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

  “Accomplishing what?”

  “You know how people who are successful in the entertainment field always ditch their spouses. It’s practically a given.”

  “OK, Rick, I guess you’re making an effort. I won’t snitch to Fuzzy for the time being. But you better check in regularly. I was about to dial his number when you called.”

  A cold shiver ran down my spine.

  “OK, Sonya. Anything happening in Ukiah?”

  “Like what, Rick? You know this town. The place is as dead as my love life. I started a new quilt project as a summer alternative to bingeing, insanity, and suicide.”

  “That sounds nice, Sonya. Have fun.”

  “Hey, drop dead.”

  The only pleasant part of that conversation was hanging up. Gee, and bubbly Sonya seemed so upbeat back in sewing class. Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not really trying to break up Trent and Apurva. In fact, I hope someday to be invited to their gala fiftieth wedding anniversary party.

  6:28 p.m. The phone rang as I was stirring cornstarch into tonight’s dinner. It was Connie calling with dire news. Mr. and Mrs. Saunders, the in-laws from hell, have just checked into her hotel.

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed.

  “They’re here. And they’re pissed,” she confirmed. “I’ll get back to you when I can.” Click.

  “Who was that?” demanded Sheeni, clearly alarmed. “What is it? Is it about my brother?”

  My mind raced. “Uh, that was . . .”

  “Don’t lie to me, Nick Twisp!”

  I capitulated. “That was Connie. Your parents have, uh, arrived. They’re at her hotel.”

  My Love turned pale and sat down on the bed.

  “Well, that’s just fine and dandy. That’s just what I need!”

  “It’ll be OK, darling,” I reassured her. “Paris is a big place. They don’t know we’re here.”

  “I think you should go see them,” volunteered T.P., who I had never before taken for a complete idiot. “I think you should make an effort to work things out.”

  Sheeni fired off the blackest look I have ever seen. And miracle of miracles, she wasn’t looking at me.

  10:48 p.m. No call from Connie. Though she left untouched tonight’s goulash (one of my better culinary efforts), My Love has calmed down. She’s agreed that if we lie low while her parents are here, there’s no reason to fear we might run into them. They will be distracted anyway by their search for Paul. And T.P. has been told in no uncertain terms to stuff his parental reconciliation proposals. He’s also been obliged to cancel his evening stroll with Violet. Sheeni wants all familiar Ukiahan faces banished from the boulevards. And tomorrow I have to make Connie remove herself and the ogre duo to some other swanky hotel in a faraway arrondissement.

  It was rather like Ann Frank’s family hiding out from the Gestapo. The hours crawled by. I tried to read my computer magazine, Sheeni paced up and down the floor, and T.P. stared wistfully out the window until Violet arrived to drag him back to her celibate pad.

  JULY

  FRIDAY, July 1 — Sheeni is missing! Can’t write much. Too distraught. She sent us out this morning under hats and behind sunglasses. Me to run errands for Madame Ruzicka. T.P. to Belleville for wardrobe fittings and consultations with Piroque, the director. When I returned, Sheeni was gone, as were her bags, her clothes, and her French language typewriter. No note, of course. According to Madame Lefèbvre (interpreted by Violet), the ladies in the wig salon saw her enter a taxi around 10:15. They assumed that she was going away for the weekend and that her husband would be joining her for a romantic getaway in the country if his video stardom and janitorial duties permitted. I wish.

  T.P. denies knowing where she went. Nor has her lawyer Mr. Petit heard from her. Connie speculates that she may have gone to join her brother. My friend is approaching despair. The Saunders are driving her nuts and Paul is proving unexpectedly elusive. “The guy doesn’t stay in hotels,” Connie complained when I phoned her with my alarming news. “He doesn’t charge things. He hasn’t pawned his fucking Rolex. How the hell am I supposed to find him?”

  “We’ll find them,” I reassured her. “We’ve got to.”

  “I hope so, Rick. I think it’s a very bad sign that Sheeni bolted too. A very bad sign.”

  2:26 p.m. No one in the building has seen Señor Nunez. He doesn’t answer at his door either. Could My Love have run away with a dwarf?

