Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 4

  Since there was a chill in the air, Maurice—looking like a miniature Humphrey Bogart—set off on our morning walk in his tan trench coat. Devastatingly cute, but not as macho as one might wish. Several young fellows of questionable motives stopped us to chat. Maurice and I like to window-shop along Parisian streets. The full peculiarity of the French character is on open display in their shop windows: exotic foodstuffs, bizarre lingerie, curious antiquities, eccentric office apparatus, even an enormous eyeball in an optician’s window that looked like something on loan from Godzilla. This menacing orb drew a growl and bark from my protective canine. Fortunately, his trench coat came equipped with pockets, so Maurice could lug his own baggie. Now I just have to train him to clean up after himself.

  After our walk, Madame Ruzicka sent me on an emergency run for birdseed for her parrot Henri. She gave me a note so I wouldn’t have to pantomime my request for the perplexed shopkeeper. Henri is a messy eater. I dragged out her wheezy old vacuum and cleaned up around his stand. Since he was a secondhand bird (abandoned by a departing tenant), Madame Ruzicka wasn’t sure of his age.

  “He’s a tough customer,” she cautioned, filling his seed bowl. “Don’t get too close. He’s an ear-biter.”

  “How long have you had him?” I asked, keeping my distance. Henri eyed me suspiciously.

  “Too long. Since before you were born. A damn gypsy stuck me for a bundle of francs and this nuisance bird. I should have thrown him in the soup long ago.”

  Henri fluttered his feathers and picked out a likely-looking seed. If he was worried, he wasn’t showing it.

  I wondered if there was a Monsieur Ruzicka. “Was your husband in the circus too?” I asked.

  “I had no husband.”

  “How come?”

  She peered at me over her spectacles. “You Americans are almost as nosy as Czechs. My cheri already had a wife—a good Catholic one. They are both long dead. I doubt if even their children think of them these days.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “And you, Rick, do you think of your parents?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I admitted.

  “I remember mine with great fondness. I had a marvelous childhood. But then, it was a different time.”

  When I trudged back upstairs, I found My Love absent with no explanatory note. I downed a meager lunch and unearthed my cellular phone from the closet. Couldn’t say what time it was on the other side of the world, but—like Connie—I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

  My old Ukiah pal Fuzzy DeFalco answered on the second ring. “Rick! Where are you?”

  “Oh, I’m here. I’m there.”

  “Jesus, Rick, you’re in tons of trouble for cutting so much school.”

  “That’s the least of my problems, Frank.”

  “Gee, Rick, you’re almost as big an outlaw as my friend Nick Twisp. The rumor going around school is that you busted Sheeni Saunders out of some home for expectant chicks and her parents are so pissed they put a contract out on you.”

  I gulped, then reminded myself that the Redwood High rumor mill is prone to gross exaggerations.

  “Frank, I doubt they’d want to murder their own son-in-law.”

  “You mean you’re married?!”

  “Yep. We got married in Tijuana. The judge spoke English so it was totally legit.”

  “Wow, Rick, I can’t believe all the kids these days getting married. I hope Lana doesn’t find out. She’d want to nail me for sure.”

  Fuzzy then filled me in on his love life, which was torrid in the extreme. But I was more interested in another local couple: Trent Preston and his lovely wife Apurva Joshi.

  “They keep the whole school talking, Rick. It’s a wonder anybody gets any studying done. Sonya Klummplatz was blabbing all over school that she nailed Trent. Hard to believe, but she showed Lana a pair of jockey shorts that she claimed she scored off him as a souvenir. But she didn’t get him to sign ’em or anything, so who’s to say they were really Trent’s? She also mentioned some pretty explicit anatomical details, if you catch my drift. Anyway, Trent asked her to button up about it, so she had a big confrontation with Apurva in the cafeteria.”

  “Damn, Frank. What happened?”

  “Well, Sonya informed her that she’d made it with her husband and that proved that he really loved her instead of Apurva, and that she should do the honorable thing and just go the hell back to India.”

  “Jesus. What did Trent say?”

