Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (12 page)

“
They really think this will sell?”

“
The focus groups have been going nuts. We all stand to make millions. And this time they’re nailing down worldwide design patents to keep the knockoffs at bay.”

“
As if that will deter those despicable pirates. They only want $25,000?”

“
Well, they asked for 40, but I didn’t think you’d go for that much.”

My Love was delayed in getting back to her tub. After she wrote out a check for $35,000, we took advantage of her impromptu nudity to go well beyond mere ogling. No, I don’t know where she hides her checkbook. It wasn’t in her purse, and she made me suffocate under the blankets while she went and retrieved it. Obviously, my Power Snoop had not been as exhaustive as I had supposed.

3:26 p.m. I overnighted the check to Joanie and left a message for Connie that Paul was safely off-limits from my sister. I wrote Joanie that she should immediately send me an international money order for $10,000 or I would put a voodoo curse on young Tyler. I hope she buys that threat. When dealing with Twisps, strong-arm tactics are a must. I also enclosed a summary of the metallic teeth concept for her to forward to Kimberly in Malibu. Upon reflection, it doesn’t seem any more farfetched than my Wart Watch idea. And we all know how big that one hit.

THURSDAY, June 10 — Another late night phone conversation with Connie. Maybe I should just set the alarm for 2:00 a.m. and sit there with my coffee while awaiting her call. She thanked me for paying off Joanie and inquired if, when I was growing up, we’d owned many champion chihuahuas.

“
We never had any dogs, Connie. Not even mutts. My parents were too cheap to spring for dog crunchies. I had a gerbil once, but it had an unfortunate encounter with the vacuum cleaner.”

“
Just as I thought,” commented Connie. “Nick, your father is a pathological liar.”

“
That’s hardly news, Connie. What’s he up to now?”

“
The jerk’s been comforting the wrong rich widow. He’s been throwing himself at my mother. They’ve been going on long walks together on the beach with Anna and Vronsky.”

Anna and Vronsky were Rita Krusinowski’s yap-prone chihuahuas.

“
I suppose he’s been claiming to be a big-time chihuahua expert?”

“
You guessed it, Rick. Dogo is livid. He’s ready to murder him.”

Dogo Dimondo is Mrs. Krusinowski’s one-armed factotum.

“
What’s it to Dogo, Connie?”

“
Well, now that father’s out of the picture, I think Dogo may have serious designs on my mother. Not that I mind. They live together practically as man and wife anyway.”

“
You mean they’re having sex?”

“
Of course not, Rick. People that age rarely do. No, they’re just together all the time.”

I knew all about that syndrome.

“
So, Connie, what’s happening with Lacey?”

“
Your damn father’s been neglecting her terribly. She asked me yesterday if I thought it would be inappropriate for her to visit my Paulo.”

“
Uh-oh. What did you say?”

“
What do you think I said? I said I thought it would hurt my father terribly if she did. But I can’t go on guilt-tripping her forever.”

“
Connie, I know my dad. He only gave up on Lacey if it’s over for good. She must have rejected him again in some massive ego- bruising way. You’ll have to find someone else for her.”

“
Damn, I was afraid of that.”

“
How about Dogo for Lacey?”

“
That’s a thought. He’s old, but he’s younger than my father was. He’s certainly attractive in an offbeat way.”

Extremely offbeat, if you ask me. Connie promised to keep me up-to-date and we said our good-byes. I crawled back into bed and lay there as a solo accordionist squeezed out the corrosive notes of “Heee, Lekker Ding.” I will have to have a chat with Señor Nunez. Kissing my wife was one thing, but playing that damn tune really crosses the line.

If my dad marries Rita, Connie becomes my sister-in-law. And if Connie marries Paul, she becomes my sister-in-law twice over. With all those connections, you’d think some of those Krusinowski millions would rub off on me. I didn’t mention to Connie the other thought that had crossed my mind. If my first marriage doesn’t work out, I could marry Lacey. She may not be my soul mate like Sheeni, but I’m beginning to think there’s something to be said for a relationship based solely on large dollars and spectacular sex.

