Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Read online

  A valid point, I thought.

  “And how do I become famous, Paul?”

  “Just keep at it, Rick. You may be doing better than you think.”

  We got back to my place in time to assist Reina with her bird lugging. Just my luck, those two gave immediate evidence of finding each other fascinating. While we were loading the cages into her car, Paul explained to Reina that the reason Damek has been plucking out his feathers lately is that he is in love with Milena.

  “No, Damek likes Zuza,” she pointed out.

  “Maybe he used to,” said Paul, “but he’s thrown her over for Milena, who prefers Jiri. She’s told him to drop dead and he’s now a mess.”

  That much was indisputable. Damek really had let himself go. Do birds have rocky relationships just like people?

  “Milena can be something of a tease,” Reina admitted. “But how can you be certain that she’s the one who’s upsetting Damek?”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seems obvious.”

  “Paul’s very intuitive,” I noted.

  “Really?” she laughed. “And what can your friend tell about me?”

  “Quite a bit,” he replied, flashing that enigmatic Saunders’ grin I knew so well.

  I had no doubt that he did. And I didn’t like it one bit.

  7:38 p.m. My Love came home depressed from a day of school scouting. She’s narrowed it down to three possibilities (all pricey private academies), but the nosy administrators are insisting on personal interviews with at least one living, breathing parent.

  “How about Paul?” I suggested. “He’s your living, breathing elder brother.”

  “Hah! As if I’d trust my brother anywhere near an authority figure. He’d probably light up a joint and we’d all be expelled from France. I was thinking of Señor Nunez.”

  I stifled an impulse toward sarcasm. No, I would not inquire if he was on her short list. My Love bristled anyway.

  “You have something to say about that?” she demanded.

  “Merely that I don’t see much family resemblance between a chestnut-haired American girl and a swarthy Mexican dwarf. I think even trying to pass him off as an adoptive parent is likely to raise suspicions. School administrators are programmed to suspect the worst and sniff out dirt. Why else would they pursue a career that involves bossing around hostile teenagers?”

  “Then what would you suggest? Some of us are not content to let our education lapse at grade nine.”

  “Hire a professional, darling. Find a motherly actress and pay her for a morning of her time. Mr. Bonnet could probably suggest someone.”

  “Hmmph.”

  I recognized that snort. It was how my wife acknowledged perceptive and valuable advice.

  WEDNESDAY, June 22 — A comparatively early late-night phone call. It was barely past midnight and I was deep in my favorite sort of dream: abduction by aliens for purposes of experimental sex. A phone chirp halted the proceedings in mid-probe. Connie was livid.

  “Rick, are you not my friend? Do you have some hidden agenda that requires you to sabotage every aspect of my life?”

  “Not at all, Connie. I talked to Paul and convinced him that marriage to you was inevitable. He’s resigned to his fate.”

  “I wish! Tonight he dragged me way out of town to see some crummy little circus. I hate circuses! He wanted to watch some crippled bird freak that he said you introduced him to.”

  Uh-oh. Why hadn’t Reina mentioned their attendance tonight when I helped her carry up her birds? A bad sign.

  Connie raged on. “Then we had to talk to her after the show and see a bunch more dumb tricks. I know what kind of tricks that girl is planning.”

  “It’s not Reina, Connie. Paul has some weird affinity for birds. He can tell what they’re thinking.”

  “And I can tell what he’s thinking. He wants to see that girl again.”

  “Well, we won’t let him, Connie. That’s all there is to it. You guys had better leave.”

  “What?”

  “Cancel the rest of your trip. Tell him your lawyers need you back in L.A. for estate issues. But tell him you need to stop on the way back in Vegas to get married.”

  “Don’t wait for him to propose?”

  “You can’t, Connie. The guy’s just not equipped for it. But he’s ready to pop. It’s time to lance that boil.”

  “God, Rick, can’t you think of a more romantic metaphor?”

  “You can be married by this weekend, Connie. If he wavers just remind him that you’re stuck on him for good. He’ll understand.”

  “OK, Rick. If this works, I’ll be eternally grateful.”

  “Thanks, Connie.”

  “And if it doesn’t, I’ll be extremely vengeful.”

  Yeah, I didn’t expect anything less.

