Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (21 page)

11:47 p.m. Sheeni opened her purse strings—something she does even less often than her thighs. Can’t believe I just wrote something that catty about My One and Only Love. Oh well, I’m a bit drunk. She took us out to dinner (a double date with Trent and Violet), and then we went to see Maurice’s Dad. That guy is so great. If writing doesn’t work out as a career, perhaps Carlotta could apprentice herself to Mr. Hamilton. I can see myself prancing nightly across the stage as a buxom Liz Taylor, fingering my faux beauty spot and flaunting bogus diamonds the size of stalactites. Uh-oh, head is swimming, room is spinning. Must stop now. And so to bed, perhaps to snare a piece . . .

THURSDAY, June 30 — No nooky last night. Sheeni objected to sharing her ravishing body with objectionable drunks. But sex, glorious sex was on the menu this a.m. I’ve decided to take Violet at her word and accept that chicks desire and enjoy sex as much as guys—even if 98 percent of the fun takes place within their persons. It was time to put my traumatic rape behind me and acknowledge that females embrace another aesthetic in bed. No more tentative or apologetic approaches. To overuse some common agricultural metaphors, I plowed that familiar furrow until the rooster crowed, the cows came home, and the silo was emptied of its last groat.

11:17 a.m. Must always wear my sunglasses now when I go out, even on days like today when rain threatens. Even so disguised I was stopped by several people on the street this morning while walking Maurice. Three ominous words stood out in their unintelligible inquiries: “Heee, Lekker Ding.” Naturally, I shook my head and kept on walking. Had to drag poor Maurice past several enticingly aromatic trees too. How difficult life must be for the dogs of celebrities.

1:33 p.m. Yesterday’s excruciating lunch seems to have scared off all my customers. Just as well. I’m not running a restaurant here. I grabbed a quick takeout crepe from my favorite discount stand, then forced myself to check in again with loathsome, treacherous Sonya back in Ukiah. Somehow, she always seems to be loitering beside the phone. Naturally, she demanded to know what steps I’d taken to render T.P. single and available. Before replying, I made her promise that anything I divulged would go no further than her big fat ear.

“
Well, Sonya, I got him to extend his trip here. He won’t be going back to Apurva anytime soon.”

“
Nor to me from the sound of it,” she replied sourly. “What else have you done?”

“
Well, he’s now sleeping in the rooms of a female contortionist.”

“
What!”

“
Don’t worry, Sonya. He’s not stuck on her. But you can’t wean a guy away from his wife without reintroducing him to the concept of attractive, available females.”

“
Contortionist, huh? I suppose they’re having great sex in impossible positions.”

See, it’s a very common train of thought.

“
Not at all, Sonya. Violet won’t sleep with him because he’s married.”

“
Is she nuts?”

“
No, she’s English. They’re very reserved. I’ve also lined up a starring role for Trent in a new music video.”

“
Accomplishing what?”

“
You know how people who are successful in the entertainment field always ditch their spouses. It’s practically a given.”

“
OK, Rick, I guess you’re making an effort. I won’t snitch to Fuzzy for the time being. But you better check in regularly. I was about to dial his number when you called.”

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

“
OK, Sonya. Anything happening in Ukiah?”

“
Like what, Rick? You know this town. The place is as dead as my love life. I started a new quilt project as a summer alternative to bingeing, insanity, and suicide.”

“
That sounds nice, Sonya. Have fun.”

“
Hey, drop dead.”

The only pleasant part of that conversation was hanging up. Gee, and bubbly Sonya seemed so upbeat back in sewing class. Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not really trying to break up Trent and Apurva. In fact, I hope someday to be invited to their gala fiftieth wedding anniversary party.

6:28 p.m. The phone rang as I was stirring cornstarch into tonight’s dinner. It was Connie calling with dire news. Mr. and Mrs. Saunders, the in-laws from hell, have just checked into her hotel.

“
Oh, no!” I exclaimed.

“
They’re here. And they’re pissed,” she confirmed. “I’ll get back to you when I can.” Click.

“
Who was that?” demanded Sheeni, clearly alarmed. “What is it? Is it about my brother?”

My mind raced. “Uh, that was . . .”

