Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (7 page)

3:14 p.m. I have yet another job. Reina has contracted for me to help her move her birds up and down the stairs. She has a trained bird act with a small circus in a northern suburb. She can only play in intimate venues where the audience sits close to the action. In bigger, better-paying shows the birds would get lost—too far away to be seen clearly. Plus, she’s only been training “her babies” for a few years and they cannot always be relied upon to perform like little troupers. Theoretically, they’re supposed to shoot baskets, ride scooters, wave French flags, and do other cute tricks. But they can be temperamental and sometimes get distracted.

“
And what do you do when that happens?” I asked, hoisting the travel carriers into her aging Mercedes station wagon, crowded with colorful props.

“
I scold them, Rick. I pretend like it’s all part of the act. Our audiences are mostly children and they don’t seem to mind. The owner of the circus threatens to fire me, but he hasn’t so far. He’s something of a beast.”

“
Sexual harassment?”

“
Daily, Rick. But I can handle him. I get back about 22:30. Are you sure you don’t mind helping me so late?”

“
No problem, Reina. That’s still early afternoon on American time.”

We shook hands and I watched as she drove off. Something felt amiss. Oh, right. I felt deprived. She hadn’t given me a tasty seed from her pocket.

6:45 p.m. Sheeni took her tender toe for a test-walk and returned with some vital groceries, including a whole, intact, slimy, semi- smelly fish which she expected me to decapitate and clean. It really is amazing what married people can find to argue about. Somehow we never debated the uses of a guillotine as a kitchen appliance back when we were dating. Then I discovered that we had a fish but no lemon, so we had to grapple over who was going to brave all those stairs to run that errand. Needless to say, it was the guy in the sensible shoes that got elected. And should one lousy lemon cost E5? I really have to find some way to cram French numbers into my brain.

Ten minutes later: Puffing like a steam engine, Sheeni is back with my change. She has given that larcenous shopkeeper a piece of her mind.

11:30 p.m. Back from more bird lugging. My physique may soon rival those of the muscle-bound acrobats across the hall. Reina introduced me to her fellow performers. Big-billed Jiri is a toco toucan. Radek and Milena are blue/gold macaws. Salmon-tinged Damek is a Moluccan cockatoo. And friendly Zuza is a green-winged macaw. All raised by Reina from babyhood (I should have had it so nice).

Reina invited me to share a nightcap with her. My first experience of brandy, which I judged no worse than regular unleaded. No photographic evidence in her apartment of a loving boyfriend. Hard to believe. The place doesn’t smell that bad. At the very least you’d think those lusty acrobats down the hall would be camped outside her door. Not to mention lonely Señor Nunez.

Sheeni was not pleased that toting five birds up six flights took nearly one hour. And I don’t think she’ll be thrilled to learn that François accepted an invitation from Reina to take a sunset cruise on a Seine excursion boat this Sunday. No mention was made of bringing along any extraneous spouses. Somehow I’ll have to make the whole thing sound like strictly a business matter. That will take some doing, even for me. Fortunately, Sunday is a long way off.

FRIDAY, May 28 — My phone chirped in the middle of the night. For the sake of my nerves I prayed it was Connie Krusinowski. It was.

“
Rick! There’s been another disaster!”

“
What, Connie? Is your father not buried yet?”

“
Of course he’s buried. Over 200 mourners showed up for his funeral at Forest Lawn, including Paulo’s father comforting my mother—not that I need his services any longer. I wish the old fart would just butt out. Anyway, it was all very moving.”

“
You buried your dad in Glendale?”

Somehow that didn’t sound like much of a step up from Palm Springs.

“
It’s quite a prestigious plot, Rick. It’s just a few hundred yards from Marilyn Monroe’s crypt. Rick, my father changed his will!”

“
Oh? Bad news, Connie?”

Somehow I sensed he hadn’t thought to cut me in for a tidy sum.

“
He left Lacey ten million dollars!”

Wow, Lacey was now sexy, beautiful, and rich. What an attractive combination of qualities.

