About Schmidt - Louis Begley [73]
He found that difficult. It was like using the one foreign language he had learned and forgotten, his high school French. Each word had to be looked for, found, and mouthed. What came out sounded like someone else speaking. The subject of the assignment had seemed evident: he began to describe to her how the strangeness of Brazil had struck him, at the same time as the intensity of the heat and light, as soon as he found himself in the open air in Manaus, intent on following the driver who had met him inside the terminal building—until then, when he wasn’t on a plane, he had had the impression of sleepwalking in the air-conditioned chaos of the Rio, Saõ Paulo, and Brasilia airports. That wasn’t, though, what she wanted.
You can talk about that some other time, she told him, increasing the pressure. I want to hear how come you like me.
Because of your long neck, your big eyes, and your hair. And because you’re always hoarse. But you’ll have to work on your voice a little if you are really going to be an actress.
You don’t like my voice. It’s Puerto Rican and not fancy.
That’s not true. It’s your secret charm. I’d like to save it on my ears, like on a tape, so I could hear it when you’re not there.
Liar! If you wanted to hear me talk you would come to the restaurant more often. What else do you like?
The pain of controlling himself had become as great as the pleasure, but Schmidt thought that if she took her hand away nothing could stop him. She would laugh at him if he used another word. He must say it. It couldn’t be helped.
Squeeze my dick hard, Carrie, as hard as you can.
A ring of iron. Now he could go on forever. If she would only touch his balls.
You’re not telling me why you like me.
Because you work such long hours, because sometimes you look tired, because of your skin, and your feet, and your mouth. I haven’t seen your breasts. I think they are small and hard.
You’re wrong. I’ve got big tits. And you think I’m uneducated and dumb. And now you think I’m a whore.
No, Carrie, I think you are wonderful and crazy.
I like you because you’re crazy. Are you in love with me?
Not yet. Perhaps. I don’t know.
I’m going to make you. Stop closing your eyes.
Tug and release, tug and release. He stopped trying to speak. When the wet came, he felt it spread as though it were somewhere far away.
That’s something! You’ve been storing it up.
I am sorry.
Don’t be dumb. I know what I’m doing.
And, after a pause, sniffing the air, You smell like a mushroom. Schmidtie, the mushroom soup!
She put her tongue in his mouth. Then she pushed him away, stood up on the sofa, leapt from it onto the armchair, picked up her sneakers and parka and put them on as though she were trying to see how fast it could be done, and said, Got to go. You want to walk on the beach tomorrow? It’s going to be a nice day. I’ll pick you up at eleven.
XI
THERE WAS NO REASON she should be on time; it was, after all, her day off, and he hated to think of how late she had stayed with him. Still, when she hadn’t showed up by eleven-thirty, be began to think he was a fool not to have asked for her telephone number. Without much conviction, he looked in the telephone directory and then tried information. No such listing. It was possible that he had got the spelling of her name wildly wrong. The Poles would be arriving any minute. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of their seeing Carrie come to the house: they had been Mary’s cleaning women for years, and now, for all practical purposes, except that it was he who wrote their check, they were Charlotte’s. Getting them started on Carrie—he could imagine the questions, sly looks, and perhaps comments—made him uncomfortable. He decided to take his car out and drive just a little way down the road and wait for her there. The only disadvantage was that she might call and not get an answer. Momentarily he wished he had an answering machine on which to compose a message for her. If he waited a bit longer, until the Poles arrived, he could ask Mrs. Nowak,