“
Don’t lie to me, Nick Twisp!”

I capitulated. “That was Connie. Your parents have, uh, arrived. They’re at her hotel.”

My Love turned pale and sat down on the bed.

“
Well, that’s just fine and dandy. That’s just what I need!”

“
It’ll be OK, darling,” I reassured her. “Paris is a big place. They don’t know we’re here.”

“
I think you should go see them,” volunteered T.P., who I had never before taken for a complete idiot. “I think you should make an effort to work things out.”

Sheeni fired off the blackest look I have ever seen. And miracle of miracles, she wasn’t looking at me.

10:48 p.m. No call from Connie. Though she left untouched tonight’s goulash (one of my better culinary efforts), My Love has calmed down. She’s agreed that if we lie low while her parents are here, there’s no reason to fear we might run into them. They will be distracted anyway by their search for Paul. And T.P. has been told in no uncertain terms to stuff his parental reconciliation proposals. He’s also been obliged to cancel his evening stroll with Violet. Sheeni wants all familiar Ukiahan faces banished from the boulevards. And tomorrow I have to make Connie remove herself and the ogre duo to some other swanky hotel in a faraway arrondissement.

It was rather like Ann Frank’s family hiding out from the Gestapo. The hours crawled by. I tried to read my computer magazine, Sheeni paced up and down the floor, and T.P. stared wistfully out the window until Violet arrived to drag him back to her celibate pad.

JULY

FRIDAY, July 1 — Sheeni is missing! Can’t write much. Too distraught. She sent us out this morning under hats and behind sunglasses. Me to run errands for Madame Ruzicka. T.P. to Belleville for wardrobe fittings and consultations with Piroque, the director. When I returned, Sheeni was gone, as were her bags, her clothes, and her French language typewriter. No note, of course. According to Madame Lefèbvre (interpreted by Violet), the ladies in the wig salon saw her enter a taxi around 10:15. They assumed that she was going away for the weekend and that her husband would be joining her for a romantic getaway in the country if his video stardom and janitorial duties permitted. I wish.

T.P. denies knowing where she went. Nor has her lawyer Mr. Petit heard from her. Connie speculates that she may have gone to join her brother. My friend is approaching despair. The Saunders are driving her nuts and Paul is proving unexpectedly elusive. “The guy doesn’t stay in hotels,” Connie complained when I phoned her with my alarming news. “He doesn’t charge things. He hasn’t pawned his fucking Rolex. How the hell am I supposed to find him?”

“
We’ll find them,” I reassured her. “We’ve got to.”

“
I hope so, Rick. I think it’s a very bad sign that Sheeni bolted too. A very bad sign.”

2:26 p.m. No one in the building has seen Señor Nunez. He doesn’t answer at his door either. Could My Love have run away with a dwarf?

10:52 p.m. No word from Sheeni. No phone call, no letter. I divided up the city with T.P. and we spent most of the day searching. No luck. Rather futile. We know Sheeni is hiding from her parents, so it isn’t likely that she would be lingering conspicuously in public venues. Still, we had to try. T.P. thinks she’ll return when she knows her parents have left the country. God, I hope he’s right. Can’t write any more. Have to go pace the floor and wring my hands.

SATURDAY, July 2 — Eight weeks, diary. Very scary to wake on this anniversary day alone in bed. Even worse, T.P. chose to spend the night on our sofa. Said he wanted to be here in case Sheeni called and sleeping with Violet becoming too stressful. Sexual attraction too powerful. Nightly demonstration of bender moves leading to excessive physical contact, triggering anguished desires. Know the feeling.

Mood not improved this a.m. by naked Trent bathing not five feet away from where I was attempting dispirited croissant ingestion. It really is obscene what that guy looks like with his clothes off.

One piece of good news. Wife not cohabitating with dwarf. Awakened in middle of night by poignant chords of “My One and Only Love.” Roommate and I threw on clothes and pounded on Señor Nunez’s door. He opened door in disheveled admiral’s uniform. Offered us swigs from his tequila bottle. We stayed until bottle empty. He hadn’t seen my wife, but extended his sincere commiserations. Said women can torment your soul, but each one builds a new room in your heart. Not sure what that meant, but T.P. seemed to think it was profound. Our host squeezed out a few more sad songs and T.P. sang along. Sounded no better than a youthful Frank Sinatra. He had to desist when the open window brought the sounds of nearby sobbing (Violet?). Wish Señor Nunez knew a few upbeat tunes.

