Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (23 page)

11:08 a.m. Another alarming story splashed all over the front page of the International Herald Tribune. This one headlined: “‘American Belmondo’ Sought on Child Abduction Charges.” The usual homoerotic dwarf-grappling photo of the young video star and a very flattering shot of My Love that I had never seen before, inducing fresh pangs of anguished heartache. What a beautiful girl I’m married to, even if she did look rather young and innocent and virginal in her photo. I can only imagine how she is reacting to this media exposure (we also made the front page of Libèration, I noticed). Of course, the article was libelous in the extreme. It said I had abducted young Miss Saunders at gunpoint from a medical facility in California. The only gun I ever used was against her lying father and now I wish I’d taken some marksmanship training before that. And let us not forget that the “victim” is nearly six months older than the alleged perpetrator, and it was she who coerced me into coming to this accursed country. If it weren’t for Sheeni, I’d still be a bookish wanker back in Oakland. In short, I’m innocent!

Well, as you can imagine, I was so incensed, I fired off an immediate rejoinder to the paper, declaring that I hadn’t abducted anyone, that we had been married legally in Mississippi, that my wife was expecting my child, and that we had been very happy together until her meddlesome parents arrived and began spreading those vicious lies. I also noted for the record that Mr. Saunders was a lawyer who associated openly with reputed mobsters and had been shot recently under mysterious circumstances possibly related to his Mafia entanglements. Suck on that, Father-in-law dear! I also phoned up his hotel, identified myself as Mr. Saunders’ private secretary, and said he would be checking out today as he had just been indicted in California.

3:26 p.m. Rode the Métro to our old station and strolled warily down a side street that afforded a glimpse up our block. Three police cars and several news vans were double-parked in front of the wig salon. I doubt much hair was being sewn in Madame Lefèbvre’s premises with all that excitement going on. Feigning disinterest, I strode resolutely on.

9:42 p.m. Need a shower most desperately. Frivolous French deodorant starting to fail and wrinkle creme beginning to itch. Am reduced to contemplating midnight nude swim in the Seine. Had dinner in a budget Chinese restaurant around the corner from hostel. No major surprises except for amputated chicken foot in watery soup. Attributed it to a slipup in the dimly lit kitchen. As I was scarfing down my combo rice plate, my ears were assaulted by the opening chords of “Heee, Lekker Ding.” Swiveled around in seat to watch sensationalist news report on greasy TV mounted high on wall. Flashed my photo, then cut to interview with The Three Magdas. Lots of giggling in Dutch overdubbed into French. I could be wrong, but they did not appear overly scandalized by their brush with felonious child abductor. Then cut to shocking scene of gendarmes leading T.P. out of my building and into waiting squad car. Very unsettling. Pray that twit has the fortitude to stand up to interrogation. Next watched in open-mouthed astonishment as excerpts shown of invasive bath-time video. Disturbing deer-in-headlights shot of dazed Rick S. Hunter, then much camera jostling as view shifted toward My Love. Her privates were pixelated, but bobbling pink and damp for all of France to ogle were her divine breasts. This brought a roar of approval from my fellow diners—all clearly of the degenerate, lowlife class. Then my father-in-law appeared to make a heartfelt appeal to the people of France to help track down his missing daughter and her vicious celebrity kidnapper lest this “nightmare turn into a tragedy.” The ogre also declared he was offering a E10,000 reward for information leading to Sheeni’s safe return and/or the capture of her kidnaper. I prayed this sum was coming from his Rick S. Hunter whack fund. Needless to say, it was all I could do to gag down my complimentary mango sorbet, pay the check, sticker the umbrella stand, and lurch out into the autonomous night.

SATURDAY, July 9 — A sad anniversary, diary. Nine weeks since My Love and I said “I do,” and over a week since she was taken from me. Every waking minute of the day I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, and why the hell she hasn’t phoned. Really, I don’t see how she can remain on the lam for long with all this publicity and the big reward on her head. The nagging moral question: When she is found, should I turn myself in to face the consequences with her?

Still no shower and growing ever more ripe, like a female-impersonating Camembert. I tried sneaking into the hostel bathroom at 3:00 a.m., but these gals have such twitchy bladders they are always bobbing up to take a tinkle. All I could manage was a quick face wash and wrinkle creme reapplication. This preview of old age is a real downer. I really don’t see how people cope past age 40. Since it was the weekend, I dressed a bit more casually in a lavender nylon jogging suit and my Rumanian miner’s shoes. Such a relief from the matronly street shoes that Sheeni had dredged up and those aromatic cabbage roses. That frock may have to be taken out and burned as a public nuisance. My sartorial effect was rather butch, but eyebrows in the hostel dining room were raised no more than usual when I strolled in. I noticed my ostracism is now complete.

