Revoltingly Young (33 page)

I suppose I’m thinking more about her now since Miren quashed our marriage plans. I think I was getting used to idea of going into marriage, fatherhood, and trampolining full time.

Now I’m back to being a lonely high-school dropout fugitive with no discernible future.

At breakfast this morning Vrsula kept saying something unintelligible about Humphrey Bogart. I finally figured out that she was suggesting I might wind up with a scar on my lip like him. As long as girls don’t object to kissing me, that would be OK by me. I’m more worried about my loose tooth, which at last is showing signs of taking root again. Still, I won’t be opening any beer bottles with my teeth for a while.

I don’t think Joe College likes me dining with Vrsula. The bacon this morning was rather sub-par and he also burned my toast.He has taken to tying a dishtowel over his hairnet, so he looks like a Bedouin. Now Mr. Povey is addressing him as Joseph of Arabia.

1:22 p.m. I just received a dressing down in the ladies’ doniker from Nerea for blowing the marriage deal with her sister. It turns I wasn’t supposed to discuss the matter with Miren. According to Nerea, I should have just sabotaged the condom and impregnated her through stealth.

I was a bit surprised that Nerea was so up-to-date on my sex life. It appears those girls aren’t into keeping secrets from each other. She said her sister likes me a lot and hopes to meet me again “for church” next Sunday. Sounds like a great idea if I can afford it, but those motel rooms take a giant bite out of my paltry income. Perhaps I can negotiate a discount, since we’re only there for a few hours–although the wear and tear on the mattress can be substantial.

Next time, says Nerea, I should “be a man” and make sure “the sperm reaches the egg.” I protested that Miren would hate me if I did that, but Nerea said a woman’s hormones change once she’s pregnant and Miren would love me even more. She says the female body does that automatically so the woman won’t despise the man for putting her through nine months of “horrible pain and sheer hell.” Sounds reasonable to me.

6:27 p.m. Amazing news. Veeva just checked in from Albi. To her utter astonishment, she found not one but two birth listings for “S. Saunders, non-citizen.” Registered on the 8
^th
of December fifteen years ago were the births of Emma B. Saunders and Marie A. Saunders. No father was listed for either of them.

“
Do you realize what this means, Noel?” she asked breathlessly.

“
Uhmm, you’re a Sagittarius?”

“
Exactly! I’m a Sagittarius with a missing twin sister somewhere. And here’s the confirmation: My false birthday was June 16, which made me a Gemini–the sign of twins!”

“
I’m not following the connection, Veeva.”

“
Don’t you see, Noel? It would be just like my mother to give me a fake birthday with that reference to twins. Her sadism can be so subtle.”

“
Wow, that’s amazing. So where’s your missing sister?”

“
That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. I spent all day searching for that dwarf’s brother. But there don’t appears to be any Nunezes living in this district. I don’t know, he may have moved away or been deported or something. It’s very discouraging. I did find out that no Nunez–named Sarah or otherwise–has died in this province in the past 15 years.”

“
Then Alfredo is lying as usual.”

“
Yes, and now you must get him to tell the truth.”

Easy for her to say. I don’t think she has a clue how formidable that dwarf really is.

“
So what are you going to do now, Veeva?”

“
Head to Lyon, of course. It’s time for a heart-to-heart talk with Sheeni.”

“
Sounds good, Veeva. You can threaten to expose her to her husband if she doesn’t come clean.”

“
I couldn’t do that to my own mother, Noel. And what was that disgusting photo you sent to my cell phone?”

“
Those are my bruised privates, Veeva. I thought you’d like to see the price I’m paying for this quest of yours.”

“
It’s your quest too, Noel. Aren’t you interested in locating your missing niece?”

I suppose, though I think “Uncle Noel” has more than enough nieces and nephews already.

