Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (34 page)

“
I didn’t have the pleasure,” I lied.

“
Very bad for trumpet player to have hurting lips and stiff fin

gers from digging. Many painful blisters too. Why they make us digging? I am musician, not ditch digger!”

“
It was a test of strength.”

“
I am plenty strong to be husband of Reina. Your son, he is strong?”

“
Quite immensely powerful for being an accountant. He takes after his mother.”

“
You think Reina will marry that Turk?”

“
I hope not.”

“
I love her too much. She always my most dearest girl. You have husband?”

“
Mr. Fulke? Passed on to his reward.”

“
Sorry. How he died?”

“
Lung cancer. He was a smoker, you know. It was quite a lingering, painful death. He had to haul around his own oxygen machine the last 12 years of his life.”

Jiri chewed on his arm and mulled this over.

“
We make party, Mrs. Fulke? You have some nice Scotch whiskey?”

“
Sorry, no. Would you care for an orange?”

“
No, thank you. I go look for party. Always parties back in Czech, but here not so much fun. Everybody tired from work and go to bed. Your son, how long does he know Reina?”

“
Oh, years and years. They’re always together when he goes to Paris on business.”

“
If he’s so rich, why is his mama working like Albanian for circus?”

I looked around and lowered my voice. “Stanley is thinking of buying this circus. He sent me down here to scope it out.”

“
He sends his own mama to live with camels? Mrs. Fulke, your son is terrible person. He is not the right man for my Reina. That I tell you!”

“
Oh, you’re quite wrong, Mr. Mestan. Stanley is a wonderful man. He and Reina will be very happy together, I assure you of that.”

“
Then tell him to come and fight himself. Not right to have his mama digging holes. You tell him Jiri Mestan wants to see him. OK?”

“
All right. I’ll give him the message.”

“
You have any cigarettes you can borrow me, Mrs. Fulke?”

“
Sorry. I don’t.”

“
That’s OK. Maybe better I keep my promise to Reina. But girls not right to control the man, right?”

“
That’s right. You have a perfect right to smoke if you want to. Don’t let anyone try to stop you.”

With that, my adversary waved his arm (the oral one) and lurched off into the night.

What a mess that guy is. If only I could get Tarkan hooked on something similarly addictive.

FRIDAY, August 5 — Madame Poco has put her foot down.

Too many expensive man-hours were lost during yesterday’s stage of the Tour de Wife. To minimize disruption to her serfdom program, only the committee and three contestants assembled at the usual hour (10:00 a.m.) in Cahors’ bustling medieval quarter for today’s competition. First, Donk made us empty our pockets of all currency and change. The sums were noted by Marcel and the cash handed over to Captain Lapo for safekeeping. Sadly, poor Jiri had only E.27 to his name. To avoid arrest for public perversion, he was back to “smoking” feminine hygiene by-products. His lip swellings had subsided somewhat, but he still looked like someone you’d see loitering outside of a methadone clinic.

Today’s event, explained Donk, would test for those essential husbandly qualities of sincerity and persuasiveness. Each of us would have one hour to waylay the citizens of Cahors and persuade them to give us money. The winner would be the guy who hauled in the most cash. To prevent cheating, each of us would be accompanied by a member of the committee. We all drew lots, and I won Donk the Giant as my panhandling buddy. The whole thing didn’t seem very fair to Mrs. Fulke, and she said so.

“
But I don’t speak French!” I wailed. “Tarkan is practically fluent!”

“
I am perfectly fluent,” he sniffed, cutting me dead.

“
We Czechs are not so very money-grubbing,” protested Jiri, obviously hung over. The guy must have dredged up some kind of party last night.

“
You may not be,” snapped Marcel, “but I don’t know about Reina. She has approved of this contest. And Tarkan may speak French, but don’t forget he’s Turkish.”

True enough. The French were not known for their love of swarthy foreigners.

The committee members synchronized their watches, then Donk blew his whistle, clicked his stopwatch, and we were off. This being August, touristy Cahors was swarming with sightseeing Americans. Mrs. Fulke decided to concentrate her efforts among that affluent subgroup of English-speakers.

“
Help me buy breakfast for my giant!” I called. “Help me buy some grub for the big guy.”

