Schmidt Delivered (29 page)

Favoring as best he could his bad leg, wondering whether he should substitute a crutch for the cane, he went from Prague to Paris to attend meetings sponsored by an international organization and to catch his breath. Mike Mansour had told—ordered—Schmidt to stay in the hotel he used himself, so that, instead of the establishment on the Left Bank he and Mary had frequented, he found himself at a palace sparkling with marble and polished brass, in an accommodation, moreover, that was permanently rented to Mr. Mansour and overlooked an immensity composed of the sky and, underneath it, the great public square, the unbelievably narrow and tame river just beyond it, and gardens that stretched on both sides. It was still early in the afternoon. He went out on the terrace to warm himself in the sun. It had rained all morning and there was a nice smell of spring in the air in spite of the traffic swirling below. His memories of Paris, since the first time he went there as a student, were principally of long walks. He had always wandered about tirelessly, disregarding the heat, the rain, and the fatigue, and also the blisters that formed so easily above his heel, where the shoe cut into the tendon, sometimes to discover or revisit a monument or site, sometimes for the simple pleasure of spending time in a particular
quartier
, often without any plan, quite content to lose his way until the lateness of the hour or his legs’ refusing to carry him farther forced him to stop and study one of the marvelously detailed maps displayed at
every metro station. The big red dot marked where he was. The rest was simple.

On a day such as this in April, it seemed inconceivable that he should not be out striding toward the stalls of the
bouquinistes
on the other side of the river, perhaps continuing afterward along the rue St. Jacques past the Panthéon to the Val de Grâce, one of his favorite buildings in Paris, before doubling back to the Luxembourg. The possibilities were limitless. He had to admit that, in truth, there was a certain sweetness in his circumstances: from this front-row seat he could look on the city he loved and call up images that moved him without suffering from inconveniences of his own injured and weary body, the bustle of the streets, or alterations in the urban aspect that, contradicting those images, would baffle him and interfere with his happiness, a city being apt to change even more quickly than a man’s heart. Besides, lame or not, he was going out soon. He could follow his trajectory from the terrace. Hobbling along the place de la Concorde to the rue St. Florentin, he would pause to look at the mansion where Talleyrand, triumphant in Napoleon’s defeat, had received Czar Alexander I. Then as soon as a red light stopped the murderous traffic—just long enough for someone in his condition to cross the rue de Rivoli—he would press on to the Tuileries. Charlotte was to meet him at the
bassin
, already crowded, he hoped, with toy sailboats.

Before leaving New York in February for Sofia, he had sent her his itinerary with the addresses and telephone and fax numbers at which he could be reached. At the top of the sheet he wrote: Just in case you should need to reach me. This
was done as a matter of principle and good order. He did not expect to hear from her. There had been no contact between them at Christmas, nothing at all since he received those printed announcements, except the telephone calls he continued to make to her. The unvarying question—How are you?—answered: Just the same. That’s good. Good-bye. He would not have claimed, if Gil Blackman had asked, that his awareness of the grief was constant; far from it, he went about his business for days at a time without necessarily remembering Charlotte. It was only when something—hearing the word “daughter,” or in the street or in a restaurant he entered the sight of a young woman of her age and bearing—made him think of her, or when his mind was not fully engaged with some other subject, or when he consciously directed his thoughts toward her, that he realized he was in mourning.

By contrast, Carrie proved a profligate correspondent. Jason had installed a fax machine in the pool house. Rare was the day that passed without a message from her, in the fine schoolgirl’s script he had admired so when she took down his orders at O’Henry’s, and beautifully free of mistakes in spelling. Education was not wasted on Carrie. Had he been able to make the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Gorchuck, if he only knew their street address, it would have pleased him to write them a postcard about their child, perhaps enclosing a sample letter. It was thus that she kept him informed of the tranquil development of the fetus, including its heartbeat and stupendous kicks, Jason’s undiluted joy at the prospect of becoming a dad, the purchase of the marina, the myriad
repairs Bryan, at times assisted by Jason, made in the house, which she was sure were going to blow his mind when he returned, the way she looked after the health of his Volvo, taking it out for a run each week, and—the subject of his most frequent inquiries and her detailed replies—the progress, physical and moral, of Sy, short for Siam, the Siamese kitten quickly approaching the age when he must be neutered that she and Jason had presented to him upon his return from the Dominican vacation.

