Authors: Louis Begley
That left Trollope—he had embarked recently on the project of rereading his favorites—paying bills, and waiting for Charlotte to telephone. It seemed to him that she really should let him know whether she was coming for the weekend. If for any reason she couldn’t or didn’t want to, he would go to the city to see her. But he had decided he must above all avoid making her feel she was being ushered back into the nursery, that he was somehow “taking over.” It was best to wait. Eventually, she would call. The thought of sitting down with a book first thing in the morning was not appealing. To that extent, it was clear that he had given Gil Blackman a
touched-up version of his hours of solitary leisure. The bills—there weren’t all that many of them—had to be paid. But first he was going to shave. Of late, especially on days when Carrie had classes, he found himself putting off his toilette until later and later, and that was surely the slippery slope on the way to becoming a neglected—yes, why not say it—a dirty old man. He had seen it happen. A literary agent, one of the few whose taste and principles Mary had respected, in fact she had thought he should have been an editor with his own imprint in a major house, whom they used to see regularly, retired. Soon afterward, his much younger wife divorced him for no apparent reason; certainly they knew of no other man in the picture. Perhaps the reason was that he insisted on spending most of his time at their house in Georgica, while her work as a partner in another agency required her to be in New York during the week. In any event, she had made no pretense of liking the country or her husband’s retirement. Soon after she left, one began to see Jake doing his errands at the local markets with two days’ growth of beard, shuffling about in sneakers from which he had removed the laces he apparently found superfluous, and preternaturally stooped. At some point, he lost two of his lower front teeth. There was no reason to suppose that he had been in a brawl; more likely he had bitten down too hungrily on the bone of a lamb chop. The teeth went unreplaced, and, within months, Jake was dead, of a stroke, leaving a complicated estate, with not enough liquid assets to pay taxes on it, to be divided among hard-up nephews, nieces, and
stepchildren. That was not the sort of end Schmidt wished for himself. Not shaving, he recognized, does not inevitably bring on apoplexy, but it might be a harbinger!
Upstairs then, to the bathroom. He could not recall how often he had used the blade clamped to his razor. There were two alternatives: try the blade again, with the possibility of switching to a new one in midstream if the shave wasn’t smooth, or insert a new one. Halfheartedly, because the not-inconsiderable price of top-of-the-line razor blades had become something to reckon with, he settled on the latter course, applied the shaving cream, and started to scrape. Hello! Through the open window Schmidt heard a car on the driveway going faster and breaking harder than he thought appropriate. It was not yet the hour of the Polish cleaning brigade. He looked out and saw Mr. Mansour’s little Rolls-Royce. The door opened on the driver’s side and that gentleman got out. Another figure—Jason, Schmidt supposed—remained in the passenger’s seat. Mike Mansour strode toward the front door, mounted the steps, and rang the bell. Aha, he was on his best behavior. His usual form, and, for that matter, the form of most people Schmidt knew, was to walk in and shout, Anybody home?
This time Schmidt faced three possibilities. He could go down and open the door; he could shout, Come in, I’ll be right down! through the open window; or he could pretend he wasn’t at home. He’d be damned if he was going to depart from his normal habits because of that lout. Therefore, he emitted the normal yell and heard Mike Mansour’s even louder reply, Take your time, I’ll wait on the back porch. Well
said: Schmidt wasn’t about to rush. He took his time, twenty minutes by his watch, before joining his guest, who stood up solemnly and held out his hand. Schmidt walked past him and leaned against the arm of the chintz sofa. He did not ask Mansour to sit down.
Carrie has told you?
About her evening—I should say night—with you in New York?
Oh, intoned Mr. Mansour, forgive me, Schmidtie, please forgive me, do you think you can forgive me? I behaved so badly and didn’t mean to. Can you forgive me, can we go back to the way we were?
I think the question is whether I can continue to know you. I haven’t got the answer.
Even after I said I’m sorry? I lost my head. Look, she’s a fabulous, sexy kid. You’d have to be a saint to keep your hands off her. Come on, Schmidtie, you know this better than anybody.
