Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 22

  “Don’t throw it until your first ball has reached its highest point,” he snarled.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Well, it looks like Carlos won’t be serenading Reina again.”

  He gave me a look that could freeze molten lava.

  “That fool was wasting his time,” he sniffed.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Reina has a very strong maternal drive,” he observed. “What does she call her birds?”

  “Her babies,” I admitted.

  “Correct, Mrs. Fulke. She has five babies already. That girl doesn’t need a man.”

  “You may be right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Looks like your little drama was all for nothing,” he added,

  getting up and walking away.

  What did he mean by that?

  THURSDAY, July 28 — We’re in Périgueux, another hillside town overlooking a meandering river. The name is pronounced like you’re snorting up a hocker. Towns were built on hills in the old days to withstand attack from whichever marauding horde was on the warpath that week. Perhaps the Russians invaded at some point, since there’s a big multi-domed church in the center of town that looks like a branch of the Kremlin. Never realized France was such a nation of rivers. Every couple of kilometers you’re crossing another Distinguished Waterway. Big change from California where the sparse rivers are confined behind dams or dry up to a trickle in the summer.

  Iyad has presented me an old cracked mirror in a dingy frame. Mrs. Fulke thanked him warily and nailed it to the wall of my sty. A cheerful and homey touch, assuming you grew up in a Halloween haunted house. The big news is one of Mr. Granola’s monkeys, Number Eight, gave birth during the night. Not entirely a man of science, he named it Number Fourteen, even though there were only 12 other monkeys. Rather adorable little guy (the baby monkey, not Mr. Granola), stuck like glue to his mother’s pendulous teat. Reina said the pair looked just like a monkey version of the Madonna and Child. When this blasphemy reached my ears, I stepped back quickly, but the expected thunderbolt never struck. Mr. G has instructed me that I am to be extra attentive in keeping the cage clean, yet am not to disturb the new mother. How exactly I am to accomplish this the twit didn’t say.

  I suppose Number Fourteen could be the littlest monkey that Paul warned me about. Does not impress one as evil spawn of the devil, but am prepared to defend myself should the hairy little milk-sucker turn on me.

  After breakfast I called Madame Ruzicka to give her the bad news that I wouldn’t be returning to my apartment. She said I had become so famous she was thinking of leaving it just as it was and opening it as a museum for tourists. Plus, there’s that additional tourist draw, T.P., living just down the hall with Violet. (I trust he has explained this arrangement somehow to Apurva.) Madame R said all her tenants are proud to have had their garbage hauled out by the notorious Rick S. Hunter, and everyone is hoping that the young lovers are reunited soon. She said that when Madame Lefèbvre of the wig salon heard that a warrant had been issued for my arrest, she and her staff led an angry manifestion to the Palais de Justice.

  “All of Paris is behind you, Rick,” she assured me. “You are the most popular young man in France.”

  Very gratifying to the soul as Mrs. Fulke returned to her shovel and the exigencies of life as an itinerant serf.

  1:45 p.m. Mr. Granola had some more competition at lunch today for the seat beside Reina. Madame Poco at last scraped up another horn player, a young guy named Jiri Mestan. A thin chain-smoker with that artsy sophistication impoverished European men like to project in lieu of driving a Porsche. His black leather jacket is such a cliché and the fatuous fedora was mere blatant affectation. Jean Gabin he is not. Jiri is Czech like Reina, but I’m not worried. She already has her babies; she doesn’t need a man. Besides, I’m almost positive she loves me.

  5:03 p.m. Mrs. Fulke visited with Reina while I cleaned out the monkey cage. Reina spends a good part of her free time cooing through the cage wire at the new baby. She’s had a phone call from disgraced Carlos in exile in Barcelona.

  “He told me he never saw that girl before. She was waiting in his trailer when he returned from dinner. She had torn her own clothes!”

  “Not likely,” I sighed. “But what else do you expect the guy to say? They always try to blame the victim.”

  “I believe Carlos,” Reina insisted. “I saw Madame Poco give that girl money. That’s why she did it. For the money!”

  “Could be, Reina. But it’s all water over the dam now.”

  “No, it’s not. Carlos’s family is very upset. And so is Lucia.”

