Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 14

  And why did Sheeni reveal to Trent the actual identity of Rick S. Hunter?!! What could she have been thinking of?

  SUNDAY, June 26 — Didn’t see much of my “roommates” yesterday. They were off on daylong tourism expeditions, while I remained at home paralyzed by a black depression. Today got off to an early start when Connie bustled in unannounced at 6:45 a.m. Perhaps she’s still on American time. Seemed surprised by peculiar sleeping arrangements and handsome stranger lounging on sofa in t-shirt and boxers. They introduced themselves, as we couldn’t be bothered. Connie excited by news at last of absent love. Paul still in France. Yesterday he cashed in his ticket at an Air France office in Vitry-sur-Seine. I was familiar with that burg. Ominously, it was the gritty suburb where Reina stored her caravan. If she has gone off with Paul, that’s it. The last straw. More grief I cannot take.

  Connie insisted on dragging me back to her hotel for breakfast consultations, even though my companions had not yet roused themselves from bed. I tried not to imagine how they might be exploiting this privacy windfall. I was so stressed by these disquieting ruminations I could barely choke down my princely breakfast. Connie, as usual, did most of the talking.

  “God, Rick, I can’t believe Sheeni dumped that fellow to go out with you.”

  Another ego boost. I’m used to them.

  “As I recall, Connie, I did tell you that Trent was good-looking.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t tell me he was better looking than Brad Pitt. What does he do?”

  “He goes to high school in Ukiah, writes truly wretched poetry, and works part time heaving around bags of concrete.”

  “What a waste. My mother has lots of contacts in the film industry through her charitable work. I know she can do something for him.”

  “Forget it, Connie. We want Trent to be less attractive to my wife, not more so. Now you see why I had to get him married off.”

  “Right, Rick. Well, the jury’s still out on that ploy. And what are you doing sleeping on the floor? Can’t you see what that says about your rank in the hierarchy?”

  I explained Sheeni’s reservations about our sharing a bed in front of her guest.

  “You get right back in that bed, Rick. You have to declare yourself the alpha male here or you’re doomed. You must establish your dominance over the female. This is primitive, old-brain stuff, Rick. It’s social dynamics at the lizard level, but cannot be ignored.”

  “You’re right, Connie. I have to show them who’s boss.”

  “That was my mistake with Paulo. We got overeager, Rick. We pushed him too hard. I have to find him to reassure him that he’s in charge. We don’t have to get married—not right away. We can just live together.”

  “Uh, right, Connie.”

  “You’re a guy, Rick. What do you suppose my Paulo was doing in Vitry-sur-Seine? I mean I went there yesterday. The place is a dump. The cultural opportunities are nil.”

  I didn’t feel it wise to reveal just yet my suspicions to Connie.

  “Well, it’s pretty far from the city center. I imagine hotels are cheaper out there.”

  “My detectives checked all the hotels in the area. Paulo hadn’t been at any of them.”

  “It’s a mystery, Connie. Of course, he disappeared before. He only came back to his family last summer. They hadn’t seen him for years.”

  “Paulo was finding himself, Rick. Now he’s got that out of his system. And now he’s got me.”

  Boy, does he ever.

  11:27 a.m. When I returned to the apartment, my wife and houseguest were absent. Would it kill her to leave me a note? No telltale moist spot in the bed, but there were two damp towels draped over our open-air tub. How do you suppose they managed that? Did each person wait out in the hall while the other guy bathed? Damn, I should have concealed a video camera in here weeks ago. Still depressed but no longer paralyzed, I snooped through Trent’s stuff. No condoms in evidence, which could be interpreted as a positive sign. Except he knows Sheeni is pregnant, so why bother? But then Trent seems like the kind to worry about catching diseases. No return ticket either. How long does that freeloading creep think he can impose upon our gracious hospitality? Some possibly positive signs: A murky Polaroid of a fetus-like swirl (sonogram of Trent Jr.?). And a 5x7 color photo of Apurva looking most alluring in a gold and purple silk sari. What a dish. Such beautiful children they’ll have together, and they owe it all to me.

