Schmidt Delivered (26 page)

      Perhaps because Carrie had begged off from the dinner, and the light of the candelabra would not be transforming into a theater of Chinese shadows the nervous play of her long magician’s fingers, the Blackmans decided to add to their table an ornament of another sort. They invited Caroline and Joe Canning, a writing couple with a house on the way to Sag Harbor and an insouciant habit of displaying in public their fondness for each other and stony if polite indifference toward everyone else. In fact, in Joe’s case, the politeness was only intermittent. The layer of his good manners was considerably thinner than Caroline’s, and his own person clearly the principal subject of his attention. Lord Harry, said Schmidt to himself. What’s Gil trying to do? Snow Mike? It won’t work; he doesn’t know who these two are. Broker a deal for Joe’s novel? He doesn’t need to ask him to dinner for that; a call to the agent will do it. Or is it a deal for Caroline’s book? The last one was a biography of Louis XIV’s mother. They’d have to turn it into the untold story of the Three Musketeers! He shook Caroline’s hand and noticed that her fingers were no shorter than Carrie’s and pleasantly warm. Unlike the other women he used to see around the baked ham and runny Brie of his and Mary’s Fourth of July parties, she had become more handsome with the passing years. Her bearing did it, and her laughter, which carried you along irresistibly even if you couldn’t make out the joke. The intriguing question was how Canning, whom Schmidt remembered from college
as a turkey with literary pretensions, had gotten this splendid woman to marry him in the first place, after their divorces, when they must have both already been in their forties, and how he had kept her. It couldn’t be his looks or reputation—she shone brightly enough herself—and he had no money. Besides, at the time of their marriage, he hadn’t written the novel of his grandmother’s invented life that got short-listed for every prize and even won a few. He was a busy something or other in the upper management of New York’s stodgy biggest insurance company. Depending on one’s point of view, the marriage was a colossal piece of luck or a colossal injustice.

A small drink that looked like vodka in hand, Canning lurked between a large Chinese vase and Gil and Mansour without seeming to be included in their conversation. Their physical proximity may, nonetheless, have given him countenance, like a sideboard to lean against or an artifact on a wall that can be made the subject of a prolonged examination. Schmidt felt Canning’s eye pass over him and flee. That was par for the course. Undeterred, he headed in their direction and shook Gil’s and Mansour’s hands.

Congratulations!

Accepted. Has Gil told you how we worked together? You didn’t believe it, that I had it in me. Huh?

No, I mean yes, I did think so.

Pas de problème
, the question to ask yourself is this, Do I have talent or is it just force of will or a freak accident? What do you think, Mr. Canning?

Joe, please call me Joe. I’ve no idea. I’ve not seen your work.

You’re going to see it. Gil will get you an invitation to the opening. I want you there. Your wife too. You’ll tell me what you think later. Schmidtie’s going to be there, I hope with his girlfriend. By the way, Gil’s been telling me about your books. You should pay him a commission. I began one on the plane back from the Coast and it’s on my desk now, in my office. What’s its title?

That depends on which one you’re reading.

It’s about this older guy who’s screwing a young girl. Ha! Ha! Ha! What we all want to do.

Gil laughed too.

All his books, except the first one, are about that.

Then I don’t want to read the first one. Schmidtie, you know Joe? Mr. Canning?

Schmidt and Canning nodded.

No kidding.

We were all in college together, explained Gil, except that Joe is younger. Two classes behind us.

I see. A Harvard reunion. Myself, I went to NYU, which taught me all I needed just then. Now what I don’t know I don’t need. Joe, you should talk to Schmidtie about your favorite subject. He’s quite an expert. Screwing little girls! You’re killing me. We’ll join the ladies.

Evidently, Canning had come to the same conclusion as Schmidt, that there was no acceptable way to part company at once. He was the first to collect his wits and break the silence. I am truly sorry about Mary. I might have told you sooner.

We haven’t seen each other.

No big loss. We’re making up for it this evening.

