him or telling Mary. It was a natural-enough decision. Tim was reported to speak near-perfect French; except for occasional involvements in Schmidt’s financings, which the old man described at firm lunch as part of Tim’s being a good sport, all his work was international, and he had some potentially interesting business opportunities in Paris; Alice was French but having gone to Radcliffe would be completely at ease in the role of the wife of the head of W & K’s Paris office; and, most important, considering the big effort of client development and public relations that would be required, Tim really wanted to take on the task.
The invitation to call on Alice when he passed through Paris was never far from Schmidt’s consciousness as he traveled on his inspection tour of Life Centers in Central and Eastern Europe and certain of the new republics that had detached themselves from the Soviet Union. His last stop was Prague. On the way to dinner with his Czech colleagues he stumbled in one of the cobbled streets of Malá Strana and twisted his ankle so badly that both he and the emergency room doctor thought it was broken. X-rays showed that there was no fracture, only a bad sprain, and once the ankle had been taped he was able to go on to Paris. But not before the director of the Czech office had presented him with a carved walking stickto lean on as he hobbled around. It was thus that he found himself on a sunny April morning sitting in one of the green metal chairs near the
bassin
in the Tuileries, watching children and some elderly aficionados sail their boats. He was waiting for his only daughter, Charlotte. Parents and grandparents! His dealings with Charlotte and her husband had been odious: he was prepared for an unpleasant interview. She was in Paris, with her lawyer husband, Jon Riker, who had worked for Schmidt as an associate. Another case of a favorite guilty of betrayal: that was what Schmidt thought but didn’t dare to say aloud. Tim had followed a strange god. Jon had dared to become Charlotte’s live-in boyfriend and then her husband.
Those were not his only sins: among the others, his being a Jew (but Schmidt was coming to regret that he had considered Jon’s being one of the Chosen a defect) and having been unfaithful to Charlotte and unscrupulous about her money weighed most heavily against him, along with the misconduct that led to his being booted out as a partner from W & K. Schmidt did not foresee a reconciliation with him. At last Charlotte appeared, beautiful and chic. She astonished him by proposing a truce, which Schmidt accepted. What else could he do? I will take you as you are, she said, and you take me as I am. We will see where that puts us. They shook hands on that, and she left to meet her husband. No embrace, just that handshake. He watched her walk toward the pyramid of the Louvre and remained in his chair for a long while. Then trying to put all his weight on the good leg, he made his way to rue St. Florentin. There were no taxis at the stand, and it didn’t look to him as though there would ever be any. If he was going to see Alice, he had better walk to the address on rue St. Honoré he had written down on the memo pad he kept inhis coat pocket. That is what he did, limping carefully until he reached the door of her building. He pressed the buzzer next to the brass plate that bore the initials of the Verplancks’ first names: T. ET A . Someone called out scratchily
Oui?
He gave his name, and the same voice bid him in English to take the elevator to the third floor.
The apartment—large, luxurious, and silent—looked out over gardens in the back of the building. Alice led him into the library, and once he was settled in a tapestry-covered armchair that he found surprisingly comfortable, she offered him coffee. Or did he prefer a drink? It was past noon, he told her, so he would dare to ask for a whiskey. She laughed, disappeared for a moment, and returned followed by an
The invitation to call on Alice when he passed through Paris was never far from Schmidt’s consciousness as he traveled on his inspection tour of Life Centers in Central and Eastern Europe and certain of the new republics that had detached themselves from the Soviet Union. His last stop was Prague. On the way to dinner with his Czech colleagues he stumbled in one of the cobbled streets of Malá Strana and twisted his ankle so badly that both he and the emergency room doctor thought it was broken. X-rays showed that there was no fracture, only a bad sprain, and once the ankle had been taped he was able to go on to Paris. But not before the director of the Czech office had presented him with a carved walking stickto lean on as he hobbled around. It was thus that he found himself on a sunny April morning sitting in one of the green metal chairs near the
bassin
in the Tuileries, watching children and some elderly aficionados sail their boats. He was waiting for his only daughter, Charlotte. Parents and grandparents! His dealings with Charlotte and her husband had been odious: he was prepared for an unpleasant interview. She was in Paris, with her lawyer husband, Jon Riker, who had worked for Schmidt as an associate. Another case of a favorite guilty of betrayal: that was what Schmidt thought but didn’t dare to say aloud. Tim had followed a strange god. Jon had dared to become Charlotte’s live-in boyfriend and then her husband.
Those were not his only sins: among the others, his being a Jew (but Schmidt was coming to regret that he had considered Jon’s being one of the Chosen a defect) and having been unfaithful to Charlotte and unscrupulous about her money weighed most heavily against him, along with the misconduct that led to his being booted out as a partner from W & K. Schmidt did not foresee a reconciliation with him. At last Charlotte appeared, beautiful and chic. She astonished him by proposing a truce, which Schmidt accepted. What else could he do? I will take you as you are, she said, and you take me as I am. We will see where that puts us. They shook hands on that, and she left to meet her husband. No embrace, just that handshake. He watched her walk toward the pyramid of the Louvre and remained in his chair for a long while. Then trying to put all his weight on the good leg, he made his way to rue St. Florentin. There were no taxis at the stand, and it didn’t look to him as though there would ever be any. If he was going to see Alice, he had better walk to the address on rue St. Honoré he had written down on the memo pad he kept inhis coat pocket. That is what he did, limping carefully until he reached the door of her building. He pressed the buzzer next to the brass plate that bore the initials of the Verplancks’ first names: T. ET A . Someone called out scratchily
Oui?
He gave his name, and the same voice bid him in English to take the elevator to the third floor.
The apartment—large, luxurious, and silent—looked out over gardens in the back of the building. Alice led him into the library, and once he was settled in a tapestry-covered armchair that he found surprisingly comfortable, she offered him coffee. Or did he prefer a drink? It was past noon, he told her, so he would dare to ask for a whiskey. She laughed, disappeared for a moment, and returned followed by an
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