  An inside pocket of his grip coughed up this troubling letter:

  Dearest Trent,

  How exciting that you may be visiting Paris soon. Do try to persuade your “in-laws” to lend you the airfare. We can have a fantastic time exploring together—just as we always planned. Most places are free, so your only expense would be the daily Métro fare. We can take meals at my place; Nick’s cooking is not absolutely inedible. And don’t worry about my “husband.” I have him under my thumb.

  Do come, darling!

  Love,

  Sheeni

  P.S. I agree it’s a disgrace what happened to poor Vijay. I have a well-connected lawyer here who may be able to assist us with this matter.

  Under her thumb, huh? Well, we’ll see about that. And why, I wonder, are all of her “marital” references in quotes?

  3:48 p.m. Wife and pal not back yet. Must have lunched out. While walking Maurice, two cars boom-boomed by with “Heee, Lekker Ding” blaring on their radios. I sensed that somewhere three Magdas were bouncing up and down with joy.

  7:12 p.m. I timed it perfectly. Just as I was serving up my one savory braised pork chop, solo baked potato, and individual salad (with leaves torn limb-from-limb American style), in trooped you know who.

  “That smells delicious,” exclaimed Sheeni. “We’re starved!”

  I smiled graciously. “Gee, darling, I wish you’d let me know your schedule. I assumed you were dining out. But you’re welcome to see what you can dredge up in the fridge.”

  They opted instead to go down the block for budget crepes. Most satisfying (for me), though I suppose a hollow triumph, since Sheeni probably picked up the tab with my money.

  10:45 p.m. Trent and I cope with our intolerable proximity by ignoring each other as much as possible. But after his sixth extravagant jet-lagged yawn, I decided it was time to put my foot down and claim my rightful place in my own bed. Sheeni was incensed. “And I suppose you’d consign the person expecting your child to sleep on the floor!”

  “No one has to sleep on the floor,” I replied calmly. “Reina’s apartment is empty. Your guest can bunk there.”

  “Oh, so you have a key to that woman’s apartment,” she sneered. “How cozy!”

  I replied that I didn’t have a key, but explained that having assisted several tenants who had locked themselves out, I knew that the cheesy door locks could be pried easily with a credit card.

  “Hah!” scoffed my wife. “You don’t have a credit card!”

  True enough. But I said a piece of stiff cardboard works just as well.

  “This is terrible,” she replied. “What if someone breaks in and steals my French-language typewriter.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “No junkie in France is that desperate.”

  Five minutes later my enemy was bedding down in Reina’s odorous apartment. Jesus, she could have at least left a window open to air the place out.

  After we returned, I raised the matter of this morning’s public bathing.

  “Well, how do you suppose we managed?” demanded Sheeni.

  “Trent took a quick bath while I went down to buy some croissants. After breakfast I had a bath while he took a stroll through the neighborhood.”

  “Oh.”

  “Though I don’t see why we bothered, since I am intimately familiar with his magnificent body. And he with mine!”

  “Sheeni, you might have informed me that he was coming. This is my home too.”

  “I didn’t want to have another fight, Nickie. All we do is fight.”

  I put my arm around he
r and kissed her.

  “I don’t want to fight with you, darling.”

  She kissed me back.

  “You’re right, Nickie. Finding another place for Trent to sleep was a brilliant solution. It’s bad enough having one guy invading my privacy—let alone two.”

  She leaned in for an even more intimate nuzzle.

  “Nickie, darling, Trent doesn’t have much money. You know I’m hopeless in the kitchen. If I let you know when we’re coming back, can you make us dinner?”

  “Oh, all right. I suppose it won’t kill me.”

  We kissed, then Sheeni excused herself to go floss.

  Alas, diary, it’s true. She does have me under her thumb.

  MONDAY, June 27 — No belated anniversary intercourse last night either. Wife too tired. Said they had walked all over Paris in summer heat with just low-protein budget meals to sustain them. Hope excessive culture seeking not injurious to developing fetus. And how come we don’t have any sonograms of incipient Twispette?

