AT LUNCH en tête-à-tête in Water Mill, some months after the disastrous second visit to Sunset Hill, Schmidt heard Mr. Mansour say he’d felt for a while they should have a talk.
You’ve been busting your chops at the foundation, he told Schmidt at the end of their long review of new initiatives. Holbein says so too. Whether you know it or not, he thought it was a mistake to hand the foundation over to you. Now he says he was wrong.
That’s good to hear, replied Schmidt.
It was interesting to learn that the foundation had been handed over to him; he’d always had the impression that Holbein was spying on him and that Mike was looking over his shoulder.
So I’ve told Holbein to give you a raise and a bonus. Don’t tell me you don’t need it. You just think you have a lot of money. Let me tell you you’re wrong. You definitely need it. Pas question! I’m also putting you on the board of Mansour Industries. That’s a big job and an honor that comes with an honorarium. Ha! Ha! Ha! Don’t tell me you don’t accept. I’m telling you that you do.
Of course I accept, Mike. It’s an honor and an amazing show of confidence.
Yes. You can say that again. But that’s not really what I want to talk about. I have some other news.
Coffee had been served. Schmidt nodded when Mr. Mansour’s houseman Manuel offered to refill his cup, and it being a cold Saturday afternoon with sheets of rain obscuring the swollen surf beyond the plate glass windows, he nodded again when Manuel showed him the label of the bottle of Bas-Armagnac. 1965. The year of Charlotte’s birth, he told Mr. Mansour.
Santé! Mazel tov!
They clicked, Schmidt straining to control a tremor in his hand and lip.
When we both went to Paris, and you had to go back, but I stayed, Caroline and I spent some time together. I told you that. You remember?
Schmidt nodded. He didn’t think he’d forget that week if he were condemned to drag out his days as long as Job.
But here is something I haven’t told you. I’ve bought a little house in Sagaponack. I wanted to get closer to you!
Mr. Mansour began to cough and choke on his own joke, until Manuel, appearing behind him without having been summoned, as though rising from a trapdoor, hit him hard twice between the shoulder blades and offered him a glass of water.
Yes, said Mr. Mansour once he had recovered. That wasn’t part of the program, but that’s how it is. We’ve gone on seeing each other. A lot when I’m here, sometimes every day. No one knows, not even Holbein, except Freitag, the T and E lawyer at the law firm, because if anything happens to me I’m leaving money to Caroline. And now you know too. I’m telling you, you WASP schmuck, because I love you. She said it was OK to tell you. So what do you say?
Goodness, Mike, replied Schmidt, so many things. I’m honored that you chose to tell me, I’m astonished, I ask myself how in the world can she get away with seeing you here. She’s got Joe right in the house!
Pas de problème. He spends all day in his office with the door closed. She doesn’t think he knows or cares whether she’s in the house or out, so long as she’s put his lunch in the refrigerator in his room. Always the same: tuna salad on white bread, three celery sticks, an apple, and bottled water. That’s all. She works on her own stuff in the morning, but in the afternoon she can drop in, and she does. She does, she does, she does!
Mr. Mansour left his chair and did a little tap dance as he pronounced those last words.
But she doesn’t like having my guys see her go in and out. Anyway, with the traffic back and forth between here and where they are in Sagaponack sometimes we lose close to an hour! That’s why I bought the little house. She crosses Route Twenty-Seven, drives half a mile, and I’m there waiting for her. Et voilà! The housekeeper comes in the morning and so never sees her. Nobody sees her! Pas de problème! Except guess who.
Mr. Mansour jabbed himself in the chest repeatedly with his index finger.
And when I’m in the city, he continued, sometimes she says she’s going to the opera or the ballet. He doesn’t care if she goes alone.
Mr. Mansour laughed some more before continuing: He’s such a schlemiel; he’s never once said, I’m coming with you, not once since she and I have been together. So what do you think?
Love in the afternoon squared! I think you’re very lucky.
Thank you!
And what happens next?
Schmidt didn’t need to ask why Caroline was unfaithful to her husband with the great financier. Mike’s boast about his unique tool and sexual prowess was still fresh in his memory, and perhaps it wasn’t a boast; perhaps he was telling the unvarnished truth. Schmidt could think of at least two more reasons: Canning was a dreary pill. Mike could be weirdly amusing, possessed of the sort of omnipotence that before the era of billionaires had been the attribute of monarchs reigning by divine right, if not Zeus himself. Showers of gold were de rigueur for kings and could be used inventively by a god, but there were so many other tricks. Had he come to her as a swan? Imprisoned her in a cow that he mounted like a bull? One could put nothing past him. But Canning was hardly more of a pill and a turkey than when she married him—there was nothing new there. She had been attracted by something—God knows what, probably his talent, which had not yet been recognized. That talent, to believe NYT critics—Schmidt didn’t—was still there, in full bloom. But pas de problème! as the man with the golden dick would say. He sleeps with her in the afternoon, and at night she opens her legs, or however they do it, for Canning. Nice!
