Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 24

  “My tastes are rather old-fashioned,” I admitted, refilling Reina’s glass. “As near as I can figure I was born about 75 years too late.”

  “It’s different for women, Rick. These are the best times for us. Too much oppression in the past. I like your music though. Who is this singer?”

  Flabbergasted by the query, I nearly spilled my wine. Somehow we got over that rocky patch and I snuggled closer. One of us, at least, smelled wonderful.

  “What are you going to do when the tour ends, Rick?”

  “I don’t know. Go back to Paris, I guess. Get a job if I can. Would you like to live together?”

  “Mrs. Fulke, me, and my babies? A curious household indeed. I don’t think my husband would approve.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “You’re going to get married?”

  “I think so, Rick. I’m tired of being alone.”

  “Who to?!”

  “I don’t know, Rick. I’m having trouble making up my mind.”

  “I think you’re just on the rebound from Paul, Reina. He hurt you more than you’re letting on.”

  “I barely knew him, Rick. You know how little time we had together.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Reina. These things happen quickly. It didn’t take long for me.”

  “To decide you loved Sheeni?”

  “And love you.”

  “Men are so much more complicated that parrots, Rick. I hardly feel equipped to deal with them. Too many emotions getting in the way of good sense. Perhaps it was better in the old days when your parents would exercise their wisdom and select someone suitable for you.”

  I put down my glass.

  “I’m going to kiss you now, Reina. I’m giving you fair warning in case you wish to leave.”

  She made no move to exit or scream. Frank cooperated by launching into “This Love of Mine.” We kissed. Warm bodies, mellow wine, savory goat cheese, tender ballad, a passing train, camel snufflings, Reina’s perfume, Mrs. Fulke’s b.o., the romance of France, the ache of love, the longing for connection. All fused into the meeting and melding of two pairs of lips.

  “Why do you make me feel so happy, Rick?” she gasped, politely steering my hand away from her chest. “ I must be some kind of deviate. Sitting here molesting a child.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Reina, my cultural age is at least 90. A kid I am not.”

  We kissed again.

  “I’m leaving now, Rick. If I stay any longer, I’ll do something I’ll regret.”

  “OK, but promise me you won’t marry some turkey without

  consulting me first.”

  “OK, Rick. I promise.”

  And then she was gone. A very nice birthday. Yes, it could have been better. Blue balls are no fun. But I’m not complaining.

  TUESDAY, August 2 — Connie called me at some ungodly hour from her Hawaiian love nest. Things were still going swimmingly for the newlyweds. It turns out Connie did not rent some tacky beach condo. Their ocean-side rental manor sits on 17 manicured acres and comes complete with a cook, chauffeur, and obsequious Yale grad houseboy. She explained that she wished to impress on her husband in some dramatic way that his circumstances have now been altered radically for the better. I said that sounded like an excellent strategy, and thanked her for the cool radio and its gift of round-the-clock Frank.

  “Whatever floats your coconut,” she replied. “Are you ready for some good news?”

  “You’re pregnant?” I guessed.

  “I better be for all the calluses I’m getting down there. Still too early to tell, Rick. But guess who decided he couldn’t neglect his law practice any further and is now back in Ukiah?”

  “Our father-in-law!”

  “The very creep. And still no wedding gift yet from those cheapskates.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Connie. I’m still waiting for mine too. That’s great news! But how do I let Sheeni know?”

  “Isn’t your handsome pal Trent always on TV?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s the Regis Philbin of France.”

  “Then get him to mention it during his next interview.”

  Another great idea from my ally in amours. I do appreciate her efforts on my behalf, especially when she remains well out of my hair on the other side of the globe.

  10:12 a.m. There’s been a major conflagration here, diary. It happened while Jiri Mestan was smoking in Reina’s shower. Someone set a match to his petit Opel truck. By the time the Brive-La-Gaillarde fire department arrived, it was little more than a smoldering pile of incinerated Mestanisms. His music scores, his tacky clothes, his meager cooking items, his emergency carton of Gauloises, his wretched personal belongings, and doubtless his private condom stash—entirely devoured in flames. All the guy had left were the clothes on his back, one singed fedora, a threadbare towel (stolen from a Brno hotel), his incipient moustache, and his repulsive personality. His passport burned too, so he is now a stateless nonentity. The guy, in fact, may have ceased officially to exist.