“
Hey, you can’t say that!” protested Donk.

“
Whatever is not prohibited, is permitted,” I retorted. “Just be glad I’m not auctioning you off as someone’s sex slave.”

We worked our way through the narrow winding streets like the colorful beggars of antiquity. Mrs. Fulke perfected her patter and was soon hoovering up the dollars and euros. I also raked in quite a few E5 bills for the privilege of having one’s picture taken with “Europe’s most famous giant.” We could have hauled in even more, but I spent a good ten minutes pursuing a goateed youth. Not my darling wife, as it turns out, but he was sufficiently intimidated when we cornered him in an alley to hand over E16 unbidden. Mrs. Fulke gave him back his credit cards and wristwatch. She had no use for a Rolex knockoff. I pretended not to notice as Donk slipped the cowering fellow a E20 bill, patted him on his back, and sent him on his way.

Both Donk and I were feeling optimistic when we returned to our starting point an hour later. I was the first to count out my haul: E73.12, plus $32.13 in American money and an unknown amount in miscellaneous foreign coinage. Why was I slaving for peanuts with the circus, I wondered, when I could be out here getting rich off the tourists?

Jiri confirmed his disinterest in money-grubbing. He coughed up a paltry E3.59. Actually, he was in minus territory for the morning, since he received a E10 citation for illegal panhandling from an alert Cahors gendarme.

We were both shocked when Tarkan pulled out a crisp wad of new euros still in its official bank paper wrapper. His total came to exactly E500. The smug creep refused to tell us how he did it, so Captain Lapo spilled the beans. Tarkan had gone directly to a meat market and had a sincere and persuasive chat with the Turkish proprietor.

“
How much interest is he charging you on that loan?” Mrs. Fulke demanded.

“
I don’t have to tell you that,” he replied.

Another bitter disappointment. Once again Tarkan got the kiss from lovely Reina and the big fat five points. Current score: Jiri - 3, Mrs. Fulke - 10, and Tarkan - 14. Thankfully, some of us got to keep our panhandling take. A nice haul for the Morag Fulke fugitive fund. I bought a bagload of spare batteries for my radio. Eager Jiri tore up his citation and took his winnings directly to a tobacconists shop. No, I didn’t see him light up, but I doubt he went in there for nicotine gum.

1:12 p.m. Is it my imagination or is the entire Batur clan giving Mrs. Fulke the cold shoulder? Their ponies, though, are still producing, so I’m still shoveling. I wanted a pony badly as a tiny tot and now I’ve got eight. If you ever have to decide between a camel and pony as a pet, I’d recommend the horse. They’re pretty friendly once they get to know you and do cute things like nuzzle your pockets for carrots or sugar cubes. Camels, though, just look at you with contempt and fart in your face or piss on your shoes. Iyad is always screaming at them, which may not be improving their attitudes. Number 14, the baby monkey, is growing fast and starting to play. He’s a little zone of adorability in that X-rated cage. Reina still visits frequently, though she has to put up with Mr. G constantly hitting on her. The cad has redoubled his attentions since getting aced out of competing legitimately in the Tour de Wife. Reina is ever polite, but if I were her, I’d grab the guy’s bullwhip and start flailing away. I think he should be hung up by his moustache and poked all over with sharp sticks. After that the serious tortures could begin.

3:38 p.m. I decided to call Paris for an update. No answer at Violet’s, so I called Trent’s number. His lovely wife answered. She recognized Rick S. Hunter’s voice and greeted me with camel-like reserve. I explained that having her brother exiled to India was not my idea.

“
You cannot imagine, Nick, how much my parents have suffered.”

She’s right. Call me a sociopath, but I just can’t conceive how being separated from Vijay could be a source of distress. Perhaps I’m lacking in empathy.

“
I’m sorry, Apurva,” I lied. “I’m sure this mix-up will be straightened out soon. How are you enjoying Paris?”

“
It seems quite enchanting—from what I can see from the windows of this dreary apartment.”

“
I used to live there, you know.”

“
Yes, you and Sheeni. That is part of what makes it so depressing.”

She sighed. I sighed.

“
Is your husband there, Apurva?”

“
He is out with Violet giving television interviews. Or so he says.”