  “He told them?!” I asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, Morag, he felt he had to.”

  What is this mania for incendiary candor? All that simpleton had to say was he returned early because he missed Lucia and he would have been home free. Back in the bosom of his family and some nice bonus pussy besides. Jesus, some people are just not equipped for Life in the Real World.

  Time to change the subject.

  “That Jiri is a fast worker,” I observed.

  “Who? Oh, Jiri’s an old family friend. I’ve known him since I was six. My bird Jiri is named after him.”

  “Did you get him the job?”

  “I did suggest him. I felt I had to make it up to Madame Poco for Paul leaving without notice.”

  “What makes you think Jiri will stick around?”

  “Well, he needs the work. And he loves me very much.”

  “What!”

  “He was kind of my boyfriend back before my accident. It was just, what do you Americans call it, puppy love?”

  “I’m Scottish,” Mrs. Fulke testily reminded her. “So how do you feel about him now?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, making silly faces at the suckling baby. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  7:51 p.m. Did some snooping around the lot after dinner. Jiri drives a little Twingo-sized truck with a primitive homemade camper built onto the back. Not even a caravan to his name. Hope he’s not planning to shower at Reina’s. Mrs. Fulke may be monopolizing her hot water. Could he be the one Paul was warning me about? Could “littlest monkey” be some sort of jazz slang for old boyfriend? Or is Mestan Czech for “monkey?” Jiri not very little, but he is cadaverous. Too bad cigarettes take so long to kill a person. The guy must have insatiable oral needs. Never seen without a Gauloise or trumpet in his mouth. I’m amazed he can remember whether to blow or suck. Probably taken from the breast too soon. I’m a bottle baby so in total empathy. As Sheeni has pointed out, it’s a miracle I never got hooked on cigarettes. Still, I hate to think of Jiri’s nicotine-stained maul besmirching Reina’s innocent lips. Most unfortunate that saintly celibate Carlos no longer here to keep her occupied in the evenings. Somebody should have alerted me that the guy was a eunuch. I miss his nice singing!

  11:12 p.m. I was ruminating on means of introducing plastic explosives into cigarettes when my old cellphone rang. Wrenching emotional turmoil, but in the end I had to answer it.

  “Hello?” I said.

  No fucking reply.

  “Sheeni, darling, let’s not play these games. Speak to me, baby.

  Tell me where you are. Or at least let me know if you’re coming back. It’s torture not to know where we stand. This is the longest we’ve ever been separated. Nearly a month! Do you miss me, darling?”

  No reply. Just breathing.

  “Sheeni, I can’t stand this. Are you trying to drive me insane? I have to hang up in case this is the cops. I’m going to hang up now. OK?”

  No reply.

  “Sheeni, have you been reading the papers? Everyone’s on our side! We’re the most popular couple in France. Your father is powerless against us now. It’s safe for you to come back. I’m sure if you did, I could resume my video career. We could sign some big endorsement deals! You could buy your own private school in Paris.

  The teachers wouldn’t dare give you a ‘B,’ not that they would
anyway. You’d get into the Sorbonne for sure. How about it, darling?”

  No reply. I screamed and flung the damn phone across my sty, breaking Mrs. Fulke’s new mirror. Seven years bad luck?

  Who cares? I’m totally sick at heart. I just destroyed my last tenuous link to Sheeni. The phone (and my life) are in pieces.

  FRIDAY, July 29 — Life sucks. That is my new personal philosophy. Life sucks. Shit happens. And then you die. The same story for thousands of generations. Previous residents of this town hung out, made cheese, crushed grapes, and could look forward to getting sacked by Vikings, slaughtered by Huns, raped by Normans, tortured by the Inquisition, or machine-gunned by Hitler’s SS. It’s the same old, same old. So I sit around in my dank sty, toss oranges in the air, and await the next calamity. Finally making some progress. Can keep two on the move for nearly ten seconds.

  Angry Iyad just extracted E5 from Mrs. Fulke for mirror breakage. I have now been shoveling shit for this outfit for almost two weeks and have less money than when I started. My new motto: Serfdom Sucks.

