Louis Begley’s novel, About Schmidt, tells the story of Albert Schmidt after his wife Mary died and before his daughter, Charlotte, goes through with her plan to marry a former colleague of Schmidt in a prestigious NY law firm . . . and a Jew, imagine that. Schmidt is lonely, rich, and lost. He and Mary were a good pair although he fooled around on most business trips. They had a large income, a large NY apartment, and a large house on Long Island. None of this means much to him with her passing. He isn’t much of an anti-Semite but enough of one, by rumor at least, to turn Charlotte’s fiancee’s family against him. Having retired a bit early and spent his entire life being a lawyer, just a a lawyer, he doesn’t know what to do with himself except start up an affair with an avid Puerto Rican waitress at the local mid-quality restaurant, O’Henry’s.
The curiosity of this novel is that it’s more a narrative sequence than a novel. Schmidt has some encounters with his college roommate, he is haunted by a bum who moved into the nearest Long Island village, he fends off his daughter’s future mother-in-law who either wants to screw him or cure him (she’s a psychoanalyst), he takes a brief vacation on a distant island far, far up the Amazon, he drinks a lot, he wrestles with estate issues and how to give Charlotte what’s her due without lowering his own standard of living, he has wild, abundant sex with Carrie, the waitress, while allowing her to continue to sleep with her sometimes boyfriend, a leech and a nuisance. But in his sixties, should Schmidt care, or simply be grateful for the kindness of young girls?
My sense is that the key to the story is the bum who appears now and then and whom, one foggy night, Schmidt, kills in a car accident. He’s Schmidt’s alter ego, his Id, the sloppy, smelly, disagreeable interior personality normally kept under wraps beneath Schmidt’s Harvard education and carefully developed legal persona.
The point of this book--you’ll notice I keep changing the way I refer to it, first a novel, then a narrative sequence, then a story,and now a book--seems to be that it’s disagreeable and somewhat degrading to enter retirement alone. Schmidt is a cultivated but not very sympathetic man. He plots a lot. He keeps his daughter (also not very sympathetic) at arm’s length. And yet he remembers how one is supposed to act and chastises himself for falling short, which he often does. Almost everyone on earth, except the waitress, is a nuisance or a menace or a blighted memory to him. He doesn’t like his house cleaning crew. He doesn’t like his former partners. He doesn’t want to go to Venice with his one true friend--the college roommate--because the traveling party will all be married, and if there’s a single woman involved, Schmidt will have to be gallant and might not enjoy that.
So here is a self-centered, highly intelligent man who is dimly aware that the forces stirring within him don’t correspond at all to the way he’s lived his life, or what’s expected of him, and ultimately, he doesn’t care. He’s going to have things the way he wants them anyway.
The crisis hovers around this tale but never quite lands. In a way, that’s subtle. But it’s also disappointing and ends with a vaguely witty plot twist unworthy of how well Begley writes and how much more he could have done with Schmidt if he’d wanted to.