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

  “Apparently his other kids were all on the small side. So they figure it must have been the mother’s genes responsible for Tyler being so tubby.”

  “Eighteen pounds! Is that a new world record, Connie?”

  “Not even close, Rick. She missed it by about five pounds. Still, I wouldn’t want to pass a watermelon that size.”

  You can say that again. Wow, the Twisps carry a gene for gigantism. Too bad it hasn’t affected my penile development. You’d think by now all those years of incessant masturbation would have triggered some cataclysmic genetic event.

  “Who was it?” drawled Sheeni sleepily when I crawled back into bed.

  “Connie,” I reported. “I’m an uncle.”

  “That’s nice,” she sighed, dozing off.

  The other part of the story I think I’ll keep to myself. I don’t think Sheeni needs to know that Twisps have a predisposition toward awe-inspiring birth weights.

  11:22 a.m. Woke to the drone of rain on the lead-sheathed roof. Heavy clouds rolling in from the west. Just a few hours before, those same clouds had rained on English-speaking London, where I could have unfurled my umbrella and ordered beans on toast with admirable fluency. Instead, I joined Sheeni in our tin tub, where I soaped her exquisite curves and she drilled me in French numbers. She says at least I should learn these so in shops I don’t just hold up a fistful of bills and have the clerk pick out what I owe. “Not everyone in France is honest, you know, Nickie,” she pointed out.

  I know. I didn’t mention that the last wedge of Camembert I lugged up the stairs from our local alimentation appeared to have cost me over E40.

  3:40 p.m. No tourism today. Too wet. Sheeni read her book; I practiced my numbers and studied the view out our rain-splattered garret window. Lots of Parisian pigeons waiting out the storm. Seemingly quite at home, yet they have no more French than I do. The buildings across the street looking grandly immutable in the gray light. All the work of long-dead builders who somehow got it right. Rising in the distance: a lone skyscraper—the tallest in the city— truncated today by low clouds. Locals, I am informed by my wife, refer to it as the box that the Eiffel Tower came in. So now I’ve seen the ugly box, but its famous contents still elude me.

  Much noise continues to emanate from apartment of muscular dudes across the hall. Loud bangs, deep thumps, lusty shouts. Could be vigorous group sex (they dress flamboyantly), but from the way they mentally undress my wife every time we pass in the hall, I think not. Sheeni speculates they are Italian stonecutters hammering out gravestones in their living room.

  Ray of sunshine. Smiling Babette just knocked on the door and invited us out for an evening at “le jazz club.” Too bad Alphonse is coming along too.

  11:53 p.m. Back home from musical evening. Still raining. All four of us squeezed into Alphonse’s Twingo, a radically shrunken micro car. Lots of similar toy-sized cars zipping about Paris. Only practical size as they can be parked in the smallest nonexistent spots. Very scary as death is a certainty if you hit anything. Drove to bustling club scene on rue de Lappe. Don’t ask me where that is. All Paris streets lurch off at crazy angles so impossible to follow any route. Left sunglasses at home to increase perceived unavailability to marriage-denying spouse. Overheard several “Belmondo” comments in line while waiting to pay exorbitant cover charge, but nightclubbing Parisians too cool for blatant celebrity toadying. Thousands of hours of acute suffering and scab picking represented by profusion of piercings flaunted by the younger jazz lovers. Damn, I should have worn an earring or two.

  Trendy cellar jazz club jammed with sweaty, gyrating bodies of every race. Toxic air poisoned by 10,000 Gauloises. Powerful din generated by quartet of North Africans apparently confusing jazz with heavy metal. As usual, I was many decades too late for the golden age. Sidney Bechet and Edith Piaf where are you I thought as I bought first round of drinks from cute waitress in low-cut top. A pichet of red wine, plus a virgin diablo menthe for the expectant mother, who gave me a look of heart-shriveling reproach. I’m used to it. Excused myself to go to the men’s room and discovered the “toilet” was just a smelly hole in the floor. What a culture!

