Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (27 page)

Dear Morag,

Forgive me for assuming that you will be just like Paulo and run after that crippled parrot girl. I don’t know what she’s peddling, but my guess is it’s attracting a crowd. I’ve figured out that the police must have discovered your cellphone and were trying to triangulate your location every time you used it. So you must toss it in the river and use this one instead.

Our wedding is set for Saturday. I can’t wait. My Paulo made one last run for it, but we intercepted him near San Bernardino. I think he was trying to reach Mexico via secondary roads, the silly dear. Hope he is capable of functioning on our honeymoon, since I want a little Saunders on the way as soon as possible.

Hope you find his sister soon. I hear you are doing a good job building sympathy for your side in the French press. I know our father-in-law is furious at this turn of affairs. Good work!

Your loving sister-in-law,

Connie

It’s a shame I have to miss Connie’s wedding. I’m sure it will be a gala affair, even with my mother-in-law in attendance. Nice of Connie to send me a new phone, but there’s no way I can ditch the old one. I’m expecting a call on it any minute now from Sheeni. She just has to call me soon. She has to!

4:48 p.m. Spotting Reina leaving the lot, I tossed down my shovel and caught up with her. She was walking into town to buy fresh produce for her babies and consented to have Mrs. Fulke tag along. “Your forehead’s looking better, Rick,” she commented.

“
Call me Morag. I saw your act, Reina. I think it’s great.” “Thank you. I think we’re improving. I’m sorry, uh, Morag, that we can’t sit together at meals.”

“
Your Mr. Granley seems rather attentive.”

“
He’s very nice. He’s nearly twice my age and has a wife back in England. Madame Poco alerted me to that fact. Men rarely volunteer such information, I’ve found.”

“
We should all be shot,” I conceded.

“
Rick, I know you think you’re married, but it really is a crime having sex with an underage girl.”

Her glance, so full of hurt and reproach, took me aback. Frankly, I’d been hoping for a little more continental sophistication here. I could see no recourse except the truth.

“
Sheeni’s older than I am,” I blurted out.

Reina halted in her tracks. “What! How old are you, Rick?” “I’ll be 15 next week.”

“
My God, Rick! You’re just a baby! You should be home with your parents.”

“
My parents don’t want me. Nobody wants me.”

Not a bad ploy. Reina put her arm around my shoulder and kissed me on my withered cheek. I tried to kiss her lips, but she drew back.

“
None of that, Rick,” she said. “In your country I could be arrested for kissing you. Your lawyers could sue me for corrupting a minor.”

Damn, I knew it was a mistake telling the truth. It almost always is.

Didn’t find the
Herald Tribune
in Chinon, but Reina picked up the Tours paper. No mention of me, but the entertainment page featured a large photo of T.P. with his hair slicked back and dressed in an oddly tailored, rather punkish orange suit. Image-molding by Mr. Bonnet? That would be my guess. The breathless article, translated by Reina, said he had finished recording his sensational new song and was rumored to be “a bad boy” with a certain Magda of the famed Three Magdas. I didn’t point out that that would certainly be illegal, but when Reina commented “He’s cute,” I informed her that he was both married and going steady (a morally precarious dilemma I wouldn’t mind grappling with myself).

SATURDAY, July 23 — Another anniversary of my wedding day. Another morning without soft caresses, without the touch of warm arms about me, without the tingle of excitement as I slide my engorged . . . well, never mind. A gloomy day in more ways than one. Rain threatens. Circus people hate rain, Iyad informs me. It can cut attendance by one-half or more. Everything gets soggy. Animals get restless. Acrobats and aerialists resort more often to the rosin bag, but still hands can slip, tricks don’t work, people can get hurt. Townies sit on their mitts and don’t applaud. Who needs it?

11:45 a.m. As I was wheelbarrowing my way past the office caravan in a chilly downpour, Madame Poco waved me over. She said if Captain Lapo delegated any more of his work to me, he could just retire and collect his old-age pension. I noticed he seemed to have considerable leisure to loiter about the coffee urn and chat up the midgets. So Mrs. Fulke put her excrement-caked foot down and told him she would not be feeding any more of those cute little live bunnies to the snakes. That was his job.

