About Schmidt - Louis Begley [89]
Hey, you’re early tonight. The usual drink?
Yes, please. Very cold.
He told her that he was waiting for Gil Blackman, the man with whom she had seen him have such a long lunch.
Yeah, that guy. I’ll leave the table set for two. Enjoy. Whenever you’re ready.
You’re going to come tonight? He put the question in a voice that was very low, without being a whisper.
No answer. Panic in Schmidt’s heart. Stop, you old fool. She has told you she doesn’t want it every night. Leave some air between you and her. If you don’t, you will lose her respect.
She brought his martini and put it before him on a square cocktail napkin. Not a word. The napkin had on it “O’Henry’s” in large red letters and below it the telephone number. When he lifted the glass, in the space between them he saw what she had written in red ink. He associated that sort of neat, almost square script with girls who had gone to very good schools, but, having paid all those checks she had brought, he knew it was also Carrie’s. The message said: “C loves S.”
Enter Mr. Blackman. Long, belted shearling coat, under it black trousers, black cashmere turtleneck. Resplendent hair cut shorter than usual. Yes, Mr. Blackman will have a martini. Just like his friend, Mr. Schmidt. Straight up, with an olive. And very cold!
Nice!
His eyes are fixed on Carrie, her head to the side, on her way to the bar to fetch him the drink.
Really, not half bad. Some sort of Latino. Isn’t that the girl who spoke to you on the sidewalk, the last time we had lunch in this place?
Yes, she works here.
A stupid answer, but Gil does not say, Really! He asks instead about the Amazon. Did it turn out to be everything he and Elaine had said?
And more!
And did the other Schmidt take you around in his boat?
Yes, only he claimed his name is Oskar Kurz. Perhaps he has changed it!
Otherwise the same man? Squaw wife with small breasts? Yes? Then he has changed it or he has delusions! He thinks he is somewhere up the Congo! Ha! Ha! Ha!
What about Venice?
Let’s order dinner first.
Gil flirts with Carrie about Manhattan chowder and broiled breast of free-range chicken. Amusing to see the enemy across a small table. The restaurant is teeming with them: men who look rich and talk fast. Yes, but they have wives. Carrie wouldn’t like the problems. Don’t kid yourself, Schmidtie, Gil is a problem solver. Perhaps the thing to do is to tell him about Carrie. That’s different from not being careful in the restaurant.
It was Venice as usual in the winter. Acqua alta, fog so thick it stopped the vaporettos for a few hours, and a couple days that were just plain gray and humid. The rooms at the Monaco are too small—even the good ones! Elaine caught a cold and blew her nose all night. I could have murdered her.
I’m glad you didn’t. And your merry band of revelers?
Tiresome. Isn’t there something inane about going on holiday with people you see all the time, at all the same places, in New York and on the Coast? It’s beyond comprehension why I do it. I wouldn’t mind taking a trip with you—you’re the silent type and there is only one of you. The pure hell of booking tables for six in a restaurant, and forcing the other five to be there at more or less the same time! There is always someone coming from some inconvenient other direction—say, the Gesuiti! Naturally, he or she gets lost and is one and a half hours late. I went through this twice a day, every day. Never again!
He stopped to examine the wine bottle. This stuff is dreadful. Do you mind if I order another bottle?
Carrie was nowhere in sight.
I should have said the financing for my film was falling through, Gil continued, and I must stay in New York until the end of the year to hold it together. Then I might have been able to send Elaine and Lilly to Venice with Fred and Alice and stay in New York myself.
It can’t have been so bad!
Yes, it was and still is. Believe me. I don’t mean just Venice.
Carrie was clearing the table next to them. Gil gave her an ingratiating smile and named the wine he wanted. That