  Joined throngs in dancing frenetically to throbbing beat, though François fears genuine enjoyment of this activity will forever elude me. Prospect of letting myself go virtually nil. Product of thousands of years of natural selection leading to inhibited tight-ass honky in impact-cushioning shoes. Next generation of same already in the oven. Sat out some dances and attempted conversation over noise with Babette while Alphonse chatted up wife in French. Both are biology majors. Both offspring of surgeons and both planning to go into the family business.

  “What are you doing in Paris?” shouted Babette.

  Good question. My interrogator has sparkling blue-green eyes, kissable lips, and a slender Welsh nose that’s pure nasal fascination.

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” I replied. Someone kicked me under the table.

  “How romantic!”

  “Yes, it’s a trial marriage,” I elaborated, feeling the wine. “Very popular now in San Francisco. That’s where we’re from. Kids pair off in high school and get married. No more going steady. That is so déclassé.”

  “Extraordinary,” commented Babette. “You Americans are so progressive. And when you graduate will you be getting a divorce?”

  “I hope not. Especially now with the baby on the way.” I dodged another kick.

  At that moment a shapely redhead, apparently inebriated and perspiring heavily, grabbed me by the shirt, uttered something in a sexy whisper (all I caught was “Belmondo”), and dragged me out to the dance floor. In a cellar jammed with multi-pierced hipsters this tight-assed imposteur was in demand!

  WEDNESDAY, May 19 — Middle of the night. Someone close by is playing an accordion. Old melodies, squeezed out softly and mournfully like a lonely whisper in the dark. I’ve heard it other nights too. The sad tunes creep into your being and rouse you gently, like the soundtrack to a dream. You lie there and listen, wondering about all that Deep Stuff that can worry a guy in the dark in a foreign city. Sometimes the music pauses and I imagine the player lighting a cigarette. And then it resumes with an even sadder song that really breaks your heart. So you roll over, and try not to cry, and wonder how it’s all going to turn out.

  When I awoke I was startled to find that I had remembered all of my French numbers from un to cent. I may not be as hopelessly ill prepared for life in this country as I imagined. I think the secret is not to try to get your mind around the vast bulk of the French language, but to carve off small bits and concentrate only on those. Today, for example, I propose to learn all the ways to say “Unhand my wife, you cad!”

  For breakfast I made hot Scottish oatmeal with warm French cream, which My Love accepted coolly. She is annoyed that I refuse to remove my wedding ring and blabbed to the neighbors our most intimate secrets. Well, perhaps she shouldn’t eavesdrop on private conversations, even if Babette and I were screaming at the tops of our lungs.

  Since relations were already rocky, I decided I had nothing to lose by broaching yet again certain delicate financial matters.

  “Darling, what are we going to do when our cash runs out? Don’t you think we should take my Wart Watch funds that you are holding and open a joint account here?”

  “That, Nickie, would be foolish in the extreme. French banks are not nearly as circumspect as your fugitive status requires. Do you want to have all your money confiscated?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t an apt description of my present situation. But I realized tact was called for here.

  “Then how will we pay our bills, darling? Do you have any idea what we spent last week on cheese alone?”

  “Don’t worry, Nickie. We’ll manage. Perhaps you should think about getting a job.”

  Doing what? Teaching English to Parisian pigeons?

  “You know, darling,” I reminded her, “since we’re now married all that money in your clandestine acc
ounts is community property.”

  “Not exactly, darling. I believe common law defines as community property those goods and chattels which the couple acquires after their marriage.”

  Great. I would have to marry the daughter of a sleazy lawyer.

  No sun again today, but the rain had stopped. Tourism has resumed. First we toured the old Opera House, a grand wedding cake of a building ornamented with a voluptuousness bordering on the obscene. I mean those guys had time on their hands for gilding cherubs. Of course, Paris also has a modern new opera house, which nobody bothers to visit as it is boring in the extreme. Next we wandered through the historic Marais district to the Place Vendôme, a classy part of town geared toward the deep-pockets crowd. Sheeni paused to admire a yellow diamond necklace in the window of Cartier that even Donald Trump would have to think about putting on layaway. No question Paris is a fun place, but having a billion or so in the bank would really open the doors to a good time.