“
And what’dya thinka you wassa eatin’ for dinner lasta night?” he demanded.

“
We had grilled lapin. It was delicious.”

“
That’sa rabbit!”

I trust the ignorant old fool was misinformed. Mrs. Fulke has adopted an ethical stand and for once is sticking to it.

3:18 p.m. Still raining. What a mess. Madame Poco had another truckload of sawdust delivered, which we serfs swarmed over with rakes and shovels. Dispersed it about the public areas in a futile effort to keep the mud at bay. I found a wide sombrero-type hat in the camel van to shield Mrs. Fulke’s delicate face from the rain. Toiling away, I looked like the world’s oldest peasant, but was rarely given as much as a glance by the passing townies. Fortunate for them we aren’t living two centuries before. One word from me and those candy-munching aristocrats would be off to the guillotine. 7:05 p.m. I slipped in out of the rain and caught Mr. Granola’s act, which I’d characterize as the lazy man’s acrobatics. He stands there blowing his police whistle while his monkeys work out on a miniature trampoline. They perform back-flips, link up by tail in mid-air, leap onto the next guy’s shoulders until they’re stacked four high, etc. A real crowd-pleaser, since who isn’t charmed by the antics of our little primate cousins? Few would suspect that behind closed doors the monkey van is the scene of near nonstop total depravity. And what’s our genetic overlap with these crazed sex fiends? Over 96 percent, I’m told. It’s no wonder a healthy young primate like me is so on edge all the time. Let’s face it: I’m not getting my rightful share. And what about Mr. Granola? That British twit associates professionally with lecherous monkeys, yet stashes his wife in a distant country. I must remind Reina to bolt her door at all times.

SUNDAY, July 24 — Question: When do circus people get a day off?

Answer: In winter or when they die—whichever comes first.

Today we have three shows scheduled, plus we move again tonight. And it’s still raining buckets. I wonder what suicide by letting yourself be sucked down into French mud would feel like?

Well, Connie must be married and on her honeymoon by now. I’m sure I would have heard from her if things hadn’t gone as planned. Another Saunders successfully hog-tied. I hope the news gets back to Sheeni, and she is inspired by her brother’s example to come forward and resume her rightful place in my bed. I miss her dreadfully, and I’m sure she must feel the same way at least somewhat. Besides, a fetus should be at its father’s side if proper bonding is to take place. I’m not making that up. I read it somewhere in a magazine. Something to do with the timbre of the male voice resonating through the amniotic fluids. Too bad I hadn’t thought to cut out the article. I’d send it to Trent.

2:26 p.m. Since Mrs. Fulke has ceased to be his doormat, Captain Lapo is manifesting new respect toward my alter ego. Carving up horsemeat for the bear, he mentioned that one can earn considerably more money in the circus if you work up some kind of act. For example, if there’s a glitch in the program, he runs out to do a little fire-eating. In a pinch he can also pull out the loose skin under his chin and pound a nail through it. Very helpful in keeping the townies appeased until the next act gets ready.

He offered to teach me fire-eating, which he demonstrated after lunch. He tears narrow strips of cloth and wraps them tightly around the ends of his slim metal torches. These he dips in ordinary gasoline siphoned from the tank of the pony van. No, he doesn’t coat his lips or mouth with anything. He just lights a torch and straight in it goes, then he blows out great plumes of billowing fire. The trick, he says, is to exhale steadily while the torch is in your mouth. If you forget and inhale, gas fumes can be drawn down into your lungs and ignite with explosive consequences. He offered to let me try, but Mrs. Fulke shuddered and politely declined. Nor was she interested in the piercing routine when informed that no trick nails were employed. They are standard hardware-store nails pounded through living flesh. Do this daily and after a while you cease to bleed much. All very fascinating, but not for me.

I could tell Captain Lapo was pegging me for a mere shit-shoveling circus dilettante. Jugglers, he declared, always had a place in the circus. Same for stilt-walkers. But Mrs. Fulke, he sneered, was “too old” to learn those arts.

“
Ever throw a knife?” he demanded.

“
No,” I admitted. “But I shot a man recently.”

That impressed him, but sharpshooters, he said, were seldom employed by circuses these days. Too much trouble from the “damn insurance leeches.”

