some dark two-bedroom apartment on Park Avenue, with you and your former law partners and their wives for company, or does she want a life? A life where things happen? You want to bet?