  10:52 p.m. No word from Sheeni. No phone call, no letter. I divided up the city with T.P. and we spent most of the day searching. No luck. Rather futile. We know Sheeni is hiding from her parents, so it isn’t likely that she would be lingering conspicuously in public venues. Still, we had to try. T.P. thinks she’ll return when she knows her parents have left the country. God, I hope he’s right. Can’t write any more. Have to go pace the floor and wring my hands.

  SATURDAY, July 2 — Eight weeks, diary. Very scary to wake on this anniversary day alone in bed. Even worse, T.P. chose to spend the night on our sofa. Said he wanted to be here in case Sheeni called and sleeping with Violet becoming too stressful. Sexual attraction too powerful. Nightly demonstration of bender moves leading to excessive physical contact, triggering anguished desires. Know the feeling.

  Mood not improved this a.m. by naked Trent bathing not five feet away from where I was attempting dispirited croissant ingestion. It really is obscene what that guy looks like with his clothes off.

  One piece of good news. Wife not cohabitating with dwarf. Awakened in middle of night by poignant chords of “My One and Only Love.” Roommate and I threw on clothes and pounded on Señor Nunez’s door. He opened door in disheveled admiral’s uniform. Offered us swigs from his tequila bottle. We stayed until bottle empty. He hadn’t seen my wife, but extended his sincere commiserations. Said women can torment your soul, but each one builds a new room in your heart. Not sure what that meant, but T.P. seemed to think it was profound. Our host squeezed out a few more sad songs and T.P. sang along. Sounded no better than a youthful Frank Sinatra. He had to desist when the open window brought the sounds of nearby sobbing (Violet?). Wish Señor Nunez knew a few upbeat tunes.

  SUNDAY, July 3 — No news. T.P. and Violet spent the day together searching, but I was too paralyzed by despair. Regret all the fights, all the unkind words, all the clashes of wills. Sheeni had followed her dream to Paris, and I had tagged along to bitch about who was going to take out the garbage.

  If last summer you had told me that someday I would be residing in a one-room garret apartment in Paris with Trent Preston, I would have said you were out of your mind. The pompous self- righteous bastard does not improve upon close association. Acute lack of privacy too. Have to wait until he leaves to take baths. No way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of comparing our physiques. He continues to insist Sheeni will return, but her missing typewriter gnaws at my soul. Why lug along that boat anchor if you’re planning to come back? Is she holed up in some backwater hotel typing up a critique of our marriage?

  MONDAY, July 4 — Independence Day back home. Just another day of heartbreak and despair in Paris. Accompanied T.P. and Violet to Belleville for videotaping in case runaway wife chose to lurk in vicinity. Piroque decided to throw Violet into the mix as an additional visual distraction from the star, a Madame Roux, billed without shame by Mr. Bonnet as “France’s Oldest Rapping Grandmother.” A true abomination. Makes The Three Magdas seem positively semi-talented. Incredibly ancient skinny old lady (must use the same wrinkle creme as Carlotta) with big flashy guitar.

  Location was an abandoned sewer pipe factory. While the white- haired star rapped, T.P. strolled about the decrepit machinery in a skimpy loincloth and adjusted various bolts with an enormous rusty wrench. He also worked up a great oily sweat (professionally applied by Josette, the makeup artist) rapping along on what I assumed was the refrain. Meanwhile, Violet—in faux leopard-skin bikini— twisted herself up to slither painfully through assorted sections of grungy pipe, getting rather
grotty in the process. No atmospheric fog this time, but lots of flashing lights and bursts of brightly colored flame. Another feast for the eyes, though a severe bastinado on the ears. At least the stupid tune didn’t drill its way into your brain for all eternity.

  After the grisly confection was in the can, Mr. Bonnet counted out the big piles of euros. He wasn’t sure what to do with Sheeni’s commission, but finally slapped the E200 onto her husband’s itchy palm. The cash infusion was welcome, though most unsettling that my wife didn’t show up to collect. Very unlike Sheeni to miss out on her share of anything. Gratifying at least that Rick S. Hunter earned 50% more for his video debut than T.P. Of course, that guy didn’t have to wrestle a dwarf.

  Skipped the rap wrap party. Too depressed.

