Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (22 page)

4:45 p.m. French still in dark that passenger trains are obsolete.

Paris, it turns out, is lousy with railway stations. T.P. and I flashed Sheeni’s photo around in all of them—some, I was pleased to see, already bearing orange stickers. Nobody remembered seeing her, but many expressed a desire to date her. Even François is appalled by the indefatigable sexism of the French male. Why can’t those Frogs give it a rest sometimes?

9:28 p.m. Connie escaped briefly from Saunders’ manic clutches to take me out to dinner. Naturally, I tried to sticker the restaurant ladies’ room, but was ejected by the irate attendant. Countless millions employed in French restrooms to panhandle patrons for the privilege of taking a piss. Have all the decent jobs here gone to China?

Unaccountably, Connie also invited T.P.—perhaps to keep her flirting skills in tone. Had to hear all about T.P.’s exciting video breakthrough. Wants a copy for her mother to circulate among Hollywood’s elite star-makers. Gag me with a spoon—though in a pinch pricey French mystery cuisine will do. Don’t ask me which part of what animal I was masticating tonight; I’d rather not think about it. Connie reports Mr. Saunders has filed some sort of legal notification with Los Angeles County that an AWOL parolee has been kidnapped to France (not “in” France, as that would imply Paul illegally left the country of his own volition). Wonder how often Paul’s probation officer hears that excuse? More creative, at least, than “I overslept and missed the bus.”

Connie also divulged that Sheeni’s father openly boasts that he is offering $40,000 to have me killed. Not unexpected news, but scrotum-jangling nonetheless.

“
Must have gone up,” commented T.P., sucking the marrow out of a lamb bone. “The figure I heard was $25,000.”

WEDNESDAY, July 6 — When I returned from my morning canine constitutional, T.P. informed me that he had just heard from Mr. Petit. The lawyer reported that his snitches here learned from their mole within the U.S. military that the source of the alert on Vijay had been an official of the Krusinowski Spring Company.

“
I had nothing to do with it,” I announced. “It was all Connie’s idea.”

“
I look forward to relaying this report to Sheeni the next time I see her,” he replied.

Time to shake off my lethargy and knife my houseguest. Or go to Plan B.

2:26 p.m. On the train to Blois (pronounced “blwah,” like I feel). At least I hope that’s my destination. French transit system rather daunting to confused Americans. Feeling semi-confident I was on the right platform in the right station and boarded the correct train. Conductor did not seem perturbed when he inspected my ticket. Our car is pretty plush even though I bought the cheapest seats. No peasants with bleating goats or squalling children. Just bored-looking student types and backpacking tourists. Naturally, I have clandestinely stickered the entire train.

7:04 p.m. A short (but pricey) taxi ride from the station brought me to the grassy lot in Blois where the Cirque Coco-Poco had pitched its tents. The matinee performance was nearly over, but I bought a ticket and went in. No mammoth enterprise like the American circuses I’d been dragged to at the Oakland Coliseum on father-son bonding outings. The tricolored one-ring tent was smaller than a high school gym and sat perhaps 500 folks on folding aluminum bleachers. Lots of empty seats for this show, but the crowd of mostly kids cheered every trick and applauded with gusto at the conclusion. The most entertaining act I saw was a giant man about eight feet tall who performed with a little monkey. They were dressed alike in colorful tunics, and the joke was that the monkey was the trainer and the giant was the performer. Every time the big guy stood on his head or balanced on one leg on a milk bottle the monkey would feed him a treat and take a bow. Even I had to smile. No sign of Reina, but when the little four-piece band rose to play the exit march, I realized with a start that the mustached trumpet player in the gaudy red velvet uniform was Paul.

I made a call, stuck a few stickers, then wandered around outside to the back of the tent. I found my brother-in-law sitting on a crate and swabbing out his horn. He seemed pleased to see me, though he could tell the feeling wasn’t mutual.

“
Hi, Rick. Did you see Reina’s act?”

“
No, I came in too late. I didn’t know you played the trumpet.”

“
Oh, I play well enough to be hired by a small circus desperate for a horn player. Connie didn’t go home, huh?”

