Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 27

  Not easy, but Mrs. Fulke gave it her best shot. I had 74 items on my list when Donk blew his whistle. He collected our papers and turned them over to the judges for grading. Then came the tension- filled wait for results. Much more nerve-wracking than the SATs, which only determine your college destiny. Hell, this test could affect our sex lives for years to come. Jiri sucked on his leg, Mrs. Fulke fumbled with her oranges, outwardly calm Tarkan stroked his dense lip shrubbery. Impressed I was not. If a swarthy Turk can’t grow a moustache, who can?

  At last Donk emerged from the cookhouse to read the mind-boggling results: Tarkan - 28, Mrs. Fulke - 47, and Jiri - 82. Another upset. This time, believe it or not, the smart money had been on the old broad. The usual storm of protest from the Batur contingent. They demanded to see Tarkan’s paper and then bitterly disputed the judges’ interpretation of his childlike scratchings. For example, Mr. Batur claimed that what looked to any rational person like “Prack” was actually “Freud.” Sorry, guy. The browbeaten judges awarded Tarkan six additional points for having an obnoxious family, but the pony jockey still finished last.

  So Jiri got the kiss from Reina and the big five points. He explained that musicians develop an ear for listening and must have a good memory to retain all those notes. Sounds reasonable. But I always heard that guys going through nicotine withdrawal have the attention span of day-old road kill. So how did Jiri rack up such an amazing score—a total that would be exceptional even if achieved by my laser-focused wife? One possible exegesis for this paradox: Mr. Mestan had a preview peek at the list.

  Could somebody on the committee be playing favorites?

  Here are the latest Tour de Wife rankings: Jiri - 13, Tarkan - 15, Mrs. Fulke - 16.

  Yes, I’m now in first place. Yes, François is determined to stay there. If this contest is going to be conducted with all the fairness of a Russian election, count on him to be in there gouging and biting with the lowest of the low.

  TUESDAY, August 9 — Had a dream involving handguns last night that was excessively violent even for me. I used my weapon to shoot two guys in the head. In glorious color with real spurting blood and exploding exit wounds. Can’t say for sure if it was Jiri and Tarkan, but I remember thinking as I squeezed the trigger that I would regret this for the rest of my life. Yet at the time I found the act strangely satisfying, particularly the recoil of the weighty gun. Do you suppose actual murderers experience a similar dichotomy of feeling as they blast their victims? Anyway, I jolted awake with a pounding heart and wondered momentarily what I was doing out of my tidy Oakland bed. Then I sniffed my mattress and it all came back to me.

  Everyone got paid yesterday, including Jiri Mestan, the no-longerpenniless horn player. He showed up at breakfast today with a pipe stuck in his mouth. Reina sniffed the meerschaum bowl and found it had not been smoked in. Big change in Jiri’s image. He can suck on the pipe and appear almost intelligent and nearly distinguished. Even verges on the scholarly at times—a big switch from his previous aspect as dissolute baby-eating cannibal. Of course, his new affectation inspired some cuttingly sarcastic comments from Mr. G. I don’t think anyone can be as jocularly malicious as the English. So amiable as they thrust the rhetorical shiv into your gut.

  Jiri pretends to find Mr. G amusing, but he has stopped talking to Mrs. Fulke altogether. These days she makes it a point to get to Reina’s first for her shower and then lingers about to discourage promiscuous nudity. Obstinate Jiri flashed anyway this morning. Mrs. Fulke was publicly dismissive of such exhibitions, but privately appalled. I can only hope sweet Reina doesn’t come to our nuptial bed with any false expectations inspired by Jiri’s pendulous example.

  1:48 p.m. After lunch Mrs. Fulke dropped by the clowns’ table to chat up laconic Marcel. He greeted me like I was Typhoid Mary just back from a leper colony.

  “Don’t you think I’m doing surprisingly well in the contest, Marcel?”

  “I can’t be seen talking to you. It might give the appearance of favoritism.”

  “You mean like sneaking the list of 100 items—that Donk informs me you composed—to a contestant prior to the event?”

  “What makes you think I did that?”

  “Being nobody’s fool, that’s what. And if you try something like that again, I’ll tell Reina.”

  “I suggest that you are hardly in a position to threaten me, Mrs. Fulke.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Excuse me,” he said, getting up. “I’m due at a committee meeting.”

  That devious clown has something up his jumbo satin sleeve. I can tell.