SUNDAY, July 3 — No news. T.P. and Violet spent the day together searching, but I was too paralyzed by despair. Regret all the fights, all the unkind words, all the clashes of wills. Sheeni had followed her dream to Paris, and I had tagged along to bitch about who was going to take out the garbage.

If last summer you had told me that someday I would be residing in a one-room garret apartment in Paris with Trent Preston, I would have said you were out of your mind. The pompous self- righteous bastard does not improve upon close association. Acute lack of privacy too. Have to wait until he leaves to take baths. No way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of comparing our physiques. He continues to insist Sheeni will return, but her missing typewriter gnaws at my soul. Why lug along that boat anchor if you’re planning to come back? Is she holed up in some backwater hotel typing up a critique of our marriage?

MONDAY, July 4 — Independence Day back home. Just another day of heartbreak and despair in Paris. Accompanied T.P. and Violet to Belleville for videotaping in case runaway wife chose to lurk in vicinity. Piroque decided to throw Violet into the mix as an additional visual distraction from the star, a Madame Roux, billed without shame by Mr. Bonnet as “France’s Oldest Rapping Grandmother.” A true abomination. Makes The Three Magdas seem positively semi-talented. Incredibly ancient skinny old lady (must use the same wrinkle creme as Carlotta) with big flashy guitar.

Location was an abandoned sewer pipe factory. While the white- haired star rapped, T.P. strolled about the decrepit machinery in a skimpy loincloth and adjusted various bolts with an enormous rusty wrench. He also worked up a great oily sweat (professionally applied by Josette, the makeup artist) rapping along on what I assumed was the refrain. Meanwhile, Violet—in faux leopard-skin bikini— twisted herself up to slither painfully through assorted sections of grungy pipe, getting rather grotty in the process. No atmospheric fog this time, but lots of flashing lights and bursts of brightly colored flame. Another feast for the eyes, though a severe bastinado on the ears. At least the stupid tune didn’t drill its way into your brain for all eternity.

After the grisly confection was in the can, Mr. Bonnet counted out the big piles of euros. He wasn’t sure what to do with Sheeni’s commission, but finally slapped the E200 onto her husband’s itchy palm. The cash infusion was welcome, though most unsettling that my wife didn’t show up to collect. Very unlike Sheeni to miss out on her share of anything. Gratifying at least that Rick S. Hunter earned 50% more for his video debut than T.P. Of course, that guy didn’t have to wrestle a dwarf.

Skipped the rap wrap party. Too depressed.

9:12 p.m. Taking direct action at last. Went to local print shop and commissioned rush job. Four hours later took delivery of 10,000 fluorescent orange stickers reading “S.S. CALL R.S.H.” Have distributed stacks to various building tenants and Madame Lefèbvre’s staff. They’ve agreed to adhere them in highly visible locations as they journey about the city. I already plastered our neighborhood, though I doubt My Love in immediate vicinity. Still, feeling optimistic that she will spot one soon, decipher the message, and check in. Hoping she remembers my current name is Rick S. Hunter, since I’ve mentioned it frequently enough and we are married after all.

TUESDAY, July 5 — Woke with a start in the middle of the night. I forgot to pay the rent! Damn. Then at breakfast T.P. refused to fork over his rightful share of the housing tab. Insisted he was a guest, not a tenant. In that case I informed him I was officially revoking his guest invitation. I told him to scram, he told me to get out of his face. The twit had the nerve to declare that he was here as a guest of Sheeni, not me. OK, but with provocations like that it won’t be my fault if he winds up with a large German blade buried in his liver.

Madame Ruzicka was understanding about the late rent payment. Said in her experience domestic turmoil was the number three cause of non-payment of rent. Too depressed to inquire about other causes. I knew over-tipping the janitor wasn’t one of them. She speculated that Sheeni no longer in the city and inquired if we had investigated the railway stations. I said no, but that sounded like a good idea.