Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (15 page)

8:47 p.m. Another call to Fuzzy DeFalco. God knows what these international calls must be costing. I requested an update. “Yeah, I asked my dad if he ever heard of some dude named Rick S. Hunter. Jesus, I hate talking to my dad.”

“
Every kid your age does, Fuzzy. I hardly ever talk to mine. What did he say?”

“
He told me to keep my big Dago nose out of his business. Then he asked if I knew where you were.”

Damn! “What did you say?”

“
I said I didn’t, but I’m not sure he believed me.”

Very scrotum-wrenching. Desperate, I implored my friend to call his Uncle Sal directly.

“
I don’t know, Rick. I never phoned him before. I always write him little notes to thank him for his presents. Mom makes me.”

“
Just give him a call, Fuzzy. Tell him Rick S. Hunter is a personal friend of yours and you’d hate it if anything happened to him.”

“
I don’t know, Rick. Say, don’t you owe me some money?”

Americans are turning into such greedheads. I told my pal if he got his uncle off my back, I’d send him a check for a thousand.

“
I want that in dollars, Rick. Don’t be sending me no thousand pesos.”

I agreed and he asked me if I’d heard the latest rumor. It seems Vijay’s been deported.

“
You mean from France, Fuzzy? Yeah, I heard that.”

“
Not just from France, Rick. They wouldn’t let him back into the good ol’ U.S. of A.”

“
They wouldn’t!? What happened to him?”

“
Bounced his skinny ass right back. Airline dumped him on a plane to India. Guess he’s there now. His family went totally ballistic. They even got their picture in the Santa Rosa paper. Trent too. I guess he was trying to calm down Apurva, who was holding up this really bad photo of her bro’. Man, he didn’t look like anyone I’d want back in my country.”

Vijay is marooned in India! Nicely far away, though I have no illusions that the viper has been de-fanged. And doubtless he is now pissed off big time.

SUNDAY, June 19 — We kept our social calendars open for outings with well-heeled visitors, but no call came. I guess when you’re intent on a romantic pre-proposal holiday in Paris, two is company and four is a major distraction. Sheeni moped around the sixth floor and chatted up various neighbors (not Reina though). I rearranged the furniture so the bed was no longer in the immediate line of fire of any gunmen bursting through the door. At 7:00 p.m. we said “to hell with those guys” and went out for dinner. This time I had my crêpe wrapped around chunks of roasted goat cheese. Not bad, but personally I’d have preferred a real cheeseburger and fries. No, I haven’t disclosed to Sheeni what befell her deported buddy. And I’m resolved to be alert for any attempts by that vile alien at communicating with her. I still don’t know how her letter from Trent slipped past me. Censoring his wife’s mail— I can see now that this is a duty every sensible husband must embrace.

MONDAY, June 20 — My Love has rashly invited her brother and Connie to dinner. Worse, she has extended the invitation to Señor Nunez, even though we have only four rickety chairs. He is bringing the wine, his own preferred seating, and his accordion. God knows what I’m supposed to serve. Not a cookbook in the place, plus my endless janitorial chores are backing up. And our kitchenette is a joke. The only thing I’m well equipped to do in there is slash my wrists. I hope that Mafia hit man shows up this morning. He could save me a great deal of bother.

11:48 p.m. It’s over! The stove didn’t explode. The chef didn’t slice off anything major. No guests keeled over from salmonella poisoning. All in all, you’d have to call our first dinner party a success. I made a nice plat du jour, which certainly sounds French even if it was spaghetti and meatballs (you were expecting blanquette de veau?). We switched off all the lamps and lit a dozen candles—a lighting effect My Love termed “gilding the squalor.” Pillows were fluffed, mounds of stuff were shifted away from the closeted toilet, and the radio-tape player was tuned to the least offensive available music.

Señor Nunez arrived first. He was dressed in a green velvet suit— a fashion statement, I thought, that veered very close to the leprechaunesque. He tasted my sauce and made a few adjustments to the seasonings to great effect. I’m beginning to think the only thing that guy can’t do is dunk a basketball.