  4:26 p.m. I might have seen Sheeni! A rather effeminate, strangely familiar-looking goateed youth at today’s matinee. Close-cropped chestnut hair under a black beret. I noticed him from the other side of the tent because he was walking out ostentatiously on Reina’s performance. He was with an older, Latin-looking man. Both dressed somewhat shabbily from what I could see. At the moment I was assisting Captain Lapo in distress after a minor fire-eating mishap (slingshot, direct hit, gasp of surprise). I broke away as soon as I could, raced outside, and just missed the pair, who were driving off in a dusty green Citroën. I ran after them, shouting and waving, but the car didn’t stop. Didn’t get the license number either, not that it would do me much good. I’m hardly in a position to inquire about it at the local gendarmes’ office.

  Was it my long-lost wife? I can’t say for sure. But why would he be wrapped in such a voluminous jacket on a warm day like today? What did he have to conceal? I know it wasn’t a slingshot. The security guards already tackled that juvenile offender. Madame Poco showed no mercy. She dealt out her customary summary justice: a swat on the butt, confiscation of all snacks, and ejection from the lot.

  11:45 p.m. I’m back. Very fatigued. Must have walked down every crooked, winding street in Albi three times. No sign of My Love, but I stickered many buildings. If that was her today, she should spot a sticker soon. Of course, it’ll be tough for her to call since my phone was destroyed. Still, she’ll know I’m looking for her and am in the vicinity. They must have seen the crazed old lady running after their car today. I’m hoping she’ll employ her superb mind to put these simple facts together. It seems fairly obvious to me.

  To give the tourists their money’s worth, Albi illuminates its monstrous church at night. Looks a bit like a prison right after the big jailbreak. One almost expects to see Jimmy Cagney shinnying down a drainpipe. Doesn’t seem like the kind of burg Sheeni would favor, but she is on the lam and it is well off the beaten track.

  Turns out Mrs. Fulke missed tonight’s Tour de Wife contest. The committee ruled it would go on without her. The theme, I’m told, was “Openness and Communication.” Each contestant was given 30 minutes to prepare a five-minute talk on “The Saddest Day of My Life.” Then members of company voted on which was most revelatory, heartfelt, and pitiful. Tarkan told about the dark day his first pony died. Not a dry eye in the house. Then Jiri spoke about the day his teacher was mugged on the streets of Prague. Not only did they steal his instrument, they knocked out his two front teeth. The most esteemed Czech trumpet player of them all would never blow another decent note. So he selflessly passed on the mantle of greatness to Jiri. Open weeping in the aisles. Jiri voted Best Communicator; bummed, pony-mourning Tarkan had to settle for second place. New rankings: Mrs. Fulke - 16, Jiri - 18, Tarkan - 18.

  A temporary setback, but still a close race. And somewhere out there, perhaps close by, my own darling may be jotting a few notes in her journal or flossing her exquisite teeth. I just hope to hell she’s not preparing to sleep with that lowlife I saw her with today.

  WEDNESDAY, August 10 — A stressful day. Shit backing up everywhere as Mrs. Fulke spent many more hours neglecting her duties to comb the town for goateed youths and/or dusty green Citroëns. No sign of either, alas. Very discouraging. Of course, I don’t know for certain that it was Sheeni. But who else would walk out on lovely Reina and her charming act? The bad news is t
he circus moves again tonight. In a desperate quandary. Should I quit the show and stay here? If I do that I lose Reina for sure. And what if I don’t find Sheeni? Or what if I find her and she tells me to get lost? Damn.

  6:12 p.m. Just spoke to Connie. She couldn’t talk long as she and hubby had an appointment with a realtor to go house hunting in the ritzier sections of Bel Air and Pacific Palisades. They are back from their Hawaiian sojourn and camping temporarily in her mother’s house. Untenable for very long as Paul and my father chafe severely under same roof. As I recall, I had the same problem. Connie has announced publicly that she is expecting, even though—she confessed privately to me—she has not quite achieved that happy state. “Was that entirely wise?” I asked.

  “Well, Paulo is thrilled, Rick. And we like to keep Paulo happy. I believe that is every intelligent wife’s duty. Besides, I expect to get pregnant any minute now.”

  “But what if you don’t? What if Paul is still firing blanks?”

