Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp Page 8

  Evidently, Piroque had had second thoughts about my wardrobe. Tireless Yvette had labored all through the night to sew thousands of shimmering red sequins to my shirt. And she had altered it so that when I slipped it on, my bare midriff was exposed. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would wish to see a skinny stark-white Twispian abdomen, but there it was on public view. Soon it received the professional attentions of Josette, France’s sexiest makeup artist. She applied a tanning base, then brushed on subtle shadows to suggest taut muscles where none had ever rippled. This was after she had transformed my face. Never again, I suspect, will I ever look quite so godlike. Eyeliner, subtly highlighted cheekbones, lipstick, mascara, the works. If only Carlotta had had access to her services, I’m sure even more guys would have been inviting me to the Christmas dance.

  Meanwhile, in the adjoining chair, Señor Nunez was undergoing a transformation from shortish civilian to admiral of the French fleet. The guy was ablaze with gold braid and glittering buttons. The velvet eye patch was a nice touch too. Then Piroque peered in to survey his cast and whispered a suggestion to Yvette. She took me aside and discreetly stuffed a rolled-up sock down my pants. These French gals are certainly comfortable working around a guy’s crotch.

  Dawn was nearly breaking as I found My Love sipping coffee and flirting with the sound engineer. She frowned and looked me over.

  “How do I look, Sheeni?”

  “Like a refugee from some sultan’s harem. And what’s that bulge in your pants?”

  “It’s all me, darling.”

  “I doubt that very much. Did you get some breakfast? The Magda elders are spending a fortune on catering.”

  “I’ve been forbidden to eat or drink. I can’t muss my makeup under pain of death. God, I’m so nervous!”

  I got even more jittery a moment later when the vivacious Magdas emerged squealing from their trailer. They were dressed alike in form- hugging silver lamé sheath-type uniforms, suggesting carhops of the year 2809. Of course, none of them had the meagerest of forms worthy of hugging. They spotted me, shrieked loudly enough to jolt awake every tourist in Paris, and thundered over in their shiny mylar clogs.

  “Hi, Rick,” giggled the designated spokesMadga.

  “Good morning, ladies. You look nice,” I lied.

  More giggling.

  “Hi, Rick,” said another Magda, in makeup that could frighten the dead.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello, Rick,” called the final Madga. “What’s up, hey?”

  “Not much,” I admitted.

  I suspected we had exhausted their reservoir of English. They smirked and looked me over with what I could only interpret as preteen lust. It’s a good thing girls are not always as ghastly and repellent as they are at age 12. Otherwise, I’m sure the human race would have died out eons ago.

  As Piroque was resolved to capture his precious Parisian dawn, the fog machines were activated and taping was soon underway. My job was to heave away on the oars of a rowboat as the iridescent Magdas, standing in the prow, lip-synced to the loudly amplified playback of “Heee, Lekker Ding,” their obnoxious song. Our wooden dory was elevated above the street on a wheeled platform to which a long plate-glass mirror was mounted at a 45 degree angle to the pavement. This hid the wheels and had the effect of making the boat appear to float on a layer of fog several feet above the roadway. While I “rowed” in one direction, Admiral Nunez labored to pull the boat in the opposite direction by tugging on a shimmery silk rope. Meanwhile, assorted extras—garbed in 18th century clothing and powdered wigs—cavorted about in front of the medieval buildings as we proceeded along. This went on endlessly take after take. A Magda would giggle, I would cough from a stray wisp of suffocating fog, Señor Nunez would take a tumble on the oil-slicked pavement, a curious pigeon would fly down to check things out, etc. My shoulders began to ache from lifting the heavy oars as the song lyric “Hij het niet leuk vindt als een meisje het van hem wint” drilled its way deep into my brain along with its insipid melody.