“
Well, Connie, they were engaged to be married.”

“
And whose share of the estate do you think her pile is coming out of? Not my mother’s, that I can assure you!”

“
Oh, dear, Connie. Are you suddenly impoverished?”

“
Not hardly, Rick. But now Lacey is a wealthy woman on the loose. I just know she’s going to make a play again for my Paulo.”

“
But Paul isn’t at all materialistic, Connie.”

“
I know that, Rick. But deep down even the most spiritual guy likes to know where his next meal is coming from. Rick, you’ve got to call your father.”

“
What!?”

“
You’ve got to tell him his old girlfriend is now a millionaire and wants him back.”

“
But, Connie, Lacey despises my father.”

As, come to think of it, do I.

“
She’s emotionally devastated, Rick. Former lovers are always slightly more appealing under those circumstances. But your father’s window of opportunity here is very narrow. You have to insist he get on the ball immediately.”

“
Jesus, Connie, I don’t know . . .”

“
Rick, who flew you guys out of Crescent City?”

“
OK, Connie,” I sighed, “I’ll call him.”

Damn. Back to being matchmaker for that creep. What did he ever do for me, besides donate some defective sperm?

3:10 p.m. We barely made it back in time from our mystery appointment for me to help Reina carry her birds down to her car. And poor Maurice had to hold it all morning (his papa sleeps in from his late-night theatrical high jinks). We took the Métro to Belleville, an exotic, somewhat seedy Sino-African district. The address was a former clothespin factory, now converted to trendy offices. Mr. Denis Bonnet’s suite was on the third floor. No, his name is not pronounced like your granny’s old sun hat. His tall, anorexic secretary dresses like she recently relocated from Mars. She served us some sort of fizzy herbal beverage, then Mr. Bonnet appeared and had another earnest conversation with Sheeni. He is one intense dude. Even his sharp black suit looked like it was on an adrenaline rush. I’d guess his age as around 30.

Then three giggling schoolgirls—dressed like prostitutes—entered, squealed when they saw me, and jumped around clutching each other as if it were 1964 and they had just spotted Ringo Starr. This went on for quite some time. I wondered why they weren’t in school or heavily medicated. More people entered. Very outlandishly garbed. Everyone was smoking, talking at once, and looking me over. One artsy guy in yellow silk pantaloons and muddy combat boots offered me a small cigar from a case hammered out of old East German license plates. I politely declined. You’d think people that hip would know a little English, but everyone prattled away in French. I sipped my herbal drink and listened to My Love’s calm responses. God knows what she was telling them. Then, suddenly, everyone was shaking hands and kissing cheeks. The schoolgirls were led away (back to their padded cell?) and the meeting adjourned.

Mr. Bonnet introduced us to another guy in a suit, a Mr. Petit, who escorted us back to his office, where we had a seat while he inspected our passports. I noticed that he exclaimed and slapped his forehead several times while interrogating Sheeni about my documents. This I took as a bad sign. He also made several phone calls that appeared to be urgent in nature. Hey, I never wanted to come to his damn country in the first place.

Eventually, that meeting concluded as well, and we returned to the reception area, where I was photographed from every angle by the secretary. Then, at last, we were trooping down the stairs to the street. The whole thing had been only slightly worse than root canal surgery gone awry.

My Love is still clammed up about what’s going on. She says there’s no need for a long speculative discussion since at this point things are still “so tentative.”

I informed her that I was keeping an open mind, but wished to go on record that as far as I was concerned “total nudity” was off the table.

“
I’m not taking my clothes off, darling,” I insisted. “Especially not around those wacky girls.”

“
You are one sick individual,” was her only comment.

9:30 p.m. Couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Called my father at his lumber company office in Ukiah. I figured he’d be back from lunch—poised at his keyboard for more public relations dissimulations. “Hiya,” I squeaked, “this is Nick.”

“
Nick who?” he demanded.

Another profound parental “don’t exist” message. I’m used to them.

“
Nick Twisp. Remember? Your son?”

