Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (18 page)

Maurice and I enjoy the smells of our neighborhood. We may be living in the world’s most glamorous city, but after a while it’s just home—the neighborhood. Not that much different in essentials from Oakland. Considerate Maurice led me down a new street where I discovered the lonely outpost of an American donut chain. I went in and ordered my usual assortment. Just like home except the coffee was better, the clerk was cuter, dogs were welcome, and the tally was three times higher. There may be some truth to Sheeni’s total immersion theory. Sipping my coffee, I realized I had greeted the clerk, answered the obligatory Belmondo queries, ordered my donuts, paid the requested total, and thanked her—all without resorting once to my mother tongue. Plus, I’m married but would like to take a mistress. Jesus, am I evolving into a Frog?

Loud bellowing and fierce squawks were resounding through the halls when I trudged wearily back up to the sixth floor. My heart sank. I hurried down the corridor and found Connie angrily confronting an alarmed Reina, who was trying to calm her agitated birds.

“
There you are, Rick,” said Connie. “You will please inform this person that I am no one to be trifled with.”

“
I don’t know what she wants, Rick,” cried Reina. “I haven’t seen her boyfriend! I don’t know where he is. I’ve asked her to leave, but she refuses to go. She’s disturbing my babies.”

“
That woman is lying, Rick. I know it. I know that my dear Paulo has been in this apartment.”

Instant alarm. François was insanely jealous.

“
How do you know that, Connie?” he demanded.

“
I can sense Paulo’s lingering aura. You know how intuitive I am.”

Alarm canceled. François merely had a nut case on his hands.

“
Reina,” I said calmly, “if you happen to see Paul, could you let us know right away?”

“
Of course, Rick. I’m sorry he’s disappeared.”

“
Connie,” I said, taking her arm and steering her toward the door, “there is no way Paul can go in or out of this building without my seeing him.”

“
Are you sure, Rick?” she asked.

“
I’m positive. Plus, Sheeni and I have alerted the ladies in the wig salon on the ground floor. Believe me, they are all-seeing and all-knowing. A flea couldn’t sneak into this building without their spotting it—let alone a good-looking American guy.”

I led my distraught friend back to our apartment, where we discovered a concealed Sheeni speaking animatedly into my cellphone. She rang off when I opened the closet door.

“
She was talking to Paulo!” screamed Connie.

“
Don’t be an idiot,” replied my wife, rising from her toilet perch. “That was Mr. Bonnet, Rick. They’re releasing your video in France.”

Now it was my turn to scream. “Why?!!!!!”

Sheeni shrugged. “Money talks. Improbably, it seems to be exhibiting all the signs of an international mega-hit. Apparently, it’s the biggest thing to strike Denmark since salted cod. The Finns are going wild too, if you can believe it.”

“
This is awful!” I cried. (International mega exposure being the last thing I needed at the moment.)

“
Fuck your stupid video,” interjected Connie. “We have to find my fiancé! Paulo may be in danger!”

“
In danger of dumping you,” muttered Sheeni.

“
What did you say?!!” demanded Connie.

François had to referee his second brawl of the day. What a morning!

1:38 p.m. During lunch I asked my sullen wife if there was anything about her brother’s disappearance that she was concealing from me.

“
Don’t be ridiculous, Rick,” she snapped. “My brother does not confide in me. Your arrogant friend assumed she could force him to marry her. So of course he left. I just hope her spoiled rich girl’s presumption doesn’t result in Paul becoming a fugitive. My brother’s an irresponsible fool, but he doesn’t belong in jail—unlike some people I could mention.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit.

4:05 p.m. After lunch Sheeni departed for parts unknown and I collapsed on the bed for a tension-packed nap. I slept fitfully and woke feeling only moderately suicidal. Then I helped Reina haul her birds, boxes, and baggage down to her car. Countless trips up and down those monumental stairs. Each armload impressing on my psyche the impending distance between us. I also felt bad that I had never made it out to that distant suburb to see her perform. Some friend I am. Just farewell pecks on the cheek because Madame Ruzicka and the wig salon ladies also there to see her off. We waved goodbye from the curb as she drove off in her packed station wagon. Three months! God knows where I’ll be when she comes back in September.