  Major setback in houseguest relocation scheme. Unbeknownst to me, thrifty Reina had sublet her apartment. New tenant arrived late last night and discovered handsome guy asleep in the buff on moonlit bed. Mystery sleeper not disturbed by bustle of suitcases nor rightful occupant’s preparations for slumber. Trent awoke this morning to find himself embracing negligee-clad female. Several snuggles and caresses ensued before reviving mental faculties recalled that Apurva on distant continent. Startled inspection confirmed sexy bedmate unknown to him. Woman opened eyes, smiled, and inquired if he was included with apartment. Trent dove for sheet and clutched it to his naked torso. Hasty introductions were made. Trent apologized for trespass on room and her person, threw on clothes, and departed.

  Boy, those Prestons lead charmed lives. If it were me discovered naked in that bed, I’m sure I would have been arrested immediately and tossed into jail with the other sex deviates.

  No baths this morning, nor eagerly anticipated roll in hay. Trent arrived just as preliminaries underway. Sheeni unclinched instantly and I had to lie there contemplating violent Trent disembowelings until T.E. faded away. After breakfast wife and enemy left for Belleville to meet crafty lawyer Mr. Petit. Needless to say, I hope their mission fails.

  10:52 a.m. Just met the new tenant. Very pleasant and chatty English girl in late teens or early twenties. Not beautiful, but cute and shapely with bobbed brown hair and lopsided smile. A few inches shorter than me and incredibly toned. Name is Violet Barnes. Has never met Reina, but heard about sublet on circus grapevine. Native of Birmingham, lives in south London, and has summer gig with same circus that employs Señor Nunez and the Boccatas. She is a bender with a box act.

  “What’s that?” I asked, sipping the tea she kindly prepared.

  “What’s a bender, Rick? Oh, you have lived a sheltered life.”

  Amazingly, she then bent forward at the waist until her head, arms, and shoulders were not only between but beyond her legs, and she was staring up at her own muscular backside. A handy posture for scanning your butt for pimples or checking your bumhole for lint.

  “My God, does that hurt?”

  “Not at all,” she replied, unwinding. “Of course, it would probably kill you. Hyperextension of the spine, Rick. Takes years to achieve.”

  “You’re a contortionist!”

  “That’s right. I fold myself up like a pretzel and squeeze into wee boxes.”

  “Are you double jointed?”

  “No such thing, Rick. Just endless stretching and training. You

  could be a bender, Rick. You’ve got the right build: slender and skinny. Here, have a biscuit. You look like you could use one.” I nibbled my cookie-like biscuit while Violet unpacked and I explained my connections to Trent.

  “Wife’s former boyfriend, huh? How the hell old are you, Rick?”

  “I’m older than I look,” I lied.

  “That’s good, I suppose. Well, it was quite a shock. I hoisted a few on the train from London. Then had a few more with some bender blokes. So they drop me off here, I stumble up 8,000 steps, the place smells like somebody died, I switch on the light, and there’s this naked Adonis snozzing away on the bed.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Want the truth, Rick? I felt this very deep conviction that there was the man I was going to marry. It was destiny, I was sure of it.”

  “Oops, you’re a little late.”

  “So I found out. Most annoying. All the great men get taken early. Especially you Yanks, it seems. Say, don’t you look like somebody?”

  “Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

  “That’s it. Be a great gimmick for your bender act. Everybody needs a gimmick, Rick.”

  “Is yours squeezing into little boxes?”

  “I wish. That’s as common as houses. I’m working on this routine with a unicycle, but there’s a slight problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I keep falling on my ass.”

  As I was leaving Violet gave me one of her souvenir t-shirts. Under a photo of Violet squeezed into a transparent plastic chest the size of a breadbox, painfully twisted letters spelled out: “I Got Bent in London.”

  4:12 p.m. Endless dog-walking, janitorial, and shopping chores. Finally, I took a break, gulped down a ham sandwich, and dialed Sonya’s number in distant Ukiah. It was morning there and she was still working on winching herself out of bed. She sounded depressed. “Have you heard the news, Rick? My boy Trent’s in Paris.” “Really? Do you know how long he’s planning to stay?”

  “Long enough I hope for me to dispose of Apurva’s body.”

  “Sonya, you have to stop saying things like that. Did you talk

  to Lana?”

  “I talk to her all the time. I think you’re in trouble, Rick.”

