Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 21

  2:12 p.m. Mrs. Fulke snubbed all three decrepit band members at lunch today, though I don’t think they noticed. They’ve been rehearsing a new addition to their repertoire: “Heee, Lekker Ding.” Is there no escape from the torment? More proof of Frank’s musical smarts: he always refused to record novelty numbers.

  Before heading back to the shit mines, Mrs. Fulke swiped a few oranges and eased into the seat beside Marcel. She smiled warmly and asked him if he would kindly show her how to juggle.

  The clown recoiled and looked at me as if I had just asked him to suck a few of my intimate appendages.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  From my dealings with Señor Nunez I knew that clowns can be crotchety, morose, and aloof. I also knew Marcel knew who the hell I was. His accent I couldn’t quite place. Rumor had it he was from Montreal.

  “You make juggling look so easy,” I enthused. “Is there some trick to it you can show me?”

  “Why should I show you anything? If you’re lonely, you’re wasting your time with me.”

  “Show me how to juggle,” I hissed. “And I’ll tell you something interesting about Reina.”

  Marcel took my oranges and demonstrated the basics of two- ball juggling, then the more challenging three-ball cascade. The secret, he said, was to practice making consistent tosses up to about eye level. Do that right, and the catches take care of themselves. Also, keep your eyes forward and don’t look at your hands.

  “So what do you know about Reina?” he demanded.

  “She’s in love with that missing American horn player.”

  Marcel sighed. “You are misinformed, Mrs. Fulke. Reina loves only her damn parrots.”

  “What about Tarkan?”

  “Tarkan is an ignorant peasant.”

  “Perhaps. But he’s a handsome ignorant peasant.”

  “Such gossip does not interest me,” announced the clown, getting up. “Good luck with your juggling.”

  An illuminating conversation. Clearly, Tarkan is the main threat here.

  6:28 p.m. Then again, I could be wrong. Both Reina and Carlos absent from the cookhouse tent at dinner time. Slipping out for some emergency sleuthing, I spied Reina ladling up soup in her caravan. Seated opposite her at the intimate dinette: the grinning Spaniard. The twit had brought along his guitar!

  7:28 p.m. Tormented heart assuaged slightly by envelope slipped to me by Madame Poco. Payday at last. Thin wad of crisp euros. Works out to less than a euro per ton. The question of the hour: Where in rural France does one purchase a handgun?

  11:10 p.m. Fortunate that circus people such workaholics. Spanish seduction interrupted by evening performance, then Mrs. Fulke showed up requesting use of Reina’s sewing machine. Grateful finally for those tedious hours in Redwood High sewing class. While I patched nonexistent holes, Spanish interloper sang away in a mellow tenor. Bad news: Reina’s birds very musical. They obviously dig guitar music and Catalan love songs. Reina not exhibiting any violent revulsion either. Hope she realizes it would just be a cheap fling. That guy’s going back to college in September. At 11:00 she kicked us both out, citing need for sleep. Carlos made it back to his caravan alive; not conked on head by own guitar. François was willing, but victim judged too in shape for precipitous assault.

  11:58 p.m. Someone just called. On my old cellphone!

  I dropped my oranges and debated whether to answer it. Finally did after the third ring.

  “Hello,” I whispered. “Sheeni, is that you?”

  No answer. Just the sound of someone breathing.

  “Sheeni, if it’s you, please say something. Are you OK? Where are you, darling?”

  Still no reply.

  “Sheeni, if you don’t say something, I’m going to hang up. This could be the cops trying to trace my phone. Please talk to me, baby.”

  Once again, no reply. I reluctantly terminated the call. Can’t practice juggling any more. Too upset. Even François laid low by double whammy of girl trouble.

  TUESDAY, July 26 — An unfamiliar fanfare woke me in the middle of the night. Not a visitation from God or the good camel fairy. It was my new cellphone chirping away. I fumbled for its elusive “Talk” button.

  “Hello?” I gasped.

  “Greetings! This is Mrs. Saunders.”