5:38 p.m. Sheeni returned with a brand new Teflon pan. I kissed her in the kitchenette and expressed the wish that everything would remain non-stick in our home except our marriage. She kissed me back and volunteered to vacuum. Stunned, I pointed out that we lacked such an appliance. She proposed to borrow Señor Nunez’s wheezing Hoover. I fondled a breast and mentioned that Connie had phoned to invite us out to dinner. She nibbled my lip and politely declined. No, she did not mind if I went without her. I nuzzled her neck and reminded her not to miss the dust bunnies under the bed. She removed my hand and reminded me to run up the tab on Connie.

9:05 p.m. I returned from a memorable five-star dining experience and got another severe shock. Sitting on my sofa in our atypically neat and spotless apartment, sipping tea from my cup and conversing in French with my wife was François’s tanned and muscular arch-nemesis: Trent Preston.

“
Hello, Rick,” he said. “Or should I call you Nick?”

SATURDAY, June 25 — Seven weeks, diary. Seven long, rather trying weeks. Needless to say, we greeted this day with no anniversary intercourse. In fact, last night Sheeni dragged me out to the corridor to insist that it would be a “needless affront” to her old boyfriend for us to sleep in the same bed “while he was visiting.” Another dire shock. She’s invited the twit to stay with us. In our privacy-impaired one-room apartment! François was all for grabbing the razor-sharp German blade, but I somehow kept him restrained. Eventually, bedtime rolled around and Sheeni sorted us out. She took the bed, Trent occupied the sofa, and the man of the house slept (attempted to sleep) on the sofa’s removable back cushions on the cruel though clean floor. In the middle of the night I heard Trent rise for a manly and vigorous piss in our sequestered toilet. I suppose it was too much to expect the clod to relieve himself discreetly out a window. At least he returned to the sofa. One step closer to the bed and he would have faced immediate defenestration.

Can’t write much more. Too stressed out. Somehow I seem to forget how good-looking that ungifted poet is. How transparent is the profound effect he has on My Love. How seemingly inconsequential to her is his status as a married man and father-to-be. Ostensibly, the jerk is here as an emissary of the beleaguered Joshi family. He proposes to plead Vijay’s case with French immigration officials in hopes they can call off the I.N.S. dogs back home. I wonder if that isn’t just an excuse to get away from the stresses of married life. God knows I could use a break right now. Maybe a few weeks back in Ukiah with sexy Apurva. Yes, I’m beginning to appreciate the therapeutic benefits of wife-swapping. Where do I sign up, François asks?

And why did Sheeni reveal to Trent the actual identity of Rick S. Hunter?!! What could she have been thinking of?

SUNDAY, June 26 — Didn’t see much of my “roommates” yesterday. They were off on daylong tourism expeditions, while I remained at home paralyzed by a black depression. Today got off to an early start when Connie bustled in unannounced at 6:45 a.m. Perhaps she’s still on American time. Seemed surprised by peculiar sleeping arrangements and handsome stranger lounging on sofa in t-shirt and boxers. They introduced themselves, as we couldn’t be bothered. Connie excited by news at last of absent love. Paul still in France. Yesterday he cashed in his ticket at an Air France office in Vitry-sur-Seine. I was familiar with that burg. Ominously, it was the gritty suburb where Reina stored her caravan. If she has gone off with Paul, that’s it. The last straw. More grief I cannot take.

Connie insisted on dragging me back to her hotel for breakfast consultations, even though my companions had not yet roused themselves from bed. I tried not to imagine how they might be exploiting this privacy windfall. I was so stressed by these disquieting ruminations I could barely choke down my princely breakfast. Connie, as usual, did most of the talking.

“
God, Rick, I can’t believe Sheeni dumped that fellow to go out with you.”

Another ego boost. I’m used to them.

“
As I recall, Connie, I did tell you that Trent was good-looking.”

“
Yes, but you didn’t tell me he was better looking than Brad Pitt. What does he do?”