“
Nick! Where the hell are you? Are you calling from some jail? Hey, buddy, I’m not bailing you out!”

“
I’m not in jail, Dad. I’m doing fine. I’m OK.”

“
Oh, yeah? I suppose you’re on the streets somewhere, peddling your ass for drug money.”

“
No, Dad. I’ve got three jobs. I’m not on drugs. I’m doing great.”

“
Jesus, Nick, I never thought you’d turn out so bad. I should have slapped you down hard after that first smart remark.”

Leave it to my father to belt a three-year-old.

For Connie’s sake I soldiered on. “Dad, I’ve got some interesting news. Lacey’s boyfriend just died and left her ten million dollars.”

“
I’m not falling for your lies, Nick. No way that drug-addict horn player had that kind of dough.”

“
I’m not talking about Paul Saunders, Dad. Lacey dumped him when he got arrested. She was engaged to an older man who manufactured truck springs in L.A. He just had a stroke and left her a fortune. You can read about it in the L.A. Times. His name was Bernard Krusinowski.”

“
Ten million, huh? That’s a lot of lettuce.”

“
Yes, Dad, Lacey’s extremely distraught. You might think about calling her to offer some solace.”

“
You’ve talked to her? Does she want to hear from me?”

“
Of course, Dad. I heard her tell a girlfriend that you were the love of her life.”

Why I wasn’t struck dead for telling that lie I’ll never know.

“
Yeah, Nick, lots of my old girlfriends feel that way.”

What a stuck-up creep. I gave him Lacey’s phone number and wished him luck. He didn’t ask me to keep in touch. I didn’t ask him to eat shit and die. I’d call it a draw.

SATURDAY, May 29 — My third week as a married person.

Well, they say the first year of marriage is the toughest. I did knock a piece off my old lady, though I’m not sure a 15-year-old really qualifies. We’ve both found that energetic intercourse is a good way to work off one’s frustrations. Were this not the case, I’m sure the divorce rate would be about 99.5 percent. The murder rate, no doubt, would be similarly elevated. Since Sheeni dislikes clingy guys, I don’t tell her that I love her, though I’m willing to admit it when asked. She doesn’t. Nor does she mention that she loves me. There seem to be so many topics married people don’t discuss. For example, this morning when we were doing it for the third time I was wondering what was going through Sheeni’s mind. Was she really into it or was she thinking about breakfast? I often feel oddly strange on third go-arounds. Like I’m trespassing in some way on my bodily functions. I climaxed again, but I could tell my prostate was resentful.

An extravagantly warm and beautiful day. Paris certainly knows how to do spring. Frisky Maurice led me all over the neighborhood. We stopped at the intersection of boulevard Raspail to inspect a large statue, which turned out to be of Honoré de Balzac, the notable dead author. I expect when I’m a celebrated writer, the city of Oakland will be erecting statues of me. I only hope they’re a bit more flattering. As captured in pigeon-flecked bronze, Mr. Balzac appeared to be undergoing an especially agonizing case of writer’s block. Or perhaps he’d just received a particularly groin-pummeling critical review.

When I returned, My Love was serving coffee and snacks to the Boccata brothers. She made the introductions. In turn, I had my limp hand crushed by Baldo, Bartolo, and Bernardo Boccata. Such muscles! With all that sinew concentrated in one small room, things soon felt quite claustrophobic—especially with their compulsion to juggle everything at hand. I never imagined so many of our possessions could be circulating in space all at once. Communication was difficult because their English is rudimentary and apparently their French is even worse. My Love gave it a stab.

“
Where are you from?” she asked.

Although she was too polite to mention it, I could sense she was troubled by the airborne gyrations of her precious French typewriter.

Baldo, the eldest, was elected to respond. He pointed out the open door toward their apartment across the hall.

“
I mean in Italy?” added Sheeni.

“
Pisa!” announced Bartolo, the hairiest, as all three inclined sideways at a dramatic angle while continuing to juggle.

Enchanted, Sheeni burst into applause; I managed a grudging smile.