Elaine had Mr. Mansour on her right and Canning on her left and gave Caroline to Mr. Mansour, which put Schmidt between Caroline and Gil. Canning’s parting shot preoccupied him. Unless he had misunderstood, it was a piece of insolent nastiness. Gratuitous, or was there a reason? He would have liked to ask Caroline, but the table was too small and Canning’s hearing, he was sure, acute. His own silence weighed on him. It was too bad, he wished he had refused the invitation to this dinner. Carrie might have made her date with Jason anyway, but if he had to eat and drink in such isolation, he would just as soon do it at home. Just then taking part in the general conversation became unnecessary and even impractical. Mr. Mansour was questioning Canning about the art of fiction.

Caroline, Schmidt muttered under the cover of the huge voice, did you hear what Joe said to me just before we sat down?

She nodded.

I don’t know what to make of it. Why should he attack me? What have I done to him?

Nothing at all. It’s best not to pay attention. Half the time, he doesn’t even know what he is saying. He might have meant he’d rather be at home working. Or something like it.

She laughed.

Excuse me, as you know I haven’t read your masterpieces, thundered Mr. Mansour. Just the beginning of the novel I had
on the plane, before I had to work the phone. Elaine says your first book is the best. Is that what you think?

Does it matter what I think if you haven’t read it?

Although Canning had spoken, only Caroline, who had to live with him, and Schmidt seemed to have heard what he said. His voice was low, and he took no trouble to force it.

So what’s your answer?

I just gave it to you.

Joe, intervened Caroline, Mike Mansour didn’t hear you. Nobody can hear him, Mike. He said that it doesn’t matter what he thinks because you haven’t read his novel.

He’s got a point there, said Mr. Mansour and laughed.

Caroline laughed too. Ha! Ha! Ha! replied Elaine and Gil, Elaine throwing in an extra Ha! Ha! as soon as Gil subsided. She had always been a very attentive hostess.

Is that where you describe sex with little girls?

Oh, young girls. Very artistically! If you do read me—I don’t especially recommend it—you’ll see. You might find it amusing, replied Canning, apparently convinced that he was shouting.

Amusing! said Elaine. Don’t listen to him. He’s a great writer. You know, he reveals so much! Gil’s always thinking he should film one of his novels.

He’s never mentioned it to me and I’m his partner. I will want to be consulted. These revelations Elaine just talked about. I mean I’m sorry to ask you while your wife’s right here. Are your books autobiographical?

I write novels.

But if you’re revealing so much it must be because it’s you, what you’ve done.

Not necessarily. I could have just dreamed it, don’t you think? Why do you care?

Gil, let’s you and I talk another time about what we do with your friend Joe. Maybe our people could put together a package. Lay it out, so I can focus. And Mr. Canning, thank you for your courtesy.

Afterward, on the back porch, Mansour put his arm around Schmidt and said, I just hate this guy. Canning. He was trying to put me down. That doesn’t go down well with me.

He’s prickly.

You mean he’s a prick. I think he’s an anti-Semite too.

There you may be wrong. He’s one hundred percent Jewish.

Jesus, with that name! All right, so he’s an anti-Semitic Jew. The wife, she’s something else. Superb! That’s the kind of woman you should be with, Schmidtie, do you get what I mean? A real class act. You can go anywhere with her.

Yes.

I have an idea she’s OK in bed too. I’m psychic about that. Ha! Ha! Just like you. But she’s got it all. She’d be OK even for me. How did a schmuck like that find her?

That’s what I’ve been asking myself too. Dumb luck.

I hear you. I want to change the subject. With all due respect, the question is, Why did you turn me down on my foundation? One, I need you; two, you’ve hurt my feelings.

But I haven’t, Mike, really, I didn’t mean to. I guess I felt overwhelmed.

All right. Then you’re on. I’ll have Holbein send you the paperwork. When can you start? Early in the new year? Whatever suits you.

Mr. Mansour’s arm reclaimed its place on Schmidt’s shoulder. He continued: You’re coming to my place for the holidays. Let’s say right after we get back. And listen, I’ve got to talk to you about you know who. I’ll call you.

He returned Mr. Mansour’s squeeze and said, Thank you, Mike, thank you very much. You can’t imagine how happy this makes me.