  My heart seized, then I realized it was not Sheeni’s 5,000-yearold mother. It was Connie trying out her new name.

  “I am visualizing the sperm swimming toward the welcoming egg,” she announced.

  Well, at least someone I knew was having a sex life. I congratulated her on a mission well done. She and her new hubby were honeymooning on Kauai, a small island chosen for its remoteness, restricted transportation options, and solo airport.

  “How’s your new husband adjusting?” I inquired.

  “Very well, Rick. I think he’s getting into it. He’s certainly getting into me often enough. Nothing like the tropics to bring out the animal in a guy. Any news from Sheeni?”

  I told her about my phantom phone call; Connie was not encouraging.

  “Rick, you’ve got to ditch that phone. It was probably the police!”

  “I don’t think so, Connie. It was feminine breathing I heard.”

  “Breathing is breathing, Rick. There is no discernible sex difference, except in the cases of dirty old men. And then only if they’re playing with themselves.”

  I was surprised by her expertise in this area. “You get calls like that, Connie?”

  “Of course. All attractive young women do. Rick, you’re much too desperate as usual. Don’t answer that phone again. Speaking of desperate, have you made it with Paulo’s bird chick yet?”

  I enumerated the many obstacles in the way of that golden dream. She replied with her customary advice.

  “Don’t be too needy, Rick. Make her come to you.”

  I said I didn’t think that was too likely as I was living in a filthy van with two smelly camels. Connie passed on one last piece of advice.

  “Here’s a tip from Paulo, Rick. He says to watch out for the littlest monkey.”

  Made no sense to me, but I thanked her and wished them both well. Paul Saunders is married at last. Encouraging progress has been made.

  10:18 a.m. Unwary Carlos does not lock his caravan door, a discovery Mrs. Fulke made while its occupant and the rest of the company were having breakfast. There are two kinds of engineering types: total slobs and neat freaks. Our Carlos belonged to the latter category. His caravan looked like he was anticipating an inspection by the President of France. All pencils sharpened to a point and lined up in order of length. How anal can you get? Very nice laptop the paranoid twit protects with a password. I typed in “asshole,” but that didn’t work His guitar he stores under the rear bed. I considered snipping its strings, but instead loosened the tuning pegs. He’ll be in for a surprise if he tries any emergency serenades. His sock drawer turned up a framed photo of an attractive chick. I doubt she is his sister. Also some perfumed letters (in Spanish) signed “Lucia” in a looping feminine scrawl. His bottom drawer yielded the biggest surprise: an immense stash of folded condoms. Accordioned out they’d stretch the length of an aircraft carrier. Obviously the guy was planning some serious fucking. I thought about confiscating the lot, but borrowed only a dozen for future personal needs. Call me an optimist, but I feel even Mrs. Fulke needs protection. 2:15 p.m. Back from a stroll into town. I’m hopeful I’ve found the confederate I was seeking. Can’t write more. Shit backing up and monkeys are jonesing for postcoital snacks.

  6:32 p.m. A shocking incident, diary. A few of us were lingering in the cookhouse after dinner when we were startled by piercing female screams. Everyone within earshot ran toward the source, which turned out to be Carlos’s caravan. The door flew open and out leaped a distraught young girl clutching her torn clothing, followed by the red-faced Spaniard. Most of the screaming was in French or Spanish, but a stunned Reina managed to translate for me. The girl claimed Carlos tried to rape her, but he
was denying this vigorously to Madame Poco and her burly security chief. More screaming and shouting; I insisted Reina tell me what was happening.

  “She says she tried to get away, but he was too strong. So she begged him to use a condom, but he refused—even though he told her he had some. Now Madame Poco is asking if he has any condoms. The girl is shouting, ‘In his bottom drawer! In his bottom drawer! That’s where he said he keeps them’.”

