Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (26 page)

1:26 p.m. Suicide on hold. Mrs. Fulke spruced herself up as best she could and submitted an employment application to circus boss Madame Marie Poco. Small, tough-talking broad, but not bad looking for being so old—at least 40, I’d say. In need of honest Ticket Seller, but Mrs. Fulke not qualified due to near-total ignorance of French language. Also out as Diesel Generator Technician. Deemed too old and slight for Roustabout. Perfect for Trumpet Player opening, except can’t play trumpet. Only one other vacancy: Assistant Animal Attendant. Managed to talk myself into that job on a trial basis. Off the books, of course, since lacking proper sanction from Government of France to sweep up monkey shit. Therefore, I’m to stay out of sight if the gendarmes come around. “No problem with that,” I assured her. Starting wage an astonishingly meager E65 a week. I’d earn more if I had a commercial license and could drive a truck. Will be permitted to sleep on bales of hay in camel van. Hoping “camel van” is circus slang and vehicle does not contain actual camels. No drugs permitted or wanton promiscuity with townies. No overtime pay, no weekends off, and no bitching about the long hours.

“
It’s a great life,” said Madame Poco, welcoming me aboard. “If you fit in, you’ll love it.”

“
I’m sure I will,” Mrs. Fulke lied.

10:58 p.m. Very fatigued. Can’t write much. Have bear scat in my wig and down my jogging suit (bored bear named Beez gets frisky when introduced to new attendant). My supervisor even older than Mrs. Fulke. Wiry Italian guy named Captain Lapo with ill-fitting false teeth and wine on breath. Seems friendly enough. Unclear what he is captain of besides my fate. Circus like traveling U.N.; many nationalities represented, so de facto lingua franca is English. Captain Lapo introduced me to my rake, shovel, and wheelbarrow. Showed me around the cages. No lions or tigers, thank God. Bear pretty scary, but said to be a sweetheart. Monkeys will bite unless you show them who’s boss. Ditto the mild-looking ponies. Boa constrictors must not be permitted to grab you around the neck. Fortunately, they eat infrequently and defecate minimally. The same cannot be said for the camels (Ajax and Omar), who will spit their foul-smelling juice or kick you in the ass. Alas, they do occupy the eponymous camel van, but fortunately hay (and Mrs. Fulke) stored in a separate compartment, redolent with authentic camel aromas.

Have made myself at home as best as I can in my tiny metal cell. One lonely window for ventilation and one light in the center of the ceiling. Assorted hay bales that can be arranged creatively to suit one’s furniture needs. No storage at all. Clothes I’m keeping in Mrs. Fulke’s ratty suitcase. Under a steel plate in the floor is a compartment holding the van battery. Here I’ve stashed my money, jars of wrinkle creme, Rick S. Hunter’s passport, photos of Sheeni, and her plastic-wrapped keepsake sock. A hay bale over the plate keeps it concealed from prying eyes. Thankfully, the door to my new home has a fairly substantial lock. So far no bugs except angry horseflies. Perhaps they’re angry at finding only camels and moi.

Sneaked away this evening to watch Reina perform. Most charming and entertaining act. Diverting clowns haul out the cart containing birds and props, so most in audience don’t notice that the pretty trainer in the sexy dress walks with a limp. Parrots pass balls back and forth, drive toy tractor around pylons, climb fire truck ladder for daring rescue, perform stunts on “high wire,” and more. Big applause at end led by elderly animal attendant. She really is quite a wonder. And such a beacon of loveliness in a lonely guy’s life.

WEDNESDAY, July 20 — Nothing like spending the night in a camel van to make a person nostalgic for his garret apartment in Paris. Hay bales not as resilient to the spine as a city person might assume. Nor are cud-chewing camels on other side of thin metal partition ideal companions for restful sleep. Have been given long list of camel care requirements by their swarthy owner, a Mr. Iyad Maymun. He and his younger (and prettier) wife Nuzhah do handstands and somersaults on top of their sauntering beasts, believe it or not.

Asked Captain Lapo this morning where I was to shower. He looked at me blankly and said he used a bucket in the pony van (his residence). I said that would not do for me as I was “a woman,” causing him to check me out brazenly. Had he not noticed my alleged sex before? He suggested I use the shower in the roustabout’s caravan. I had inspected that loutish lot at dinner in the cookhouse the night before and suspected that any female who crossed their threshold would be in for a stimulating time. So I knocked on Reina’s door, and she (reluctantly) let me in.

