Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (10 page)

“
Give me one more reason why I should.”

“
Well, for one day’s work they’ll pay you E3,000.”

A pretty good reason. I agreed, but specified that all dwarf-osculation must cease immediately.

“
I guess that leaves you off the menu, short guy,” she winked.

She paid for that remark. For more than an hour. This afternoon in bed.

FRIDAY, June 4 — Rick S. Hunter is soon to be an obscure video star. I signed the contract this morning in Mr. Bonnet’s office. Then we went to Mr. Petit’s office where we filled out our health insurance enrollment forms. France, it seems, does not want any medical deadbeats on its hands. Mr. Petit is still working on a solution for my suspect passport. He asked me if I had any strong objections to becoming a citizen of Estonia. I said not unless I was expected to speak Estonian. Then he drove us to the Prefecture of Police, where we filled out more forms and submitted our health certificates and other documents. Very nervous as the place was crawling with gendarmes. Kept my sunglasses on the entire time, arousing suspicions of harried bureaucrats. Good thing we were accompanied by our own high-priced lawyer. We have an appointment in two months for a final decision on our applications. Getting into France is certainly more complicated than entering the U.S. Back home you just have to be willing to swim the Rio Grande.

As MTV seldom showcases my sort of music, I’m not a devotee of that channel. Therefore, I’m not entirely sure what being in a music video entails. All I can recall is Michael Jackson shuffling backwards in an oversized glove and grabbing his crotch. Call me Mr. Inhibited, but I think I’d be rather embarrassed doing that. I hope pre-camera anxiety does not cause massive facial eruptions. I’m sure Mr. Bonnet would not be thrilled to pay E3,000 to some wannabe teen heartthrob with a mugful of zits. Have been practicing some Sinatra hits just in case. Surgically altered voice prone to sudden eructations far off the musical scale. Rather distressing to my ear. Of course, these days an inability to sing is no hindrance to a meteoric ascent of the pop music charts.

To celebrate my new career and the end of our marital estrangement, I took my loving wife out to dinner at a famous boulevard du Montparnasse restaurant that was once the haunt of Hemingway, Picasso, and other notables willing to pay tall francs for butter- laden cuisine. A vast, swanky place with grand chandeliers, velvet booths, and acres of polished brass trim. Very condescending waiter as you’d expect at those prices. Not taking any chances, I ordered a steak, while My Love had the petit-gris, which turned out to be a plate of disgusting snails. She claimed to enjoy them, but I say you have to be nuts to pay E35 to eat bugs out of the weed patch. No famous film stars in attendance, but Sheeni thought she spotted Roman Polanski, a fellow artist on the lam.

10:45 p.m. Reina invited me in for a post-bird-lugging brandy, but I politely declined. I’m reminding myself now that I’m a married man, and there’s no point in associating heavily with attractive neighbors if it’s just going to drive my wife into the arms of the nearest dwarf. I know guys are genetically programmed to scatter their seeds widely, but François will just have to stifle those impulses— especially since we have one bun in the oven already.

SATURDAY, June 5 — My fourth week as a wedded person.

I’ve been successfully married for nearly a month! That’s considerably longer than many Hollywood celebrities manage, even with all their fame and money.

Piroque, the director, dropped by this morning for wardrobe fittings. I’m not sure if that’s his first name or his last name. He was wearing burgundy silk pantaloons today and the same muddy combat boots. He must do a lot of slogging through bogs. Today he was packing his little cigars in a purse made from the spare tire of a Vespa scooter. It’s a good thing Piroque is a music video director, since, considering the way he dresses, he’d have a tough time landing a normal job.

Yvette, the attractive wardrobe mistress, made me strip and proceeded to dress my near-naked torso without embarrassment. Thankfully, I’d had debilitating anniversary intercourse barely an hour before, which took the edge off my erectile response when she was doing up my pants buttons. Very stimulating as you can imagine. My costume was that of an old-time French sailor: striped shirt, bell bottoms, and squashed little cap that looks like someone stepped on it. The ponytail of my brown wig was tied with a gay red ribbon that matched my shirt. And for defense against bashers, I was issued a bejeweled cutlass for my belt.

After a great deal of intrusive poking and prodding, Piroque pronounced himself satisfied with my look. Sheeni translated his acting instructions. The main thing I was to remember was to appear aloof from the proceedings. He didn’t want me to look like I was getting excessively into the music. I said I didn’t think that would be a problem.

After finishing with me, they went next door to dress Señor Nunez. It seems they were in desperate need of a dwarf as well, so Sheeni recommended our neighbor. I wasn’t too pleased to hear of this, but at least my fast-thinking wife has cut herself in for ten percent of his fee.

Taking it easy for the rest of the day. Must rest up so as to be fresh for my video debut. The studio is sending a car for us tomorrow morning. Early. Our makeup call is at 4:00 a.m.!

SUNDAY, June 6 — It was still dark when we motored off in the big chauffeur-driven Citroën. I could get used to this lifestyle, but probably won’t have the opportunity. Señor Nunez was doing his gracious best to put certain ugly incidents behind us. He greeted me warmly and only nodded toward my wife. He also resisted Sheeni’s efforts to engage him in conversation, and pretended not to notice when she elbowed me hard after I inquired politely if she had “felt the baby kick” during the night.

The right bank of the Seine was alive with activity when we pulled up in front of the Hôtel de Sens, an ancient turreted pile that appeared to be a relic of the middle ages. (Note: to keep the tourists on their toes, in France a hôtel is seldom actually a hotel.) Pulling strings with civic authorities, Mr. Bonnet had succeeded in having portions of the posh rue du Figuier and neighboring quai des Célestins closed off to traffic. These blocks were now crowded with equipment vans, catering trucks, trailers loaded with lights, mobile wardrobe vans, and a large caravan providing every creature comfort for the pampered female stars. Groups of technicians were bustling about with gear as Piroque blew on a police whistle and pitched what sounded to me like major fits. Señor Nunez and I were quickly nabbed by Yvette, who hustled us into a wardrobe van, while My Love wandered off to score breakfast from the catering truck.

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.