Nonsense. This wasn’t like kissing a friend’s wife at a party. You set it up. Planned it in your head. You asked her to spend the night in your apartment. Then you made a pass. Then in the morning you offered her money for sex. How dare you ask me to forgive you?
Because I’m sorry. Schmidtie, be reasonable. Haven’t you ever fucked up and been caught?
What has that got to do with you and me?
Because we’re both human, so we can both fuck up. Then life goes on. Look, Schmidtie, we’ve talked for hours. You know how I am. I’m not all bad. Go on, Schmidtie, say you’re
not mad at me. If you don’t, I’ll get Jason to break your arms and legs. He’ll do a good job, I’m telling you. It is no problem. By the way, I’m just kidding. OK. Have you ever fucked up?
If you mean to ask whether I have betrayed friends, the answer is no.
Jesus, Schmidtie. I haven’t betrayed you. I made a pass at your girl. You’re Sicilian or something? You’ve never cheated on your wife?
Schmidt had been waiting for that question. The way Mary had found out about Corinne, Charlotte’s having known and remembered with such bitterness that he was carrying on with Corinne in the room off the kitchen while she was supposed to be asleep in her nice white bed in her nice room, the women he’d pick up at bars on business trips—what kind of Tartuffe was he? Hating Mansour was fair game, except that he didn’t hate him but the high moral tone!
Michael, where is this conversation supposed to lead?
To your saying, It’s all right, I have forgiven you, and here is my hand. Don’t you understand, you boob, that you’re the best friend I have? Can’t you get that into your head?
Then I feel sorry for you.
You should. I am very lonely, and this really hurts. I screwed up—when I tried to be so good and to be your friend. I told you over and over: Carrie needs to have a life. The question is, How can you give it to her, if you keep her here cooped up with you? What about the next guy who’s after her and doesn’t fuck it up? Answer me that one.
How I live with Carrie is my own business.
How can you say that? It’s my business, because I’m talking of your good now. Don’t you understand that? You’re more important to me than Carrie.
I think you had better leave now.
I’m not. I’m not going anywhere until this is settled. When it’s settled, we’ll be even better friends, because you’ll stop being so distant. You don’t realize it, but that’s your big problem. You don’t let anyone get near you, except maybe Gil Blackman. That’s why you’re so lonely, even lonelier than me, because at least I have all these zeros you see at my house waiting to lick my ass. By the way, I don’t want you to talk to Gil about any of this. Promise?
I believe Gil has gone to L.A. No, I’m not going to call him there to discuss you or your behavior.
That’s right, I know he’s out there.
For the first time, Mr. Mansour sounded discouraged and sat down. He chose the settee that was also a swing and set it in motion.
I don’t suppose you realize this, he continued, after a pause, but I’m having a major influence on Gil’s career. I don’t mean just my money and investing in his films. It’s my artistic input. He needs my judgment on a number of issues. The money is important too. I give him freedom he wouldn’t have otherwise. Those meetings he’s gone to, I set them up. I was going to fly out today to join him, but sitting with you was more important to me. I don’t want this business about Carrie to interfere with Gil. You have to promise me that.
I don’t see how I can.
You can. Don’t tell him, or if you tell him, say you understand how it happened and that we’re better friends now than before. You know, that could just help him work through some problems. Schmidtie, I know you realize that I’m a very exceptional person. I don’t want to boast, but there is really no one like me.
Mr. Mansour leaned back, looked up at the ceiling, and rolled off the names of other notable takeover artists and raiders, his colleagues and peers.
My question is how I should use my power and my wealth. That’s what I’m working on now. One plan I have is to let you take over my foundation. I’d still give it the intellectual leadership, but you would run it and get exposure to a new world: social issues, science, really large people. With Gil, I know what to do. I’ve decided I and he are going to work as partners. Then the sky is the limit.
Pas de problème.
What do you think of that!
Nothing at all.
That’s because you’re still confused. I want you to come to lunch. That’s the reason I came over. Come just as you are. It’ll be just the two of us. Manuel will make something special. You’ll see.
It’s out of the question.
Goddamn it Schmidtie, I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ve begged you to forgive me. I know that in your heart you have forgiven me. So stop sulking. Jason will pick you up at one and drive you home after lunch.