After my shower, we had a quick chat while I prepared Mrs. Fulke’s face for public view. Forehead getting better. No longer looks like a relief map of Mars. Reina is not enthusiastic about my hiring myself on as assistant animal flunky. She says it is the lowest job in the circus, that they will work me like a dog even if I am supposed to be an old lady, and that few last more than a few weeks in that position. I said I didn’t think it was that much of a comedown from unpaid janitor and had to be better than my alternative, which was jail.

She sighed and said we mustn’t appear too friendly lest it raise suspicions. She had already lost face with Madame Poco over Paul’s sudden defection.

“
Do you miss him that much?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“
Well, I thought he was my friend. He could have at least given notice and said goodbye.”

I decided not to tell her why his departure had been so unexpectedly abrupt.

“
He went back to America with Connie. They’re getting married this week.”

“
Is that so? Well, he must have changed his mind.”

We brooded silently over our gloomy thoughts until Damek screamed. You have not known the full dimension of human hearing until you experience a cockatoo’s cry in a confined space. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

2:12 p.m. Shit. This is the new metaphor for my life. I rake it, I shovel it, I haul it, I dump it. I sprinkle fresh straw and refill water buckets. By the time I finish the last cage, it is time to begin anew on the first cage. And where does all that diverse and exotic excrement go? I dump it in a corner of the lot, and eager French gardeners of both sexes roll up with their wheelbarrows to trundle it away. At least some of us, I feel, should get a life.

Cookhouse tent remarkably like high school cafeteria. No one extends much of a welcome to the new guy. I’ve been sitting by default at the old folks’ table. Captain Lapo, the grizzled band members, Madame Poco’s elderly bookkeeper, a superannuated clown, etc. Only desultory conversation and most of it in French. Mrs. Fulke the object of some envious glances though. She appears to be the only diner at the table with her own native teeth.

After lunch I sneaked into town to augment Mrs. Fulke’s work wardrobe. You can’t clean a monkey cage in a garden frock. Also got some scarves to tie down her wig as monkeys extraordinarily grabby little creatures. Their master is an English gent named Granley or Granola something, who takes such a scientific approach to animal training he gives his monkeys numbers instead of names. I have already decided the twit must be killed. He wears the most pretentious khaki bush suit like he’s just leaving on safari for Big Game. Also sports the silliest red moustache and a coiled bullwhip on his snakeskin belt that I would very much like to apply to his freckled hide. Did I mention that in the cookhouse he likes to monopolize the seat beside Reina? Of course, he hasn’t deigned to say two words to the new monkey attendant. Nor have many of the others. Reina’s right. In the circus hierarchy I’m the lowest of the low. It probably doesn’t help that I exude an all-pervasive odor of ripe camel dung.

11:35 p.m. We’re on the move. The air of permanence about our encampment was all a sham. After the evening performance, everyone set to work packing up. I would like to have helped Reina hitch up her caravan, but had to assist Captain Lapo in securing the animals for transport. Last to be packed away were Ajax and Omar, who assisted with taking down the main and cookhouse tents. This task is normally handled by elephants, but our circus (thank God) travels sans pachyderms. I can just imagine how much those beasts produce. Hitched to a common chain, my roommates dragged down the poles and pulled up the stakes, but you could sense they felt the whole business was a big imposition on them.

I traveled in the cab of the camel van, piloted by Mr. Maymun. His wife of the shy smile and 10,000 gold bangles rode in their lavish caravan, which was hitched to the bumper. Don’t ask me if that’s legal in France. Behind it was attached another smaller trailer containing a washer and dryer. Many of the circus people tow these mobile laundry facilities. Don’t know what us peons do. I expect I’ll be washing Mrs. Fulke’s clothes in the river.

Iyad drove at an excruciatingly torpid pace so as not to disturb his camels and/or wife. He’s from Tunisia and was very pleased to hear that Mrs. Fulke was not as he feared a Jew. We crawled through the large city of Tours, then tiptoed down the road to Chinon, where 98 percent of the circus had already pulled onto the lot and was fast asleep. Sounds like a good idea. I shall now turn out the light and hit the hay bale hard.

