Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (39 page)

Yes, he and Marcel were crowded about her too, so you can imagine the competition for her attention. Reina finds us all amusing, but she does seem to laugh more at Marcel’s jests. The guy’s a real Noel Coward of the Sawdust when he wants to be. Of course, he has an unfair advantage, being a professional entertainer. I mean should any of us be impressed that a clown can be funny?

10:46 p.m. No Tour de Wife contest today. It was Marcel’s turn to think of one, but he was too busy chatting up Reina in his new role of witty sophisticate. Somebody should remind that clown he was disqualified from the competition for Reina’s affections. Received another installment of my Dickensian wage today. Such an anemic pile of bills—like something you’d hand to a kid for mowing your lawn. Instead, that’s all I get for seven days of hard labor. I wonder how much Marcel makes? Haven’t a clue. Seems like a guy would have to be highly paid to paint his face and go out and make a fool of himself in public like that. Wonder what he spends his money on? No visible vices that I can see. And it doesn’t cost a dime to sport a miserable personality.

We’re on the road to somewhere. Cars behind us are honking away. My guess is Iyad has coaxed it up to a rash 18 mph and is holding steady. Too bad we only travel at night. I’m probably missing some prized scenery. Even so, circus life is quite a rich diet for the senses. The sights, the sounds, the smells are much more vivid than anything I previously encountered. I’ve been at it just a few weeks, but it seems like I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t traveling with the show. Not a bad life if I could upgrade to a better job and get laid more often. The roustabouts, for example, have it pretty good. No shit to shovel, and they earn enough for professional female companionship in every town. Too bad they don’t have enough left over for regular dental care. Is the secret to a happy life being a muscle-bound sexist lowlife?

MONDAY, August 15 — We’re in Béziers, one of your more historic French towns. The obligatory fortress-like Gothic church plopped down on the highest hill. And two water features: the Orb river and the tree-shaded Canal du Midi. This was dug by hand many centuries ago to connect the Atlantic with the Mediterranean, thus eliminating that bothersome sail around Spain. No doubt somebody got rich treating all those hernias. We’re very far south now—nearly to the Mediterranean coast, I’m told. Most pleasant weather. Clear sunny days and not too hot. All around us grapes are ripening on the vines. Lovely views in all directions under a stunning blue sky. Almost makes one happy to be alive, even if countless tons awaiting the touch of my shovel. Laundry backing up too. Mrs. Fulke the smelliest old gal in France?

2:12 p.m. Another excursion into town with Reina in her station wagon to track down a launderette and hair salon. I guarded the tumbling dainties while My Sweet Love submitted to the styling whims of a nearby beautician. Not an unflattering cut if you ask me, and Reina did. We folded our laundry, and Mrs. Fulke attempted to ferret out the reason her companion was so pensive and distracted. Finally, Reina spilled the beans. Early this morning she had spotted a certain horn player exiting the caravan of Madame Poco.

“
She’s old enough to be his mother!” Reina exclaimed.

“
Very true,” I said.

Yeah, but so are a lot of attractive chicks, I thought. Who am I to exclude from my masturbatory fantasies our foxy employer?

“
I don’t understand it,” she complained. “Do you men need sex that badly?”

“
In my experience, Reina, sex is like water. It’s only important when you’re not getting any.”

“
Really?”

“
It’s the testosterone, Reina. That’s what drives the reproductive impulse in both males and females. And we guys have about 20 times more of it firing our boilers than you chicks.”

“
Oh dear, Morag. That’s dreadful. But how do you know all this?”

“
Health class. I was paying attention that day.”

“
Would you sleep with Madame Poco if she asked you? Now be honest.”

“
Well, I certainly wouldn’t if I were married to you.”

“
Then you would. My goodness, that explains a lot.”

“
Are you going to disqualify Jiri from the contest?” I asked hopefully.

“
If I did that, I’d have to disqualify everyone. Tarkan is always flirting with the townies, and I know he goes out some nights with the roustabouts. And what about those two young girls you were with in Poiters?”

My heart seized.