She sighed. I sighed.

“
Do you know if he’s publicizing the fact that Sheeni’s father has left France?”

“
I believe so. He seems especially anxious that she return. Why this is so I cannot say. I shall never understand you Americans.”

“
Apurva, Trent loves you. You can’t give up on him.”

“
I do not care to discuss my private life with you, Nick. I believe that you have interfered with it enough. Nor do I trust that you have any sincere interest in my welfare.”

“
Apurva! I was only trying to make you happy! Didn’t I help you every way I could to marry Trent?”

“
Marrying Trent has not been . . . Well, enough said on that subject. Do you wish me to convey a message to him?”

“
Apurva, you’ve got to get him to go home with you. Staying in Paris is a mistake.”

“
Don’t you think I know that? I never wanted him to come here in the first place. But he had to come and see his precious Sheeni. And now there’s this Violet woman.”

“
It’s just an infatuation, Apurva. Trent loves you.”

“
Then there is something going on between them. I thought so. He denied it. Well, I see he’s not to be trusted. Just like you, Nick Twisp. Goodbye!” Click.

Damn. I think I stuck my foot in it that time. I know I haven’t always been the most guileless of friends to Apurva, but I’ve never wished her ill. I always liked her. And let’s not forget that were it not for an unfortunate cold virus, I might have been her first lover. As far as potential wives go, she’s always been penciled in on my list right under Sheeni and Reina. That should count for something.

7:22 p.m. Jiri got nailed at dinner. Reina smelled tobacco on his breath. Well, what do you expect? The fool showed up in the cookhouse tent with no visible pacifier. Naturally, Reina got suspicious. She made him produce the half-empty pack, which she tore to bits while he looked on whimpering. He’s chewed up both doll arms and has had to graduate to a leg. Good thing his point total is so low. It’d be a shame if Reina had to marry a freak who walks around with what appears to be a stunted third leg growing out of his face. His moustache is turning out to be something of a joke too. Very sparse and at some angles it gives the impression of being pubic hair attached to the leg. Rather troubling to the casual observer. 11:28 p.m. Still no birthday card/gift from my sister, so I gave her a call. She was home in L.A. giving both barrels to greedy Tyler. That guy can sure slurp. She seemed happy to hear from me and said all her friends were impressed that the cute sailor in the “Heee, Lekker Ding” video was her fugitive brother.

“
God, Nick, I never thought you’d get to be so famous. Even Mother is impressed. She’s trying to find out how she can get all your royalties.”

“
What!”

“
You know, to keep them for you.”

Yeah, right.

“
Isn’t she in jail?”

“
The prosecution made a big blunder, Nick. They put Lance on the stand. By the time Mother’s lawyers finished with him, even the jury wanted to murder him. Mom was convicted of the lesser charge of aggravated assault. The judge let her off with time served and probation.”

“
She’s not in jail? For shooting a guy’s nuts off!”

“
We’re all terribly relieved, Nick. But you need to send us some more money.”

“
What!”

“
That horrid Lance won’t give up. Now he’s suing Mother for damages in civil court—for $12 million!”

What a greedy bastard. No way his disgusting testicles were worth $6 million apiece. I groaned. The handwriting was on the wall. Evil Lance would get my video royalties too. I informed my sister I was virtually penniless and hung up.

You’d think I’d know better by now. The last person in the world to reach out to is a fellow Twisp.

SATURDAY, August 6 — Missing Sheeni terribly on this anniversary day. I’ve lost count of how many weeks it’s been since we were blushing newlyweds in Yahoo City. Now she’s gone without a word and our first French summer is passing quickly too. Back in California this is about the time I’d be bugging my miserly father for some sharp back-to-school clothes. Now I have the wardrobe of an Alzheimer’s victim, and my educational career may have fizzled out to an ignominious conclusion. True, I never liked school, but I suppose it has its uses. It does toss you into a social mix with a lot of cute girls, assuming you haven’t done something insane like enroll in a boys’ academy. And then there are the dances, football games, debate meets, pep rallies, car cruises, etc. All in all, it sounds more appealing right now than endless shit shoveling for Third World wages. Me, nostalgic for high school? I have come to a new low.