THURSDAY, July 21 — Barely light outside when I was roused from my fragrant bed. Luckily, I hadn’t washed off my makeup. Madame Poco employs a curious incentive plan. No breakfast until all tents up and everything squared away for next show. I hardly had time to use the doniker (circus lingo for w.c.). Amazing how much work involved in moving the entire agglomeration, and this is just a small show. Fortunate that circus traditions go back to Roman times. If somebody came up with the concept today, I’m sure it’d be dismissed as an impractical folly.

True medieval serfdom for all, but at least the grub not bad. Good thing eats are provided. Otherwise, on my salary I’d be reduced to filching bananas from the monkeys. Have observed that the little people in the company seem to pack away as much as the normal-sized folks. This is not true of the giant Donk, who is quietly but methodically decimating the barnyards of France. His pampered monkey Dink dines at his side and displays better table manners than many of the roustabouts. I don’t provide maid service for that ape. Donk and Dink reside in the giant’s modest caravan (which I would guess to be rather dank).

Chinon is another storybook river town dominated by a vast ruined castle atop a rocky bluff. In case anyone hadn’t heard that the circus was in town, at noon our ornate bandwagon was cranked up, waking the dead from here to the Swiss border.

4:20 p.m. Camel herding on a remote corner of the lot. Iyad likes to supplement his camels’ diet of pricey hay, oats, and dates with free grass from the field. So far Ajax and Omar pretty docile about being dragged out here to graze. Gives me a little free time to relax and obsess about my personal problems. Have decided that getting plastic surgery was the dumbest thing I ever did, next to burning down half of Berkeley. Never should have let Connie talk me into it. OK, maybe it helped a little in dragooning Sheeni to the altar, but it certainly complicates trying to hide out in France. I think Reina is completely turned off by the Mrs. Fulke routine. Let’s face it: has any woman in history ever been successfully wooed by a guy dressed like a chick—especially an old ugly one? Not even a randy lesbian would find Mrs. Fulke appealing. Plus, I’m so busy shoveling shit I barely have time to scan the audiences for my goateed wife. I’m trying to maintain a positive outlook though. At least the countryside is spectacular. Some people pay big bucks to vacation in this beauty spot; I get to enjoy it with all expenses paid. Have you ever noticed how camels walk? Pretty funny. First they move both feet on one side of their body, then swing along both feet on the other side. You could get seasick just watching them. Hey! Where are those guys going?

7:46 p.m. Ajax and Omar are back. Iyad is furious. How was I to know they’d want to spend Happy Hour in the Vienne River? I don’t see how a 132-pound old lady can be expected to control a ton-and-a-half of rampaging dromedaries. Iyad says I should hit their legs with a stick. Right. I can just imagine how they’d react to that. I’d rather hit Iyad with a stick. Running after his camels made me miss out on dinner, always the high point of a serf’s day. I was reduced to buying a bag of salted nuts from Carlos, one of our ever- hustling snack vendors. He had the nerve to charge me full price too.

10:05 p.m. Stepped out of the camel van for a breath of air and beheld an awesome sight. The vast castle on the hill is illuminated at night. It floated above the twinkling lights of Chinon like some immense relic of a grander age. Princes and kings probably hung out up there centuries ago. Knights in armor may have fought and died on its crumbling battlements. Now the Age of Chivalry was long past and I am alone in the dark with my head in the stars and my feet ankle-deep in you know what.

FRIDAY, July 22 — Another day, another 16 tons dumped on the pile. All this exercise is reviving my depressed hormones. I’m finding I very much miss the physical aspect of married life. Let’s face it: once you’ve intimately known Sheeni Saunders on a semi- regular basis, it’s hard to return to those lonely dates with your palm. I go at it anyway, though on the other side of the partition Omar and Ajax moan in protest. Those dudes aren’t getting any either (unlike the debauched monkeys), but maybe all that cud chewing keeps them pacified. Sorry if my journal is beginning to read like “Doctor Doolittle,” but I do spend a lot of my time talking to the animals. Well, cursing them at any rate.

During lunch a delivery van pulled onto the lot with a package for Morag Fulke. Very gratifying for the lowliest serf to be singled out in this way. The box contained a shiny new cellphone and this note from Connie: