About Schmidt - Louis Begley [33]
Excuse me, Monsieur.
She was there, with a small glass tray of egg canapés. He noted that she had changed: she was wearing sandals and a white cotton dress instead of blue jeans.
I thought perhaps Monsieur liked these. He hasn’t had dinner.
I do. Thank you.
She put the tray before him, and spoke again. I wonder if Monsieur would allow me to sit with him.
Of course.
Do you mind if I put on some music? I like Mozart very much.
She pronounced the name without the t.
Please play whatever you like most.
She had evidently been listening to their stereo because she picked out the record without hesitation. It was the horn concerto. He told her he was fond of it as well.
Thank you.
She sat down on the sofa beside him. There was a strong smell of almonds. She saw him sniff and said it was her hand cream. Some people think that Asian skin has an unpleasant odor.
What a dreadful thing to say and what nonsense!
I have made you angry. But it’s something we worry about.
I’m not angry at all. Anyway, it’s very nice smelling cream.
She smiled at him and sniffed her own arm.
Was this girl a flirt? If she was, there would never be a better opportunity. He mustn’t miss it. Then, wondering whether he should, he asked would she like some of his bourbon or wine. You can try what’s in my glass, he told her. If it tastes good, I will get you a glass of your own.
She took a sip, said it was strong but she liked the sweet taste, brought a tumbler from the kitchen, and held it out to him to fill.
Now let’s listen to the record, he told her.
She nodded, all at once looking worried.
It’s all right. You haven’t disturbed me. We can listen and also speak from time to time.
She gave him a grateful smile. He had guessed right. She was flirting with him. Reaching for a canapé, he moved slightly nearer to her.
Excellent! My favorite food to go with whiskey.
He put his hand, palm down, between them on the sofa. There were two canapés left on the tray. Why don’t we finish them? he asked. His voice had acquired an unnatural timbre. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice.
She nodded again.
He returned his hand to its place on the sofa. A moment later, when he glanced in its direction, he saw that hers was lying beside it, a tiny space away. What was the next step?
Would you like to look at a picture book while we listen to music? he asked her.
Oh yes. Which one?
You choose.
Here too she knew what she liked. She took from the shelf, without hesitation, an album of photographs of the Grand Canyon.
Schmidt laughed. It’s a fine book to look at together. I am ashamed that I’ve never been to that place. Perhaps we should take Charlotte.
The book was very large. She opened it so that it lay across both her knees and his, and she began to turn pages. The dress was sleeveless. Schmidt took a gulp of the bourbon; he was beginning to be unable to think of anything except the warmth and almond fragrance of that arm. The photograph she was looking at was of the edge of the gorge. She pointed with her fingers at the tiny figures of tourists on mules, and asked, Would Monsieur allow me to come along?
I would insist on it, Corinne. You should stop saying to me, Would Monsieur this, and Monsieur that. Please call me Schmidtie, just like everybody else does.
I don’t dare.
Don’t worry about it. It’s part of being in America.
He moved his arm so it was against hers, skin to skin. She gave him a look, and he thought she might be blushing, but he couldn’t be sure.
What was he doing? Was it possible that he was making a pass at the au pair and that the au pair