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

  “I wish him to marry a girl who will make him happy. And give us lovely grandchildren.”

  “But, of course, she must be of your faith.”

  “That would be nice, Mrs. Fulke. We are Christians, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  I thought that guy on the wall looked a lot like Jesus. Damn. Who’d have thought they’d have Christians in far-off Turkey?

  “Your Tarkan is exhibiting some signs of an inclination toward Miss Vesely.”

  “Reina is a lovely girl. And so patient in training her dear parrots.”

  “She’s Czech, you know.”

  “Her family is many generations in the circus and very well thought of. Has she sent you as her emissary to arrange the marriage details?” she asked, beaming expectantly.

  Somehow our chat had gone seriously off-course.

  “Er, no,” I replied. “It is my understanding that Miss Vesely is engaged to Mr. Mestan.”

  “I do not believe that to be the case, Mrs. Fulke,” she replied, still smiling but not as radiantly.

  “Oh? Are you aware she named one of her parrots after Mr. Mestan?”

  “That is of no consequence. It was before she met my son.”

  It was time, I decided, for desperate measures.

  “Because of her accident, Miss Vesely is incapable of bearing children!”

  No longer smiling, Mrs. Batur sipped her coffee, then spoke. “I don’t know what your interest in this matter is, Mrs. Fulke. I understood you to be employed here as an animal attendant. I did not feel it was my place to inquire why someone of your age and sex would want such a job. I can tell you that my husband has made discreet inquiries with Reina’s aunt in Paris. Madame Ruzicka assured him that there were no medical impediments to her niece enjoying a happy and prolific marriage. Now, if you will excuse me, I must begin our dinner preparations.”

  Setting down her cup and mumbling inanities, Mrs. Fulke lurched from the scene.

  What a disaster. Why are parents these days so fucking progressive, enlightened, and tolerant? All parents, that is, except my own?

  10:38 p.m. No TV, no radio, no book, no wife, no life. So I bought a bag of mixed nuts (no discount) and watched both evening performances. According to the law of averages, one of these days Tarkan is going to slip and be trampled by his ponies. Try as I might I could think of no scheme to hasten that tragedy. Villains in cowboy movies slip a burr under the hero’s saddle, but Tarkan does his tricks bareback. Sudden noises can spook most horses, but circus ponies are inured to the loudest din. Perhaps enterprising Jiri will be more successful.

  Curiously, I find I’m beginning to identify with our show. I get upbeat like the others when there’s a straw house (sell-out performance), and smile proudly when the townies are enthusiastic like they were tonight. As they clapped and stomped, I found myself wishing they were applauding me. Even Omar and Ajax, I notice, step livelier when the crowd cheers. Perhaps that’s what everyone needs to get out of bed in the morning: an adoring public.

  SUNDAY, July 31, 1:42 a.m. — Reina just left. She unexpectedly dropped by the camel sty to discuss my conversation with Tarkan’s mom. News gets around fast. All I could offer her were some well-bruised oranges, a seat on a hay bale, and Mrs. Fulke’s embarrassed apologies.

  “The Baturs were quite mystified by you, Rick,” she commented, peeling her orange. “They asked me if I thought Jiri had bribed you to say such things.”

  I groaned and knocked my head against the partition, startling my roommates on the other side. A cascade of camel piss splashed against the corroded floor.

  “I said I didn’t think so,” she continued, “and suggested that one has to make allowances for the eccentricities of the aged.”

  “That was nice of you, Reina dear.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re such a hard worker, Rick. Mr. Batur commented that the pony van has never been so clean. He’s inclined to overlook your interference in this matter.”

  “That’s nice of him. I guess. Are you going to marry that turkey?”

  “I believe people from Turkey are called Turks, Rick. As for Tarkan and me, I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “The guy is totally wrong for you, Reina.”

  “I think I know him considerably better than you do, Rick.”

  “You can’t marry Jiri either. He’s going to live maybe another decade tops. You want to be a widow before you’re 30?”

  “Jiri’s making an effort to cut back on his smoking, Rick.”

  “From what—14 packs a day to 12? What’s the big rush, Reina? You’re only 17.”

  “I’m nearly 18, Rick. And you should talk. Why did you get married so young?”