  François now acutely embarrassed by his lack of complicity in these outrages. Nonstop mayhem around here and his only crime was pilfering a few oranges from the cookhouse. It’s a good thing he’s such a dedicated snoop. Couldn’t help but notice a suspicious character this morning loitering in the vicinity of Jiri’s van. Remarkably, it was the same person I’d observed pocketing sugar cubes by the coffee urn. Yes, it’s true. Clowns do have a dark side.

  11:48 a.m. Talked to lonely Violet still in exile from T.P. in Paris. Not to belabor these occupational metaphors, but she was very much bent out of shape. Mr. Bonnet checked in yesterday and was furious to learn of Apurva’s presence there. He said being married can be fatal to a rising teen sex symbol’s career. He insisted that it was imperative that Apurva not be seen with her hubby. Therefore, she was to remain in the apartment at all times. Culture-starved Apurva not happy about this edict. Violet even less so. Now weak, tormented Trent has to resist the charms of his alluring wife 24 hours a day. Apurva determined to prove that Trent’s “condition” just a transient weakness. What a trial! I’m sure I would fail miserably. Violet drops in frequently to see if they need anything, but Apurva has requested that she telephone first. And now they aren’t answering their phone! Violet most distressed, but she agreed to convey news of old man Saunders’ departure should Trent “take a break from his activities.” She also gave me his new “mobile” (cellphone) number should I wish to call the “happy couple” myself. Bitter sarcasm, but I tried to reassure her that things were not as black as they seemed.

  1:09 p.m. Big fight in the cookhouse tent at lunch today. Jiri and Tarkan going at it with assorted foodstuffs and tableware. Circus people disinclined to intervene in such fisticuffs. Everyone grabbed their plates to get out of the way, but no one rushed in to stop the battle—despite Reina’s frantic entreaties. Madame Poco finally turned the hose on them when it appeared that Tarkan might be close to gouging out an eye. Not really a fair fight since Tarkan in much better shape, but it was the homeless trumpeter who jumped him. Jiri’s torn lip will render him useless on the horn for many days. Happily, no kissing on the menu either. Battered Tarkan may have to take a break from death-defying pony stunts as well. Madame Poco, most disgusted, has called a meeting of the entire company after today’s matinee. Heads to roll?

  After the dust settled, Mrs. Fulke dropped by the clowns’ table to demonstrate her new facility with three oranges. As usual, jaded Marcel most unextravagant in his praise. Said he had witnessed superior juggling by “a retarded quadriplegic.” Mrs. Fulke thanked him for his encouragement, adding that these “mysterious events” certainly had triggered “a tumultuous brawl.”

  “I’ve seen better,” he spat, turning his back on me. Perhaps he’s annoyed that the combatants desisted before any fatalities had occurred.

  6:14 p.m. A new page has been turned, diary, in the democratic tradition of equal justice and fair play among circus folk. Madame Poco’s proposal at our company meeting to e
ject Reina and her trained birds for inciting internal strife was booed down. Donk the giant said it wasn’t her fault that every man found her charming and desirable. The solution, he proposed, was that she declare her choice so that harmony might be restored.

  “Who will it be, Reina?” he asked in his deep giant’s voice. “We all want to know.”

  “Let’s not be precipitous here,” interjected Mr. G. “Reina should not be compelled to—.”

  “Shut up,” counseled Mrs. Poco. “OK, Reina, which one will it be—the arsonist or the saboteur?”

  Jiri and Tarkan rose as one to object to these characterizations, but Madame Poco gaveled them down. Reina pondered this distasteful choice and wisely shook her head.

  “I, I can’t decide,” she announced meekly. “I like them both.”

  “Then you can’t stay in the show,” replied Madame Poco. “I’m running a circus here, not a training camp for gladiators.”

  “Howa ’bout a leetle contest?” suggested Captain Lapo. “Every fella wantsa marry Reina canna competa fair and a square-a.” “That’s an excellent idea,” said Donk. “I second the motion.” “We’ve got shows to put on,” scoffed Madame Poco. “We can’t be running competitions for wives.”

  “Why not?” asked Marcel. “We could run it like the Tour de France—a multistage competition conducted in our free time over several weeks.”