“
No. And your parents arrived last week to add to the fun.”

“
Damn.”

“
Sheeni’s gone, Paul. Have you seen her?”

“
I’m sorry to hear that, Rick. No, I haven’t seen her. When did she leave?”

“
Last Friday. No note or anything. She heard your parents were here and cut out.”

“
That sounds like Sheeni.”

“
You should have talked to Connie, Paul. You should have told her you didn’t want to get married.”

“
Connie’s not an easy person to talk to—especially if you’re giving her bad news. I was hoping she’d get the message and go home.”

“
What about your probation requirements, Paul?”

“
The world is a big place, Rick. Lots of places to see. I’d be fine never going back there.”

“
But you could be arrested.”

“
Not likely, Rick. The authorities aren’t going to bother extraditing someone from Europe over a petty drug offense. They have bigger fish to fry.”

“
It’s hard to stay in France legally, Paul.”

“
I’ve never paid much attention to the rules, Rick. We’re kind of alike in that respect. I wish, though, you hadn’t told Connie I was here.”

“
She didn’t answer her phone, Paul. I just left a message. You still have time to get away.”

Paul sighed. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“
Will you rat on me, Paul?”

“
That’s not my style, Rick.”

“
Are the cops closing in on me?”

“
They do seem a little closer, Rick. I’d watch your step. Want to stay and see Reina?”

“
No, I have to get back.”

We shook hands and wished each other well. As it turned out, I ran into Reina returning from a nearby market as I walked back toward town. She seemed delighted to see me and invited me to stay for dinner. I declined. She asked how was my wife, and I said Paul would fill her in on that story. I said I had a train to catch. She gave me a hug and said her babies missed me. I just made it to the station in time and climbed aboard in a state of abject misery. Somehow I seem to have wound up alone and friendless in a strange country thousands of miles from home—assuming I even had a home to go back to.

10:55 p.m. When I returned, I found T.P. lying in the dark in a mild catatonic state. Hard to believe, but the guy was even more depressed than me. He and Violet had had a busy afternoon. “I’ve made a mockery of my marriage vows!” he exclaimed, when I prodded him to haul his tanned carcass off my bed.

“
Well, these things happen. Nobody’s perfect.” I tore off a great length of unwaxed floss, handed it to him, took one for myself, then felt a fresh wave of longing for my absent love. How I loved to watch Sheeni floss at bedtime. She brought such industry to the task.

“
It was rape!” T.P. confessed. “She told me no and I forced myself on her. Then she told me she loved me. I’m very confused.”

“
Doesn’t sound much like rape to me. Violet told me she wanted you bad. She was only holding back because you’re married.”

“
How can I ever face Apurva again? I vowed to forsake all others, and I’ve already slept with two other women!”

I prayed the second victim was Sonya and not Sheeni. It didn’t seem polite to ask. Nor did I inquire how he enjoyed sex with a professional contortionist.

“
You know what the worst part is?” he asked.

“
No. What?”

“
It was the best sex I ever had. Violet’s just incredible!”

Well, that clears up that issue.

“
Trent, it’s all part of the great learning experience called life.

You will go back to Apurva a better person having known Violet. And no, you will not blab about your affair to Apurva. Remember, she’s your wife, not your confessor.”

“
Doesn’t she have a right to know?”

“
Everybody has a right to remain blissfully ignorant. It’s the eleventh right they forgot to put in the Constitution. Telling her would only cause needless pain. Just keep your lips zipped.”

“
Why should I listen to you? I abhor everything you stand for.”

“
You’re not my favorite person on the planet either. But at least I live in the real world. It’s you zealots with your lofty principles and rigid standards who cause most of the pain and suffering in this world. Go ahead, destroy your marriage. See if I care.”

We flossed on in silence.

“
What should I do about Violet? I love her too.”

“
Violet’s not expecting your child. Therefore, Violet must be, uh, put aside.”

“
We didn’t use a condom.”

“
Trent! Are you a completely insane?!”

“
I don’t know, Nick. I think maybe it’s this city. One gets . . . rather carried away.”