11:57 p.m. No more visitors after dark. That’s my new rule and I intend to stick to it. I answered a loud rap on my door this evening, and there was Miren’s florid-faced papa pointing his very scary Luger at me. He forced his way inside and announced he had come “to exterminate some
asqueroso
vermin.” His breath smelled strongly of garlic, cigars, and booze. I backed up as far as I could and asked for the particulars of his complaint against me.

“
You know what you did, you degenerate
pajiera
. You sneaked into the women’s doniker today and molested my Nerea.”

“
Excuse me! I was
cleaning
the women’s doniker today, and she dropped by to chat. It was all totally innocent.”

“
You had the door closed!”

“
The door has one of those spring thingies on it, Mr. Lurrieta. It closes automatically.”

“
And you’ve had your
pringao
hands on my Miren. That I cannot forgive!”

I had put more than my hands on her, but this I did not point out.

He stuck the steel barrel of his gun into my bruised abdomen. At that range, I knew, I could hardly count on him to miss.

“
Will you grant me one last request, Mr. Lurrieta?”

“
What’s that,
malnacido
?”

“
Will you share a glass of wine with me?”

“
Si, claro
. I appreciate a
chupaverga
who goes bravely to his maker.”

I got him to withdraw his firearm an inch or two, turned around in the confined space, opened my cupboard door, and spotted Señor Nunez’s pistol. I knew it was loaded because I had checked it out previously. If the gun actually worked, I might be able to get off the first shot, but did I want to have a gun battle with a drunken Spaniard in a room no bigger than a coffin? I decided to go with Plan B. I very shakily poured some of Kardos’s wine into two paper cups and covertly added a splash from the shampoo bottle into one of them. I turned around and was virtually certain I handed the proper cup to the guy with the gun.

We clinked cups, said “Salud!” and Mr. Lurrieta downed his with a mighty gulp. I took a tentative sip and managed an ingratiating smile.

“
Drink up,
lambioso
!” he exclaimed. “We’ve got to get this over. We can’t have everyone in the show up all night dealing with your
pelotudo
corpse.”

“
Mr. Lurrieta, with all due respect, may I ask if Alfredo Nunez is the person who has been spreading these lies about me?”

“
Alfredo is my
amigo
,” he replied, wiping a hairy, muscular hand down over his face and shaking his head. “He knows you to be
el hijo de la gran puta
and has told me so. You dishonor him by calling him a liar. For that also you must die.”

“
Show me the evidence,” I persisted. “Show me the evidence that I have defiled your daughters.”

“
The evidence is in your face,
coño
. You have . . . You have . . .”

He didn’t finish his explanation. He got an odd grin on his face, then his eyes trampolined up and down, the gun slipped from his hand, and he crumpled to the floor. My strategy had worked. I had proved scientifically that the liquid in the bottle was not shampoo. Now, what to do with my slumbering houseguest? Powered by a fierce jolt of adrenaline, I managed to drag him unseen out the door and across the lot. I left him curled up and clutching the wine bottle by the front entrance to the big tent. He was wearing a heavy jacket, so he shouldn’t freeze to death. I don’t know what I’ll do if he comes after me tomorrow, but this time
I’ll
be the guy holding the Luger.

TUESDAY, September 20 – Pretty bleary-eyed. I was too on edge to get much sleep last night. No sign yet of Miren’s father. We jumped this morning to Sheridan, Wyoming, and Mrs. Lurrieta drove the truck pulling their trailer. I’ve never seen her do that before.

Not much difference so far between Montana and Wyoming. Ninety-nine percent of what you see is scenic wilderness and rugged mountains–interrupted only by disfiguring blotches of human habitation. Sheridan appears to be another Old West town panning for tourists rushing by on the Interstate highway.

11:32 a.m. Things are grim. Mr. Lurrieta is in a hospital in Sheridan. They thought he was sleeping off a bender, but when he didn’t wake up, they hauled him off to the emergency room. Very unnerving. I’ve wiped down both guns and the other incriminating items, crammed them into a plastic bag, and ditched them behind some bushes on a remote part of the lot. Too bad I hadn’t thought to wipe my fingerprints off that damn wine bottle!