  Of course, a quick inspection confirmed her testimony, and the attempted rapist was indignantly tossed off the lot. He’s lucky he wasn’t lynched by a mob of angry midgets. Mrs. Fulke managed to have a few words with him as he was hastily hitching up his caravan. Yes, Madame Poco had comforted the girl (and, I noticed, slipped her some cash), but she might still tell her parents. I suggested to Carlos that he make for the Spanish border as quickly as possible. He thanked both Reina and me as he tearfully said his farewells. Hey, don’t mention it, guy. Anything to help a buddy.

  11:42 p.m. Another extraordinary incident. This one was not entirely planned. As arranged, Élise knocked on my door at 10 p.m. Accompanying her was a friend she introduced as Zoé. She looked even tougher than Élise, but perhaps it was just her superiority in piercings. Next to Zoé, multi-studded Élise looked practically intact. “This place is the pigsty,” announced Élise in her schoolgirl English.

  “Actually it’s a camel sty,” I replied.

  “You reside here?” inquired Zoé.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Cool,” she replied. “I like very much.”

  Zoé, I sensed, was not a person of the highest standards. For example, her skimpy t-shirt, though alluring, was not entirely clean.

  “You have my money?” asked Élise, sprawling on a hay bale.

  I handed her the second E50 installment for a job well done. She slipped it into the pocket of her short shorts.

  “That guy very cute,” she commented. “I not scream really.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I pointed out. “You’re only 15. He would still get in trouble.”

  “I always in trouble,” said Zoé, taking the bale beside her friend. “Trouble I like.”

  To my surprise the girls appeared to be settling in to stay a while. I apologized for the smell and lack of refreshments.

  “So, you want to do me?” asked Élise. Her friend giggled.

  Rather nonplused, I asked her to repeat the question.

  More giggling. French girls are very cute when they giggle.

  “You want we do sex?”

  An astounding question. My heart began to pound. “But, but, I’m a woman.”

  Élise ran a finger down my cheek. “You forgot the shaving, Mrs. Fuck.”

  “That’s Fulke. I’m Scottish, you know. But, dear, I’m so old!”

  “Stage makeup,” said Élise. “Zoé and I use it when to Paris go shoplifting.”

  “Store guards no watch old ladies so much,” explained her pal. “How old is Mrs. Fuck?”

  “Sixteen,” I lied.

  “Same as me,” replied Zoé, tugging at my blouse.

  And then, diary, we all got naked and did it like monkeys on the hay bales. Naturally, they found it amusing that Mrs. Fulke kept her wig on the entire time. My companions not in Sheeni’s class in terms of physical attributes, but I wasn’t complaining. And I found the little gold rings through their shaven labia most engrossing. (Pubic hair now passé in France?) I didn’t last five seconds the first time, but we tied off that condom and I soon rebounded sufficiently to please both girls. In one sweaty hour I doubled the number of chicks I had slept with and, like Trent, made a complete mockery of my marriage vows. I also discovered there’s a geometrical progression in sex. One is nice. But two are four times more fun. Everywhere you grope there’s another soft breast or enticing ass. Very earthy and grounding. We all just completely lost our heads and wallowed in carnality like horny beasts. Do camel aromas possess aphrodisiacal powers? I have strong empirical evidence (three knotted condoms) that they do.

  The girls had to do me and run. Their parents are very strict. They don’t permit them to stay out late.

  WEDNESDAY, July 27 — Did I dream all that? No, there are the pilfered, much abused condoms. And there is that confirming twinge in my exhausted prostate. My first orgy. Where do I sign up for encores?

  Waiting for that first angry slap of guilt, but so far my conscience is clear. Do sociopaths enjoy better sex lives? Perhaps Rick S. Hunter’s first novel will explore that question in depth. It always helps to start one’s literary career with a torrid best-seller. For the record I should note that Mrs. Fulke discovered Élise loitering among the disaffected youth in the car park of the French equivalent of a convenience store. Employing the well-known principle that the tendency toward juvenile delinquency is directly proportional to the thickness of the eye makeup, Mrs. Fulke honed in on sullen Élise. It was all I could do to persuade her to wash her face, remove her nose stud, and change out of her slutty clothes for our agreed-upon transaction. Even so, I don’t think she impressed Madame Poco as France’s most innocent virgin. That may be why Madame Poco slipped her the hush money instead of calling the gendarmes. No doubt this isn’t the first time one of her employees has been caught molesting a local. The romantic lives we circus people lead make us irresistibly attractive to those stuck in conventional humdrum lives. Oops, got to go. Time to start raking out the night’s accumulation.

