About Schmidt - Louis Begley [85]
Schmidt thought that was a pretty good answer, but he was not content.
He found Renata in the waiting room reserved for guests. Black knitted suit that looked like real Chanel, black patent-leather pumps, black leather pocketbook on a gold chain, and opaque black stockings of an alarming brilliance—whatever this occasion was, she had clearly dressed for it. Wasted effort. She might as well have worn a burlap bag. But how was she to know that at most four hours earlier Schmidt had risen from Aurora’s couch?
Let’s go up to the dining room, he told her. They don’t take reservations here. The early bird catches the worm! We can do our drinking at table.
Once installed, he cut short her exclamations over the grace of the building and how rested he looked. Practice makes perfect: Hadn’t he spent more years than he could count chairing meetings and getting straight to the point? What was the issue on the agenda, and what did she want to do about it?
Schmidtie, she said, I’ll be very frank. I think Charlotte shouldn’t have talked to you the way she did. There were things she wanted to say, and she didn’t know how to say them. She was overwrought. That makes people with her psychological makeup become aggressive. You were very restrained. I was proud of you.
Thank you! I assume then that Charlotte gave you a detailed report about our conversation. It’s quite admirable how you find so much time to devote to a father and daughter who aren’t your patients!
Now Schmidtie, you are being sarcastic. Is that necessary?
No. It’s a reflection of my overwrought feelings.
Exactly. And one of your feelings is that I am to blame for Charlotte’s confusion and aggressions.
To some extent. Of course, you didn’t bring her up. I believe that upbringing is important. That means my poor Mary and I have to shoulder most of the blame. Or do you think it’s Charlotte’s nature, something in her genes? We gave her the genes too.
I don’t think that being so unable to deal with conflict, having so much trouble saying to her father something he doesn’t want to hear, is genetic.
All right, we’re back to upbringing. Early childhood experiences. And where does that take us?
To how we straighten this mess out! Right now you and Charlotte and Jon are under dreadful stress. The relationship among you should be unblocked.
If Charlotte talked to you about our conversation in detail—remember, I asked you—then you know that I told her what she should do next. I rather intend to take it from there myself.
Take it from there—in which direction? Suppose what she writes to you isn’t what you would like to hear. Does a chasm open between you?
There is such a chasm already. I’ll figure out what I should do when I see her letter. Perhaps it’s already in the mail. You would know. Is that why you wanted to see me?
Charlotte didn’t just talk to me about your conversation. She gave me a tape of it. Here it is. It’s for you. I have a copy. I played it again, just before coming here.
He pushed the cassette back toward her. They were seated at a corner table. Portraits of the distinguished New Yorkers who had been presidents of the club hung on the four walls of the room. He had no forebears among them, yet he looked at these intelligent and quirky faces hoping for sustenance, perhaps a sign he could decipher. Those of the club’s elders who had not allowed the cold to interfere with their routine were either downstairs, finishing their martinis, or had tottered into the dining room next door, reserved for members unencumbered by guests, perhaps with one more drink in hand. They would be talking about things one talks about at lunch: the likelihood of Macy’s filing for bankruptcy, George Bush’s sagging political fortunes, the sex drive of the governor of Arkansas. Whenever the door between the two rooms opened, he heard the roar of those jolly voices. Could he rise from his chair, rush into their midst, and seek tribal wisdom or sanctuary? Help, help, I am under attack by a shrink in a black suit whose son the lawyer