THURSDAY, July 7 — Horrible, horrible news. Connie called me at 4:00 a.m. on her satellite phone from 32,000 feet over the Atlantic.

“
You better clear out of there fast, Rick.”

“
Why?! What’s happened?”

“
Paulo’s mother saw your damn video at the hotel yesterday. They’ve notified the French police.”

“
Fuck!”

“
Thanks for locating Paulo, Rick. I owe you a big one.”

My mind was reeling. Where will I go? What will I do?

“
Are you still there, Rick?”

“
Uh, yeah, Connie. I’m sorry Paul decided to stay in France.”

“
Don’t be silly, Rick. Paulo’s right here on my plane with his repulsive mother. We’re flying straight to L.A.”

“
He changed his mind?”

“
Let’s just say with the help of my muscular detectives his father didn’t give him much choice.”

Great. They kidnapped Paul.

Another troubling thought: “Connie! Where’s Paul’s dad?”

“
He didn’t come with us, Rick. I knew something was up, and I finally got Paulo’s mother to spill. Her husband’s remaining in France to find their daughter and track you down.”

“
Shit!”

“
Fly, Rick! Get the hell out of there! Now!”

9:38 p.m. Can’t write much. Too fatigued. Too stressed. Registered in an elder hostel off the rue des Pyrenées in the slummy 20th arrondissement under the name Mrs. Morag Fulke, a Scottish pensioner. Passport of her late tenant slipped to me by Madame Ruzicka this morning, along with assorted items of surplus old-lady apparel. Landlady most sympathetic. Said my rent paid up until the end of the month. Will hold my apartment until then should I clear up matters with the gendarmes. Even with heavy application of wrinkle creme I don’t look much like Mrs. Fulke’s passport photo. Oh well, who looks that closely at gray-haired biddies anyway? Desk clerk at elder hostel certainly distracted by my dazzling print frock. A riot of cabbage roses tailored in the style of 1952. Topped by a big straw hat laden with artificial fruits to hold down my wig in the Paris breezes. And one of those open-mesh veils to add a sense of drama and mystery while obscuring the crow’s-feet. Yes, Carlotta has returned—this time as her granny from the highlands.

Hopeful that T.P. will keep his promise not to snitch to gendarmes. He seemed slightly friendlier since our heart-to-heart last night. I think he’s realized that leading an exemplary life of strict moral rectitude is a bit more challenging than he assumed.

I vacuumed up all my ready cash and cut out as dawn was breaking. Miraculously, Sheeni hadn’t laid her sticky fingers on my concealed euro stash. Still, rent and other expenses had taken their toll. Only E2,853 stands between me and peddling an old lady’s scrawny bod on the rue St. Denis. At least this hostel is clean and reasonably cheap, though they kick you out between the hours of 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. and impose a two-week limit on guests. After that I may be sleeping on the quay under a bridge.

Stickered the neighborhood, then hung out in dining room until bedtime. Read hostel’s complimentary copy of
International Herald Tribune
. Disturbing story about possible cryptic neo-Nazi communications appearing all over city. Speculation that someone trying to alert the “SS” about “R.S.H.” which was believed by authorities “to be a reference to Adolf Hitler.” What a bunch of dummkopfs. Leave it to the over-analytical French to find a fascist conspiracy in a lonely husband’s desperate plea.

Now I must bed down in a small room with nine other elderly gals. Hope they all keep their clothes on and don’t mind a bit of athletic snoring. A nightmare lack of privacy to be sure, but at least the toilet is private.

FRIDAY, July 8 — Boycotted the communal showers, but was still subjected to considerable geriatric nudity. Most traumatic. Not at all conducive to a healthy sexual outlook. During the worst moments I shut my eyes and tried to think about the girls’ locker room back in Ukiah. Rapidly acquiring the reputation of an eccentric among my fellow hostel inmates. Rather standoffish, and I reply to polite conversational approaches in my version of an unintelligible Scottish brogue. Occasionally, I do make a little sense. One lady asked me how I kept my hands looking so young, and I blurted out “vigorous daily masturbation.” Short-circuited that conversation, but, hey, it works for me.