“
He goes to high school in Ukiah, writes truly wretched poetry, and works part time heaving around bags of concrete.”

“
What a waste. My mother has lots of contacts in the film industry through her charitable work. I know she can do something for him.”

“
Forget it, Connie. We want Trent to be less attractive to my wife, not more so. Now you see why I had to get him married off.”

“
Right, Rick. Well, the jury’s still out on that ploy. And what are you doing sleeping on the floor? Can’t you see what that says about your rank in the hierarchy?”

I explained Sheeni’s reservations about our sharing a bed in front of her guest.

“
You get right back in that bed, Rick. You have to declare yourself the alpha male here or you’re doomed. You must establish your dominance over the female. This is primitive, old-brain stuff, Rick. It’s social dynamics at the lizard level, but cannot be ignored.”

“
You’re right, Connie. I have to show them who’s boss.”

“
That was my mistake with Paulo. We got overeager, Rick. We pushed him too hard. I have to find him to reassure him that he’s in charge. We don’t have to get married—not right away. We can just live together.”

“
Uh, right, Connie.”

“
You’re a guy, Rick. What do you suppose my Paulo was doing in Vitry-sur-Seine? I mean I went there yesterday. The place is a dump. The cultural opportunities are nil.”

I didn’t feel it wise to reveal just yet my suspicions to Connie.

“
Well, it’s pretty far from the city center. I imagine hotels are cheaper out there.”

“
My detectives checked all the hotels in the area. Paulo hadn’t been at any of them.”

“
It’s a mystery, Connie. Of course, he disappeared before. He only came back to his family last summer. They hadn’t seen him for years.”

“
Paulo was finding himself, Rick. Now he’s got that out of his system. And now he’s got me.”

Boy, does he ever.

11:27 a.m. When I returned to the apartment, my wife and houseguest were absent. Would it kill her to leave me a note? No telltale moist spot in the bed, but there were two damp towels draped over our open-air tub. How do you suppose they managed that? Did each person wait out in the hall while the other guy bathed? Damn, I should have concealed a video camera in here weeks ago. Still depressed but no longer paralyzed, I snooped through Trent’s stuff. No condoms in evidence, which could be interpreted as a positive sign. Except he knows Sheeni is pregnant, so why bother? But then Trent seems like the kind to worry about catching diseases. No return ticket either. How long does that freeloading creep think he can impose upon our gracious hospitality? Some possibly positive signs: A murky Polaroid of a fetus-like swirl (sonogram of Trent Jr.?). And a 5x7 color photo of Apurva looking most alluring in a gold and purple silk sari. What a dish. Such beautiful children they’ll have together, and they owe it all to me.

An inside pocket of his grip coughed up this troubling letter:

Dearest Trent,

How exciting that you may be visiting Paris soon. Do try to persuade your “in-laws” to lend you the airfare. We can have a fantastic time exploring together—just as we always planned. Most places are free, so your only expense would be the daily Métro fare. We can take meals at my place; Nick’s cooking is not absolutely inedible. And don’t worry about my “husband.” I have him under my thumb.

Do come, darling!

Love,

Sheeni

P.S. I agree it’s a disgrace what happened to poor Vijay. I have a well-connected lawyer here who may be able to assist us with this matter.

Under her thumb, huh? Well, we’ll see about that. And why, I wonder, are all of her “marital” references in quotes?

3:48 p.m. Wife and pal not back yet. Must have lunched out. While walking Maurice, two cars boom-boomed by with “Heee, Lekker Ding” blaring on their radios. I sensed that somewhere three Magdas were bouncing up and down with joy.

7:12 p.m. I timed it perfectly. Just as I was serving up my one savory braised pork chop, solo baked potato, and individual salad (with leaves torn limb-from-limb American style), in trooped you know who.

“
That smells delicious,” exclaimed Sheeni. “We’re starved!”

I smiled graciously. “Gee, darling, I wish you’d let me know your schedule. I assumed you were dining out. But you’re welcome to see what you can dredge up in the fridge.”