  Eventually, Piroque was satisfied and we moved on to the second scene. This involved my pretending to rescue the warbling Magdas from the doorway of the Hôtel de Sens by “wrestling” with Admiral Nunez. Of course, my adversary was a professional clown, who knew how to tumble about on the hard stone without getting injured. Too bad I wasn’t similarly adept. And I thought the guy was altogether rougher than he had to be, considering the fix was in and the bold sailor was expected to triumph in the end. I was about to yank off his eye patch and knife him with my cutlass when the director signaled that that was the final take. The cast and crew broke into applause, the fog machines ceased emitting their oleaginous vapors, the Magdas clutched each other and jumped up and down, and Señor Nunez shook my hand warmly. Perhaps it had all been in fun after all. At least, with any luck, I would never again have to hear that inane song.

  “How was I, darling?” I asked as my dear wife emerged from the oily artificial murk.

  “Well, let’s put it this way. Steve McQueen can rest easy in his grave.”

  I took that as a sincere compliment.

  After I changed back into my street clothes and wiped off most of my makeup, Sheeni and I tracked down Mr. Bonnet to extract my payment as specified in cash. All those colorful euros made quite an attractive pile as he counted them out. My employer seemed elated by the day’s shooting, or perhaps he was just relieved that the “music” had at last been silenced. At his insistence, we pushed our way into the jammed caravan for the cast party. All too soon I was pinned in a corner by the three Magdas, all chattering away in excited Dutch and force-feeding me exotic low-country snacks. I could only wave forlornly as across the length of the trailer my wife slipped out the door with our neighbor. This caused me some concern. Aside from the issue of dwarfish entanglements, Sheeni as usual was packing all my money.

  MONDAY, June 7 — I woke up with a hacking cough from breathing all that aerosol oil the smog machines were belching yesterday. Even Sheeni’s exquisite lungs were slightly impaired. What’s worse, that damn song keeps ricocheting through my head like some endless loop tape employed by Nazi torturers to drive their victims insane. Not a problem for my wife as she had been warned in advance by the sound engineer, who loaned her a pair of earplugs. Considering the extremely negligible contribution of the Dutch to the pop music scene, it hardly seems fair that they have to clog both my lungs and brain with such rubbish. At least I have chiseled my video euros from the clutches of my rapacious wife. We are “banking” them jointly in the closet with our dwindling stash of Yankee greenbacks.

  9:15 a.m. Bernardo Boccata just burst in with a copy of today’s Libèration. At the bottom of page one was a photo of a sequin- bedecked sailor wrestling a downsized admiral. It seems that Mr. Bonnet’s overzealous P.R. staff scored some press coverage of yesterday’s shoot. Sheeni translated the lurid headline: “Ghost of Montparnasse Now a Video Star?” No article this time. Just a caption that reported the bare facts of young American Rick S. Hunter’s video debut.

  “You famous guy,” said Bernardo, slapping me on the back.

  “This is most unfortunate,” said Sheeni.

  “It’s a disaster,” I replied. “I’m going to strangle that idiot Bonnet!”

  My Love sighed and studied the photo.

  “I’m surprised they published such a homoerotic image,” she added.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  “Check it out yourself, darling.”

  I grabbed the paper and inspected it closely. An unfortunate lighting flare had highlighted Piroque’s requested padding. I appeared to be sporting a fairly spectacular T.E., presumably induced by homosexual dwarf grappling. How acutely embarrassing. Now all of Paris thinks I’m some kind of deviate dwarfophile.

  3:46 p.m. My life as celebrity janitor goes on. Many tenants smiled and waved as I carried down their trash. Babette winked at me as she strolled off with Alphonse. The ladies of the wig salon gathered in the lobby and gave me a spo
ntaneous ovation. Gratifying, but couldn’t they have waited until my newly mopped floor had dried? Señor Nunez thanked me for the free publicity, but complained that the caption hadn’t mentioned his name or profession. I said I had nothing to do with it and thought he had a legitimate beef. When I returned from walking Maurice, Mr. Hamilton looked at me with new respect and excused me from further baggie inspections. Exploiting my new prestige, Madame Ruzicka sent me on errands throughout the neighborhood. Only her lovely niece seemed suddenly restrained in her amiability. Lugging down Reina’s birdcages, I realized there was no way I could attempt to explain that bizarre photo without sounding like a complete degenerate. One simply does not broach the subject of theatrical crotch padding with France’s comeliest virgin.