  Had kebabs for lunch from a takeout stand. Financially panicked Rick S. Hunter is now insisting on strict economies. Leaving sunglasses at home may have backfired. Stopped three times on the street by Frogs-on-the-make who had long conversations in French with Sheeni about my appearance. One guy made some suspicious notations in his Palm Pilot for which I later received no credible explanation. No E.T. in sight as usual. I’m beginning to think the whole thing is a myth.

  THURSDAY, May 20 — I’ve got a job. Madame Ruzicka has offered to hire me as a part-time concierge slave in exchange for halving our ruinous rent. I’m to haul out the trash, sweep the endless stairs, mop the lobby, and generally tidy up the joint. Since no actual cash will be changing hands, we both avoid burdensome government red tape. She conserves euros and adds some cachet to her building by employing a janitor who looks like Jean-Paul Belmondo.

  We had a nice chat in her apartment while My Love was off with Babette getting a stylish Parisian coiffure. Madame Ruzicka likes to practice her English, and I’m always ready for a gabfest with the person who stands between me and homelessness. Hard to believe, but she was once a famous Czech circus star. She had to leap off the trapeze and leave in a hurry when the Russians invaded in 1968. She used to tour with French circuses, but eventually got too old and fat for flying through the air in a tutu. Lots of her relatives are still in the business as the Ruzickas have had sawdust in their veins for generations. She showed me an old publicity still of herself in her prime. Pretty damn foxy, with nary a slack muscle on her curvaceous bod. No moustache either at that time.

  Later, as I was hauling out the garbage cans in my dirty gray apron, two tenants stopped me to make earnest entreaties. I could only shrug and say “Sorry, I don’t speak French.” Good thing I don’t either. I think maybe they wanted me to fix something in their apartments. Hey, I don’t plan on being the slave of everyone in this building.

  So depressed by my new employment status that Sheeni took me out to the movies to cheer me up and flaunt her expensive new hairdo (she did look great, of course). Since French films aren’t subtitled here, I insisted on seeing an American movie (the latest Nicholas Cage epic in original undubbed English). Felt a wave of homesickness for my native land despite all the explosions and car chases. Shocked to see cineastes all around us whipping out their lighters and puffing away. If they tried that in California, there would be more mayhem in the theater than on the screen.

  FRIDAY, May 21 — Right after breakfast I had to don my apron and go down to deal with fresh graffiti from the latest student manifestion. Every time you turn around in this town herds of students are marching by bearing signs. Too bad they don’t write a few in English for the benefit of us foreigners. I haven’t a clue what they’re complaining about. Such militancy is almost unknown in America. Perhaps if French schools imposed compulsory gym, there would be less energy for such exercises.

  As I was scrubbing away Alphonse and Babette emerged from the front door. They seem surprised to see me in my new custodial capacity. Alphonse especially appeared embarrassed that he had been mixing socially with the proletariat. He was even more surprised when his girlfriend invited us to their place for dinner tonight. I accepted without hesitation. Our own larder was nearly bare and I wasn’t eager to hit the shops as I seem to have forgotten all my French numbers. Bummer.

  While I swept the public areas, My Love went off for solo clothes shopping and to investigate school possibilities. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to think about school in May. The horrors of September will be upon us soon enough. Three more needy tenants stopped to chat—one of them, I regret to say, an American expatriate. He wanted me to look at his balky fuse box, but I declined, citing rigid union work rules. He sighed and asked me if I wanted a job walking his toy fox terrier Maurice twice a day. I agreed, but said there would be an extra fee for cleaning up after it. He pointed out that the damn dog only weighed eight pounds. I said maybe so, but they can still be big producers. So he thought it over and said OK, but I would have to show him the bags. I’ve marked him as a potential tightwad.

  4:30 p.m. Took Maurice for a walk and got totally lost. Foolishly, I had left home without my Michelin map. Soon in despair, but gave Maurice his head and he led us right back to our street. Pretty smart dog for having a brain that couldn’t be any bigger than a pecan. Tiny Maurice is also something of a babe magnet. Lots of cute French girls stop to pet him and chat up his Belmondoesque master. I just nod soberly and answer “Oui” to anything they say. Feel rather self-conscious though clutching baggie, since most French not into pooper-scooping. Walking very treacherous in this town as Parisian canines said to produce 16 tons a day.

