Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 25

  Next leg of the contest, “Strength and Bravery,” gets underway at 10 a.m. Feeling rather strong and not unbrave, all things considered. The committee also announced that one stage of the contest will be ongoing over the next several weeks. The contestants will be observed by the members of the committee and judged whether they manifest one particular husbandly virtue. What that is they aren’t saying. God, I hope it’s not “Good Grooming.” Mrs. Fulke wouldn’t stand a chance in that category—not that the competition is all that formidable.

  7:12 p.m. I did pretty well today, diary, in the “Strength and Bravery” category. The dark horse candidate is proving more formidable than many had supposed. The entire company gathered at the designated hour behind the main tent, where two steel cages had been set up about 20 feet apart. Coiled in one of them, I noted with alarm, was Panther, the larger and scarier of our two resident snakes. A husband worthy of Reina, declaimed Donk, must possess demonstrable strength and courage. To determine which of the three contestants excelled in this category, a simple test had been devised. While Donk kept time with his stopwatch, each victim in turn was to transport the snake from one cage to the other, employing only his bare hands. The fastest finisher would be declared today’s winner.

  “That is, if any remain alive,” smiled a sadistic clown.

  While roustabouts and midgets feverishly placed their wagers, the three pale-faced contestants gathered to draw lots to see who would go first. Mrs. Fulke sensed that within at least two other scrotums, testicles were bobbling wildly.

  “Wait!” shouted Reina, holding up a lovely hand. “I believe I specified no violence.”

  “You saida no brawlin’,” Captain Lapo indignantly reminded her.

  “This test entails no violence,” sneered Marcel. “You’d have to be an idiot to employ violence against a six-meter boa constrictor.”

  “Don’t worry, Reina,” said Donk. “We gave him a rabbit last night. Ole Panther’s not at his friskiest.”

  “I won’t have it,” Reina insisted. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Cries of protest from the crowd.

  “You want to marry some milksop?” demanded Donk.

  “You will have to devise some other test,” she insisted. “The snake is out.”

  More angry protests, led—I noticed—by Mr. Granola, but my darling remained firm. Fresh waves of love for that dear girl welled up in my heart.

  “I don’t mind wrestling the snake,” remarked Tarkan, very brave after the fact.

  “Nor I!” insisted Jiri, chewing his tampon applicator.

  “Me neither,” Mrs. Fulke reluctantly squeaked.

  “No snakes!” declared Reina.

  Clearly disgusted, the committee huddled to discuss this crisis. Finally, the two cages were taken away and Donk returned with three shovels in one massive hand and three picks in the other. These he tossed at our feet.

  A husband worthy of Reina, he declared, must possess demonstrable strength and endurance. The test for these qualities would be a digging contest. The combatant who dug the deepest hole within one hour would be declared today’s winner.

  “Measured from where?” demanded Mrs. Fulke, no stranger to shovel work.

  “Well, from ground level,” said Donk.

  “And who decides where that is after all the dirt starts flying?” I demanded.

  The gamblers in the crowd agreed that was a good point. So a level line was strung across the field just above head level. Holes were to be dug directly under the line, spaced about 15 feet apart, and final depths would be measured from the line via string and plumb bob. Absolutely no dirt was to be flung into an opponent’s hole.

  “Are you satisfied, Mrs. Fulke?” asked Donk.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied.

  “Can we drop a snake in their holes?” inquired a roustabout.

  “No snakes!” replied Reina.

  Manly Tarkan and Jiri stripped to their waists, less manly Mrs. Fulke powdered her nose and donned her work gloves. Then Donk counted down from ten, clicked his stopwatch, and blew his whistle. The race was on. Dirt—and lots of it—began to fly.

  Such a contest is not just grunt work. Some strategy is required. How big do you make your hole? Keep it narrow and you can dig down faster, but then your pit becomes too confined for efficient use of your tools. I decided the best compromise was a hole about one yard square. Naturally, everyone in the company gathered ’round to shout encouragement, place bets, and give advice. The consensus seemed to be that Mrs. Fulke’s excavation was way too big—not that anyone cared much. All the serious money was on the muscular Turk. Only the longest odds could attract even a nibble of action on the skinny ex-smoker and the geriatric dame.