“
How did you know about that?”

“
Marcel told me. He saw them leaving your van. He asked me if I thought you were dealing drugs.”

“
We, we were just talking.”

“
I always know when you’re lying, Morag. You’re not as good at it as you suppose. Anyway, it’s none of my business whom you sleep with.”

“
They seduced me, Reina darling. It was quite deliberate on their part. I was feeling lonely and, well, these things happen. But it is you I love!”

Two middle-aged tourists, possibly English, looked up with a start from the backpacks they were stuffing with clean socks and sensible clothes.

“
Lesbians,” I heard one of them whisper.

“
But she’s old enough to be the pretty one’s grandmother!” hissed the other.

Reina and I gathered up our laundry and flounced out.

On the drive back I asked Reina if she liked Marcel.

“
Don’t be silly, Morag. He’s nearly as old as Mr. Granley.”

“
He loves you, you know. That’s why he agreed to be on the committee. So he can torture the competition.”

“
Do you really think he loves me?”

“
It’s as plain as the red plastic nose on his face.”

Reina smiled. It was not a smile I found at all comforting.

11:32 p.m. A question posed by Donk in the cookhouse while introducing tonight’s Tour de Wife competition: What husbandly virtue is also the title of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta? I tried to think. Didn’t they write something about pirates? “Rape and pillage”—was that to be the theme of this night’s contest? No such luck.

“
Patience,” explained Donk to our three blank faces. “A good husband must display remarkable patience.”

So get on with it, I thought. Let’s see what torture Marcel has devised this time.

It was fairly Mephistophelean, even for that fiend. The three contestants were seated on chairs in a circle with our knees nearly touching. Each was handed a glass, only one of which was filled with water. That person was to pour the water into his neighbor’s glass, caress his or her cheek, and say “I love you, darling.” The water pouring and love declaring would continue around the circle for one hour. The guy judged most sincere in his conduct would be the winner. Anyone who dropped his glass or didn’t say exactly the correct words would be out. Any laughter, stressed Donk, would be regarded as evidence of insincerity.

Easy for him to say.

You try caressing Tarkan’s leathery puss, calling him darling, and telling him you love him. Not even Reina could do that with a straight face. And why hadn’t Mrs. Fulke remembered to shave that morning? I thought Jiri was going to sand off his skin caressing my coarse cheek. Gave him quite a shock the first time and definitely took the edge off his sincerity. Very hard not to giggle with everyone in the company whooping it up—especially Reina. Women are the true sadists, I’ve decided, even the apparently sweet-natured ones. All in all, I think I preferred her previous mood of pensive melancholy.

Around and around the water went. A very tedious activity, if you haven’t tried it. After a while, very hard to do things in proper order and not mess up on the words. Treacherous Jiri inclined to pour sloppily and splash water onto my lap. Fake sincerity difficult to sustain even for Mrs. Fulke. I knew the only way to appear convincing was to look Tarkan directly in his smoldering eyes. Most trying for a person to do that round after round. Psychologically unnerving. The mind doesn’t know what to make of this tumult of disquieting data. So the body rebels. The muscles of the face constrict. The voice tries to shut down. The hand holding the glass starts to shake. Would this torture never end?

Donk called out the time. Fifty minutes remaining.

Utter stupefaction. Had we only been going at it for ten minutes? It seemed like an eternity.

At 37 minutes into the torture Tarkan screwed up and said “I love you, dearest.” Marcel caught the flub and declared Tarkan out. Violent protests by the Baturs, who said Tarkan was at a disadvantage because he had to declare his love to a man, which was anathema to all Turks. No homosexuals in Turkey? Donk declared them out of order, and Tarkan stomped off in a huff. Now Mrs. Fulke had to express her affections to Jiri, a guy who was sucking the cork from a wine bottle. All my being longed to say, “I loathe you, dickhead,” but somehow I squeezed out the correct words time after time. At least now I got to spill water onto his lap.