  “I look forward to seeing your video,” she said softly, when we finished loading her car.

  “It’s awful,” I sighed, not looking at her. “I only did it for the money.”

  She gently touched my arm. “Take care, my friend.”

  “You too,” I replied.

  She does get under a guy’s skin. Even her birds are warming up to me. No one’s tried to bite me lately and this afternoon Zuza said, “Hi, Rick! You’re cu-u-ute!” I wonder who taught her that?

  TUESDAY, June 8 — Another middle-of-the-night phone call from a distraught Connie Krusinowski. She has met my sister Joanie and nephew Tyler. She encountered the new mother and Brobdingnagian infant at the county jail. They were visiting Sheeni’s brother Paul.

  “What!” I exclaimed. “My sister doesn’t even know the guy.”

  “She does now, Rick. Paulo saw the article about her in the Times and sent her a congratulatory card, signed ‘your brother-in-law Paul Saunders.’ So she looked him up. Christ, Rick, your sister’s throwing herself at my Paulo!”

  “Now, Connie, don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know that.”

  “I saw all the obvious signs, guy.”

  “Relax, Connie. My sister’s not that attractive. Paul would never go for her.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Rick. All men subconsciously seek women capable of bearing children to perpetuate their genes. That’s why they’re attracted to wide hips and big boobs. So there she is flaunting her fecundity by showing off that monstrous baby. She’s single, available, and has already proven she can deliver the big genetic package. I could sense Paulo was smitten. And God knows she’s in desperate need of a husband.”

  “Connie, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “That Tyler is no molehill, Rick. He’s a giant fucking freak! Besides, all women are attracted to guys who are incarcerated.”

  “They are?”

  “It’s a proven fact, Rick. Why else do you suppose all those murderers on death row receive so many marriage proposals? That’s why you need to call your sister and tell her to lay off my Paulo.”

  “Connie, be reasonable.”

  “Listen, Rick, I’ve always been on your side. I stuck my neck out for you. But if your relatives start butting into my life, I can turn on you—fast.”

  “Connie! You’d dime me to the feds?!”

  “I don’t want to, guy. That’s why you have to get your damn sister to back off.”

  I never got back to bed. I sat there cursing on the toilet in the closet, then dialed my sister’s number in L.A. She answered on the third ring and seemed reasonably pleased to hear from me.

  “Joanie, what’s that disgusting slurping sound?”

  “I’m breast-feeding Tyler, Nick. He’s got a big appetite.”

  Total telephonic gross-out. Still, I persevered. I conveyed, in no uncertain terms, Connie’s message. My sister was not impressed.

  “So that rich bitch doesn’t like me visiting her boyfriend, huh? Too bad for her. Nickie, why didn’t you tell me your girlfriend had such a cute brother? And what’s this I hear about your getting married?”

  “Yeah, we got hitched in Tijuana. We’re living down in Mexico now. I’m having tacos every meal. Joanie, you’ve got to forget about Paul. He’s not the marrying kind, and he doesn’t dig chicks with children.”

  “So what’s the real reason you want me to give him a pass?”

  As usual, my sister could see through me like a fluoroscope.

  “Joanie, Connie is threatening to squeal on me to the feds.”

  “You have the nicest friends, Nick. Not to mention you married a girl who already ratted on you once to the cops.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Paul told me.”

  “Well, it was all a misunderstanding. She didn’t mean to.”

  Joanie sighed. “OK, Nick, we might be able to work out some kind of a deal.”

  Foolishly, I hadn’t anticipated sibling extortion.

  “What sort of a deal, Joanie?”

  “Not that you’re interested, Nick, but our mother goes on trial next month.”

  Unwisely entrusted with a gun by Lance Wescott (my repulsive cop stepfather), my homicidal mother was under arrest in Oakland for plugging him in the groin.

  Joanie continued, “Things are looking bad, Nick. Lance’s reconstructive surgery has failed. The guy’s pretty irate.”