11:48 p.m. On the road at last. I’m riding back with the camels this time as it is too hard on the nerves to watch the scenery crawl by at Iyad’s anemic pace. Has the guy no testosterone at all? He gets passed by nuns on scooters, for God’s sake. Rain stopped, but it was still murder packing up. Everyone and everything slipping and sliding in the mud. Roustabouts wrestling with dripping tents that can weigh double or triple their dry weight. Everyone short-tempered from fatigue. Ajax and Omar not happy about being asked to haul heavily loaded trucks out of deep muck. Sure those guys smell bad, but I’m beginning to see things from their point of view. What this circus really needs is an elephant or two. Can’t write any more. Somebody just passed the mother of all camel farts.

MONDAY, July 25 — We’re in Poiters, one of the larger towns on our route. Could be good for Sheeni-spotting. Not exactly mountainous, but we’re atop a fair-sized hill. Seems well off the beaten path—where goateed young men might lay low to foster internal growth.

Managed to cadge another shower from Reina after our usual erection-delayed breakfast. (I am speaking here of tent erections, although I cannot say I remained entirely flaccid within her sexy shower. Too bad she wasn’t in there with me.) She’s much friendlier these days since she found out I was just a kid and not a depraved virgin despoiler. Somehow, though, I have to subvert the new and ghastly sisterly feelings she is now manifesting toward me. I have a sister already. They are of limited usefulness, though Joanie usually can be counted on for a decent gift of birthday cash. That reminds me, I must think of a way to sneak her my address.

After nearly a week of observation I can now categorize the men who are romantically interested in Reina. They are many and varied, but I’m dismissing from consideration all the roustabouts who strip her mentally every time she walks by. These oafs do not discriminate, sometimes even letting their lascivious glances linger on Mrs. Fulke’s knobby bod. No, I’m concerned here only with potential contenders.

Most forward of the lot is the safari-garbed, monkey-manipulating Mr. Granley. Reina told me without embarrassment that she admires his “dry English wit,” no evidence of which I’ve seen. Fortunately, she thinks less of his clandestine wife. Then there is the tall clown Marcel Fazy, who paints his face as if someone just goosed him. He’s always watching her and occasionally dines at her table, though he doesn’t say much. I recognize all the subtle signs though. He’s got it bad. Next is the affable Spanish engineering student Carlos, who sells tickets and hawks snacks. Fairly good-looking and dangerously close to her age. Claims to be a bird lover, though I know the sort of birds he likes to love. She’s actually been in his caravan for drinks. Runaway camels may trample his prostrate body if he tries that again. Then there’s Iyad, whose incessant flirting may just be a cultural thing. My guess is his wife keeps him on a fairly short chain and must nightly drain dry his testosterone reserve. Finally, there’s Tarkan, the eldest son of the Batur clan. This is an entire family of crazed riders who fling themselves off their stampeding ponies to gyrate improbably in mid-air. Tarkan is a muscular lad from the Omar Sharif school of dark smoldering eyes. They smolder especially when he talks to Reina, which he does with alarming frequency. Hers sparkle a bit in return, I’ve noticed. We don’t see much of ol’ Tarkan socially since Mrs. Batur does all the cooking for her brood. He only drops by the cookhouse tent for the occasional coffee to go. Madame Poco tolerates this brazen pilferage despite the fact that the Batur compensation plan is said not to include free eats.

2:12 p.m. Mrs. Fulke snubbed all three decrepit band members at lunch today, though I don’t think they noticed. They’ve been rehearsing a new addition to their repertoire: “Heee, Lekker Ding.” Is there no escape from the torment? More proof of Frank’s musical smarts: he always refused to record novelty numbers.

Before heading back to the shit mines, Mrs. Fulke swiped a few oranges and eased into the seat beside Marcel. She smiled warmly and asked him if he would kindly show her how to juggle.

The clown recoiled and looked at me as if I had just asked him to suck a few of my intimate appendages.

“
Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

From my dealings with Señor Nunez I knew that clowns can be crotchety, morose, and aloof. I also knew Marcel knew who the hell I was. His accent I couldn’t quite place. Rumor had it he was from Montreal.