Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (38 page)

“
But what about my drawing?” pouted Tarkan, pointing to a portrait of an ugly horse-faced girl. “Is it not clearly superior to all the others?”

No, was the unanimous verdict. The three contestants were judged equally untalented and awarded one point each. (New rankings: Mrs. Fulke - 21, Tarkan - 22, Jiri - 23.) Fervid but ultimately futile protests by the Baturs against consignment to the same category as Mrs. Fulke. As for Jiri, he merely shrugged and tore up his muddled effort, which to my eyes looked more like Omar than Reina.

Considering the slew of drunkards, adulterers, and wife-abusers who’ve made it big in the art world, I wonder if “artistic temperament” is a quality one should seek in a husband. Sure, Trent Preston can paint like Cézanne, but would you really want to marry the twit? That reminds me, I must get an update soon on his marital woes.

SATURDAY, August 13 — Can you believe it’s been over three months since Sheeni and I were wed in distant Mississippi? And nearly half that interval has passed since our tragic parting. I marked the occasion with a somber memorial wank. For a change I mentally undressed Sheeni rather than Reina while flailing away. The usual thunderous climax followed almost immediately by a black depression. Those feel-good serotonins never linger in my brain when I contemplate my departed wife.

Wish I had an American tape measure. It seems to me my T.E. is looking more impressive these days. Who knows? I soon may be nudging Reina’s bathroom door open myself to flash a Notable Specimen.

This morning’s contest theme was “Judicious Thrift.” The contestants and committee adjourned to Mende, whose main street hosts a regular Saturday morning flea market. Lots of rustic natives peddling items from the backs of their cars or from small makeshift trailers. As specified, each contestant arrived with exactly E10 in cash. As instructed by Donk, we were to wander about and purchase those items best exemplifying “judicious thrift.” The guy who returned with what was judged (by Reina) the most bang for his bucks would win. (This presupposes she desires to marry a cheap tightwad.) All items had to be purchased outright and could not be obtained through loans or other devious means. To prevent cheating, each of us would be accompanied by a committee member.

This time Mrs. Fulke drew Marcel, who sighed loudly and gave me a look that could tan leather. Then Donk blew his whistle and off we went.

Even out of his clown outfit, Marcel is not the ideal shopping companion. Anything you pick up to inspect triggers a great display of contemptuous eye rolling. Hey, I wasn’t going to buy that rusty calf-castrating tool, I just wanted to see how it worked. Do you suppose they used a similar implement on poor Abelard?

Nor can the Mende market be termed a bargain hunter’s paradise. Farm produce and such ilk comprised about a third of the offerings. Yes, you could buy an entire wheel of cheese, but not for E10. Another third was apparel related. I spotted an interesting wedding gown that might have fit Reina, but it was priced at a delusional E45. Then you had your optimistic displays of rusty tools, odd car parts, musty books (almost all in French), yellowed magazines, old-lady handicrafts, dubious electronic items, obsolete computer components, previously sweated-in shoes, battered toys, and suspect jewelry. I asked Marcel if he thought a rather attractive pair of earrings were real pearls, but he just sighed and rolled his eyes. So I passed on them. I did find a picture frame that seemed the right size for Marcel’s drawing. The man was asking E5, but I turned Mrs. Fulke’s accent up and nailed it for a mere E2. Sharp bargaining is to be expected—all Europe knows—when you’re confronting a Scot. That left me with E8 and less than 15 minutes to go in our one-hour shopping spree. Time to pick up the pace.

A hand-carved oak cradle seemed just the thing to appeal to Reina’s maternal side, but the obstinate vendor wouldn’t budge from E12. A bit bulky for a crowded caravan anyway. For the same reason I had to nix a rusty but repairable Peugeot bicycle in my price range. Then I spotted a glint of gold. An old pocket watch, and yes, it appeared to be ticking. A rather plain dial, but perhaps hand- painted. I pried open the hinged back. An intricate movement with gleaming red things that might be jeweled bearings. Rubies? Sapphires? A tiny hallmark on the case that my eagle eyes deciphered as “18k.” I held up the watch and looked inquiringly at the ancient lady vendor. Marcel grudgingly translated.