A moment later Connie and Paul staggered in from their long march up the stairs. They soon revived when Señor Nunez poured the wine, and Sheeni circulated with the cheesy appetizers. Paul remarked that our apartment was much nicer than his cell at the L.A. County Jail, and Connie said the view out our window was “positively alpine.” Both got on famously with Señor Nunez, who for being a lonely guy can really mix it up socially. Paul got him talking about life as a circus clown, and soon he had my guests falling out of their chairs from laughter. As usual, My Love seemed transfixed, hanging on the guy’s every word (something she never does with me).

Later, when Sheeni was mixing the salad, I got a few minutes alone with Connie to discuss the absent Vijay.

“
I made a few calls,” she said. “They took care of the matter.”

“
Calls to whom?” I asked, impressed.

“
Associates of my father, Rick. How do you think we got so rich making truck springs?”

“
I don’t know, Connie. How?”

“
By making springs for military vehicles. That’s about 80 percent of our business. So naturally, we have quite a few contacts in the government. Just mention ‘radical Islamic activist’ and their ears perk right up.”

“
But Vijay is a Hindu.”

“
Is he? Well, if he tries hard enough, he may find some immigration official who cares about that distinction. In the meantime, he’s not getting back into France.”

“
Or America, Connie. The U.S. deported him to India.”

“
Well, he can brush up on his home culture. Want some advice, Rick?”

“
Sure.”

“
Keep that sexy dwarf away from your wife.”

“
I’m trying to!”

After dinner Señor Nunez brought over a spare saxophone, and he and Paul played duets.

They sounded so marvelous the Boccata brothers invited themselves over to listen, flirt with the ladies, and help finish off the wine. In between numbers, Connie put on her Chinese accent and chatted up Bernardo, who was obviously enthralled. Watching her I observed that she was sipping wine, enjoying the music, charming a genuine Italian, and appearing unavailable to the guy she desperately wants—all at the same time. What a pleasure to watch a pro at work.

TUESDAY, June 21 — My phone chirped in the middle of the night. It was Connie calling from across the neighborhood.

“
Hi, Rick. Thanks for the nice dinner.”

“
No problem,” I yawned. “Is there more to this conversation?”

“
Rick, if you look under your sofa cushion you’ll find two E100 bills.”

That’s a trend that should be encouraged—dinner guests hiding money on the premises.

“
Gee, thanks, Connie.”

“
I want you to take Paulo out to lunch tomorrow, I mean today.”

“
OK. A little brother-in-law bonding?”

“
Right. Order a nice meal and some expensive wine. I want you to talk him into popping the question. Now that I’ve finally slept with him, I’m even more convinced that he’s the man for me.”

“
You think I have some influence over the guy?”

“
I’m counting on it, Rick. And my unborn children are counting on it too.”

Damn. What a genetic burden to have dumped on you at 2:00 in the morning. And all that wine wasn’t going down too well either.

3:12 p.m. As instructed by Connie, I took my brother-in-law out to lunch at yet another famous Hemingway haunt on the place St.-Germain-des-Prés. It’s a wonder the guy found the time to write what with all his high-profile café hopping. I expect when I become a Revered Author, throngs of tourists will descend on the Golden Carp in Ukiah to soak up the budget Cantonese atmosphere that catapulted me toward Literary Greatness. I must remember to negotiate a kickback from Steve the waiter for the boost in business. Although the name of today’s eatery suggested unappetizing fly larvae, Paul explained it was inspired by two statues of Chinese salesmen mounted high on an interior wall. We sat outside even though French restaurants have the gall to charge more for al fresco grub that’s exactly the same hash they’re slinging inside. Infuriatingly unAmerican, if you ask me. Living dangerously, I closed my eyes and pointed at something on the menu, which turned out to be a tasty array of tiny chops carved off something the size of a squirrel. My guest had the non-mysterious scallops with mushrooms.

Chewing my midget chop, I got down to brass tacks.