  “I’m confident that he’s not, Rick. I’m very intuitive, as you know. And I’ve had a recent sample secretly analyzed. The motility is most encouraging. Anyway, if I don’t get pregnant soon, I’ll just go to a sperm bank and get the closest match to Paulo I can find. They have some wonderful fellows to choose from these days.”

  “But, Connie, it wouldn’t be a real Saunders.”

  “Yes, well, as you know, Rick, that could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”

  She had a point there. I gave her a quick summary of my present dilemma.

  “Of course, you have to stay there, Rick. It sounds like too promising a lead not to follow up on.”

  “But I’m competing in a contest to marry Reina. It’s a multistage competition like the Tour de France.”

  “You just confirmed my worst fears, Rick. I’d always heard that circuses were cesspools of degeneracy. I’m certainly thankful I dragged my Paulo out of there when I did.”

  I didn’t tell Connie that she was beginning to sound just like her mother-in-law. I thanked her for her advice and rang off.

  9:42 p.m. Kind Reina has interceded with the committee to have today’s contest postponed until tomorrow. Such a considerate, sensitive girl. She could tell Mrs. Fulke was in turmoil and dropped by my camel sty earlier tonight to inquire what the problem was. I asked if she had noticed the two men who walked out of the matinee yesterday.

  “I did notice them, Morag. One doesn’t like to think one is driving away the customers. I thought perhaps they had a restroom emergency brought about by excessive candy consumption. Madame Poco is so relentless in pushing the refreshments inventory. I believe that is where she makes most of her profits.”

  “I think one of them might have been Sheeni—the guy with the beard.”

  “Oh dear, Rick. Are you sure?”

  “Not at all. That’s my problem. I didn’t get a very close look at them. And I’ve searched all over Albi and haven’t seen them anywhere.”

  “Oh dear. And now we’re leaving.”

  She gave me a stricken look.

  “What are you going to do, Rick?”

  “I don’t know, darling. What shall I do?”

  “You should stay and find your wife, Rick. You should get matters settled between you.”

  Perhaps, but I found it difficult to think of Sheeni when Reina was so close.

  “Get ready, Reina darling. I propose to kiss you again.”

  No slaps. No screams. We embraced, our lips met. Have any pair in the history of the human race ever fit together so felicitously? With such intensity of contact? Such transcendence of self into cosmic fusion with another?

  THURSDAY, August 11 — We’re in Mende. A new location, but the river that bisects it (the Lot) we’ve encountered before. Yeah, against all advice, I decided to remain with the circus. Every time I thought of staying behind in Albi, I got pissed. Mostly annoyed at my inconsiderate, maddening wife. Why should I scrounge around in some crummy town where I don’t even speak the language on the off chance that I’ll run into her? Is she ransacking the French countryside in search of me? I think not.

  Not sure what’s going on with my emotions. Perhaps only girls are in touch enough to decipher their true feelings. Guys only equipped to detect the most obvious ones like blatant sexual urges? I seem to have worked through most of my sadness, and now I’m back to wanting to strangle Sheeni. Is this healthy? Probably not, but genetics could be at work. As I recall, homicidal rage appeared to be the primary emotion my father was manifesting back when he faced my mother in divorce court.

  Mende a small, sleepy town in the mountains. Pretty isolated, but as Madame Poco points out there’s not much competition here either. She likes to be the only entertainment game in town, which is why we generally avoid the larger cities. The rube in the sticks— that’s the demographic she’s targeting. Curiously, unlike our homegrown rednecks, rural Frogs are by and large quite presentable looking. This confirms my long-held suspicion that Europe exported its most debased stocks to America—there to interbreed, sport bad haircuts, buy trailer homes on the installment plan, and zoom around in souped-up pickups. Quite a few of these rejects, I fear, contributed to my own suspect gene pool.

  Captain Lapo ate heartily at our erection-delayed breakfast even though his mouth is a mass of blisters. I wish I could laugh off pain like that. I know it would make my love life so much easier to bear. On a happier note, Jiri got nailed again for nicotine duplicity. It turns out he had purchased two identical pipes—one to suck publicly and another to smoke surreptitiously. The first would be kept pristine to lull Reina into complacency. But he didn’t realize that the pipe tobacco he bought was so aromatic you could smell it all over the lot—and all over him. Jiri tried to bluster his way out of it by insisting that he had only promised to swear off cigarettes, not tobacco in general. But Reina said all forms were equally lethal and confiscated both pipes and his tin of tobacco. She also told him the doll leg was an embarrassment and gave him one of her birds’ cuttle bones to suck. Still looks a bit odd, but I suppose the calcium is doing him some good.