  “Trent wasn’t there. He was at the regional swim finals. I think that’s why Sonya picked that day for the fight.”

  “Did Apurva attack her?”

  “No, she just sort of cried hysterically. But Candy Pringle dumped her lunch tray over Sonya’s head, and those two mixed it up pretty well. I guess Candy and Apurva are kind of buddies now since they both got screwed over by their dudes.”

  Head cheerleader Candy Pringle has been going through a prolonged rocky patch with star quarterback Bruno Modjaleski.

  “Damn, Frank, I hope Apurva’s OK.”

  “Well, all three got suspended. The rumor is Trent and Apurva are now seeing a marriage counselor.”

  Thank God. No way I could afford to fly back there now to patch things up. And I need that marriage to last!

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Rick.”

  “Why, Frank? What do you mean?”

  “If Nick Twisp ever finds out you married Sheeni, you’ll be dead meat for sure.”

  “Relax, Frank. That guy can’t touch me.”

  Another lie. He touches me all the time. He touched me this afternoon too, despite two sessions this morning with my lovely wife. Why do guys have only one thing on the brain?

  8:13 p.m. I was making dinner and babysitting Maurice when My Love trudged up the stairs. I don’t know how she’s going to manage all those steps in a few months when burdened with an 18pound fetus. This touchy topic, I’ve noticed, we both leave untouched. Nor has Sheeni been warming up to Maurice, even though he’s about 8,000 times nicer than her own stupid dog Albert. So far, for example, he’s shown no inclination toward turning me over to the gendarmes.

  I got totally jealous when she revealed that she had spent the day at the Musée Rodin. Not that eyeballing dreary sculptures had much appeal, but she mentioned that on her way she saw the Eiffel Tower. She couldn’t fathom my interest in that monumental erection.

  “It’s not like it’s a magnificent work of art by a creative genius such as Rodin. It’s just an exercise in engineering. Rather like the Golden Gate Bridge. I can’t believe tourists come from all over the world to gawk at a highway bridge.”

  I felt obliged to defend my hometown landmarks. “Well, Sheeni, you do get a nice view of the city from mid-span.”

  “If you’re lucky. Half the time it’s socked in solid with fog. At least the Eiffel Tower has a nice restaurant on it.”

  “Really? Why don’t we go sometime?”

  “Are you paying? Meals at the Jules Verne start at E300 per person.”

  Jesus, and I thought San Francisco was into tourist gouging.

  SUNDAY, May 23 — Today we took an ambitious subway ride out to the porte de Clignancourt to tour the Marché aux Puces— the famous Paris flea market. Since the Métro is supposed to be rife with thieves and pickpockets, I was on hyper-paranoid alert the entire way. And nobody told us that part of the journey is by foot. Changing trains to connect to another line involved trouping down endless corridors like some underground Bataan death march. At least there was plenty of unabashed billboard nudity along the way to revive one’s lagging spirits.

  The flea market itself is enormous—sprawling over many streets and through dozens of buildings. Quite a smorgasbord of goods— from low-life peddlers hawking junk gleaned from dumpsters to swanky antique shops with vintage Art Deco furniture that could put a big bite in Baby’s milk fund. We got some nice china dishes (slightly chipped), some glasses that may be crystal, a Scrabble game, a portable radio-tape player, an
d a used skillet with only one nasty scratch in the Teflon. Saw several affordable TVs, but the French government makes every TV owner pay a whopping compulsory tax to support public television. In America, of course, the public TV stations just beg for money and are politely ignored.

  One stall specialized in vintage French movie posters, which are much larger and more vividly printed than American versions. Featured in the front window was a mint-condition broadsheet for A bout de souffle—that landmark film (Breathless) in the history of Twisp-Saunders relations. I suggested it couldn’t hurt to go in and inquire about the price, but Sheeni said “don’t bother” as she has “gone off” that film.

  Damn! I hope that wasn’t a gratuitous “don’t exist” message for Jean-Paul Belmondo.