  9:12 p.m. Taking direct action at last. Went to local print shop and commissioned rush job. Four hours later took delivery of 10,000 fluorescent orange stickers reading “S.S. CALL R.S.H.” Have distributed stacks to various building tenants and Madame Lefèbvre’s staff. They’ve agreed to adhere them in highly visible locations as they journey about the city. I already plastered our neighborhood, though I doubt My Love in immediate vicinity. Still, feeling optimistic that she will spot one soon, decipher the message, and check in. Hoping she remembers my current name is Rick S. Hunter, since I’ve mentioned it frequently enough and we are married after all.

  TUESDAY, July 5 — Woke with a start in the middle of the night. I forgot to pay the rent! Damn. Then at breakfast T.P. refused to fork over his rightful share of the housing tab. Insisted he was a guest, not a tenant. In that case I informed him I was officially revoking his guest invitation. I told him to scram, he told me to get out of his face. The twit had the nerve to declare that he was here as a guest of Sheeni, not me. OK, but with provocations like that it won’t be my fault if he winds up with a large German blade buried in his liver.

  Madame Ruzicka was understanding about the late rent payment. Said in her experience domestic turmoil was the number three cause of non-payment of rent. Too depressed to inquire about other causes. I knew over-tipping the janitor wasn’t one of them. She speculated that Sheeni no longer in the city and inquired if we had investigated the railway stations. I said no, but that sounded like a good idea.

  4:45 p.m. French still in dark that passenger trains are obsolete.

  Paris, it turns out, is lousy with railway stations. T.P. and I flashed Sheeni’s photo around in all of them—some, I was pleased to see, already bearing orange stickers. Nobody remembered seeing her, but many expressed a desire to date her. Even François is appalled by the indefatigable sexism of the French male. Why can’t those Frogs give it a rest sometimes?

  9:28 p.m. Connie escaped briefly from Saunders’ manic clutches to take me out to dinner. Naturally, I tried to sticker the restaurant ladies’ room, but was ejected by the irate attendant. Countless millions employed in French restrooms to panhandle patrons for the privilege of taking a piss. Have all the decent jobs here gone to China?

  Unaccountably, Connie also invited T.P.—perhaps to keep her flirting skills in tone. Had to hear all about T.P.’s exciting video breakthrough. Wants a copy for her mother to circulate among Hollywood’s elite star-makers. Gag me with a spoon—though in a pinch pricey French mystery cuisine will do. Don’t ask me which part of what animal I was masticating tonight; I’d rather not think about it. Connie reports Mr. Saunders has filed some sort of legal notification with Los Angeles County that an AWOL parolee has been kidnapped to France (not “in” France, as that would imply Paul illegally left the country of his own volition). Wonder how often Paul’s probation officer hears that excuse? More creative, at least, than “I overslept and missed the bus.”

  Connie also divulged that Sheeni’s father openly boasts that he is offering $40,000 to have me killed. Not unexpected news, but scrotum-jangling nonetheless.

  “Must have gone up,” commented T.P., sucking the marrow out of a lamb bone. “The figure I heard was $25,000.”

  WEDNESDAY, July 6 — When I returned from my morning canine constitutional, T.P. informed me that he had just heard from Mr. Petit. The lawyer reported that his snitches here learned from their mole within the U.S. military that the source of the alert on Vijay had been an official of the Krusinowski Spring Company.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” I announced. “It was all Connie’s idea.”

  “I look forward to relaying this report to Sheeni the next time I see her,” he replied.

  Time to shake off my lethargy and knife my houseguest. Or go to Plan B.

  2:26 p.m. On the train to Blois (pronounced “blwah,” like I feel). At least I hope that’s my destination. French transit system rather daunting to confused Americans. Feeling semi-confident I was on the right platform in the right station and boarded the correct train. Conductor did not seem perturbed when he inspected my ticket. Our car is pretty plush even though I bought the cheapest seats. No peasants with bleating goats or squalling children. Just bored-looking student types and backpacking tourists. Naturally, I have clandestinely stickered the entire train.