6:28 p.m. Mr. Bonnet messengered over a rough-edit of the “Heee, Lekker Ding” video. Since we didn’t have a VCR or TV, we went next door to watch it at Señor Nunez’s. Sheeni and I felt like visitors from the Land of the Giants. Our neighbor has decorated his flat entirely in dwarf-scale furnishings of a vaguely Spanish “old hacienda” style. Lots of ornately carved dark wood, ponderous wrought iron, and festive weavings. Of course, with furniture that small you can cram quite a lot of it into a garret studio. We perched on the tiny sofa as our host prepared tea and warmed up the VCR. Since he politely declined to play the tape with the sound switched off, we hastily tore up strips of tissue and stuffed them in our ears. Although he may dress like a fop, Piroque the director knows his stuff. The production values were most impressive. He wonderfully captured the atmospheric look of medieval Paris, and, improbably, our boat did appear to be floating magically above the fog. The extras were suitably of the period and engagingly picturesque. Darkly mysterious Señor Nunez was menacingly grotesque.

The glittering Magdas certainly seemed to have been beamed down from a different time and perhaps planet. And the young sailor? Forgive me for being so candid, but he was pretty fabulous. Even Sheeni had to admit he was “not uncharismatic.” An understatement, I think. Connie’s right. Our plastic surgeon Dr. Rudolpho is a genius. What he has fashioned from the rude clay of Nick Twisp is nothing less than the Second Coming of James Dean. I smoldered on that screen!

Of course, as Sheeni points out, “Too bad no one’s going to see it.”

Yeah, right. My balloon thoroughly deflated, we thanked our neighbor and returned to our dingy hovel. Then I was called down to the cellar to swab up a major sewage backup. This happens not infrequently when too many tenants flush at once. From high amid the stars to deep in shit in under ten minutes. That’s the story of my life.

FRIDAY, June 11 — Another possible disaster. It all started when I got excused from my concierge duties to go on a tourism excursion to Montmartre. This is a hill in northern Paris surmounted by a big white church, the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. It looks like something from the middle ages, but actually was completed in 1919. Maybe they used an old set of plans. Lots of impoverished artists used to hang out in the neighborhood, but now it’s inundated with tourists seeking Vestiges of Bohemian Life. I also wanted to check out the nearby place Pigalle, where Mr. Hamilton does his nightly female impersonation gig. Sheeni’s genteel guidebook cautioned this district was tawdry and risqué, so, of course, it was tops on my must-visit list.

I thought it would be fun to ride the funicular up to the church, but as the line was obscenely daunting, we hoofed it instead. Hardly broke into a sweat from being in such great shape from living six flights up. As it was a clear day, the view from the plaza in front of the church was most awe-inspiring. The whole of Paris was at our feet, not excluding the distant Eiffel Tower and its ugly box on the fringe of our neighborhood. We went inside the basilica, which was most impressive if you’re into disturbing anatomical mosaics of Christ displaying His sacred heart. Kind of spooky, if you ask me, but then I’ve never been the most pious kid on the block. We paid E5 each to hike up narrow spiral stairs with a lot of panting tourists to the top of one of the domes. An even more amazing view. I’m sure Reina would love it if she could manage those steps. But as we were trooping back down, whom should we suddenly meet going up, but Apurva’s vile brother Vijay Joshi! Everyone was too thunderstruck to speak, but there’s no doubt he recognized us. We continued on hastily, and a deeply shaken Sheeni insisted on returning at once to our apartment. I never got to the place Pigalle, and my wife continues to pace the floor in a state of extreme nervous agitation. She said she knew Vijay was coming to Paris for the same summer program that she’d been enrolled in, and we should have been more cautious. I replied Paris is a big place and how were we supposed to know we’d run into the bum? And what, I wanted to know, was a Hindu doing in a Catholic church?

“
He’s going to tell my parents, Nickie. I know he is! He’s betrayed me before. What are we going to do?”

I gave it some thought.

“
I guess we’ll just have to murder him. I’ve been wanting to for quite some time.”

“
Oh, you’re no help! This is no time for jokes!”

François wasn’t aware that anyone was joking.

