Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (37 page)

2:26 p.m. Confronted by truly monstrous piles today. Talk about a high-pressure low-wage job. It’s like being at the end of a mammoth conveyer belt forever discharging endless lumps of you know what. So much as pause to scratch your butt and you fall dangerously behind. Good thing I have my radio to help keep up my morale. Taking a break from lugubrious Frank, I switched to a channel that plays seventies disco music. Rather insipid, but a very good beat to swing a shovel by. Yes, I have found at last a use for the Bee Gees.

10:17 p.m. Tonight’s contest theme was “Sense of Humor.” Donk explained that this was one of the most essential qualities in a good husband. For once, I had to agree. Any guy who proposes to live with a chick had better be so equipped. It can function like a marital shock absorber—turning a prolonged bumpy ride into mere patches of occasional queasiness.

I prayed the committee wouldn’t ask us to get up and tell jokes. I knew Tarkan was an endless font of ribald stories. Likewise, Jiri seemed to have a bottomless supply of amusing anecdotes about Growing Up under Communism. I never realized that harsh oppression by the Russians and their cronies could be such a laugh riot. Me, I have a terrible memory for jokes. My old Oakland pal Lefty, by contrast, was a true connoisseur. But of the thousands of “jokes” he subjected me to only one ever stuck: “Question: What’s the difference between pussy and parsley? Answer: Nobody ever eats parsley.” We both found that vastly amusing, though neither of us had sampled the former at the time. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a light interlabial snack right now. There’s nothing like swirling your tongue around a swelling clit. But I digress.

Donk outlined the particulars of today’s contest. The contestants would be given 20 minutes to prepare a five-minute comedy routine. To overcome the language barrier and assure that our alleged senses of humor possessed universal appeal we could do anything we wished except speak. No talking was permitted. Like the diabolical Marcel we would have to do our clowning without words. I contemplated this assignment and found that my mind had gone completely blank. Instant panic and flop sweat. Was it possible that I was entirely devoid of a sense of humor?

Fortunately, Tarkan was picked to go first. He played a soccer goalie who had had too much to drink. The circus company roared with delight as Tarkan wove about, nearly falling over, yet somehow always scooping up the ball and booting it back in amusing ways, or losing it in his shirt, or “accidentally” spinning it on his nose. A sympathetic critic might say he combined the lithe athleticism of Buster Keaton with the comic timing of Charlie Chaplin. Not entirely unfunny to me, but I hoped everyone could see that the hearty laughter was being led by the maniacal hysterics of the Batur clan. The whole family was overplaying its hand as usual.

Next, emaciated Jiri came out in his skimpy shorts and did a striptease in reverse. As he flounced about, leering seductively and flexing his puny muscles, he slid the occasional clothing item on instead of off. Rather clever idea. His articles of apparel, apparently borrowed from a midget, were all much too small for him. He convulsed the appreciative audience as he slithered into tiny shirts and squeezed his stark white legs into trousers ten sizes too small. Shrieks of merriment from everyone except Mrs. Fulke and the stony-faced Baturs. Reina, I noticed with alarm, was in stitches. At least I could take solace in the knowledge that she was applauding Jiri for the act of enclothing his unsightly body. A Playmate centerfold he was not.

And then it was Mrs. Fulke’s time to perform. Never have I been so nervous. Not even last Christmas Eve when Sheeni chose to give me that special present. Mrs. Fulke stared out at the sea of expectant faces. They stared back and tittered. The seconds crawled by. My reeling brain tried to unlock my rigid muscles. No one was answering the phone below my neck. Then I saw my right hand, quivering with fear, rise up. Then some internal hydraulics activated my left hand. Then someone switched on a Bee Gees tape in my mind, and Mrs. Fulke found herself break dancing to a disco beat. Fairly astounding, because I had never attempted this before. Had no knowledge, in fact, of ever conceiving of the idea. I was just doing it— without apparent volition. Just goes to show what heroics the human body can rise to in times of life-threatening stress. I was gliding, I was sliding, I was swiveling on my back, I was spinning like a top on my ratty gray wig. The audience went wild and clapped along to the beat. What beat? Apparently the one Mrs. Fulke was conjuring through her rhythmic gyrations. A 74-year-old lady break dancing to some unheard melody—not even the Baturs could entirely suppress a smile.