And what happens next? repeated Mr. Mansour, working the worry beads. What should happen?
I mean you’re single—divorced—she’s a very serious woman, very gifted, very much respected. Do you go on getting together in the afternoon and so forth in your new little house or wherever you do it in the city?
If she’d only leave the schlemiel, I’d marry her tomorrow, answered Mr. Mansour. I said to her I’ll give him money, lots of money, to get him to move on. Out of our lives! She won’t let me. He needs her! That’s what she says. He won’t be able to write! Big deal. Entre nous, if he never wrote another word it wouldn’t be a big loss. You know why I’m financing that stupid novel of his? One, I like Gil and I like what he does. Two, it gives me some control over the schlemiel. A slam dunk! Joe, you’re needed on location in Brooklyn or out in the Midwest, wherever that stupid book starts. Joe, we need you to present the project to distributors! Pas de problème. Caroline and I are doing our best. One more thing strictly entre nous: he’s got all sorts of things wrong with him, blood pressure, cholesterol in the stratosphere, on and on. He might do himself and me a big favor and die. I’m saying this to you on the Q.T. Right?
That was the first time Mr. Mansour had ever asked him to keep something to himself. It must happen from time to time, he thought, when he’s about to buy or dump a public company. But in private conversation this had to be a first.
Then you’ll just go on happily and hope Joe won’t figure it out.
Schmidtie, said Mr. Mansour. I want her with me all the time. I invite them every time I have someone coming to dinner or lunch unless it’s with you or Gil and I don’t want him to fuck it up, or Holbein when we talk about money. You know why? So I can look at her and hear her laugh. Dinner with them à trois, without another guest or two, I can’t do it. So I wait. So I wait!
Another first. Two big tears escaped Mr. Mansour and ran down his cheeks before he could wipe them with a yellow silk handkerchief he produced from the pocket of his black cardigan.
Enough about me, he continued. I wanted you to know. That’s all. The question is: have you got a life yet? You haven’t told me what happened last summer with the nice lady in Paris, but don’t bother. I’ve figured it out, with just a couple of hints from the great filmmaker. Don’t get upset: it was just a hint or two. He didn’t tell me anything he shouldn’t. The question is, can you get on my plane tonight—I’ll come with you or you can go alone, but you’d be better off if I came with you. We’ll go to Paris, you pick up two dozen red roses, and what else? A nice pin at Buccellati, something simple, with a nice diamond and maybe some sapphires, and you’ll ask her to forgive you. She will. I guarantee it.
It won’t work, Mike. She won’t have me, not after the way I screwed it up, and at this point I don’t want her. Not on her terms. It can’t be. It was a beautiful dream, but that’s all it was. It’s over.
You give up too easy. I don’t, but I’ve had a different life. I had to fight. Fight every inch of the way. Now I don’t. I just raise my pinkie. So the question is, have you got a life? What do you do when you’re not at the office or visiting Carrie and little Albert? By the way, smart move taking care of all the kids; that is what I would have told you to do.
How the hell do you know about that?
Pas de problème. I’ve told you already. My guys and Jason talk.
I see, said Schmidt. Tell me, is there any way to get rid of you and your guys?
Click click. There isn’t. Once you’re my friend I never drop you. Especially when you’re in trouble.
All right. Can I have some more of this Armagnac?
Be my guest! But first answer the question.
It took Schmidt a moment to bring himself to speak.
All right, Mike, he said. I haven’t got a life. It’s true I work hard at the foundation. I’m glad Holbein has noticed. Since you know everything, you surely know that next week I’m going on one of those tours of your Life Centers. Then I’ll come back, and my nonlife will go on. At some point, something will break. The perpetual motion machine will stop. Are you satisfied now?
No, I’m not, because I’m the best friend you’ll ever have. Let’s move over there, Mr. Mansour said, gesturing toward a group of armchairs. He must have pressed a button, because Manuel arrived to pull out his chair and strike a match to light the wood in the fireplace.
Mr. Mansour thought longer than usual before speaking again. Charlotte is still bad? he inquired. The question is, how bad?