They had moved into the pool house during his two weeks at Mr. Mansour’s estate. He supposed that if they were at home they must be awake since it was lit up, in which case it was odd that they had not come to greet him, but it was possible that they had gone out leaving lights on, which was his own custom. The notion of knocking on their door or calling them did not appeal to him. It was a very cold evening, unusually cold for Bridgehampton; he was still suffering from a sunburn that had turned his skin the color of verdigris, and he missed Carrie all the more, he thought, for having found himself totally alone for the first time after a holiday in a house full of guests. At least, she had sorted his mail. It lay in neat piles on the kitchen table: bills, magazines, junk, and everything about which she was in doubt. He took a bath, changed into clean warm clothes, and poured himself a bourbon. Each of these remedies had the desired effect. Encouraged, he poured a second drink and got to work on the unclassifiable mail. It wasn’t going to be a long project. His stomach was rumbling from hunger, but he decided he wasn’t going to dine off tuna fish or any other Schmidt staple he
might find in the pantry. It was better to drag himself to O’Henry’s than to endure the humiliation of those two seeing him—if they had in fact gone out and happened to return just when he was eating—attack in solitude hard-boiled eggs and whatever he had forked out from a can. He was almost ready to leave when he heard the doorbell and then the front door being opened and Carrie’s voice: Schmidtie, it’s us, we’ve come to say hi! Hey Jason, shut the door. You’re letting in the cold. Of course, she had opened the door with the latchkey. Carrie in a maternity dress! He was unable to take his eyes off it.

Don’t act surprised, dummy. I’m pregnant, remember? We’ve got a present for you. Wow, you haven’t even noticed.

Jason was carrying something like a little red duffel bag. She took it from him, set it down on the kitchen table, and unzipped a side panel. In a moment, he saw what it was: a kitten the color of sand, with mottled blue eyes, brown ears, feet, and tail, and a cheerful face that made you think that the little cat, getting ready for the carnival, had decided to wear a brown Venetian mask.

Aren’t you going to pick him up?

Of course.

Schmidtie, he’s Siamese! He’s got a pedigree and everything. Jason, show Schmidtie. A Siamese prince! He’s going to keep you company.

Indeed, his very own pussycat. There was nothing he could do about it, he realized, not a chance of his giving up this warm soft thing with a huge heartbeat that had at once licked his hand and purred as though the crook of Schmidt’s
arm had always been where he belonged. He made the evident objection: who was going to take care of the cat when he was away—as he would be, very soon, for a number of weeks. That had been worked out; they would, and later, when they moved out, Bryan was taking over. It was a joint purchase and a joint gift, but Bryan had found the breeder, looked over the litter, and picked out this little guy. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to learn also that Bryan’s mind had been racing ahead. When he came to take care of the cat, he wouldn’t stay in the pool house, because Schmidt might need it for guests. But there was the space above the garage that could be fixed up so it would do fine, and he wouldn’t be in Schmidt’s way. Would that be all right? Schmidt did what was expected of him. He nodded agreement.