  In minutes I was down two feet through loamy topsoil and banging against a concrete-like layer of viscous clay. This required preliminary dislodging by pick, then scooping out by shovel. The moist, heavy clay clung to my tools as I flailed away. Very arduous work, but I could tell my adversaries were also struggling, so at least I knew the ground strata were uniform. Fortunately, the day was a little cooler and not nearly as humid. Still, I worked up an awesome sweat. Kindly Reina and other ladies circulated with cups of water, which we gulped with the greatest of haste.

  Every ten minutes Donk shouted out the time remaining. To my west, out-of-shape Jiri huffed and puffed like a steam engine. Heart attack material, it seemed to me, but at least they could bury him in his own hole. East of me, energetic Tarkan was digging away like 400 prairie dogs in heat.

  At last I was through the clay and into a layer of sandy gravel. A few big rocks slowed me down, but I made good progress. And unlike my opponents, I had plenty of room to maneuver my shovel. All around my pit, the dirt rose higher and higher as I shoveled my way toward Tahiti. The buzz of excitement above me turned into a clamor of amazement as the indefatigable Pride of Scotland toiled away like a distaff John Henry. Then I heard Donk shout “One more minute!” and the entire crowd began to count down the seconds. One last furious burst of digging got me down at least another foot before the whistle blew. I dropped my shovel, wiped my brow, and felt a phalanx of powerful hands lift me bodily out of the pit.

  All three diggers collapsed expectantly on the ground while the measurements were being made. Jiri had lost his oral pacifier, and his blistered hands were bleeding badly. Tarkan was one massive greaseball of soiled sweat. I had no feeling at all from my shoulders all the way down my arms. They were like two foreign appendages dangling from their sockets.

  Jiri’s cavity was the first measured: 3.68 meters from line to greatest depth. Then came Mrs. Fulke’s: 4.26 meters. Finally, the plumb bob was lowered into Tarkan’s pit, the string was marked, then hauled up and measured: 4.24 meters.

  A gasp of incredulity from the crowd. Could the old lady have pulled off the upset of the century? Tarkan’s father demanded an immediate re-measurement. He grabbed the plumb bob and leaped into my hole, “accidentally” triggering a small landslide. Shouts of protest as loose dirt tumbled down the sides into my excavation. Mr. Batur scooped out a token handful and repositioned the plumb bob. Product of this new measurement: 4.21 meters. Tarkan now the victor?

  Explosion of vicious wrangling, as mucho euros on the line. Much shouting, swearing, name-calling, and shoving. Angry midgets seen kicking red-faced roustabouts in shins. I’d have joined in if I weren’t semi-paralyzed. Finally, Madame Poco waded into the fracas, declared it too close to call, and announced it was a tie. Tarkan and Mrs. Fulke awarded four points each, hapless Jiri credited with his customary one point. Magnanimous Reina kissed us both (though only Tarkan on lips), then Madame Poco ordered everyone back to work. Since Tarkan and Jiri had to get cleaned up for the next show, guess who was ordered to refill the holes?

  I thought my arms would fall off, but eventually the last shovel- full of earth was tamped back into place. All in all, I think I would have preferred wrestling the 200-pound snake.

  Yeah, I was robbed.

 
Yeah, I’m pissed.

  Yeah, implacable François is determined to even the score.

  11:42 p.m. I was lounging on the rear bumper of the camel van, practicing my juggling and listening to Frank, when who should materialize out of the ether but Jiri Mestan.

  “That is Frank Sinatra,” he announced.

  Was I supposed to be impressed?

  “So it is,” I grunted. “Is that an arm?”

  Jiri was sucking on what appeared to be the amputated right arm of a small plastic doll. Such mislaid toys often turn up in the dusty litter under the bleachers. He looked like a cannibal in the act of swallowing an infantile snack.

  Jiri removed his oral appliance and gave it a deprecating wave. “I not really need this,” he replied, returning it to his mouth. “You like Frank Sinatra?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Your son, he is also musical?”

  “Stanley? Oh yes, ever so.”