  A good question. Reading back through my journal, though, it seemed like quite a sensible idea at the time.

  “OK, Reina darling, here’s the solution: you wait a couple of years, I get all my personal affairs straightened out, and then we get married. If Sheeni has her baby, we can adopt it. She’s said many times that motherhood doesn’t interest her. Then we have a few more babies of our own. No problem there. Unlike Jiri and Tarkan, I’ve already proven that I’m fertile.”

  Reina handed me an orange section, and we masticated in quiet communion. Finally, she swallowed and spoke.

  “In two years, Rick, you may be back in California. You and Sheeni may be together again and happily raising your daughter. You may have forgotten all about me by then.”

  “Not possible, Reina. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  “Haven’t you said those very same words to Sheeni?”

  She had me there. I shrugged and silently accepted another orange wedge.

  “I do like you, Rick. That’s certainly true. Perhaps, in fact, from our very first meeting on the stairs. I can’t help wishing, though, that you demonstrated considerably more maturity, were unmarried, weren’t wanted by the police, and were at least five years older.”

  Sounds like conditional love to me. Fortunately, that’s the kind I’m used to.

  “When you’re 65, Reina, I’ll be 63. The age issue is no big deal. Just don’t rush into things and shackle yourself to the wrong guy because you want a baby.”

  “Who says I want a baby?”

  “Well, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know, Rick. I don’t know what I want. I’m so confused. I know I want something.”

  I slipped my arm around her lovely shoulders. “Well,” I cooed, “there’s one thing we could try.”

  Three seconds later I was alone and picking orange peelings off my floor. Mrs. Fulke had struck out.

  10:14 a.m. I was second in line for bathing at Reina’s this morning. Yes, it’s true. Jiri Mestan even smokes in the shower. When I stepped in for my lukewarm ablutions, there was his disgusting butt by the grungy drain. What a slob. He may also be losing his hair, if the great hideous glob of coarse black hairs he also left behind is any indication. The good news is I caught a glance in Reina’s tiny mirror of Mrs. Fulke’s bod while toweling off. All that manure shoveling is starting to pay off big. I’ve got muscles on top of muscles like you see in those magazines. Just my luck. Finally, I achieve a body good enough to flaunt, and I have to keep it totally swaddled in old-lady duds. Too bad Reina doesn’t know what she’s missing. Moments later I had the pleasure of observing Reina eject a still- damp horn player from her caravan. She told him that his secondhand smoke was bad for her birds. Then she ejected Mrs. Fulke— saying she was still mad about yesterday. Hey, what did I do?

  1:45 p.m. I wish Mrs. Fulke didn’t have to dine with the old folks. All they talk about is their aches and pains, and what friend of theirs was just diagnosed with terminal fill-in-the-blank. And lately Captain Lapo either has developed a twitching leg palsy or has taken to playing footsie with Mrs. Fulke. Why haven’t they passed a law requiring therapeutic neutering for randy old men? Let’s face it: these lingering urges serve no useful biological function. As lunch was concluding one of the Serbian ki
tchen slaves brought out a nice cake ablaze with candles. How sweet of them, I thought, to surprise me a day early. Then everyone gathered ’round and sang “Happy Birthday”—to Jiri Mestan! The pushy bastard had the nerve to cut in line a few hours ahead of me. I tried to be charitable and remind myself that poor emaciated Jiri was not destined to enjoy many more birthdays. But when he blew out the candles and grabbed Reina for a grossly intimate and prolonged kiss, François made a silent resolution. That was it for the horn player. Mr. Mestan had celebrated his last birthday.

  Mrs. Fulke accepted her meager slice of cake and slunk over to the clowns’ table. Marcel, I could sense, had not appreciated the exhibition any more than I did. He looked up from his cake and gave me a look that could choke a camel. Mrs. Fulke returned her warmest smile.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “Have you heard the news? Tarkan’s parents have been discussing wedding arrangements with Reina’s aunt.”

  “That’s nice. I hope he’s very happy with her aunt.”

  A jest from sepulchral Marcel. Will wonders never cease?

  “I think an announcement may be imminent,” Mrs. Fulke insisted.

  Marcel shoveled in his last hunk of cake and tossed down his fork.