“
She says she is holding it for a mad foreigner accompanied by a giant.”

Unquestionably Jiri. I waved my E8 and smiled into her cloudy green eyes. Don’t be fooled by the wig, I telegraphed, it’s a face you remember from your youth. A liverish hand reached out and grabbed the cash. The deed was done. A moment later I spotted Jiri hurrying in our direction. We turned and melted into the crowd. Then Donk’s whistle sounded from down the block. Our shopping spree was over.

2:28 p.m. The cargo was laid before Reina at lunchtime in the cookhouse. Mrs. Fulke went first.

“
Here is a picture frame for your portrait by Marcel. My guess is it’s lime or pear wood. You’ll notice the wavy glass is quite old.”

“
Very nice,” said Reina.

“
And here’s an antique pocket watch. Probably Swiss or French, with an 18-karat solid gold case and jeweled movement. I think it couldn’t be any later than early 19th Century. And as you can see, it works fine.”

It had lost ten minutes since I had set it, but one could hardly demand precision timekeeping from something that old.

“
A beautiful watch!” exclaimed Reina. “Thank you, Morag.”

Next up was Jiri, who began by flashing me a look that could bruise exposed flesh. The spendthrift was sucking a large piece of peppermint candy, doubtless purchased in town with funds embezzled from his “judicious thrift” monies.

“
Here is old zither, Reina,” he said, producing a decrepit stringed instrument. “Not such good condition, but I play you a tune.”

He then manipulated the thing to produce a quaint melody and a large cloud of musty mold spores. Jarringly out of tune, but apparently charming to its recipient. Reina thanked him heartily.

“
Show her what else you got,” prodded Donk.

Jiri reluctantly extracted something from his pocket. It was a distressingly familiar-looking gold watch.

Marcel smiled and offered an explanation. “These fakes are flooding in from Russia. Thin brass-plating over pot metal. Hong Kong movements. They usually sell for two or three euros.”

For a change, Mrs. Fulke gave him the nasty look. Thanks a pantsful, creep.

“
Well, they’re very pretty timepieces,” said Reina, perceiving our embarrassment. “I’m sure they will come in handy.”

For what, I wondered? Target practice? Sock darning? Braining an amorous horn player?

Finally, Tarkan coughed up his baksheesh.

“
Dearest Reina, I bought for you this enchanting pair of pearl earrings.”

Mrs. Fulke saw red.

“
Those things are fake!” she charged.

Ignoring me, the cad smiled at Reina and handed her a formal- looking certificate.

“
Anticipating such objections,” he said, “Captain Lapo and I had my purchase appraised this morning at Mende’s largest jewelers. As you can see, they were declared genuine and valued at E480. The settings are 14k gold.”

“
They are lovely, Tarkan,” said Reina, “but I cannot accept them.”

“
But why not, my darling?” he asked.

“
I cannot accept from you your mother’s pearl earrings.”

A tremendous uproar. Expostulations of outrage from the other contestants. Indignant denials of treachery by the Baturs. Dazed confusion by Captain Lapo when pressed if such a substitution could have been made. More outrage when Mrs. Batur mysteriously unable to produce her own pair of pearl earrings. Then she “recalled” she had left them in Istanbul, but several witnesses testified they had seen her wearing them on this tour. Donk acted decisively. Declared Jiri the winner, Mrs. Fulke second, and Tarkan a fraud. The Turk socked with zero points for the day, and earrings handed back to his mom. She again denied they were hers, but grabbed them in a flash when Mrs. Fulke volunteered to take them. New rankings: Tarkan - 22, Mrs. Fulke - 24, Jiri - 28.

Some satisfaction in seeing Tarkan get his comeuppance, but still smarting from fleecing by elderly Frog sharpie. How can Europe hope to stay united when innocent visitors from UK are prey to such swindles? And why hasn’t that old lady been locked away in some luxurious rest home? I thought the socialists were running this country.

11:09 p.m. More outrages. Lovely Reina just spotted sipping wine—in Marcel’s caravan! Even more damning, he was in there with her. Both laughing merrily and having a good time.

More buyer’s remorse. I should have skipped the watch. And bought the castrating tool.