  “My playing today was very bad. Did you hear?”

  “I didn’t have the pleasure,” I lied.

  “Very bad for trumpet player to have hurting lips and stiff fin

  gers from digging. Many painful blisters too. Why they make us digging? I am musician, not ditch digger!”

  “It was a test of strength.”

  “I am plenty strong to be husband of Reina. Your son, he is strong?”

  “Quite immensely powerful for being an accountant. He takes after his mother.”

  “You think Reina will marry that Turk?”

  “I hope not.”

  “I love her too much. She always my most dearest girl. You have husband?”

  “Mr. Fulke? Passed on to his reward.”

  “Sorry. How he died?”

  “Lung cancer. He was a smoker, you know. It was quite a lingering, painful death. He had to haul around his own oxygen machine the last 12 years of his life.”

  Jiri chewed on his arm and mulled this over.

  “We make party, Mrs. Fulke? You have some nice Scotch whiskey?”

  “Sorry, no. Would you care for an orange?”

  “No, thank you. I go look for party. Always parties back in Czech, but here not so much fun. Everybody tired from work and go to bed. Your son, how long does he know Reina?”

  “Oh, years and years. They’re always together when he goes to Paris on business.”

  “If he’s so rich, why is his mama working like Albanian for circus?”

  I looked around and lowered my voice. “Stanley is thinking of buying this circus. He sent me down here to scope it out.”

  “He sends his own mama to live with camels? Mrs. Fulke, your son is terrible person. He is not the right man for my Reina. That I tell you!”

  “Oh, you’re quite wrong, Mr. Mestan. Stanley is a wonderful man. He and Reina will be very happy together, I assure you of that.”

  “Then tell him to come and fight himself. Not right to have his mama digging holes. You tell him Jiri Mestan wants to see him. OK?”

  “All right. I’ll give him the message.”

  “You have any cigarettes you can borrow me, Mrs. Fulke?”

  “Sorry. I don’t.”

  “That’s OK. Maybe better I keep my promise to Reina. But girls not right to control the man, right?”

  “That’s right. You have a perfect right to smoke if you want to. Don’t let anyone try to stop you.”

  With that, my adversary waved his arm (the oral one) and lurched off into the night.

  What a mess that guy is. If only I could get Tarkan hooked on something similarly addictive.

  FRIDAY, August 5 — Madame Poco has put her foot down.

  Too many expensive man-hours were lost during yesterday’s stage of the Tour de Wife. To minimize disruption to her serfdom program, only the committee and three contestants assembled at the usual hour (10:00 a.m.) in Cahors’ bustling medieval quarter for today’s competition. First, Donk made us empty our pockets of all currency and change. The sums were noted by Marcel and the cash handed over to Captain Lapo for safekeeping. Sadly, poor Jiri had only E.27 to his name. To avoid arrest for public perversion, he was back to “smoking” feminine hygiene by-products. His lip swellings had subsided somewhat, but he still looked like someone you’d see loitering outside of a methadone clinic.

  Today’s event, explained Donk, would test for those essential husbandly qualities of sincerity and persuasiveness. Each of us would have one hour to waylay the citizens of Cahors and persuade them to give us money. The winner would be the guy who hauled in the most cash. To prevent cheating, each of us would be accompanied by a member of the committee. We all drew lots, and I won Donk the Giant as my panhandling buddy. The whole thing didn’t seem very fair to Mrs. Fulke, and she said so.

  “But I don’t speak French!” I wailed. “Tarkan is practically fluent!”

  “I am perfectly fluent,” he sniffed, cutting me dead.

  “We Czechs are not so very money-grubbing,” protested Jiri, obviously hung over. The guy must have dredged up some kind of party last night.

  “You may not be,” snapped Marcel, “but I don’t know about Reina. She has approved of this contest. And Tarkan may speak French, but don’t forget he’s Turkish.”

  True enough. The French were not known for their love of swarthy foreigners.

  The committee members synchronized their watches, then Donk blew his whistle, clicked his stopwatch, and we were off. This being August, touristy Cahors was swarming with sightseeing Americans. Mrs. Fulke decided to concentrate her efforts among that affluent subgroup of English-speakers.