  I went back to bed, but the sexy space aliens had vanished.

  10:45 a.m. More disturbing phone calls. Some days I think I would be better off if I heaved my cellphone (not to mention myself) out a window. My first call was to Fuzzy in Ukiah. The guy seemed strangely eager to talk with me. He assured me that his Uncle Sal in Vegas had absolutely no interest in Rick S. Hunter or his whereabouts.

  “He hasn’t put any major muscle on my trail?” I asked.

  “No way, Rick. My uncle’s up to his ears in dirty linen. People go to Vegas to cut loose. We’re talking round-the-clock orgies. All that partying can be hell on sheets. Uncle Sal doesn’t have the time to send trigger-happy gunmen after some kid in Mexico.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, Fuzzy.”

  “Yeah, don’t be so paranoid, Rick. So, where exactly are you in Mexico?”

  “Well, we move around a lot.”

  “Around where? You mean like in the Mexico City area?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, what’s your address?”

  “Why do you want to know, Fuzzy?”

  “Hey, Rick, we’re pals. I’d like to write to you sometimes. Share my thoughts and feelings.”

  Instant paranoia. My pal Fuzzy was no more inclined toward heartfelt correspondence than Dwayne Crampton.

  “Sorry, bad connection, Fuzzy. I gotta go.” Click.

  Damn. Uncle Sal must be putting the screws to his nephew to cough up my address. I knew something was amiss when the fur- laden teen didn’t immediately demand the thousand bucks I promised him for phoning his uncle. Merde and double merde.

  My next call was to Ukiah’s weightiest gossip queen. I discovered Sonya Klummplatz enjoying a late-night tub soak.

  “I’m annoyed at you, Rick Hunter,” she announced, splashing about like some exhibit at Marine World.

  “Whatever for, Sonya?” I cooed. “Didn’t I get you a date with Trent Preston?”

  “Yes, and a memorable time was had by all. But then you went and married that bitch Sheeni Saunders.”

  “You should thank me, Sonya. I eliminated some of your competition. You know Trent was always stuck on her.”

  “That’s true, I suppose. Hey, I had my first driving lesson today. I sure hope I don’t run down Apurva in the street anytime soon.”

  “Please, Sonya, don’t do anything rash. Say, are you still buddies with Lana?”

  “She’s my dearest friend, even if she is spending 99 percent of her free time this summer balling that jerk Fuzzy DeFalco.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I filled in Sonya on my recent exchange with Fuzzy and asked if she could find out what was going on through Lana.

  “I’ll give it a shot, Rick. I’d hate to see my first lover riddled with hot lead in a hail of gunfire. By the way, I just saw somebody on TV who looked a lot like you.”

  “Oh, who was that?”

  “I don’t know. Some weird video. Three lame-looking girls were singing some stupid song while this cute sailor was molesting a midget.”

  Instant testicle-dribbling panic!

  “Where did you see it!?”

  “I don’t know. I was cruising the chan
nels. It might have been MTV. So, how do I get in touch with you, Rick honey?”

  “Uh, I’ll call you. Goodbye.” Click.

  Could they actually be showing that inane video on American TV? Does no one in this world have any standards?

  1:37 p.m. Still no sign of Sheeni. God knows where my wife has got to or what expensive frock she is presently trying on. For a woman dedicated to the life of the mind, she certainly devotes a lot of her time and my money to dressing up her exterior. Too on edge to hang out in our apartment, so I ducked into the wig salon to take potluck for lunch. No one seems to mind when I show up uninvited at mealtime. Madame Lefèbvre clutched me to her bosom and kissed me on both cheeks as Antoinette, her youngest minion, grilled sausages for all in an ancient electric fry pan. These, I’m happy to report, contained none of those objectionable parts that the French seem so fond of.

  None of the ladies possesses a word of English, but I gathered from their enthusiastic expostulations that they were congratulating me on the brilliance of my recent dinner party. I gulped down a second glass of wine and promised to invite them all up soon for a wild evening of American-style debauchery. They cheered, got rather giggly, and insisted on having me try on Mr. Hamilton’s nearly completed commission. They dragged me in front of the grandly ornate mirror whose golden-hued glass has flattered generations of picky clients. Staring back at me was a sun-kissed Prince Valiant striking Napoleonic poses for an adoring audience of beaming wig-makers as Madame Lefèbvre fed him cake from a silver plate. Call me a pampered lapdog, but I came away with my mood much improved.

