Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (17 page)

And now it is the morning after, and all I want to do is lie in bed and nurse my throbbing head.

11:05 a.m. Sheeni just brought me two aspirins, kissed me ardently, and made a “small request” (her words). Somehow I am powerless to refuse her. Yes, diary, in this time of need Carlotta must answer the call.

3:47 p.m. We’re back. I have removed that monstrous polka dotted dress. Improbably, Sheeni has volunteered to make dinner. Of course, I was skeptical this morning that I could fool anyone into thinking I was that lovely person’s mother.

“
Sheeni,” I demanded, “why did you pick such an ugly dress? This thing is an abomination!”

“
Yes, it is rather,” she conceded, helping me into one of her own delightful bras, “but it was the closest thing I could find to my mother’s own tastes. We must strive for verisimilitude, darling.”

It’s true that Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother does favor eye-pummeling prints in nausea-inducing color combinations. This dress would be right up her alley. Carlotta shuddered and put it on. Alas, it fit like a glove—once I had stuffed in sufficient bra padding to inflate the matronly bosom. Next on was a pair of opaque tights to conceal my long lapse in leg shaving. Then a pair of sensible shoes produced from where I know not. Finally, Sheeni removed a ratty gray wig from her cavernous purse and plopped it on my head. We surveyed the results in our castoff mirror.

“
I look horrible,” complained Carlotta. “Just awful. And not nearly old enough to be anyone’s mother.”

“
We’ll take care of that,” she replied. “I picked up this cream at a theatrical makeup store.”

Sheeni scooped out a great dollop from the jar and smeared it on my face. As it dried a film formed on my skin that gradually crinkled. The effect was fascinating and more than a little disquieting to observe. In five minutes my face was a mass of wrinkles. Carlotta looked like one of those leathery Nepalese sherpas who had spent a lifetime in the merciless Himalayan sun.

“
I think you better introduce me as your great-grandmother,” cackled Carlotta. “I don’t look a day under 112.”

“
A little makeup should fix that, Mother dear.”

Foundation, rouge, powder, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. Soon, My Love managed to bring down Carlotta’s apparent age to a brisk, well-preserved 72. She stood back and pondered her handiwork.

“
A bit mannish from the Belmondo overtones, but it will have to do,” Sheeni commented.

Unfortunately true. My facelift had burdened the once semi-comely Carlotta with yet another obstacle to beauty. And my surgically altered voice, rumbling in the lower registers, could never aspire to its former lilting loveliness. Sheeni handed me a pack of Marlboros.

“
Light up when we get there. We’ll try to pass you off as a heavy smoker. But don’t say any more than you have to.”

“
Don’t worry, darling. Your mumsey will be the essence of maternal solicitation and regard.”

“
She better be,” replied My Love. “If she ever wants to get laid again.”

Not a very daughterly remark.

Of course, on our way out we ran into Mr. Hamilton and his ward on the stairs. He accepted our enthusiastic praise with quiet thanks. Out of his evening gowns and mesh stockings the guy is modesty personified. He complimented Carlotta on her transformation and insisted on lending her a pair of brassy earrings from his Joan Crawford collection. They did add that Hollywood and Vine finishing touch. He also lent me his frisky little dog, much to my daughter’s annoyance.

“
Maybe I should have asked Mr. Hamilton instead,” grumbled Sheeni on the Métro. “At least I know he’s credible as a woman.”

“
Don’t be silly,” replied Carlotta, offended. “You forget how many fellows asked me to the Christmas dance. And didn’t I have that brute Bruno Modjaleski wrapped around my little pinky?”

“
What else was he wrapped around?” she replied. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

“
We never went beyond a few passionate kisses, did we, Maurice?

And thank God for that.”

Completely in accord as usual, Maurice licked my face—getting a tongue-f of rouge and necessitating an emergency makeup correction.

Sheeni’s preferred school rose like an ivy-entangled relic of the late Napoleonic period behind a high stone wall in a ritzy neighborhood. Visions of onerous tuition bills danced in my head as we were led down the bleak halls to the headmaster’s office. Things got off to a rocky start. I reached out to shake Dr. Emile Annick’s hand and gave the portly white-haired scholar a nasty burn with my lit Marlboro. How do cigarette smokers shake hands I wondered as he wrapped his paw in a dampened handkerchief and Mother and Daughter apologized profusely.