  “Help me buy breakfast for my giant!” I called. “Help me buy some grub for the big guy.”

  “Hey, you can’t say that!” protested Donk.

  “Whatever is not prohibited, is permitted,” I retorted. “Just be glad I’m not auctioning you off as someone’s sex slave.”

  We worked our way through the narrow winding streets like the colorful beggars of antiquity. Mrs. Fulke perfected her patter and was soon hoovering up the dollars and euros. I also raked in quite a few E5 bills for the privilege of having one’s picture taken with “Europe’s most famous giant.” We could have hauled in even more, but I spent a good ten minutes pursuing a goateed youth. Not my darling wife, as it turns out, but he was sufficiently intimidated when we cornered him in an alley to hand over E16 unbidden. Mrs. Fulke gave him back his credit cards and wristwatch. She had no use for a Rolex knockoff. I pretended not to notice as Donk slipped the cowering fellow a E20 bill, patted him on his back, and sent him on his way.

  Both Donk and I were feeling optimistic when we returned to our starting point an hour later. I was the first to count out my haul: E73.12, plus $32.13 in American money and an unknown amount in miscellaneous foreign coinage. Why was I slaving for peanuts with the circus, I wondered, when I could be out here getting rich off the tourists?

  Jiri confirmed his disinterest in money-grubbing. He coughed up a paltry E3.59. Actually, he was in minus territory for the morning, since he received a E10 citation for illegal panhandling from an alert Cahors gendarme.

  We were both shocked when Tarkan pulled out a crisp wad of new euros still in its official bank paper wrapper. His total came to exactly E500. The smug creep refused to tell us how he did it, so Captain Lapo spilled the beans. Tarkan had gone directly to a meat market and had a sincere and persuasive chat with the Turkish proprietor.

  “How much interest is he charging you on that loan?” Mrs. Fulke demanded.

  “I don’t have to tell you that,” he replied.

  Another bitter disappointment. Once again Tarkan got the kiss from lovely Reina and the big fat five points. Current score: Jiri - 3, Mrs. Fulke - 10, and Tarkan - 14. Thankfully, some of us got to keep our panhandling take. A nice haul for the Morag Fulke fugitive fund. I bought a bagload of spare batteries for my radio. Eager Jiri tore up his citation and took his winnings directly to a tobacconists shop. No, I didn’t see him light up, but I doubt he went in there for nicotine g
um.

  1:12 p.m. Is it my imagination or is the entire Batur clan giving Mrs. Fulke the cold shoulder? Their ponies, though, are still producing, so I’m still shoveling. I wanted a pony badly as a tiny tot and now I’ve got eight. If you ever have to decide between a camel and pony as a pet, I’d recommend the horse. They’re pretty friendly once they get to know you and do cute things like nuzzle your pockets for carrots or sugar cubes. Camels, though, just look at you with contempt and fart in your face or piss on your shoes. Iyad is always screaming at them, which may not be improving their attitudes. Number 14, the baby monkey, is growing fast and starting to play. He’s a little zone of adorability in that X-rated cage. Reina still visits frequently, though she has to put up with Mr. G constantly hitting on her. The cad has redoubled his attentions since getting aced out of competing legitimately in the Tour de Wife. Reina is ever polite, but if I were her, I’d grab the guy’s bullwhip and start flailing away. I think he should be hung up by his moustache and poked all over with sharp sticks. After that the serious tortures could begin.

  3:38 p.m. I decided to call Paris for an update. No answer at Violet’s, so I called Trent’s number. His lovely wife answered. She recognized Rick S. Hunter’s voice and greeted me with camel-like reserve. I explained that having her brother exiled to India was not my idea.

  “You cannot imagine, Nick, how much my parents have suffered.”

  She’s right. Call me a sociopath, but I just can’t conceive how being separated from Vijay could be a source of distress. Perhaps I’m lacking in empathy.

  “I’m sorry, Apurva,” I lied. “I’m sure this mix-up will be straightened out soon. How are you enjoying Paris?”

  “It seems quite enchanting—from what I can see from the windows of this dreary apartment.”