  “You may be wrong, as usual, Mrs. Fulke,” he hissed, strolling away.

  4:12 p.m. Turned into a scorching hot day. Big tent not air-conditioned. Several clammy townies dragged out in a dead faint. Most strenuous shoveling shit in such conditions. Mrs. Fulke stripped down as far as she dared go: long-sleeved jersey and pink stretch pants. Body too unfeminine and youthful to expose further. Consequently sweated like a pig. Had to tie towel around head to prevent perspiration from erasing face wrinkles. Finally, gave up and hid out in aromatic gloom under camel van. Hope today’s not the day Sheeni chose to visit the circus. I’d have missed her entirely.

  9:46 p.m. Just had a call from Violet, one leg of the adulterous T.P. triangle. Apurva admitted to France despite infamous brother. She and hubby have been reunited.

  “God, Rick, she’s so beautiful,” gasped Violet. “I mean I saw her photo, but I was hardly prepared for the enchanting vision that emerged last night from Alphonse’s Twingo. I felt like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister.”

  “Was she pissed?”

  “God no, Rick, she’s as gracious as she could be. I mean part of me wants to hate her, but she’s just so wonderfully sweet. Is it all an act, do you think?”

  “Probably not, Violet. Apurva always was pretty nice.”

  “I’m just despising myself for trying to steal her husband. Of course, part of me wants to kill her too. I didn’t sleep at all last night thinking of those two together down the hall.”

  “How’s Trent holding up?”

  “You mean is he holding out? I don’t know. I only saw him alone briefly this morning and he was very noncommittal. Oh God, Rick, I think I’ve lost him.”

  “Not necessarily, Violet. Where are they now?”

  “Still out seeing the town, I suppose. We did agree that he should try to tire her out through tourism.”

  “A good strategy. Well, try not to worry, Violet.”

  “Try not to worry, Rick? I don’t do anything but that! I haven’t been out of my room all day. I’m up here tying myself in knots.”

  I expect that’s how contortionists relieve stress. I told her to keep in touch and rang off.

  Can’t write any more. Things are starting to bustle outside on the lot. The show is on the move again. Goodbye 14! Goodbye my fleeting youth!

  AUGUST

  MONDAY, August 1 — Fifteen at last. My birthday couldn’t come a day sooner. What a change in circumstances from my last natal day with Mom and Jerry in Oakland. Back then I was a lonely virgin grimly unwrapping an official Rodney “Butch” Bolicweigski first baseman’s glove. Now I’m sleeping with two camels in faraway France, a country where baseball is largely unknown. I’m in love with two beautiful girls, one of whom abandoned me exactly one month ago. Come back, Sheeni, wherever you are! I’m sure you must be thinking of me today. Probably wishing you had my address so you could send me a nice card. Send yourself instead! We now have even more in common, my absent darling. We’re both 15, an age that commands no small measure of respect. Fifteen—mon dieu! That’s halfway to 30. (Or a fifth of the way to 75, if you really want to get morbid.)

  On this gala day I awoke in Brive-La-Gaillarde, a fairly nondescript burg that, not astoundingly, adjoins a river (the torpid Corréze). Lots of noisy trains chugging by our lot at all hours of the day and night. On a more pleasant note, there’s been a temporary diminution in Mrs. Fulke’s workload. No pony van to clean. The Batur clan had truck trouble last night and is stalled by the road somewhere in rural France. Madame Poco most concerned they won’t make it here in time for the matinee. In which case, Captain Lapo will be sent out to eat a light bulb (it being too sultry for fire- eating). And Iyad will be asked to perform an extended acrobatics program atop his oppressed camels. For being the ships of the desert, those guys don’t like hot weather any more than the rest of us. It was all I could do to drag them out of the van this morning, and then they launched several nasty gobs into Mrs. Fulke’s sweaty wig. Even Captain Lapo, at our long-delayed breakfast, regarded me with little apparent lust in his heart.

  1:43 p.m. No lunchtime birthday cake for Mrs. Fulke. I guess she doesn’t rate. I was flattered to receive a package via overnight courier right as we were chowing down. Connie’s timing is sometimes impeccable. Her gift box contained an oversized gag birthday card (also signed by her hubby) and a nifty portable satellite radio— such a thoughtful, compact gift for the fugitive on your list. Madame Poco asked why Mrs. Fulke was receiving birthday presents in August, since—according to her passport and job application— she was born in May. I shrugged and said these overnight delivery companies are not always as reliable as one assumes.