SUNDAY, August 14 — An interesting development in the “Judicious Thrift” contest. Last night while framing Marcel’s picture in his caravan (a likely story), Reina slid out the wooden backing from my frame and discovered an old print. Labeled “Ciconia, Cigogne,” it depicted several long-legged birds, possibly storks. It was signed “Nicolas Robert,” and appeared to be a hand-colored engraving from some distant century. Madame Poco thought it might be valuable. In any case, it was judged a greater prize than Jiri’s moldering zither, so there’s been an adjustment in the Tour de Wife standings. New rankings: Tarkan - 22, Mrs. Fulke - 26, Jiri - 26. Mrs. Fulke received a belated lesbianistic kiss, and the storks have gone up on Reina’s caravan wall instead of Marcel’s art. A very nice gift for a bird lover, even if she is suddenly hobnobbing with despised clowns.

Practiced my juggling this morning after a few days’ layoff and found my skills had improved considerably. I believe this is often the case. Just imagine how much better I’ll be at sexual intercourse should I ever get a chance to resume that activity. No prospects at the moment though. Many balls are in motion, but not my own.

1:45 p.m. After lunch I called my contortionist pal Violet in Paris. Her mobile phone was answered by an all-too-familiar male voice.

“
Hi, Trent,” I said. “Where’s Violet?”

“
She’s out talking to the assistant director. We’re sharing a trailer on the set. I want to thank you, Nick, for informing my wife of my heinous duplicity.”

No detectable sarcasm in that remark. T.P. was nothing if not sincere.

“
I hope you guys are working things out, Trent.”

“
I’ve made everyone truly wretched, including myself.”

Hard to believe a guy that good-looking could be such a depressive. I struggled to maintain an upbeat tone.

“
Hey, are you guys working on that movie?”

“
Yes, we’re in our third day of shooting. Pretty interesting so far. Violet is a marvelous actor.”

“
She’s in the movie too?”

“
Yes, they decided to write a contortionist into the plot. I’m not sure the script makes much sense, but the French aren’t hung up on such conventions.”

No, they wouldn’t be.

“
How are you doing, Nick?”

“
Not bad, Trent. Say, thanks for not ratting on me to the cops.”

“
That’s OK, Nick. I’ve had a lot of time to think while being soothed by your friends in the wig salon. They all say hello, by the way. I figured out why you tried so hard to get Apurva and me married.”

“
Oh. You did, huh?”

“
I realized that you felt that true love requires commitment. That was always your great strength. You were incredibly committed to Sheeni, whereas I’ve been a weak and miserable failure with Apurva.”

“
You’ll work through this, Trent. I know you will. You’re stronger than you think.”

“
I appreciate your encouragement, Nick. It means a lot coming from you. Well, they want me on the set. I have to go shoot some more people. My character is quite ruthless and violent. To get into my role, I think about how you blasted Sheeni’s father for her passport.”

Damn, are there any of my crimes that Sheeni hasn’t blabbed to the world?

“
She told you that was me, huh?”

“
Yes, Nick. It was another magnificent gesture for love. Take care, my good friend.”

“
Oh, OK, Trent. Keep in touch.”

Wow, that guy sure has gone off the deep end. Just goes to show what fame, money, and too much contortionist sex can do to a person. Where do I sign up? All in all, though, I think I preferred our previous arrangement where we just hated each other’s guts.

6:28 p.m. Lovely Reina brought one of her many pocket watches to dinner this evening. I must have been blind yesterday. Blatantly crude construction that would appall the most slovenly Swiss artisan. The “jeweled bearings” were obvious simulations daubed on in iridescent red paint. And the “18k” hallmark was in fact “RUS,” which must stand for “R U a Sucker?” Just goes to show how the bargain-hungry mind can deceive itself.

Since Mr. G was working nonstop to whip his monkeys back into shape, Mrs. Fulke got to sit next to My Sweet Love at dinner. I love to watch Reina eat. She brings such sensuality to the task of masticating a pork cutlet. What does it mean, I wonder, when you derive so much satisfaction from watching your girlfriend’s teeth pulverize meat? And should one be quite so titillated by the mundane act of swallowing? Clearly, Jiri was not the only one with unresolved oral issues.