After all the votes had been counted, Donk announced that the results were very close. Tarkan placed two votes behind the leaders, who had finished in a dead heat. It was a tie. So the committee decided to award four points to Jiri and me, and a consolation three points to the talented Turk. New rankings: Mrs. Fulke - 20, Tarkan -21, Jiri - 22.

Thank God it turned out I have a sense of humor. I was beginning to fear the worst.

FRIDAY, August 12 — Another “wee small hours of the morning” phone call from Connie. She’s in despair because they can’t find a decent house in their price range.

“
Well, what is your price range?” I yawned.

“
I’d like to keep it under five, Rick.”

“
Five what?”

“
Five million, of course.”

I nearly dropped the phone.

“
You mean to tell me, Connie, that you can’t find a decent house for five fucking million dollars?!”

“
Not in a neighborhood I’d care to live in, Rick. It’s all fixers or tear-downs. Or some hideous eyesore that’s just been redone in some decorator’s wretched taste. And God forbid if it was ever owned by a movie star. Then the price is doubled. I mean would you pay $3 million extra just to say you live in a house that was once owned by Broderick Crawford?”

“
Connie, you’re talking to a guy who’s living in a camel van. I’m having trouble relating to your problem.”

Even Connie could understand that. So she spent the next 20 minutes haranguing me for not staying in Albi and looking for my elusive wife.

“
Rick, did I give up when my Paulo disappeared? Did I abandon my marriage plans?”

“
No, Connie,” I conceded. “You didn’t.”

“
I can’t believe you’re proposing to ditch Paulo’s pretty sister for some Bulgarian parrot freak.”

“
Reina’s Czech, Connie. She’s a very nice person. I love her a lot.”

“
If she’s so nice, why is little miss home wrecker accepting phone calls from married men?”

“
Paul called her?!”

“
Three times, Rick. Naturally, I have immediate access to his phone records. He called her yesterday in fact.”

“
Maybe he wanted to tell her that he was going to be a father.”

“
It doesn’t take 48 fucking minutes to convey that news!”

“
Then you should be happy I want to marry her, Connie. Paul will have to give her up.”

“
It doesn’t work that way, Rick,” Connie sighed. “Remember, we always want what we cannot have.”

Boy, do we ever. Damn, now I have to find a way to eavesdrop on Reina’s phone. I feel it’s a bad sign that she never told me she talked to Paul. Why is it that everywhere I turn there’s a Saunders busy fucking over my life?

10:18 a.m. I never got back to sleep. Just as well. I’d probably have a dream in which Sheeni was introducing me to a pack of her studly new boyfriends. At the first light of dawn I sneaked out with my towel and knocked on Reina’s caravan door. She was already awake, dressed, and looking heart-renderingly beautiful. Someday soon I hope to view a sunrise through her caravan window in some capacity other than early visitor.

After Mrs. Fulke showered and shaved, we settled onto Reina’s cozy dinette for coffee and croissants. By now I barely noticed the deafening parrot screeches.

“
Your wig is looking nice this morning, Morag,” she commented.

“
Thanks, Reina. It’s quite the amazing rug. You can even spin your entire body on it and it springs back into shape. Vastly superior to actual hair. Hardly shows the dirt either. And the camel spit brushes right out after you let it dry. How are my wrinkles?”

“
Very uniform and authentic looking. Quite grandmotherly in fact.”

“
Glad to hear it.”

I sipped my coffee and casually let it drop that I had heard from Mrs. Paul Saunders.

“
Oh,” replied Reina with equal nonchalance, “how is she?”

“
Rather stressed from house-hunting and being an expectant mother.”

“
Yes, Paul mentioned that.”

“
Oh, you’ve talked to him?”

“
A few times. He calls me. You Americans think nothing of telephoning people on the other side of the world.”

“
What does he, uh, call up to say? If I may be so nosy as to inquire?”

“
He doesn’t think I should get married. He thinks the contest is stupid.”