4:38 p.m. Sheeni has tracked down Vijay’s dorm and has gone off to see if she can find the twit. I’m not sure what that is supposed to accomplish, but any rendezvous of those two always makes me nervous.

Reina reports she attended a showing of my video with other interested neighbors in the wig salon. I was a big hit, though the three Magdas and their Dutch novelty tune were a consensus pick for immediate showbiz oblivion.

“
Rick, I thought your performance was excellent,” she said, as I once again carted her birds down the endless stairs.

I decided to make a stab at clarifying an issue.

“
Thanks, Reina. It was fun, though I felt a little silly in those ridiculous padded pants. It was a little joke of the director.” “I thought your costume was very flattering.”

What was that supposed to mean? I didn’t have the nerve to ask.

9:52 p.m. No sign of Sheeni. Getting rather agitated myself. Should have hired a skinhead long ago to deal with Vijay when I had full access to my Wart Watch fortune. I’d much rather pay $25,000 for that deed than throw it away on lawyers for my tempestuous mother. I sensed she was destined for future legal skirmishes the first time she walloped me with the hairbrush at the tender age of two.

11:45 p.m. My wife still not back. Not even a damn phone call! Who needs this grief? I’m going to bed.

SATURDAY, June 12 — Five weeks, diary. More than a month of wedded bliss. Alas, we may have entered another rocky patch. Wife arrived home late and gave me no goodnight kiss when she crawled into bed. Always a bad sign.

10:47 a.m. Lovely wife off on a cultural expedition. WITH VIJAY JOSHI! Husband not invited, as anniversary breakfast chat revealed he has fallen under suspicion of treachery.

“
Vijay was very happy to see me,” she announced, coldly decapitating a baguette with her bare hands. “We had a lovely dinner together. He has no intention of reporting my whereabouts to my parents.”

“
Hah! You believe that liar?”

“
We’ll see who the liar is,” she announced ominously. “Do you recall the circumstances under which my mother intercepted my passport at the Ukiah post office?”

“
Of course, darling. Don’t forget I’m the guy who had to shoot your father to get it back.”

“
I had always supposed that it was Vijay who tipped off my parents to my plans, but he assured me yesterday that I was mistaken.”

“
Why would he admit it? He ratted on you to your parents because he didn’t want you to leave Ukiah.”

“
That was doubtless the motive of the guilty party,” she replied. “The only other person to whom I had confided my plans was Rick S. Hunter.”

“
I was all for your running away, darling. I wanted to go with you!”

“
So it seemed to me at the time. And, of course, I had no reason then to doubt Mr. Hunter’s sincerity.”

“
And still don’t, darling!”

“
But the seemingly straightforward Rick S. Hunter turned out to be the devious Nick Twisp—a person who knew he was incapable of learning French. A linguistically impaired person not likely to want to spend much time abroad in a non-English-speaking country.”

“
That’s pure paranoia, darling. Vijay has poisoned you against me. What disproves your thesis is my very presence here, in France, with you—the woman I love. Have I said anything about leaving? Aren’t I the guy working three jobs to try to make a go of it here?”

A flicker of doubt in her azure eyes.

“
You deny betraying me?”

“
I certainly do, Sheeni. I may be devious at times, but Vijay is the true schemer. He’s the Quisling in our midst. Don’t forget that forged letter he sent you—purported to be from me in India. The guy has no scruples. He’s in love with you and will do and say anything to be with you. He knows his time in Paris is limited. When he returns to Ukiah, he will have every incentive in the world to rat on you again to your parents.”

Sheeni viciously buttered her bread.

“
Somebody here is lying,” she replied, pointing her knife at me. “And I intend to find out who.”

6:42 p.m. No sign of my absent wife. Had a lonely dinner for one at the local crêpe stand. You’d be amazed at what the French are willing to roll up in a pancake. François ruminated throughout meal on increasingly violent terminations of home-wrecking Indian philanderer.

8:15 p.m. Saturday night alone in Paris with no date, no TV, no book to read, no spouse—nada, zip, the Big Zero. Life now at the bottom of a very deep and smelly septic pit. Can’t write any more. Too depressed.