Ever since Schmidt could remember, ever since he was a little boy living in the shadow of his huge and competent father, and the mother who’d robbed Schmidt’s life of color and taste, he had held his tongue. He allowed Gil Blackman to know much of what he didn’t tell anyone else, not even Mary. With her, he had never entirely let down his guard. There was no reason to do so. He told her all she needed to know about his standing at the firm, his money—what he earned and what he spent and at the very beginning what little he owed—his thoughts about Charlotte’s education. But beyond that? About what he might have called his feelings? Had anyone asked—had she asked—he might have said, There is nothing to tell, it’s easy to see, I wear my heart on my sleeve. And now this strange man with worry beads and private jets wanted to know about Charlotte. That he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had been told everything was clear to Schmidt. And that he could tell when something was being held back was clear too. Mike had forced his friendship on him but, after the one outrage that perhaps had taught them both something, had been a true friend. One who, for all the ocean of differences that separated them, understood him. Schmidt drained his glass and began to feel very tired. He hadn’t told Gil, he hadn’t had the heart to inflict on him this great sorrow, but someday soon he would have to.
Manuel was lurking in a far-off part of the huge living room that Mr. Mansour used for lunch and dinner when he was alone or with only a guest or two. Schmidt raised his hand with the empty glass, waited for Manuel to fill it, and asked for a glass of water. His lips were parched.
Click click.
He looked carefully at Mr. Mansour. For the second time that afternoon he wasn’t smiling. All right, Mike, he said. Here is what’s been happening.
In April of the following year, some months after that conversation, Charlotte telephoned Schmidt at his office. Mrs. Riker on line one, said his secretary. Aha! Mrs. Riker, therefore his daughter, not Renata, not Dr. Riker.
Dearest Charlotte, he started.
Dad, she cut him off, I need to talk to you. Not on the telephone. Can you get over here?
Certainly, he answered, when would you like me to be there.
How about tomorrow? Can you be here in the morning?
I’ll be there by eleven, he answered. Click. She had hung up.
He had spoken with Dr. Townsend several times, calling him before he left for Europe, then when he returned, just before Christmas, and twice more, in early January and in February. Each time the news was: She’s making slow progress. No, at this point he couldn’t predict when she would leave Sunset Hill; it was up to her. When would he be able to see his daughter, he kept asking. Let’s leave the initiative to her was the regular reply. The last time he had insisted. Mr. Schmidt, the doctor said, your last visit was not a success. Do you really want more of the same? She is making progress, and I think that in time she will have things to share. She’ll reach out to you!
“Things to share”! “Reach out to you”! Where had this nice overgrown preppy picked up those expressions? Quiet, Schmidtie, Schmidt said to himself, he got them from his wife, his children, his patients, the preacher at whatever loosey-goosey church he attends.
Dr. Townsend, he said, obviously I don’t want a bad visit, and I don’t want to force anyone’s hand. Even if I did, I don’t think I can. Would you at least tell me something more about her condition? Is she as medicated as before? How does she look? Is she reading the newspaper? Books?
If Townsend was irritated, he didn’t let it be heard in his voice.
Let’s see, he said. Medication: the doses are smaller, considerably smaller. She’s pale, which is normal at this time of the year since she’s mostly indoors. She doesn’t pay much attention to her appearance. A hairdresser is available at Sunset Hill. She hasn’t taken advantage of his services, although urged to. I don’t have the impression that she’s reading books, but she clearly reads the paper or watches news on television in the common room. I can tell you she’s really worked up about Newt Gingrich. Oh yes, she enjoys the arts and crafts shop. That seems to be a new interest.
I see, said Schmidt, I suppose that does sound like progress. Do you think that means I’ll be able to visit soon?
Mr. Schmidt—a note of irritation could now be heard—let’s leave it to your daughter. If there is no movement from her side by the summer, please call me. We’ll discuss what might be done.
As soon as Charlotte had hung up, he called Dr. Townsend. He was with a patient. Schmidt left a message: he was going to see Charlotte the next morning. She had called and asked him to come!
Mrs. Riley, the sympathetic nurse he had met during his first aborted visit to Sunset Hill, greeted him at the reception desk. She’s ready for you, she said, good luck! and led him to the interview parlor. Charlotte in blue jeans, and a man’s shirt, not Schmidt’s, perhaps Jon’s, perhaps no one’s, hair too long but washed, face less puffy than the last time, and perhaps not puffy at all, began to get up from the sofa and quickly sat down, suppressing what must have been an involuntary gesture.