  “Why, Sonya?!”

  “According to Lana, Fuzzy’s uncle has promised to drop a four- barrel 429, whatever that is, into Fuzzy’s Falcon if he finds out where you are. Or was it a 942? Anyway, Lana says Fuzzy is suffering from severe anxiety about his dumb car. He’s desperate for a bigger motor.”

  Some friend Fuzzy turned out to be. He’d stab a pal in the back for more horsepower.

  “You know what I think, Rick?”

  “What, Sonya?”

  “I don’t think you guys are in Mexico at all. I think you’re in Paris too. I think that’s why Trent went to France. To find Sheeni.”

  “Usted es muy loco, Sonya,” I insisted. “¡Yo estoy en Mexico!”

  “You’re not fooling me, Rick. So here’s my deal. You get Trent to break up with Apurva, or I squeal to Fuzzy.”

  “Sonya! Be reasonable!”

  “Yep, Rick, in a few weeks ol’ Fuzzy may be peeling rubber with the best of them. Think it over, dude!” Click.

  Damn! Why did I ever call that maniac? That chick is toxic waste on the hoof. I should have learned my lesson by now.

  8:17 p.m. Despite being tormented by anxiety, I managed to have dinner ready by the time Sheeni and T.P. (twisted poet) returned. I made a simple but hearty beef stew, which they set upon like hungry cannibals. It appears Apurva’s commitment to vegetarianism has made no lasting impression on her husband. Sheeni reports they were encouraged by their interview with Mr. Petit, who has promised to employ his contacts within the French Police to discover why Vijay was blackballed from the First World. On a more positive note, she said Mr. Bonnet soon will be sending us our first residuals check. I hope it’s a hefty one; it can help with my funeral expenses.

  Connie showed up while T.P. was doing the washing up. Though devastated by Paul’s continued absence, she managed to do quite a bit of casual flirting with our houseguest—much to my wife’s annoyance. She also offered to let Trent bunk in her spacious hotel suite—a generous offer that seemed agreeable to him.

  “And if Apurva calls here for you, Trent?” Sheeni asked. “Shall we give her the phone number of Connie’s room?”

  The twit opted to stay put.

  To pass the
time, My Love dragged out the Scrabble board. Seldom in the history of the world has that game been played at such a cutthroat level. The competition only could have been more intense if all sides possessed nuclear weapons. I put my foot down and insisted we limit the play to English words. The biggest surprise was Connie’s mastery of the game. I had no idea her vocabulary embraced so many obscure, high-scoring words. She and Sheeni battled it out for victory, while T.P. and I grappled to escape the testicular-bruising embarrassment of last place. No doubt about it, our manhood was on the line with each letter we placed on that accursed board. The ladies seemed to be staking their ovaries as well.

  And who was languishing in the cellar at the end?

  Trent Preston.

  If only one did not have to bring complete candor to one’s diary. Who made up that rule?

  OK. The cad beat me by two lousy, stinking points.

  Even worse for the tranquility of my home life, Sheeni finished a shocking 16 points behind her wannabe sister-in-law. Nor was she first in line for the good sportsmanship medal.

  Glad that’s over. All I have to worry about now is being arrested by the FBI and assassinated by the Mafia. Much less stressful.

  TUESDAY, June 28 — Unbelievably explosive climax this morning, diary. Well, all that accumulated tension had to be discharged some way. Better through sex than via a massive coronary thrombosis. My Love was accommodating this a.m. because our privacy has been restored. Friendly Violet dropped by at bedtime last night and volunteered Reina’s lumpy sofa to T.P. for the duration. He accepted since Sheeni was on the warpath and he’d be within hailing distance should Apurva phone. (And why hasn’t she, by the way?) Violet may not be able to wed her Man of Destiny, but at least she can (sort of) sleep with him. Personally, I think a pretty contortionist might have a lot to contribute in that department, though I fear such sexual stereotyping will shock the sober academics destined to read my future published journals. I say anyone who hasn’t speculated about contortionists in that way can cast the first stone. Hell, it probably even crossed T.P.’s upright mind as he bedded down not 15 feet away from that Siren of Suppleness.