  “Who’s Mrs. Paul Saunders?” inquired a nosy horn player, reading the return address on the box. I said she was my married daughter back in the States. Then I had to grab my radio back from him, which he had already soiled with his filthy cigarette ash. The creep is asking for summary dismemberment. Reina, I noticed, seemed rather downhearted by this written confirmation of Paul’s new marital status. I may not yet know the full story on those two.

  3:18 p.m. The Baturs made it here just in time for the afternoon show. Both caravan and pony van rolled in behind giant tow trucks. After the ponies were dropped off, the van left to join the Batur’s semi-tractor in a repair shop in town. The shocking preliminary diagnosis: sugar in both gas tanks necessitating major rebuilds. We’re talking tall euros—onerous bills I very much hope come out of the Tarkan Batur wedding fund. Mr. Batur obviously steamed, but no accusations have been flung so far. Innocent bystander Mrs. Fulke not displeased by these events. Again, totally blameless. Mine was not the sugary hand behind these nefarious deeds. Satisfaction without guilt. A sweet birthday surprise.

  5:47 p.m. Entire circus abuzz with rumors regarding Batur sabotage and feuding swains. I overheard Madame Poco grumbling that attractive single women always cause problems for traveling shows. Some feminist she turned out to be. Baturs now dining in the cookhouse until Mom regains transportation to stores. Eating communally, but they brought their own table to minimize mixing.

  Many dark looks being directed toward you know who. Neither Jiri nor Tarkan appear to be shaving their upper lips. Has Mr. G sparked a moustache war?

  8:45 p.m. No birthday cards in today’s mail, but I don’t suppose John Dillinger got many either when he was on the lam. I did receive E65 in cash from my employer, but she included no birthday bonus. Said if I kept up the good work I might get a E5 a week raise. I recognized her gesture as pie in the sky, but appreciated the praise.

  My new radio is quite amazing. Somehow you don’t have to aim it at any satellites, yet it tunes in hundreds of channels with remarkable fidelity. For example, there’s one channel devoted exclusively to the opi
nionated blockheads of right-wing talk radio.

  Another with arcane discussions of weird hobbies like stamp collecting and bird watching. Music of every stripe, of course, but naturally I zeroed in on the channel that plays nearly nonstop Frank, interlarded with the occasional Bing (not bad), Johnny Mathis (nice), Nat King Cole (ditto), and Perry Como (yuck). Turns out Frank is the perfect accompaniment for lonely juggling practice. I can nearly keep three in the air now.

  11:53 p.m. What a surprise when Reina knocked on my door with a basket containing a round of chevret, a baguette, and a bottle of wine. Somehow she had ditched all of her beaus, so I invited her in for un petit party: just me, Reina, Frank, and the two slumbering camels. Night still very warm, so she was dressed in the lightest of summery frocks. A creamy soft cotton that gently kissed her nubile body, just as I longed to do. I lit a few candles, opened the wine, and let Frank croon softly down from the heavens.

  “Happy birthday, Rick,” she said, as we clinked glasses.

  “It is now,” I replied.

  The wine condensed the fecund beauty of France into every sip and raced straight to my head. Reina tore off a hunk of bread with her lovely hands, spread it with cheese, and handed it to me. It tasted of sunshine on green meadows. She prepared one for herself and took a greedy bite.

  “I love this cheese,” she said, sitting back against a hay bale. “I’ll probably get fat like my aunt. Will you still love me then?”

  “I’ll always love you, Reina.”

  “How does it feel to be 15?”

  “I’d rather be 25 like Paul.”

  “Then you’d be too old for me, Rick.”

  “Was he too old for you?”

  “He was too, uh . . . too airy. I need someone whose head is not so far in the clouds. Who won’t say sweet things and then leave without a word.”

  “That’s how his sister left me. Not even a note.”

  “How sad for you, Rick.”

  Frank launched into “You Go to My Head.”

  “I can’t believe you listen to this kind of music, Rick.”