  11:08 a.m. Beez the bear sulking because everyone over at the monkey van oohing and aahing over the new baby. I know how he feels. I showed up to shovel and there was Reina fastened rather familiarly onto Tarkan’s dusky arm. Hasn’t she had enough of that apish infant and Turkish pony jockey? She said hello, but naturally Tarkan barely acknowledged the lackey who cleans up after his ponies.

  “Number Eight is such a good mother,” remarked Reina. “I wonder who the father is?”

  “Number Three most likely,” said Tarkan. “He’s the biggest and the strongest.”

  Yes, that would be that lout’s criterion for reproductive success. I don’t suppose he’s ever even cracked a book. First time I had seen him without his hat. The guy has the hairline of a retarded gorilla. Barely an inch of forehead divides bushy eyebrows from thick black hair. There’s a dude who will never have to worry about going bald, assuming he lives past next week.

  Things got interesting when Mr. Granola showed up. Reina released her grip, so Tarkan let a hand rest casually on her shoulder. This obliged Mr. G to remove and re-coil his bullwhip—a phallic symbol if ever there was one. Meanwhile, as we were chatting away pleasantly like civilized adults, Number Three decided to get it on hot and heavy with Number Seven. That sort of thing does cast a pall in mixed company. Virginal Reina blushed crimson—doubtless inspired by the knowledge that this was exactly what her human companions (all three) aspired to do to her.

  2:26 p.m. Dyspeptic Marcel the clown not impressed when Mrs. Fulke demonstrated her new ball facility after lunch. Said he had seen better juggling from an armless blind man. He seemed even deeper in the dumps than usual, so I decided to draw him out. “Did you know that new horn player used to be Reina’s boyfriend?” Mrs. Fulke inquired.

  Marcel gave me a look the color of midnight in the dungeon.

  “He thinks he still is.”

  “Perhaps, but Reina doesn’t need a man.”

  “She didn’t,” he commented ominously.

  “What, what do you mean by that?”

  “Are you blind as well as stupid, Mrs. Fulke? It’s the new monkey. It has changed the equation completely.”

  “How so?”

  “Reina has seen a real baby—or a close enough approximation. Much more cuddly than a parrot.”

  “She wants one herself?”

  “Nature cannot be denied, Mrs. Fulke. But who will be chosen? That is the question. We are about to witness an epic struggle between the man of action and the artistic personality.”

  “Tarkan Batur versus Jiri Mestan?”

  “And perhaps other contenders,” he snapped, strolling away.

  Beware the littlest monkey. Paul was right!

  7:17 p.m. War may have commenced. First skirmish at today’s matinee? I noticed during the wild-riding Batur Family performance there were some decidedly flat notes erupting from the horn section— especially when Tarkan was attempting something particularly neck-breaking. These musical punctuations inspired the audience to laugh rather than cheer. Scowling Tarkan not amused.

  No sign in the crowd of my goateed wife, alas. Much less facial hair out here in the sticks than in Paris, so she’d be easy to spot. Lots of pretty girls though. Never seen such a concentration of beauty. No wonder the Germans were always invading.

  10:42 p.m. Black despair. Lovely Reina just seen strolling in the moonlight with both contenders. Noticed Marcel skulking in shadows. Wish he’d do the honorable thing and waste the competition. Aren’t clowns supposed to have a dark side? I could see him laughing maniacally as he flails away with his bloody hatchet. Jesus, sometimes I even scare myself.

  My problem? I think my orgy has worn off. Despite prolonged mental funk and fresh new “Life Sucks” philosophy, hormones are reasserting themselves. I need it bad and I don’t particularly care where I get it. Not a very enlightened attitude, but, hey, it works for the roustabouts. Not to mention Number Three. Yes, God, for my next life, I’m praying I return as a monkey.

  SATURDAY, July 30 — Why do these Saturdays roll around like clockwork to remind me of my missing wife? It’s a hell of a way to start the weekend. Next time I’m going to get married on a Monday. That day already starts out depressing.

