About Schmidt by Louis Begley

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 abetter 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 would go along with it? Disaster was certain. It was like sleeping with your secretary, a brutish act first consummated in the office, on the floor if there is no couch, later God knows where. Her studio apartment in Jackson Heights. At night, you leave just before she does, and catch a cab a couple of blocks away from the office, so that other people who worked late and are waiting for cabs won’t see you. That hideous story about Coulter’s wife finding a used condom in the pocket of his pants when she was sending his suit to be cleaned: he was sinking to the level of Coulter.
    May I speak to you from time to time? she asked. I feel so timid.
    The girl was only teasing. He moved his arm away Of course, he told her, always. Charlotte is crazy about you, and Mary and I are very happy that we found you. Or that you found us.
    His voice had returned to normal. In a moment it would be possible to close that book, get up from the sofa, and go to bed in the guest room. Perhaps he would take another bourbon upstairs with him.
    You were so kind to Madame today. I watched you. You are kind to everybody. But I think now you