  I could see where he might be, what with now being more capon than cop. That will teach the guy to cross Nick Twisp. I healed from the beating he gave me, but now he’s facing a lifetime of sitting down to pee. Serves him right.

  “What’s Lance doing, Connie?”

  “He’s put Mother’s nice new house on the market. And his nasty old mother just got custody of little Noel.”

  Noel Lance Wescott is my baby brother, who I recently dropped on the floor.

  “But Lance isn’t even the father!”

  “His name’s on the birth certificate. That’s proof enough for the stupid judge. I pity poor Noel being in the clutches of that family. So we need more money for Mother’s lawyers. You have to send us another $25,000.”

  “What!”

  “I know you’ve got the money, Nick. At least your wife does. So send me a check and I’ll lay off her charming brother. And have fun in Paris.”

  “Did Paul tell you we were here?”

  “Paul doesn’t have to tell me a damn thing. Send me the money!”

  I said I would see what I could do and rang off. Damn, why are Twisps such treacherous weasels? It’s no wonder I try to steer clear of my family as much as possible. Now I have to extract 25 grand from my loving wife. I might as well try to raise the Titanic!

  11:25 a.m. After Sheeni left on a cultural mission to the Musée Marmottan Monet, I subjected our apartment to an intensive Power Snoop. More thorough than a normal snoop, it demands great exactitude in returning every article to its original undisturbed state. One bra strap slightly misaligned in her lingerie drawer is enough to arouse the suspicions of my vigilant spouse. In an internal pocket of her French typewriter case, I discovered this recent letter from Trent Preston:

  Dear Sheeni,

  It was so nice to hear from you at last. Thanks for having the foresight to send your letter to my place of employment. You were correct in supposing Apurva might misconstrue any correspondence between us. I’m pleased to hear you made it at last to Paris. I envy your opportunities for cultural enrichment there as I load concrete bags on trucks and deal with the petty annoyances of high school in Ukiah. Still, Apurva is doing her best to make me happy and we are struggling to make a go of it. We’ve had a setback lately from an incident involving another woman and some unfortunate missteps on my part while under the influence of marijuana.

  Sorry, but I must respectively disagree with you re: your marriage. Even if your documents were not in order and some deception was involved, you stood before a judge and exchanged vows with another person. This cannot be dismissed as lightly as you suppose. I say this even as I must confess that I heartily disapprove of your choice in marriage partners.

  Forgive me if I overstep the bounds of friendship here, but I think you should consider that any child you m
ight bring into this world would doubtless be an exceptional person. I believe this to be true even if the father was indeed that disreputable N. Twisp.

  [Thanks a pantsful, Trent!]

  In the long run (perhaps the very long run) the choice for you that might entail the least regrets would be to have the baby and give it up for adoption. I’m sure a worthy couple in France would be delighted to love and raise your beautiful child. I know that in the short term this choice would involve considerable hardship and sacrifice for you. Naturally, I will support and respect any decision you choose.

  I have heard from your parents and know they believe you to be somewhere in Mexico. They are frantic with worry, but were somewhat relieved by the information they received from Tijuana of your marriage. Although it is not in my nature to deceive people, I will do as you request and further in any way I can the general impression that you are residing south of the border.

  Apurva’s doing well and our baby’s development is right on track. It really is thrilling to watch his little heart beating on the scope. Such a miracle. Perhaps someday he’ll have a chance to meet your daughter. I think that would be wonderful.

  Do keep me posted on your experiences in that great city so far away. We think of you often.

  Love,

  Trent

  An alarming missive. Not only has Sheeni removed her wedding ring, apparently she’s been dissing our union to Trent as a sham. Can her prejudice against Mississippi run that deep? Is it my fault that it’s the only state that sanctions teen marriage? Hard to believe, but I hope she takes Trent’s advice to heart. For a change that muscle- bound poet was making considerable sense. Not that I’m about to let some grasping Frogs adopt our kid. Very distressing that she’s writing him behind my back. And why such low regard for the institution of marriage—hers and Trent’s?