  Mr. Granola showed up at breakfast with his moustache waxed and sticking straight out obscenely at the sides like hairy red dagger points. You’d think being married, over 30, and English would be handicap enough for the guy. Love propels men in strange directions, as I can attest as Mrs. Fulke’s bra straps chafe ever deeper into my shoulders. She’s so much less fun to be than the late, lamented Carlotta—that sprightly wannabe vamp, who was born to tease. Let’s face it: Mrs. Morag Fulke is just an ugly old crone with bad b.o. and horrible clothes. Nobody is going to ask her to the prom. 10:45 a.m. New scandal wracking the Cirque Coco-Poco. Someone has immersed Jiri Mestan’s prized trumpet in a vat of oily sludge drained from the crankcase of the diesel generator. Amazingly, this act of vandalism cannot be laid at my doorstep. I didn’t do it. Honest! Now there is fear that grit has worked its way into the valves, necessitating a total rebuild. Therefore, outraged Jiri reduced to using the circus’s dented loaner horn, still redolent with Paul Saunder’s talented saliva. Despite this encumbrance, Madame Poco has warned him to play it straight. Further musical improvisations will not be tolerated. She asked Tarkan if he had any knowledge of the deed, but he responded as if the whole matter were beneath his contempt. 11:12 a.m. Just received a call from Violet, the sexy Brit who is bending over backwards (and forwards?) for T.P. She got my new number from Madame Ruzicka and was checking in to see how France’s best-loved fugitive was getting on. I told her my life was only slightly worse than that of a deep-shaft coal miner in China. Violet was sympathetic, but had more urgent matters to discuss. Apurva has just hopped a plane in San Francisco. No, she is not going to visit her poor exiled bro in India. She arrives in Paris tonight! “Uh-oh,” I gasped. “What does Trent say?”

  “Not a great deal, Rick. He just lies face down on my bed and moans. I think the poor dear is on emotional overload. Mr. Bonnet is merciless. Trent has made six media appearances in the last four days. Did you see him on TV?”

  “Sorry, Violet. I don’t have a TV.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, I suppose. Well, he was marvelous, of course.

  The French love that he’s so charismatic and speaks their language. But now I’m afraid he’s having a nervous breakdown. You’re his best friend, Rick. What should I do?”

  Why does everyone suppose Trent and I are pals? Just because he hasn’t ratted on me (yet) to the cops doesn’t mean we’ve stopped despising each other.

  “Well, Violet, my advice would be to move Trent back into my apartment and to pretend you’re just friends while Apurva’s there.”

  “But what if she wants to sleep with my darling?”

  “Well, does Trent wish to sleep with her?”

  “Of course not. He loves me!”
<
br />   “Then he should just tell her he’s temporarily impotent from the strain of becoming a media superstar. He could tell her that Elvis had the same problem back in 1955.”

  “I never knew that, Rick.”

  “Violet, I just made it up. Elvis had girls coming out of his ears. But it always helps to have some credible facts on your side when you’re telling a major whopper.”

  “You don’t think we should tell Apurva the truth?”

  “You can if you want, but it’ll get ugly. Apurva is pretty formidable in her own polite way. Might be too much for Trent to cope with.”

  “Do you think she could get . . . violent?”

  “Probably not. But when the shit’s approaching the fan, my strategy is to lie early and lie often. You can buy some time, send Apurva home appeased, then figure out your long-term plan.”

  “Sensible advice, Rick. How did you get to be so wise?”

  “A difficult childhood, Violet. It works every time.”

  Trent has all the luck. Not only is he sleeping nightly with his flexible mistress, but he will soon be reunited with his loving wife. Personally, I would be content to achieve even one of those pleasant states.

  4:28 p.m. During today’s matinee, Mrs. Fulke wandered over to the Batur encampment to chat up Tarkan’s mom. Mrs. Batur not that unattractive considering she has seven kids and a moustache. The whole clan travels in a giant truck-like caravan pulled by a big semi-tractor. She was alone with just the two little ones, so she invited Mrs. Fulke in for a cup of strong Turkish coffee and some homemade sweets. Most impressed by her homemaking skills. Interior of polished dark wood neat as a pin and you could eat off any surface. Eventually, the girl chat got around to the topic of her handsome eldest son’s marital prospects.

  “I trust you’ve selected a suitable girl for him from your village,” I said.

  “Our home is in Istanbul, Mrs. Fuck. It’s hardly a village.”

  “That’s Fulke. I’m Scottish, you know. But certainly you wish your son to marry a Turkish girl.”