I must have splashed in too much of Señor Nunez’s knockout drops. How was I supposed to know the proper adult dose? Hell, there were no instructions or warning labels on the bottle. If he croaks, I’ll probably be charged with homicide, even though the deceased was threatening me with a gun. Plus, I looked in the doniker mirror this morning and was alarmed to see my loose tooth is turning brown. I look like a real criminal. I’m sure it will be one more thing prejudicing the jury against me. I wonder if they gas 15-year-olds in this state?

7:18 p.m. Mr. Lurrieta is still in intensive care. Haven’t spoken to Miren or Nerea yet as they’ve been at the hospital all day. Meanwhile, the afternoon performance went on without them. Joe College, volunteering to help fill the gap, ran out and did some semi-pathetic juggling. It seems he went to circus summer camps as a kid and fancies himself a performer. The audience applauded politely, but I expect they’re starved for entertainment in his burg.

Two sheriff’s deputies came poking around during the dinner break. They talked to all the Patsatzises, then worked their way around to the rest of us. I told them I knew Mr. Lurrieta only by sight, but had spoken several times to his daughters. They seemed suspicious and wanted to know why my face was so torn up. I told them I had been in an altercation recently with a former employee, but no, the dispute had not involved any of the Lurrieta family. Don’t ask me if they believed me. I’m sure I looked suspicious with my shaky voice, nervous tremor, shifty eyes, ugly lip scab, and lowlife tooth. They wrote down my name and were disappointed I couldn’t produce an I.D. I explained I was too young to have a driver’s license.

10:38 p.m. I’m wracked by guilt. I’ve been trying to read the tattered remnants of my poetry book (it didn’t fare well in that clothes dryer), but have been too distracted to concentrate. I keep wondering how I’ll cope if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison. I feel I’m especially unsuited to such confinement since I have real problems with authority figures and excessive regimentation. I figure prison may be like being stuck in high school 24 hours a day, only without girls and with a very suspect student body. I’d face a lifetime of conforming to rules, being unpopular, being bossed around, dodging bullies, and disappointing my family. Perhaps it would be best just to get it over with and be dragged whimpering into that gas chamber.

I took a walk earlier to try to clear my head, and was accosted by Señor Nunez near the generator truck. He said he knew it was me who had poisoned Mr. Lurrieta and I would never get away with it. I warned him that if he said a word to the cops, I would tell them where I got the stuff and what he did to me. I reminded him that the incriminating bottle had his fingerprints on it too. Then I demanded he tell me what he knew about Sheeni’s missing twin daughter.

“
I told you,” he insisted. “Her baby died.”

“
OK, where did she die? It sure as hell wasn’t in Albi because we’ve checked.”

“
I never said she died in Albi. We had moved to Argentina.”

“
Where in Argentina?”

“
Buenos Aires.”

“
OK, is your story now that she died in Buenos Aires? Because we can check that.”

“
It’s not a story, Jake. It’s the truth.”

No call from Veeva. I tried calling her, but got no answer. I don’t know how far Albi is from Lyon, but I assume she’s spoken to Sheeni by now. I hope their chat went well, and Sheeni isn’t trying to weasel out of her responsibilities. I expect, though, there are lots of parents out there with children they’d rather forget–my own, for example.

Not that I can blame them for that.

WEDNESDAY, September 21 – The end of summer. For lots of reasons this is one summer I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

Two pieces of good news this morning: 1. Mr. Lurrieta is conscious and out of intensive care. 2. I may never have to clean another circus doniker.

The bad news is I’m back slaving as Mr. Povey’s 13-hour-a-day kitchen helper. Joe College dropped by my roomette early this morning and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. If I agreed to switch jobs, he wouldn’t tell the cops what he’d overheard through the walls two nights ago. I got a little heated and demanded to know why, if he heard Mr. Lurrieta threatening me, he hadn’t tried to intervene or gone for help. Joe looked at me like that was a very silly question.