  7:04 p.m. A short (but pricey) taxi ride from the station brought me to the grassy lot in Blois where the Cirque Coco-Poco had pitched its tents. The matinee performance was nearly over, but I bought a ticket and went in. No mammoth enterprise like the American circuses I’d been dragged to at the Oakland Coliseum on father-son bonding outings. The tricolored one-ring tent was smaller than a high school gym and sat perhaps 500 folks on folding aluminum bleachers. Lots of empty seats for this show, but the crowd of mostly kids cheered every trick and applauded with gusto at the conclusion. The most entertaining act I saw was a giant man about eight feet tall who performed with a little monkey. They were dressed alike in colorful tunics, and the joke was that the monkey was the trainer and the giant was the performer. Every time the big guy stood on his head or balanced on one leg on a milk bottle the monkey would feed him a treat and take a bow. Even I had to smile. No sign of Reina, but when the little four-piece band rose to play the exit march, I realized with a start that the mustached trumpet player in the gaudy red velvet uniform was Paul.

  I made a call, stuck a few stickers, then wandered around outside to the back of the tent. I found my brother-in-law sitting on a crate and swabbing out his horn. He seemed pleased to see me, though he could tell the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  “Hi, Rick. Did you see Reina’s act?”

  “No, I came in too late. I didn’t know you played the trumpet.”

  “Oh, I play well enough to be hired by a small circus desperate for a horn player. Connie didn’t go home, huh?”

  “No. And your parents arrived last week to add to the fun.”

  “Damn.”

  “Sheeni’s gone, Paul. Have you seen her?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Rick. No, I haven’t seen her. When did she leave?”

  “Last Friday. No note or anything. She heard your parents were here and cut out.”

  “That sounds like Sheeni.”

  “You should have talked to Connie, Paul. You should have told her you didn’t want to get married.”

  “Connie’s not an easy person to talk to—especially if you’re giving her bad news. I was hoping she’d get the message and go home.”

  “What about your probation requirements, Paul?”

  “The world is a big place, Rick. Lots of places to see. I’d be fine never going back there.”

  “But you could be arrested.”

  “Not likely, Rick. The authorities aren’t going to bother extraditing someone from Europe over a petty drug offense. They have bigger fish to fry.”

  “It’s hard to stay in France legally, Paul.”

  “I’ve never paid much attention to the rules, Rick. We’re kind of alike in that respect. I wish, though, you hadn’t told Connie I was here.”

  “She didn’t answer her phone, Paul. I just left a message. You still have time to get away.”

  Paul sighed. “Yeah, I s
uppose.”

  “Will you rat on me, Paul?”

  “That’s not my style, Rick.”

  “Are the cops closing in on me?”

  “They do seem a little closer, Rick. I’d watch your step. Want to stay and see Reina?”

  “No, I have to get back.”

  We shook hands and wished each other well. As it turned out, I ran into Reina returning from a nearby market as I walked back toward town. She seemed delighted to see me and invited me to stay for dinner. I declined. She asked how was my wife, and I said Paul would fill her in on that story. I said I had a train to catch. She gave me a hug and said her babies missed me. I just made it to the station in time and climbed aboard in a state of abject misery. Somehow I seem to have wound up alone and friendless in a strange country thousands of miles from home—assuming I even had a home to go back to.

  10:55 p.m. When I returned, I found T.P. lying in the dark in a mild catatonic state. Hard to believe, but the guy was even more depressed than me. He and Violet had had a busy afternoon. “I’ve made a mockery of my marriage vows!” he exclaimed, when I prodded him to haul his tanned carcass off my bed.

  “Well, these things happen. Nobody’s perfect.” I tore off a great length of unwaxed floss, handed it to him, took one for myself, then felt a fresh wave of longing for my absent love. How I loved to watch Sheeni floss at bedtime. She brought such industry to the task.

  “It was rape!” T.P. confessed. “She told me no and I forced myself on her. Then she told me she loved me. I’m very confused.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like rape to me. Violet told me she wanted you bad. She was only holding back because you’re married.”

  “How can I ever face Apurva again? I vowed to forsake all others, and I’ve already slept with two other women!”

  I prayed the second victim was Sonya and not Sheeni. It didn’t seem polite to ask. Nor did I inquire how he enjoyed sex with a professional contortionist.