  2:26 p.m. Confronted by truly monstrous piles today. Talk about a high-pressure low-wage job. It’s like being at the end of a mammoth conveyer belt forever discharging endless lumps of you know what. So much as pause to scratch your butt and you fall dangerously behind. Good thing I have my radio to help keep up my morale. Taking a break from lugubrious Frank, I switched to a channel that plays seventies disco music. Rather insipid, but a very good beat to swing a shovel by. Yes, I have found at last a use for the Bee Gees.

  10:17 p.m. Tonight’s contest theme was “Sense of Humor.” Donk explained that this was one of the most essential qualities in a good husband. For once, I had to agree. Any guy who proposes to live with a chick had better be so equipped. It can function like a marital shock absorber—turning a prolonged bumpy ride into mere patches of occasional queasiness.

  I prayed the committee wouldn’t ask us to get up and tell jokes. I knew Tarkan was an endless font of ribald stories. Likewise, Jiri seemed to have a bottomless supply of amusing anecdotes about Growing Up under Communism. I never realized that harsh oppression by the Russians and their cronies could be such a laugh riot. Me, I have a terrible memory for jokes. My old Oakland pal Lefty, by contrast, was a true connoisseur. But of the thousands of “jokes” he subjected me to only one ever stuck: “Question: What’s the difference between pussy and parsley? Answer: Nobody ever eats parsley.” We both found that vastly amusing, though neither of us had sampled the former at the time. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a light interlabial snack right now. There’s nothing like swirling your tongue around a swelling clit. But I digress.

  Donk outlined the particulars of today’s contest. The contestants would be given 20 minutes to prepare a five-minute comedy routine. To overcome the language barrier and assure that our alleged senses of humor possessed universal appeal we could do anything we wished except speak. No talking was permitted. Like the diab
olical Marcel we would have to do our clowning without words. I contemplated this assignment and found that my mind had gone completely blank. Instant panic and flop sweat. Was it possible that I was entirely devoid of a sense of humor?

  Fortunately, Tarkan was picked to go first. He played a soccer goalie who had had too much to drink. The circus company roared with delight as Tarkan wove about, nearly falling over, yet somehow always scooping up the ball and booting it back in amusing ways, or losing it in his shirt, or “accidentally” spinning it on his nose. A sympathetic critic might say he combined the lithe athleticism of Buster Keaton with the comic timing of Charlie Chaplin. Not entirely unfunny to me, but I hoped everyone could see that the hearty laughter was being led by the maniacal hysterics of the Batur clan. The whole family was overplaying its hand as usual.

  Next, emaciated Jiri came out in his skimpy shorts and did a striptease in reverse. As he flounced about, leering seductively and flexing his puny muscles, he slid the occasional clothing item on instead of off. Rather clever idea. His articles of apparel, apparently borrowed from a midget, were all much too small for him. He convulsed the appreciative audience as he slithered into tiny shirts and squeezed his stark white legs into trousers ten sizes too small. Shrieks of merriment from everyone except Mrs. Fulke and the stony-faced Baturs. Reina, I noticed with alarm, was in stitches. At least I could take solace in the knowledge that she was applauding Jiri for the act of enclothing his unsightly body. A Playmate centerfold he was not.

  And then it was Mrs. Fulke’s time to perform. Never have I been so nervous. Not even last Christmas Eve when Sheeni chose to give me that special present. Mrs. Fulke stared out at the sea of expectant faces. They stared back and tittered. The seconds crawled by. My reeling brain tried to unlock my rigid muscles. No one was answering the phone below my neck. Then I saw my right hand, quivering with fear, rise up. Then some internal hydraulics activated my left hand. Then someone switched on a Bee Gees tape in my mind, and Mrs. Fulke found herself break dancing to a disco beat. Fairly astounding, because I had never attempted this before. Had no knowledge, in fact, of ever conceiving of the idea. I was just doing it— without apparent volition. Just goes to show what heroics the human body can rise to in times of life-threatening stress. I was gliding, I was sliding, I was swiveling on my back, I was spinning like a top on my ratty gray wig. The audience went wild and clapped along to the beat. What beat? Apparently the one Mrs. Fulke was conjuring through her rhythmic gyrations. A 74-year-old lady break dancing to some unheard melody—not even the Baturs could entirely suppress a smile.