“
Paul, you have to get married—to Connie.”

“
Oh, really? And what if I’m not the marrying kind, Rick?”

“
Everyone gets married, Paul. And at 25 you’re way past due. It’s time to perpetuate your genes.”

“
You think so? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Perhaps I should start with something less demanding like a cat.”

“
Connie’s rich, Paul. You’ll have a whole staff to mind the kiddies. They won’t be a burden. Just a few minutes every night in the nursery to tuck them in and remind them how lucky they are to have rich parents. Really, it’s not that much of a bother.”

“
You paint an attractive vision of fatherhood, Rick. But I think there’s more to it than that.”

“
It’s the most rewarding thing a guy can do,” I lied. “And Connie loves you very much.”

“
She’s a cute kid. But so young and rather spoiled.”

“
Maturity isn’t measured in years, Paul. Connie knows what she wants and she’s out to get it.”

“
And if I resist?”

“
Here’s the situation as I see it, Paul. You’re a piece of steel: an unbending, rigid, strong, independent-minded hunk of jazz-playing ferrous metal. Connie is a powerful and wealthy magnet. You may not be particularly interested in that magnet, but like it or not it’s adhering to you. And you can’t repeal the laws of physics.”

“
I’m stuck, Rick?”

“
You’re stuck, Paul. It’s time to pop the question.”

He speared a scallop and thought it over.

“
And if the marriage doesn’t work out?”

“
No big deal. Connie gets her wish. You get handsome Polish- American progeny. You may not want them, but your genes will thank you. Then the magnet comes unstuck. And you’re free to enjoy your big divorce settlement. No hard feelings.”

“
You make it sound so simple, Rick.”

“
It is simple, Paul. You’re stuck. It’s time to face the music.”

“
Handel’s Wedding March?”

“
Precisely.”

“
You can honestly recommend marriage?”

“
Not to worry, Paul. It’s always harder on the other party than it is on a Saunders. Just take it one day at a time. And don’t leave any sharp instruments lying around.”

On our journey home on the Métro the topic of conversation proceeded naturally from marriage to prison. Paul said jail was simultaneously tedious from the enforced idleness and anxiety-producing from the all-pervasive atmosphere of violence. Since jail tended to attract the mentally unstable and the overly aggressive, you never knew when an inadvertent slight could lead to a punch in the nose or a shank in your gut. I gulped and asked Paul if he thought I was destined to serve much time.

“
Hard to say, Rick,” he replied. “I think your best bet is to become so famous no judge would dare sentence you to jail. Celebrities generally get just a slap on the wrist and maybe a fine. Otherwise, our prisons would be filled with musicians and actors—all busted for drug possession, spousal abuse, drunk driving, seducing minors—you name it.”

A valid point, I thought.

“
And how do I become famous, Paul?”

“
Just keep at it, Rick. You may be doing better than you think.”

We got back to my place in time to assist Reina with her bird lugging. Just my luck, those two gave immediate evidence of finding each other fascinating. While we were loading the cages into her car, Paul explained to Reina that the reason Damek has been plucking out his feathers lately is that he is in love with Milena.

“
No, Damek likes Zuza,” she pointed out.

“
Maybe he used to,” said Paul, “but he’s thrown her over for Milena, who prefers Jiri. She’s told him to drop dead and he’s now a mess.”

That much was indisputable. Damek really had let himself go. Do birds have rocky relationships just like people?

“
Milena can be something of a tease,” Reina admitted. “But how can you be certain that she’s the one who’s upsetting Damek?”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seems obvious.”

“
Paul’s very intuitive,” I noted.

“
Really?” she laughed. “And what can your friend tell about me?”

“
Quite a bit,” he replied, flashing that enigmatic Saunders’ grin I knew so well.

I had no doubt that he did. And I didn’t like it one bit.

7:38 p.m. My Love came home depressed from a day of school scouting. She’s narrowed it down to three possibilities (all pricey private academies), but the nosy administrators are insisting on personal interviews with at least one living, breathing parent.