  “That is completely ridiculous,” declared Mr. G. “I’m sure Reina would never agree to anything so preposterous.”

  “Well, it might help me make up my mind,” she replied. “But I’d have certain conditions.”

  “State your conditions,” replied Madame Poco.

  “Well, it would have to be conducted fairly. There couldn’t be events like horn playing or pony riding. I think each contest should relate in some way to married life. And no violence. I’ve seen enough brawling. Also I have certain conditions for each, uh, candidate.”

  “State them,” replied our ringmistress.

  “Tarkan, darling, I love your family, but I feel if we marry, we should go off on our own—at least for the first few years.”

  “I was going to suggest we do precisely that, my dearest one,” he replied.

  His enlightened parents also nodded in agreement, the two-faced creeps.

  “Very good,” said Reina. “And now to you, Jiri darling. I cannot marry any man who insists on poisoning himself with cigarettes.”

  Jiri spat out his coffin nail and stomped on it with his foot.

  “There, Reina. I smoked last one. No more cigarette I do.”

  A fairly reckless promise, it seemed to me.

  “Do we have any other contestants?” asked Madame Poco.

  Four people raised their hands: Donk, Marcel, Captain Lapo, and Mrs. Fulke.

  A rumble of surprise went through the company. Everyone turned expectantly toward Mr. G., but he declined to commit.

  “Any objections to broadening the field, Reina?” inquired Madame Poco.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, “though I am, of course, deeply flattered, I must excuse Marcel, Donk, and Captain Lapo as I do not love them.”

  Bitter looks of disappointment swept the ranks of the also-rans. “And the other, uh, nominee?” asked Madame Poco.

  “I think,” said Reina, “that Mrs. Fulke should explain herself.” The company turned its curious gaze upon me. I cleared my throat and rose to speak.

  “I represent another interested party, thank you.”

  Short and to the point, that’s my style.

  “Are stand-ins to be permitted?” objected Tarkan’s burly dad. “No law against it,” said Madame Poco. “Reina, do you have any conditions for Mrs. Fulke?”

  “Yes, she must clear up all of her, uh, outstanding matters.”

  “The interested party shall do exactly as you wish,” I replied.

  “And he wishes to note that he loves you very much.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fulke,” she replied. “Your comments have been noted.”

  “OK, that’s settled,” announced Madame Poco. “So I don’t want any more trouble. The sabotage and fights will cease. As for the contest, I appoint the three rejected suitors to be the committee in charge. Let the games commence tomorrow. And may the best, uh, person win.”

  8:07 p.m. My fellow contestants confronted Mrs. Fulke at dinner and demanded to know for whom I was serving as proxy. I said it was Stanley Fulke, my son the accountant back in Glasgow. I apologized for not having a photo of the lad, but said he looked a bit like the late English film star Archibold Leech. That seemed to satisfy them. They do not appear to regard Mrs. Fulke as a serious contender, the poor deluded fools. Of course, Jiri—ever fiercely jonesing for a fag—is hardly capable of the simplest rational thought. Madame Poco is from the tough-love school of circus management. She’s told Jiri “no blowing, no eating.” Since his money and bankbook also burned in the fire, he had no choice but to play today. Needless to say, with Jiri’s sore lip and ferocious nicotine cravings, no one was mistaking him for Miles Davis. The creep had the nerve to propose to Reina that since he “no longer smoked,” he bunk temporarily in her caravan. She nixed that, so he moved into Paul’s old nest in the equipment van. He’s dressing in castoffs chipped in by generous crewmembers. From the way he was squirming in his seat at dinner, I’d guess his underpants were donated by a midget.

  I can’t help but think it’s a good sign that Reina agreed to Mrs. Fulke’s participation in the contest. If she weren’t in my life, I don’t know how I would have coped when Sheeni left. I’m sure I would be even more of a mess than I am now. Of course, if I become engaged to Reina and then Sheeni returns, I’ll be in quite a pickle. My preferred solution would be to marry both and move to rural Utah. If a guy has the emotional breadth to love two chicks, why should he be artificially constrained to one? The girls shouldn’t mind particularly, since it would defuse all that marital pressure, halve the housework, and give them more time to pursue their own interests. Personally, I think there’s a lot to be said for sincere bigamy—especially from the feminist viewpoint.