I snuffed out my cigarette in what Sheeni later informed me was a porcelain saucer of great antiquity and nervously lit another. We all sat down—excepting only curious Maurice who stretched to the limits of his leash to sniff out all the corners—and the interview commenced.

“
Your daughter has greatly impressed the admissions committee,” Dr. Annick boomed in English. “She is a remarkably intelligent girl.”

“
Yes, fortunately she takes after me in that respect. Her father was something of an idiot. All he could do was amass great piles of money.”

Sheeni grimaced, but Dr. Annick beamed through his pain. I knew I had struck a nerve.

“
That reminds me, Mrs. Saunders,” he continued, “should your daughter be accepted, we shall require a bank reference.”

“
No problem,” Carlotta exclaimed. “I am personal friends with

J.P. Morgan.”

“
I believe Mr. Morgan died in 1913,” he replied.

“
Uh, I was referring to his son.”

“
That gentleman passed on in 1943.”

These French intellectuals do know their American financiers. “Junior was my godfather when I was a child,” Carlotta elaborated. “I used to frolic on his lap and play with his gold watch.”

More grimaces from My Love. I prayed for a change of subject. Fortunately, ever-empathic Maurice came to the rescue. Intrigued by Dr. Annick’s flannel-clad leg, he began to hump it vigorously. Odd, he had never exhibited such behavior before. Perhaps it was the stimulating academic atmosphere. More embarrassed apologies as I struggled to rein in the panting canine. To his credit, Maurice may have been a toy fox terrier, but when stimulated there was nothing toy-like about his equipment. For all I know he may be impregnating mastiffs in his spare time.

The interview lurched on and eventually got around to my expectations for my daughter’s academic program.

“
Uh, gee,” Carlotta stammered. Why hadn’t I been prepared for these sorts of trick questions? “Uhmm, philosophy—I expect every girl should have a good foundation in that. And history of the Bourbons, that’s a must. French, I suppose, though personally I think you can overdo it. Maybe some biology with an emphasis on the human gestation cycle. And cooking, of course.”

“
Cooking?” inquired Dr. Annick.

“
Cooking and homemaking skills,” confirmed Carlotta. “Those are a must. My daughter must be prepared for her future life as a loving wife and mother.”

“
My mother is making a jest,” laughed Sheeni. “It’s her wonderful American sense of humor. Aren’t you joking, Mother dearest?”

I knew better than to trod any further down that road. Lamentably, I had been born too late for the Era of Good Housekeeping. I laughed, crossed my legs athletically, and knocked a crystal decanter off the chuckling pedagogue’s desk.

I expect it will be added to our first tuition bill. Despite his reservations about her eccentric mother, Dr. Annick has accepted my dear child and spouse for the fall term.

5:28 p.m. Before changing clothes I decided to waltz my alter ego through the wig salon. Carlotta was pleased to see Madame Lefèbvre required several minutes to realize that the strange old lady in the deplorable synthetic wig was their favorite American janitor in disguise. Of course, I also threw her off the scent by replying to her polite inquiries in mock Swedish. Carlotta’s eventual unveiling sent the entire staff into hysterics. When at last they regained their composure, the ladies crowded around to exclaim over Carlotta’s aged skin and amply padded bust. I endeavored to explain through pantomime how the wrinkles were achieved chemically, but I fear I left them clueless. Perplexed but charmed, they showered Carlotta with kisses in a great wave of mock Gallic lesbianism. I left secure in the knowledge that Carlotta had provided them with many more days of conversational fodder.

I wasn’t so pleased to encounter Reina hauling Damek down the stairs. My first impulse was to turn my head and march right past her, but I knew this was her last performance before she left on tour and I felt terrible for forgetting my afternoon duties. She was shocked when the elderly stranger addressed her by name and took the heavy cage from her.

“
Rick, is that you?” she exclaimed.