Hello, sweetie, he said, I am so glad to see you.
Definitely, Charlotte had no use for preliminaries or small talk. Dad, she announced, I’m getting out of here. Townsend has me on two drugs, both low doses. I can handle it if I see him in the city. He says he has openings on Tuesday and Friday, and he may be able to squeeze me in on Thursday.
That’s great, replied Schmidt, I couldn’t be happier.
Have you been paying for all this, I mean this dump—she made a vague circular gesture with her right hand—plus Townsend, or is it Jon?
It’s me.
Figures. Well, it’ll be a relief not to make out any more checks to Sunset Hill. What a name!
Paying for it is the least of my worries.
As soon as the words were out, Schmidt regretted them. It was perhaps a mistake to interrupt her. It turned out not to matter.
Don’t worry, you’ll have lots else to pay for. I’m not going back to Jon, she continued. I don’t know whether I’m through with him or not, but I know I don’t want to go back to the apartment. I need a chance to think this through and work with Townsend without having him and that bitch Renata on my back.
Schmidt nodded.
You do understand that I have no money? I checked on my accounts at Chase, regular and savings. He’s cleaned them out. I don’t know about my investment account. That was also a joint account. I bet that’s been cleaned out too. I haven’t got a cent.
I see, said Schmidt.
Dad, I’m not asking whether you see or don’t see. I want to know whether you will pay for an apartment as well as the shrink and give me enough money to live on. Can you give me a straight answer? This isn’t going to be forever. I’ll go back to work as soon as I can. That’s if anybody will take me.
Dearie, said Schmidt, of course I’ll give you money to live on, including the rent and the doctor and everything else. How can there be any question about it? Would you like me to help you find a place? I’ll be glad to. Just give me an idea of the neighborhood. Uptown? Downtown? East or west? And of course I’ll help you get out of here. I mean checking you out, getting you from here to the city, to your new place, if we can find a nice one in time, or to a hotel, and I’ll give you cash and whatever else you need. You could also use my apartment in the city while you look. I can go to a hotel or find some other solution. Oh, and I’d like you to open a checking account in your name only.
OK.
There was a pause before she continued.
Moving into your apartment would be just more than I can take. Dad, get one thing straight: I need you to help, but I don’t want you on my case.
I do understand, Schmidt replied. May I ask a question? You’ve twice referred to Renata Riker as a bitch. The last time I saw you and today. That’s a big change in your feelings. Can you tell me what has happened?
Something like a cloak of lead descended on Charlotte. She scrunched down, hugging her knees. Yeah, I was dumb. I didn’t get it. She’s an evil, manipulative bitch. You know what she’s telling Jon? That not having grandchildren will break her heart. Break her fucking heart. You can see what that means. If you don’t want to break your mommy’s fucking heart get rid of the shiksa, get rid of the damaged goods!
She began to sob but kept talking.
I just know that she put it in his head to take the money. I can hear it: If you don’t take it Schmidt will figure out a way to block those accounts. She really does hate you!
So I’ve noticed. Is there a particular reason? I can’t think of anything I’ve done to her other than saying no to a couple of outrageous requests. Including one that I lobby W & K to take Jon back into the partnership! That was two, three years ago? While you and he were split.
You really don’t know?
Think hard. You still don’t know? I’ll help you. That time, after the Thanksgiving lunch, you made a pass at her and didn’t follow through. Then when we all came to Bridgehampton, and you got sick, she stayed behind to make sure you weren’t alone when Jon, that asshole Myron, and I went for a walk. What a crock! So you were in bed, and she French-kissed you and grabbed your dick. And you? Still nothing. Not then, and not later. It made her go nuts! She even told you she had some guy screwing her, and Myron knew all about it, so you’d understand the coast was clear. So how dumb can you be?
Good grief! She is nuts. That’s pure nonsense. And why tell you? Why does that make her hate me? Some kind of hell-has-no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned idea?
I guess you could put it that way. She didn’t tell me right away, not when it happened. She saved it for when she wanted me to move back in with Jon and you had gone ballistic about getting Jon out of the apartment and trying to have the place, plus the house in Claverack, transferred into my name. That really burned them both, mother and son. So the idea was to explain to me that you were always trying to stab Jon in the back because he’s Jewish. That, and on top of it your guilt about having come on to her, and how those guilt feelings turned into aggression. I didn’t get it until later, when she started the shit about grandchildren, that she had the stuff about guilt feelings ass backwards. It was her fucking guilt and her aggression.