“
Really. Why’s that?”

“
He says if I met the right person, I would know it. That I wouldn’t be troubled by these, uh, uncertainties.”

“
Does he say anything about his marriage?”

“
He said that if he didn’t marry her, she was going to have his parole revoked. You have interesting friends, Rick.”

“
Connie never told me that, Reina. It may not be true.”

“
I have no reason to disbelieve Paul, Rick.”

“
Does he say anything about me?”

“
He says you are going to have a hard time, Rick.”

“
A hard time because of the littlest monkey?”

“
He said nothing about that, Rick. What’s this about a monkey?”

But our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another freeloading shower cadger. Jiri entered, attempted unsuccessfully to plant one on Reina’s lips, and gave Mrs. Fulke a look that could curdle cream. When, later, the bathroom door popped open, Reina and I both made a point of turning away and gazing out the front window. Someday that towel-waving exhibitionist is going to brush up against a parrot cage, and something large and floppy is going to receive a nasty bite.

5:12 p.m. The monkeys are revolting. At today’s matinee Mr. Granley blew his whistle and his monkeys just looked at him like he was the Gym Teacher from Mars. No one moved a muscle. Finally, Number Three consented to do a few sprongs on the trampoline, but that was it. Their entire program of tricks was suddenly off the menu. Since Captain Lapo was in no condition to eat fire or munch light bulbs, he had to run out and pound a few nails into himself while Mr. G’s act was rolled away in disgrace. No problem though with Donk’s monkey Dink, who handed out his treats and took his little bows with his usual aplomb. Then Mr. G had the nerve to blame the mutiny on Mrs. Fulke. The officious twit has banned disco music in general and my radio in particular from the monkey van. Mrs. Fulke is feeling a bit smug. She’s been trashing Mr. G privately to his troupe for weeks, and it finally looks like all that badmouthing has paid off. Now if only Tarkan’s ponies would start paying attention.

11:42 p.m. No performances tonight for Mr. G. He’s been excused for a few days of intensive act freshening. He did appear in the cookhouse along with other members of the company to observe tonight’s Tour de Wife contest titled “Visions of Love.” Too bad it wasn’t an eye test. I always ace those, being able to spot a wart on a gnat’s ass at 50 yards. No, tonight’s task was to draw a portrait of Reina, who kindly posed for us in all her fully clothed pulchritude. Passing out the paper and colored pencils, Donk stated that a good husband should be artistic—a rule that was news to me. Since Reina was going to all the trouble of holding still, many non- contestants clamored to join in. At least a dozen wannabe Picassos gathered round My Sweet Love to translate her comeliness into Personal Artistic Statements.

Now I have my egotistical moments, but one thing I have never claimed to be is an artist. Never will I forget that embarrassing incident in the sixth grade when an art teacher singled me out as someone who could draw “nothing except flies.” Her assessment, alas, was spot on. My artistic skills are nil, zilch, less than zero. Puling two-year-olds with soiled nappies and gum in their hair can wield a crayon with greater adroitness than any Twisp. We are not an artistic people. Nevertheless, I gazed at Reina’s perfect features and tried mightily to forge a link between my eager eyeballs and my spastic hand. I’ve heard it’s simply a matter of getting into the proper side of the brain. No such luck. Both orbs of my brain were equally inept. My portrait resembled a space alien as drawn by the traumatized victim of an intergalactic abduction and sex probe.

At last Donk blew his whistle, terminating the artistic torment. Everyone signed their drawings on the back, and Donk pinned them to the walls of the tent for judging.

Two, everyone agreed, stood out. One was no worse than the mature work of Johannes Vermeer of Delft. The other was a competent likeness. The rest were more or less pathetic, though one outshone all the others in incompetence. Once again a Twisp had achieved absolute artistic nadir.

Surprisingly, the competent likeness was by Donk. The master- piece—Reina was amazed to discover—was by the gifted hand of Marcel Fazy. Whoever would have supposed the atrabilious clown was such an artist? He graciously signed it again on the front and presented it to Reina with his compliments. She thanked him warmly and promised to have it framed. She also kissed Donk for his commendable effort.