At 49 minutes into the game, Jiri tossed his glass over his shoulder, screamed “You are very disgusting person, Mrs. Fulke,” and threw himself whimpering onto the ground. His crackup arrived about 12 seconds before mine was due. Slumping back in my chair, I barely acknowledged the congratulatory kiss from you know who.

Rather amazing results. Nick Twisp, descended from a long line of premature-ejaculating, short-tempered, Type-A heart attack victims, proved the champion in patience. Well, they say juggling can be meditative. New rankings: Tarkan - 23, Jiri - 29, Mrs. Fulke - 31.

Feeling pretty good except for one thing. I may never be able to say “I love you” to another human being for as long as I live.

TUESDAY, August 16 — I rose extra early to snoop. Not only did Jiri exit Madame Poco’s caravan this morning, but he gave our negligee-clad employer a kiss and nipple squeeze on his way out. Apparently, he wasn’t just crashing on her sofa. This may explain why that nicotine-deprived trumpeter hasn’t been fired for incompetence. Too bad my erstwhile landlady Madame Ruzicka hadn’t coughed up a spare passport from some deceased male. If I were Mr. Fulke, I could have put the moves on Madame Poco myself and been promoted out of the shit pits. By now I might be her pampered houseboy in charge of light snacks and undergarment care. Reina might find this intimate servitude troubling, but at least— like Jiri—I would be appearing to be what she wants but cannot have.

Only one month to go in our circus tour. Yes, there’s light at the end of a very stinky tunnel, but what will I do when it comes time to hang up my shovel? I suppose I could camp out across the street from that school in Paris in hopes that Sheeni shows up for class. Or, if I succeed with Reina, perhaps we could sign up for some fall circus tour. I could help her with her birds and show her what she’s been missing for the past 17-3/4 years. Speaking of which, I arrived at Reina’s caravan this morning before she was entirely dressed. She scurried back to her bedroom to finish, but through a fortuitous confluence of mirrors, I caught a gratifying eyeful. Just as I suspected. Not only beautiful, but a delicious body to boot. Wish English language possessed a better word than “nubile” to describe her pulse-quickening curves. Do you suppose Bill Shakespeare crashed up against this same linguistic dead end while penning his love sonnets?

10:45 a.m. Mrs. Fulke had to excuse herself from the cookhouse tent at breakfast to take a call. It was Connie phoning with an update from Bel Air. Her mother’s one-armed factotum Dogo Dimondo secretly videotaped on multiple occasions my father swatting Anna and Vronsky, Mrs. Krusinowski’s much-doted-upon chihuahuas. Last night Dogo handed the shocking evidence to his employer, and her reaction was swift and terrible. Out the door went my father, his meager possessions, and his manuscript of the great American chihuahua novel.

“
Hitting a little dog with his shoe,” exclaimed Connie. “Can you believe it?”

“
Doesn’t surprise me,” I replied. “As I recall, he was always swinging something at me. A shoe would have been a nice change of pace.”

“
Paulo is thrilled, of course. It’s been very tense having to sit down to meals with that creep. I know they kept reminding each other of Lacey, which is the one person I don’t want my husband obsessing over. Her and your little bird tootsie.”

“
How is Lacey?”

“
Very affluent, unfortunately. My lawyers continue to insist there’s no way to break Father’s will. So I’m trying to persuade her to go to Brazil to look after needy slum children.”

“
Is she interested in that?”

“
Not so far, dammit. The bitch appears to have no social conscience at all. Oh, I have some more good news. We put an offer in on a house.”

“
That’s nice, Connie. You found something within your budget, huh?”

“
Well, we had to stretch a bit. Not everything we wanted, but the realtor thinks it might have been leased once by Orson Welles.”

“
In that case, you might want to have the floor joists inspected.”

“
You’re so politically incorrect, Rick. I like that. Nobody in this town would dare touch a fat joke these days.”

2:18 p.m. Had a scare this afternoon. Mrs. Poco called me into her caravan on my way to lunch. Her rolling home was quite a lavish affair with a distinctly feminine smell—like pink lacy items nestled in perfumed (bureau) drawers. As usual, she got straight to the point.