  10:45 p.m. Back from dining downstairs. Sheeni dressed in flattering Parisian fashions, the cost of which she divulged to anxious husband in a blur of rapid French. Most toothsome French cuisine prepared by Alphonse. Babette explained that her boyfriend hates all things English and therefore does not regard her cooking as worthy of serving to company. He nodded in agreement while spooning up the seafood soup. Apparently he understands at least some English, but does not deign to speak it. Babette likes to embarrass him with personal revelations. She said the French are so reserved they would never consider inviting people to dinner they just met, so she has to take the initiative.

  “Parisians are the stuffiest of all,” she said, pouring the wine but giving My Love only a symbolic splash. “They resolutely despise anyone new. You have to prove that you’re worthy of their company.”

  Alphonse declined to disagree with that statement. Instead he launched into a breezy philosophical disquisition that lasted all the way through the next course (braised lamb, cheesy potatoes, and asparagus). Apparently, French guys like to monopolize the conversation. If the food hadn’t been so good, I’m sure I would have been mildly annoyed. Somebody should write a computer program that provides instant dinner-table subtitles. I could have brought my laptop and been clued into the conversation. Only I ate the stalks of my asparagus—a blunder I suspect was regarded as yet another American gaucherie.

  Next course was green salad. Since the French have a morbid fear of cutting lettuce, you have to fold the whopping big leaves onto your fork and shove them into your mouth before your garden origami comes undone. Nevertheless, François would willingly bed our hostess for the recipe for her boyfriend’s savory vinaigrette.

  For the cheese course we adjourned to their spacious living room, where everyone paired off by preferred language. I chewed a creamy wedge that smelled like Dwayne Crampton’s sock drawer and asked Babette if she minded the attentions her boyfriend was lavishing on my wife.

  “It’s just the way French men are, Rick. They’re programmed to flirt. No one takes it seriously. A bit obnoxious at times, but I regard it as part of the French zest for life. Of course, if the girl is presentable and doesn’t offer much resistance, they’re more than willing to seduce her. One must make allowances for these small transgressions.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “N
o, you Americans would reach for your pistols.”

  I couldn’t help but blush. It was true I had shot someone just recently.

  “Which is not to say,” she continued, “that Americans never flirt.”

  Oops. Had François been glancing too frequently at her wellfilled- out LSU sweater?

  “Do you have some interest in Louisiana?” he inquired, changing the subject.

  “I love it, Rick. Alphonse took me to New Orleans this year for Mardi Gras.”

  A week of drunken revels in a wild party town with sweet Babette. That could relieve any guy’s post-exams tension. Sudden outburst of laughter from our companions. Glancing over, I noticed our host had placed a well-manicured hand on my wife’s bare knee.

  “Alphonse,” called Babette, “shall we serve the coffee?”

  That got his mind back on business. We had tiny cups of strong espresso. No decaf in France? I may be wired for days. Oh well, it gives François more time to contemplate violently disagreeable ends for you know who.

  SATURDAY, May 22 — My second week as a married stiff. We celebrated with some light pre-breakfast intercourse. I have contrived an elevated posture that applies more friction to Sheeni’s vital button. She seems very appreciative. Most delightful to dispense with sensation-deadening condoms, though it is all I can do to delay my explosive climax until all parties are satisfied. I try not to think about where exactly I’m sliding my throbbing T.E. Or what my fingertips are caressing. Or what my lips are nibbling. Seems rather ironic that men have to suppress every sensory input while women are struggling to gather sufficient stimulation to make the whole business worthwhile. Bad engineering, I’d say.

  Sheeni remarked that she read a magazine article that claimed women enjoy a richer sex life with uncircumcised partners. I scoffed and said I didn’t see how the absence of a foreskin could make a whit of difference. Still, it gives me something new to feel insecure about—especially in a city crawling with three million intact Frogs. And why wasn’t I consulted before undergoing such infantile mutilations? I’m surprised some sharp lawyer hasn’t filed a class-action lawsuit on behalf of us millions of scalped pecker victims.