  WEDNESDAY, August 3 — I woke up feeling pretty nervous. Today I must battle against formidable competition for the woman I love. Very unsettling to have devious Marcel devising the contests. That clown looked even more jaundiced than usual yesterday. I hope we won’t be asked to bite the heads off live chickens or walk barefoot across beds of flaming hot coals.

  Jiri showed up at breakfast looking like something the cat dragged in. Dark circles under his eyes and he was clutching a bag of rigatoni begged off a sympathetic Serb. He sucks on the hard pasta like a cigarette until it softens, then spits it out. I suppose you could call this method of quitting smoking “cold turkey with pasta.” Appears to appease the grosser oral cravings, but nothing but crazed insanity was substituting for the missing nicotine. If only vigorous, confident Tarkan could be similarly incapacitated.

  9:48 a.m. Madame Poco such a little tyrant. Has no respect for the rules of gentlemanly competition. Circus was supposed to depart last night, but move delayed by Batur clan’s mechanical difficulties. She fears we have exhausted Brive-La-Gaillarde’s shallow pool of circus lovers. Therefore, she arbitrarily decided that for the first event, the three contestants would be sent into town to peddle color- coded tickets to today’s shows. The guy who sells the most tickets wins the first leg of the Tour de Wife. The weak-kneed contest committee didn’t even protest. Donk commented that it would be a good test of a husband’s ability to “make it in the business world.” As if any of us had such aspirations. Mrs. Fulke handed a big stack of pink ducats to match her slacks. Kind Reina loaned me her French language phrase book, but “Would you like to buy a fucking circus ticket?” not in it. Can’t write any more. Our mad race into town kicks off at 10:00 a.m. sharp.

  6:45 p.m. Quite exhausted. Barely capable of movement. Feel like Frog bicycle racer after particularly steep and grueling Alpine tour. Illegal steroids must be administered soon, if Mrs.
Fulke to hobble over to cookhouse in time for dinner. Another hot, muggy day. Never suspected that France and Mississippi endure similar summers. French react rather coolly when oddly dressed old lady, sweating like a Yellow Fever victim, waves a circus ticket in their faces. Many assume wrongly that ticket being offered for free instead of actual price of E15. Difficult for non-native speaker to convey this subtle economic distinction to grasping Frog tightwads. A few took pity and coughed up the cash. Sold a total of four tickets, or one every two hours. Only E60 to show for Herculean effort, but I turned in another E405 from my fast-dwindling personal stash. That’s all I could afford. Feeling fairly confident of winning because not even Joan of Arc in a thong could sell over a dozen tickets in that tight-fisted town. Committee chairman Donk to announce today’s results after dinner, should I live that long.

  9:12 p.m. I came in second. Jiri sold two tickets, I sold 31, and Tarkan sold 419. Either Brive-La-Gaillarde is lousy with spendthrift Turks, or old man Batur bought himself a boatload of pricey ducats. According to the committee’s rules, Tarkan has been awarded five points, I have three, and Jiri has one. Tarkan also received the daily winner’s kiss from the lovely Czech maiden. According to my calculations, I spent E405 to earn the same number of points I WOULD HAVE RECEIVED ANYWAY! More than six weeks of nonstop shit-shoveling will be required to earn it back.

  Life sucks. Have I mentioned that lately?

  THURSDAY, August 4 — We’re in Cahors. This town not only adjoins a river (the Lot), but is nearly encircled by it. Guess the French not too worried about floods. Quaint town does appear to have been around for centuries. Yet another medieval arched bridge in case I revisit the concept of a romantic watery death. And lots of nearby hills for my missing spouse to hide out in.

  At breakfast a desperate-looking Jiri tried to renegotiate his contract with Reina so that he gives up smoking after he wins the contest. She said no way Jose and gave him an encouraging peck on his unshaven cheek. He’s run through his bag of pasta and has no money to buy more. I’m no expert, but it appeared to me he was sucking on the inserter tube from somebody’s tampon. Not a sexy look, if you ask me. I’m surprised he hasn’t mugged the youngest Batur for her pacifier. His unsightly lips also swollen nastily from excessive sucking and/or horn playing. Be a shame if he had to have them surgically removed.