  We had spicy takeout from a couscous stand for lunch, then hit another street of sellers. Bad move. Sheeni spied an old portable typewriter with an extra row of keys for French accent marks. She exclaimed that it was even nicer than her French language typewriter back in Ukiah because this one was made in France. Big deal. I tried to convince her that investing in a typewriter these days was like buying a horse collar or an eight-track stereo, but she was unpersuaded as usual. She didn’t even negotiate (she thinks haggling is uncouth), and paid the beaming vendor the full E50. And guess who had to lug the damn thing around the rest of the day?

  Personally, I think the French should get over this pretentious fascination with accent marks. They just clutter up the page, and God knows they have to cripple your typing speed.

  No pickpockets on crowded train home. And nobody swiped the typewriter, which I had left rather unattended. Have been experimenting with our new radio-tape player (no tapes, alas). Lots of unintelligible talk programs and station after station playing rap in French. Something of a revelation. Believe I have now discovered the lowest form of music on the planet.

  8:47 p.m. I successfully cornered Maurice’s wily papa and extracted from him all accumulated dog-walking fees. I knocked on his door and was surprised when it was opened by Miss Bette Davis— complete with flighty right hand waving about her lit cigarette. “Ah, a tradesman,” she said, removing a fleck of tobacco from her tongue. “I was expecting Paul Henreid, but I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  Mr. Hamilton is not, as I had supposed, some dull business functionary transferred to Paris by his American employers. He is a celebrated female impersonator who performs six nights a week at a nightclub on the place Pigalle. Of course, suspicious Carlotta already had noticed that his eyebrows were rather more groomed than is typical for middle-aged men. His Carol Channing impersonation, I’m told, is the toast of five continents. He is also reputed to do a mean Joan Crawford.

  MONDAY, May 24 — Much litter in building from riotous weekend. While sweeping the fifth floor hallway, I heard someone far below toiling slowly up the stairs. Some wheezing octogenarian, I thought. But when the climber at last came into view, it turned out to be a girl (not much older than me) carrying a large colorful bird in a metal cage. She looked grimly at the stairs ahead of her, then smiled when she caught sight of me.

  “Bonjour. You must be my aunt’s new American protégé.”

  “I’m Rick,” I replied, dropping my broom and hurrying down toward her. “Would you like me to carry that for you?”

  “Would you, Rick? That would be most kind.”

  The bird squawked angrily when she passed me the cage. Even relieved of her burden, she labored haltingly up the stairs and walked with a limp as she led me down the hallway toward her door. She extracted her key from her purse and turned it in the lock. This set off a cacophony of bird cries from within. In a corner of the small living room a large wire cage held four more colorful birds, all obviously pleased to see her.

  “Bonjour, my babies!” she called, taking the cage from me and placing it on a table. “Thank you, Rick. Jiri! Hush now!” The squawking bird shut up when she fed it a seed from the pocket of her skirt. She smiled and held out her hand.

  “I’m Reina Vesely. Forgive the mess.”

  We shook hands and she sniffed the air. “I hope it doesn’t smell too bad. Five birds can get rather offensive. I don’t even notice it myself now.”

  “It’s fine,” I lied. Monosyllables were all I could manage. She was quite overpoweringly beautiful. Pale skin like Meissen porcelain under cascades of deep bronze hair. Aristocratic cheekbones. Delicate features laid on in supernal harmony.

  “So thirsty from those stairs. Would you join me in some lemon water?”

  It took a moment for my dazzled brain to compute that she was not proposing a mixed-sex scented bath. “Sure.”

  Her kitchenette had actual cupboards, not stacked-up wooden crates like ours. She filled two tall glasses with sparkling water and handed one to me.

  “Salut,” she said, clinking her glass against mine and swallowing deeply. “Sometimes I think those stairs are getting steeper.”

  “I know the feeling. Weren’t there any apartments available on lower floors?”

  Her smile lit up her extraordinary gray eyes. “I’m like my birds, Rick. I like to be close to the sky. Besides, climbing stairs is good therapy for my leg.”

  “You have, uh, a disease?”

  “No. It was an accident. Two years ago. I’m much better now.