Carrie’s little BMW wasn’t in the driveway or the garage when he got home, but the house was lit up, haphazardly. He went from room to room turning some lights off, turning others on. There was still hope; any moment he might hear her car wheels on the gravel. Another half hour passed. He went to bed.

H
OW WAS
the movie? he asked the next morning. She had no class, but she was up anyway, and the breakfast table was set.

OK. No, it wasn’t OK. It was lousy. How was your dinner?

He laughed. Mediocre. No, midway between mediocre and OK. Food was OK. The usual Chinese dishes. Gil and Elaine were OK minus. There was another couple I think Gil invited to take your place. Two for one, I guess. She’s a nice woman, but I’ve never been able to stand the husband. He went to work for an insurance company after college and stayed there until he retired, but when he turned fifty-something he began to write novels. Many people find them unpleasant. Politically incorrect and so forth with great sex scenes. If you like that sort of thing. And of course Mr. Michael Mansour. He was OK plus. First, he got into a literary discussion with the novelist, and then he offered me a job. I think the offer is real. He wants me to run his foundation! I’m supposed to start right after the Dominican holiday. We have to talk about
this, honey. I’ve kind of told him I’ll take it, but it will mean making some changes in the way we live.

Yeah. I guess.

Her face shut down. It had been a mistake not to speak about the foundation before, but he hadn’t wanted her to know he’d made a fool of himself when the job first seemed to have been offered and then feared making a fool of himself if he revealed that he still hoped it could be salvaged. Besides, with everything between him and Carrie so up in the air, he hardly knew how to put any plan forward, especially one with so many contingent outcomes.

What I mean is that I will probably have to get some sort of apartment in New York and be there during the week—anyway, some weeks, perhaps most weeks—and will have to travel to visit offices overseas. That sort of thing. Mike said he wants me to take a look at their offices in Europe right after I begin. I said I would, because it makes sense. But these won’t be really long trips. I can break them up and come home for rest and recreation.

He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. It could be that she was going to sulk.

I don’t think you would really mind being here alone during the semester, he continued. The rest of the time, you could come to New York or travel with me. Think of all the places we might get to visit!

A quick glance to see how she was taking this. No change. She might just as well have been in a lotus position, meditating. Schmidt poured another cup of tea for himself and a cup
of coffee for Carrie and returned to the newspaper. Suddenly, she spoke.

You won’t need to get an apartment. There is one for you to use, on Park Avenue. It goes with the job. It’s furnished, but you can bring your own furniture or they’ll redecorate.

The information about furniture was proffered in a voice so flat that it could signify either considerable respect for the munificence with which he was about to be treated or scorn.

How do you know that?

Jason told me. He’s been to see it with Mike. Mike wanted to make sure it was good enough for you.

Oh. When was that?

First time they went over? I don’t know, before Thanksgiving. And as soon as he got back from L.A. They’re redoing the bathrooms. He wants you to have a bidet.

For heaven’s sake! What else do you know?

Plenty. Like Jason talks to Bernice. Shit, they all talk to each other.

Bernice was Michael Mansour’s head secretary, known to Schmidt principally on the telephone and from the Thanksgiving lunch, on which occasion she had seemed to be in charge of the household, rearranging the place cards on the table and giving orders to Manuel.

She said Mike is real worried about you and this job. He thinks you can do it all right, and it would be good for you.

What’s he worried about then?

Who knows? He says maybe Schmidtie’s got used to not working. He might quit or something.

I guess I’ll have to watch my step and prove I’m still an eager beaver. Carrie, why haven’t you told me these things before?

She played with her Krispies and poured herself another cup of coffee. Jeez, Schmidtie, I don’t know. You didn’t talk to me. Isn’t it sort of the same?

That was surely right. He nodded.

All right, at least we’re talking about it now. It’s OK with you? I mean being here alone during the week?

At once she was at his side and put her arms around his neck. Hey, move, dopey. The table’s in the way. I want to sit in your lap. OK like this? Schmidtie? You’re not going to get mad or anything, are you?

Why should I? What’s happened or what have you done?

Like the way you go crazy about Bryan.

It was so good to have her against him, her breath on his cheek when she talked, that he only managed a shrug.