The rain had turned into the sort of drizzle that could go on all day and then the next. Was Charlotte going to call? The
voices he could hear on the other side of the house told Schmidt that the cleaning women had arrived. Mansour had tired him to the point that the prospect of paying bills had become a longed-for relief, and yet he made no move to leave. In fact, Mansour had sat down and put his feet up on the glass coffee table. Tiny feet in some sort of white loafers. Like all his clothes, they looked as though they had never been worn before. Yellow linen trousers and a red silk shirt. That was something you’d expect to see on Gil. Did Mansour buy Gil’s shirts, or was it the other way around? Mansour’s ankles were tanned, or perhaps he used artificial coloring. To hell with him, his yellow trousers, his worry beads, and his yellow Rolls.
Look, said Schmidt. My mind, my feelings, don’t work like yours. The way I’ve been taught to behave is different. Until now, I haven’t known people like you. I mean socially. I am expecting someone to telephone. Someone important to me. I don’t want you around when I take that call. Why don’t you leave?
Because we haven’t finished talking. You wouldn’t treat me like this if I was one of your old friends. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Let me tell you, I wish I had old friends, but I was thrown out of my country. I had no time to make friends. I had to take over from my mother and father and build the business. My first wife was a mistake—not a big mistake like my second wife but still a mistake. You don’t know I have two kids, do you? They’re about the age of your daughter. I had them right away. They live in Israel, can you believe it? With all the opportunities I can give them! They don’t care about
what I’ve accomplished. Can you believe it, they could go right to the top and they still refuse to work with me. So I’ve no family life. I can tell you one thing: in the next life, no children. Then there’s Judy, second wife. With her, it was dinner out every night. With the same queers. Without exception! Queers putting on Off Broadway plays for queers! Queers who photograph road kill! In my position, I don’t need that. I don’t mind having dinner with Gil Blackman and his crowd, or even people like you, but that was too dull for Judy. You’ve been to the parties at my house. What do you think of that? Except for you and Hillel, it’s the schmucks who work for me or want to work for me or want me to give them money without working for me. It’s all the same thing. Do I need it? Now you understand how I could lose my head and behave badly? Don’t look like that, I know you do. By the way, these things about me, I’ve never told them to you before. You see? We’re better friends already. I’ll see you at lunch.
There is no chance of my having any sort of relations with you, never mind going to your house, before I’ve talked about it with Carrie. That won’t be before this evening. Lunch is out of the question.
Schmidtie, you’re wrong if you think I’ll give up. I’m going to change you—all the way inside. Letting you run my foundation may do it. All right, be good. You are both coming to my dinner on Sunday and I want you to come to lunch tomorrow. Talk to Carrie. She’s a smart girl. We’ll drink good wine and clear the air.
He held out his hand.
Come on, pal. Shake my hand.
What was he to do? He took the hand, whereupon Mansour enveloped him in a big embrace. You’re a great guy, he cried out. You don’t even begin to know how much you mean to me.
The Polish ladies had left in a profusion of farewells. Schmidt licked the last envelope. As usual, he hadn’t enough stamps. The rain had stopped. If he was going to the post office, shouldn’t he have a bite at the counter of the candy store? Sit down between two sets of grandfathers and grandmothers feeding kids in jodhpurs their grilled-cheese sandwiches and chocolate milk shakes? He didn’t think he could bear that. The checks could be mailed the next day or the day after or next week for all he cared. At the rate Charlotte’s life was falling apart, there would never be a grandchild for him to take to lunch. Sardines and bourbon in the kitchen were going to be just fine, and then a nap until just before Carrie returned. He wasn’t going to sleep all that hard. If Charlotte called, she wouldn’t realize that she had awakened him. He was still working on his second drink when the telephone rang. Two-thirty. She was at the office, unless she had quit her job or simply not gone to work. Pray God she hadn’t rushed into anything foolish. He picked up the receiver and said, I’ve been waiting for you.
This was the wrong way to begin the conversation, he realized immediately, but he hadn’t intended any sort of reproach. Fortunately, she didn’t take it too hard.
Gosh Dad, I don’t think I said what time I’d call.