  You and your beautiful wife are quite the topic of conversation in the building.”

  “You’ve met Sheeni?”

  “No, but I’ve passed her on the stairs.”

  “So you’re Madame Ruzicka’s niece?”

  “Only spiritually. We’re both Czech, but not related as far as we know. She was friends with my grandfather. And now she is my kind benefactress.”

  “She seems like a nice old lady.”

  “She is my dearest friend. She saved my life. But I won’t bore you with that story. How do you like Paris, Rick?”

  I filled her in on my limited Parisian experiences.

  “Oh, but, Rick, you must see the Eiffel Tower! You must go to the top! I love it up there. But perhaps I was born for high places.”

  You can say that again. Anything less than a grand palace would be a crime against nature.

  6:33 p.m. My Love is back from solo tourism, with several detours for more clothes shopping. She points out that a person living in Paris cannot be expected to make do with a wardrobe acquired in the boondocks of Mississippi. I suppose not, but if she buys any more clothes, we’ll need a map to find the toilet in the closet. She was interested to hear that I had made the acquaintance of Ms. Vesely. “It’s a pity that someone so pretty has such an affliction,” she commented.

  “You think she’s pretty, darling? I hadn’t noticed.”

  I am resolved to learn from the mistakes of my idiot divorced father: one does NOT praise another woman to one’s wife.

  “Yes, rather attractive. I wonder what sort of accident it was?”

  “She was probably run down in the street by some crazed Twingo driver. It’s all poor Maurice and I can do to get across the streets in one piece.”

  “You have to be careful, Nickie.”

  My Love is concerned for my welfare!

  “That dog is owned by an American,” she continued. “If anything happened to it, I’m sure we’d be sued.”

  “Uh, right, Sheeni. I suppose tourist-flattening is a daily occurrence here. Back home drivers actually stop for pedestrians in cross walks.”

  “Motorists are rather polite in California,” she acknowledged.

  A surprising admission. Is it possible that My Love is herself experiencing a twinge of homesickness for the Golden State?

  TUESDAY, May 25 — A sudden tragedy yesterday in Los Angeles. At 2:33 a.m. Connie called me with the shocking news. Her father, noted industrialist Bernard H. Krusinowski, has suffered a massive cerebral thrombosis. The prognosis is not good. He’s deceased. Connie was devastated.

  “How did it happen, Connie? Where? When?”

  “It was right after lunch, Rick. He was taking a si
esta with Lacey.”

  “He was in bed with Lacey!?”

  “That’s right. Apparently, they were right in the middle of things when he suddenly reared up and went limp. I mean, his body went limp.”

  “Right, Connie. I understand. That’s awful.”

  A tragic end to an eventful life. But, personally, I couldn’t think of a nicer send-off to the next world.

  “How’s Lacey?”

  “She’s a mess, Rick. She’s under sedation. Rita is taking it hard too.”

  Rita Krusinowski is Connie’s mother and my father-in-law’s alleged mistress.

  “I think I killed my father, Rick. I think it was the strain of the divorce that pushed him over the edge.”

  “Don’t be silly, Connie. Your father was a competitive, hard- driving executive. He was a victim of America’s obsession with success, rich foods, and large smooth-riding automobiles. Did he do much walking?”

  “Nobody walks in L.A., Rick. The smog would kill you.”

  “And how about all those cigars he smoked, Connie?”

  “Dad did enjoy a nice Cuban cigar. You think maybe they hardened his arteries?”

  “No question about it, Connie. They call it Castro’s revenge. Your father was a walking time bomb. Have the arrangements been made?”

  “Yeah, Rita’s taking charge as usual. She wants to bury him in Palm Springs, but I’m against it.”

  “Why, Connie?”

  “Palm Springs is where you go for the weekend, Rick. It’s not a place to spend eternity.”

  I told Connie not to blame herself and to call me any time she needed emotional support. Hard to believe just a few months ago I got naked in a hot tub with a rich old guy who is now a corpse. I just hope I didn’t pick up any of his cerebral thrombosis germs.