  11:43 a.m. I have made a formal request to Iyad that he provide a mirror in his camel sty for Mrs. Fulke. Clearly, I’m growing up fast. Can no longer regard shaving as an occasional task like zit squeezing or penile measuring. Now a daily necessity. Fortunate that elderly ladies often bewhiskered or I might have blown my cover through inattentive grooming. Also helpful that 98 percent of my whiskers are as blond as Jane Mansfield. Speaking of matters feminine, Mrs. Fulke’s b.o. beginning to contest for olfactory supremacy with camel odors. And thin blankets (we serfs cannot aspire to sheets) rather crusty from recent tidal wave of bodily fluids. 4:12 p.m. Back from an excursion to a Poiters launderette with Reina. Just the two of us alone in her station wagon with piles of intimate apparel. Unlike Mrs. Fulke, she favors the frilliest of undergarments. How I would love to slip those lacy confections on (and off) her exquisite limbs. French laundry machines most adept at sucking two-euro coins from pockets of impoverished proletariat. At least I had the smarts to stuff my entire odorous pile into one machine. Profligate Reina, I noticed, used three.

  We watched our clothes revolve and discussed the previous day’s shocking events.

  “I still can’t believe Carlos would do such a thing,” said Reina. “He seemed so committed to his fiancée back in Barcelona.”

  “The guy was engaged?”

  “Yes, Rick, to a very lovely girl named Lucia.”

  “Call me Morag. Then why was he putting the moves on you?”

  “Don’t be silly, Morag. He was just lonely. He missed his sweetheart.”

  “If he missed her so much, why was he singing love songs to you?”

  “Carlos is a very romantic boy. He sings love songs all the time. They were not necessarily directed at me. He knew how much my babies loved his singing.”

  “What about all those condoms? The guy obviously had sex on the brain.”

  “You misjudge him, Rick. Carlos volunteers with a youth group that does disease-prevention outreach work. They distribute those condoms to at-risk young people.”

  “Call me Morag. Then he wasn’t trying to seduce you?”

  “Of course not, Morag. What gave you that idea?”

  Uh-oh. I planted the jailbait in the wrong guy’s caravan. There’s E100 down the drain. Damn!

  Reina leaned in close to whisper in my ear. I liked it when she did that.

  “Are you worried I’m going to run away with some man?”

  She smelled much better than I did.

  “I wouldn’t be if you ran away with me,” I replied.

  “And what about your
wife?”

  “She doesn’t think we’re married, Reina. We might not be. To tell the truth, we lied on the marriage form.”

  “But your baby-to-be is very real, Rick. You can’t run away from it.”

  “I wish it was our baby-to-be, Reina darling.”

  She smiled. “You are a very sweet boy, Rick. Your Sheeni is a lucky girl.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “Go tell her that—if you can find her.”

  7:04 p.m. We had some sort of cabbage stew for dinner. The embattled cookhouse crew wished to clean up early because we move again tonight. Those hard-working Serbians make Mrs. Fulke look like a pampered layabout. Nonstop toil from sunup to sundown, and all they get is a lot of grousing from ungrateful midgets, etc. Fortunately, like me, they barely comprehend a word of French. Mrs. Fulke stopped by Marcel’s table for a juggling tune-up. My oranges not cooperating. What a pickle puss. Greeted me like I was another visitation by the Black Death. OK, the guy has to paint on a silly face every day and pedal around on a tiny tricycle. But that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from the rules of civil discourse. After all, nobody forced him to become a clown. And I thought Canadians were supposed to be excessively polite. With his sour disposition, it’s no wonder he sleeps alone—assuming he does. I don’t actually have his caravan under surveillance. Anyway, he told me I was tossing the second orange too soon.