“
It’s me,” I said, trooping back down the stairs with the cage. “Sorry I’m late.” I gave her a greatly abbreviated account of Carlotta’s afternoon activities.

“
You’re so cute in that dress, Rick, I feel an irresistible urge to kiss you.”

Carlotta does seem to have that effect on people. I paused on a landing and put down the cage.

“
Well,” said Carlotta, “don’t let me stop you.”

She smiled, we embraced, and our lips met.

Like plugging into the main power line from Boulder Dam.

Eventually, she pulled away. I could have gone on forever.

We both seemed a little stunned.

“
I, I never kissed a woman before,” she said, not looking at me.

I wiped a smudge of Carlotta’s lipstick off her lower lip.

“
I’ll miss you,” I said at last.

“
I’ll miss you too,” she replied.

When I returned to our apartment, I found a cheese omelet burning on the stove and Sheeni engrossed in a phone conversation. I flipped off the gas and dumped the smoking pan in the sink.

“
That was your friend Connie,” she announced, clicking off the phone. “My brother went for a magazine three hours ago at the airport and hasn’t been seen since.”

FRIDAY, June 24 — Can’t write much. Too tired. Virtually no sleep. Four middle-of-the-night phone calls from you know who. Needless to say, she never got on the plane. No, Connie Krusinowski is not an easy person to ditch. Most energized by Paul crisis. Has alerted French police. Has retained expensive firm of international private detectives. Has sicced her lawyers on Paul’s credit card company. If he charges so much as a soupcon of soup, he’ll be nailed within four minutes. She estimates he had only a few hundred dollars in euros on him. Can’t get far in pricey France on that. Also he is sans saxophone, so no means of gainful employment, though she is not overlooking his pool-cleaning expertise. Occupational opportunities for pool cleaners in France? Connie’s minions checking that out.

At 1:45 a.m. Connie rang up and demanded I waken Sheeni to ask if she surreptitiously slipped cash to brother. I did so (reluctantly). Wife greatly pissed off. Vigorously denied any funds transfers. Inclined to believe her, as I know she is not overly generous with my money. Tried to reassure Connie on that score, but met with usual dire threats. Sometimes wish I had never met the Krusinowski clan. Of course, would not mind terribly if Dad marries Connie’s rich mother, though doubt much baksheesh will trickle down to wayward son. Still, the guy can’t live forever, especially with his nicotine habit and drinking problem—not to mention menacing Dogo lurking in the shadows.

Another phone call at 3:17 a.m. Connie now convinced Paul in contact with Lacey. Believes he has received cash infusion from her from ill-gotten Krusinowski millions. I attempt to dismiss such conjecture as pure bridal anxiety and paranoia. Connie somewhat mollified, though intends to have detectives investigate her buxom rival.

Another call at 4:22 a.m. Connie now speculating that my treacherous sister Joanie diverted cash from Mother’s lawyers to Paul Saunders’ liberation fund. I tell her to take a sedative and get some sleep.

Last call at 5:06 a.m. Connie in panic recalls she has given Paul expensive Rolex Perpetual Oyster wristwatch. Solid gold case and precision Swiss movement. Real diamonds in lieu of numerals. We agree all pawnshops in Paris must be watched.

The bad news is Paul must report to his probation officer in Los Angeles in ten days or he’ll be in violation of his parole. Back to jail if he misses that date. The good news is the wrinkle cream washed off with no problem. Carlotta once again retired. The bad news is that I’m in total turmoil over Reina. Possible to love two people at once? I thought True Love caused a circuit to fuse in your brain, rendering you entirely indifferent to other females. Apparently not.

11:12 a.m. All in all, it was a pleasure to escape the building this sunny morning to take Maurice on his walk. More like he took me. I merely hung onto the leash and ruminated on my problems while he navigated his preferred course. Call me callous, but it seems to me that Connie should just accept that Paul has dumped her and get over it. Let’s face it, getting a Saunders to commit is always a long shot. She gave it a yeoman’s try. And why am I so irked that Sheeni burned up our only Teflon pan? It’s amazing the toll these petty annoyances take on a marriage. Before in Ukiah all I wanted to do was hold Sheeni. Now half the time I just want to hold her neck—and squeeze.