This was his first cat. By the time Schmidt left for Europe, he thought he discerned in this talkative little animal not only intelligence—that the kitten came when Schmidt whistled and had mastered both the topography of his new dwelling and Schmidt’s habits so well that he could be counted on to gallop to any place in the huge house where, according to his mysterious calculations, Schmidt should normally be at that moment and get there ahead of Schmidt, was solid proof of the resourcefulness of the brain inside that little head—but also moral qualities of distinction. Sy would see to it that he was fed when he felt hungry. That was very clear. He jumped first on a chair and from it onto the kitchen table and followed every move of Schmidt’s that should result in food appearing in his dish, sometimes rising delicately on his hind legs for a closer look, waving his long
thin right paw. But his interest in Schmidt’s company did not seem principally connected to hunger: out of what Schmidt took to be quite simply the satisfaction the kitten found in his company, Sy would curl up in Schmidt’s lap or in the armchair next to Schmidt’s when Schmidt read, or, when Schmidt was busy in the kitchen, in a basket on top of the refrigerator, the bottom of which Schmidt lined, once he had noticed the kitten’s interest in that lookout point, with one of his old sweaters, and, for that same reason, would rush to meet him at the front door whatever time of day he came home. This last demonstration of friendship was the one Schmidt found the most touching of all. Among those moral qualities in response to which Schmidt felt growing inside himself a blend of loyalty and tenderness, Schmidt included also Sy’s love of pleasure and insistence on respecting pacts. Thus, in the morning, if Schmidt was shaving, the kitten would appear in the bathroom, jump on the toilet seat, sit down, and expect to be brushed. If by chance Schmidt, having for instance just finished soaping his beard, were to say, Please wait, Sy’s wail of outrage left no doubt about the wound to his pride—something unknown, the importance of which he could not admit, had taken priority over an appointment he made and, for his part, had kept. Schmidt didn’t doubt that when alone in the house, Sy relented and actually drank the fresh water that was always set out for him. But never if Schmidt could be found. Roused by meowing of a timbre Sy had taught him signified thirst and recalled their covenant, the kitten and Schmidt proceeded to the nearest faucet, preferably in a bathtub, where, after Schmidt had reduced
the flow of water to the thinnest of rivulets, the kitten would sit down, cock his head skeptically, purr approval, and begin to lap. Mysteriously self-reliant Sy, coveting no reward, and refined in every gesture: whatever the facts were, Schmidt considered him Carrie’s gift. He looked forward to his life with Sy. Each of them was still, so far as the other was concerned, without sin. Tabula rasa. Once before, it had been given to him to write on a clean slate: his daughter’s. He hoped to do better with the cat.

      The message he received from her in Prague was so unexpected that, when the hotel concierge handed it to him, his mouth momentarily went dry. Brought back to his senses when he realized that a fax bearing her name as sender could not be the one that would alert him to an accident or something else truly awful that had happened to her, he opened the envelope and read. The letter was not an attack; it was a surprise of a different kind telling him that she and Jon would be in Paris more or less at the same time as he, celebrating an anniversary. She wondered whether he would like to see her, perhaps take her to lunch. He wondered in turn what anniversary that could be. Certainly not of their marriage or of the disastrous day of the accusation that Jon had mishandled the sealed brief. Were they perverse enough to mark the beginning of their infidelities or their coming to light? Never mind, he would soon find out. The great thing was that she had asked to see him. He answered at once. One week later he rose to greet her in the restaurant where he had proposed to
Mary and she had accepted, at a table next to a window from which they could look out on the garden of the Palais Royal.

You’re lovely, he told her.

Thanks. Renata picked out this suit. I thought you’d go for it.

Renata’s name was not one he had hoped to hear immediately. A moment passed before he said, How very nice.

There was an edge in her voice when she next spoke, which frightened him. Yes, it really is. I don’t think you realize how much Renata is doing for me. It’s like Mom, if she were still alive.

You’re a lucky girl, he answered; let’s order lunch.

She told him in rapid succession that Jon had business in Paris, which was in part the reason for their being there, that he was happy at the new firm, and that she might change jobs, as soon as something attractive came her way. Now that she was back with Jon it made her even more uncomfortable to be surrounded by people who knew all about Harry Polk. And she could hardly bear running into him every time she ventured out of her office. There was a possibility that one of the museums might want someone with her experience to organize special events—parties for openings, exhibitions, and dinners for big donors. She thought she’d like that.

Schmidt murmured assent. Perhaps it was a false alarm: this lunch might yet run its course to the accompaniment of harmless chatter. Set a sort of precedent that might help them get along. He told her about almost breaking his ankle in Prague.

How old are you Dad? Going on sixty-four? Sixty-five? I guess you’re getting up there. It’s kind of early to be having trouble with your balance, but if you do you should start using a cane.