  4:12 p.m. I fear My Love has gone off the fashion deep end. She returned this afternoon with the frumpiest dress in Christendom— all ruffles and jumbo polka dots. At least this purple and puce monstrosity was modestly priced; she had unearthed it in a secondhand shop. I’m amazed my wife even frequents such stores.

  My latest alarming news caused nary a ripple in her calm demeanor. She said she had spoken just that morning with Mr. Bonnet and had learned of the video’s unexpected popularity in Holland.

  “Rick, just because the Dutch manifest bizarre tastes in music doesn’t mean we have to panic.”

  “But, Sheeni, Sonya saw it in Ukiah! It was on American TV!”

  “I repeat, Rick, there is no American distributor for that wretched song. If Sonya saw it on TV, it must have been featured on some European news program carried on public television. And those shows have minuscule audiences. So why are you calling your former girlfriends?”

  “She never was my girlfriend, Sheeni. I need her to spy on Fuzzy and his murderous relatives. Darling, you have to call up your father and persuade him to cancel that contract on my life.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” she replied, ironing her budget dress. Cheap perfume aromas rose in nauseating waves from its artificial fibers. “If I called my parents, they’d trace the call and find out we’re in France.”

  “And what will you do when the hoodlums burst in with guns blazing? Do you imagine they’ll spare you?”

  “I expect my father has given them explicit instructions to do exactly that. I imagine you’ll be taken out when alone. A discreet shot to the back of the head while sweeping the lobby or walking Maurice in the park. No fuss. No witnesses.”

  “My God, Sheeni! Don’t you care!?”

  “Of course, I care, darling. That’s why we have to keep a low profile. That’s why we can’t do anything foolish like telephone my parents.”

  6:15 p.m. We are getting dolled up. Connie has invited us out for a farewell dinner. She and Paul are leaving tomorrow afternoon for Las Vegas, home of that sudsy assassin Uncle Sal. I wonder if I could persuade her to drop by his office and make him an offer he can’t refuse.

  Sheeni’s miffed at me again. Why I don’t know. All I did was inquire if she was going to wear her nice new dress.

  THURSDAY, June 23 — A gray weary morning after a very late evening. Don’t ask me the time. Don’t ask me if the lobby has been swept. Don’t ask me if Maurice has relieved his tiny bladder.

  Dinner last night was a lavish affair at a flashy restaurant on the rue Boissy d’Anglas. Perhaps to appeal to Paul’s spiritual side, the dining room was dominated by an enormous gold Buddha. And complementing Connie’s devotion to chinoiserie was a sinuous bar in the form of a carved dragon. Diamonds sparkled, champagne corks popped all around us, waiters bustled about with artfully labored- over creations. My toothsome smoked duck had been more elaborately laid out than Tutankhamen’s aunt. I hope I look that good when I’m stretched out for viewing after my Mafia hit. Alas, the meager conversation was as morose as my mood. Paul seemed preoccupied by the imminent termination of his swinging bachelorhood. My lovely wife mostly stared at her plate and picked at her shrimp. I watched my back for snub-nosed revolvers. Only cheerful Connie endeavored to keep the conversational ball afloat. She revealed that her mother has agreed to fly to Vegas for the wedding. The bad news is that she is bringing along my father!

  “Didn’t you have a fight with that guy once?” inquired Sheeni.

  “Yeah,” sighed Paul. “I had to deck him. And now he’s signed up to be the best man at my wedding.”

  We Twisps do get around.

  “It wasn’t my idea, darling,” said Connie, glaring at me. “I don’t know what my mother can be thinking.”

  “She’s probably not thinking at all,” remarked my spouse. “She’s enmeshed with a Twisp—not a state conducive to rational thought.”

  “We Twisps can be devastatingly attractive,” I admitted.

  “Oh?” said Sheeni. “When do you start?”

  In a desperate attempt to enliven her party Connie ordered a second bottle of champagne and decadent chocolate desserts all around. Mine contained the concentrated essence of an entire bag of Halloween treats. It worked. By the time our gay foursome went on to the place Pigalle, even the groom-to-be was virtually bubbly.

  Señor Nunez is not the only genius in our midst. The mild- mannered Mr. Hamilton, papa to Maurice, puts on a phenomenal show. True, his place of employment is something of a dive: painted entirely black, dimly lit, with sticky floors and air that would choke a Louisiana refinery worker. The boyishly flirtatious, heavily spangled wait staff delivers the overpriced drinks with carefree indifference to the undulations of their plunging necklines. Envious

  Carlotta has no idea how they are able to flaunt such seemingly genuine curves.

  Mr. Hamilton made his dramatic entrance as Jeanette MacDonald belting out “San Francisco” on a red velvet swing. This, of course, drew a great roar of approval from the crowd and pangs of homesickness from at least one exile from the Bay. Accompanying the star was an elderly pianist poured into a bulging cocktail dress. That person I believed to be an actual woman since it seemed unlikely that anyone would wish to simulate such an appearance. She pounded out each song with an immense grin on her face and laughed at every joke as if she hadn’t heard them 10,000 times before. Mr. Hamilton was a master—contorting his seemingly bland features into picture-perfect evocations of Hollywood and Broadway greats: Garbo, Joan Crawford, Ethel Merman, Lucy, Garland, Streisand, Diana Ross, Liza, Carol Channing, Bette Davis, and countless others. The voices were spot on too—especially his winsome Edith Piaf and rousing, scat-singing Ella. His time-tested patter, delivered half in French and half in English, never missed a laugh. He owned that audience and, ever greedy for more, we stomped and whistled and howled until he gave us three encores. Even Sheeni applauded lustily and conceded in the taxi on the ride home that our talented neighbor—high-kicking across the stage in his spike heels—displayed the nicest pair of legs in the joint.

  And now it is the morning after, and all I want to do is lie in bed and nurse my throbbing head.

  11:05 a.m. Sheeni just brought me two aspirins, kissed me ardently, and made a “small request” (her words). Somehow I am powerless to refuse her. Yes, diary, in this time of need Carlotta must answer the call.

  3:47 p.m. We’re
back. I have removed that monstrous polka dotted dress. Improbably, Sheeni has volunteered to make dinner. Of course, I was skeptical this morning that I could fool anyone into thinking I was that lovely person’s mother.

  “Sheeni,” I demanded, “why did you pick such an ugly dress? This thing is an abomination!”

  “Yes, it is rather,” she conceded, helping me into one of her own delightful bras, “but it was the closest thing I could find to my mother’s own tastes. We must strive for verisimilitude, darling.”

  It’s true that Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother does favor eye-pummeling prints in nausea-inducing color combinations. This dress would be right up her alley. Carlotta shuddered and put it on. Alas, it fit like a glove—once I had stuffed in sufficient bra padding to inflate the matronly bosom. Next on was a pair of opaque tights to conceal my long lapse in leg shaving. Then a pair of sensible shoes produced from where I know not. Finally, Sheeni removed a ratty gray wig from her cavernous purse and plopped it on my head. We surveyed the results in our castoff mirror.

  “I look horrible,” complained Carlotta. “Just awful. And not nearly old enough to be anyone’s mother.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” she replied. “I picked up this cream at a theatrical makeup store.”

  Sheeni scooped out a great dollop from the jar and smeared it on my face. As it dried a film formed on my skin that gradually crinkled. The effect was fascinating and more than a little disquieting to observe. In five minutes my face was a mass of wrinkles. Carlotta looked like one of those leathery Nepalese sherpas who had spent a lifetime in the merciless Himalayan sun.

  “I think you better introduce me as your great-grandmother,” cackled Carlotta. “I don’t look a day under 112.”

  “A little makeup should fix that, Mother dear.”

  Foundation, rouge, powder, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. Soon, My Love managed to bring down Carlotta’s apparent age to a brisk, well-preserved 72. She stood back and pondered her handiwork.

  “A bit mannish from the Belmondo overtones, but it will have to do,” Sheeni commented.

  Unfortunately true. My facelift had burdened the once semi-comely Carlotta with yet another obstacle to beauty. And my surgically altered voice, rumbling in the lower registers, could never aspire to its former lilting loveliness. Sheeni handed me a pack of Marlboros.