No one chose to sit at lonely Morag Fulke’s table, which is just as well as I was free to bogart the complimentary International Herald Tribune. A big splash about the Sheeni Saunders rescue reward on page one and a nice photo of Mr. Bonnet looking even more intense than usual. He has reason to be focused. Thanks to all the Rick S. Hunter hoopla, “Heee, Lekker Ding” is now Number One on the French hit parade. And is doing very well in the lucrative U.S. market, where media interest has been “similarly intense.” A final paragraph in the article noted that U.S. citizen Trent Preston, believed to be an associate of the “American Belmondo,” was assisting the police with their inquiries. I hope that doesn’t mean he’s singing like a canary.

4:28 p.m. Spent the morning on the streets stickering and wracking my brain trying to figure where my wife could be holed up. Something tells me she’s still in the city and I must be overlooking some obvious clue. My suspicions keep coming back to Alphonse, but I dare not approach him since I know the cad would turn me in for the reward.

After the meagerest of budget lunches, I rode the Métro to the distant suburb where Señor Nunez and pals perform. Sure enough, after loitering in the station for nearly an hour (and getting propositioned twice by decrepit and obviously desperate Frogs), I saw Violet exit a train and fell in beside her as she walked toward the circus auditorium. She seemed glad to see me, but cautioned that I should ditch my buoyant stride and adopt the halting gait of an enfeebled oldster. So I clung to her lovely arm and practiced being aged and infirm. As usual, frisky François was feeling anything but that in the presence of such an attractive chick.

Some good news at last. T.P. didn’t spill. All he told the cops was I left in a hurry that morning, and, no, I hadn’t said where I was going. They pumped him endlessly for details about Sheeni and me, but his responses were politely vague. When Mr. Saunders arrived, Trent told him flat out that he was making a bad situation worse and should just go back to Ukiah. Not something the ogre wanted to hear. He informed T.P. that his presumption would cost him his part-time concrete slave job with Mr. DeFalco. How vile.

Doesn’t my callous father-in-law care if Trent’s poor baby starves?

The further good news (from Violet’s perspective): the detectives told Trent not to leave the country. He’s stuck here until the case is resolved.

“
Doubtless, Rick, you think I’m a terrible person for seducing a married man.”

“
Call me Morag. I’m a little confused, Violet. Last I heard Trent was beating himself up for raping you.”

“
How sweet. Oh, God, Morag, I really am quite frightfully gone on the bloke. It’s all I can do to tear myself away from him to go to work. Is his wife as beautiful as her picture?”

“
Well, she’s, uh, not unattractive.”

“
Does she really love him?”

“
She always conveyed that impression.”

Violet defiantly gripped my infirm arm. “Trent loves me, Morag! He told me so this morning.”

What a mess. I didn’t know what to say. What I am sure of is if news of her husband’s Parisian philandering somehow gets back to Apurva, the blame will be dumped squarely on Nick Twisp’s gray- wigged head.

Since one has many lonely hours to fill when one is on the lam, I attended the circus via a complimentary ducat from Violet. Much more lavish than Reina’s humble show. Plush seats, full orchestra, glittering costumes, lumbering elephants, death-defying stunts, scantily clad beauties spinning by their teeth, and a troupe of raucous clowns led by an acclaimed dwarf. Amusing I suppose, but does antic slapstick really qualify as genius? I thought my other former neighbors were just as accomplished and drew equal applause. The Boccata brothers defied gravity while hazarding hernias with their energetic acrobatics. And Violet bent herself up like a pretzel to the gasps and winces of the awed spectators.

Entertaining to be sure, but I left feeling more depressed than when I entered. I suppose performing in a circus beats toiling in some office, but it seems to me there’s something sad about risking your neck eight times a week for the delectation of strangers. And doesn’t prodding the same costumed bear through the same flaming hoops day after day become rather tedious? Of course, being an impoverished and homeless fugitive can give one a jaundiced view of any show business enterprise. Sour Morag Fulke may be every entertainer’s worst audience nightmare.

SUNDAY, July 10 — More bad news. Mrs. Fulke has lost her happy home. I’ve been bounced from the elder hostel. Apparently, complaints were received. The manager ejected me this morning for “inadequate personal hygiene.” Incensed, I told him the fault lay with his facilities, not with me. “We Scots invented the bathtub!” I ranted, “But we canno’ be expected to disrobe in front of peeping strangers!” He wasn’t sympathetic and refused my demand for a full refund. So I packed in a hurry and swiped the latest International Herald-Tribune on my way out.

Never noticed it before, but this country is crawling with cops. Everywhere I go there are black-caped gendarmes giving me the hairy-eyeballed once over. Parked well out of sight in a derelict café, I was happy to see that Rick S. Hunter’s clandestinely submitted Protestations of Innocence were given prominent play on page one. A gratifying sidebar, featuring comments from neighbors, led off with Madame Lefèbvre declaring the fugitive youth was “the finest, most attentive husband any woman could desire” and stating that my persecution was the “gravest injury to justice” since the notorious “Dreyfus Affair.” I wasn’t aware that Richard Dreyfuss had had legal difficulties in France. Other supportive neighbors praised my devotion to animals, willingness to assist the handicapped, and diligence in graffiti removal. All very inspiring for a guy stranded in the rain without even a storm drain for shelter. Trudging along later with my grip, laptop, and purse, I tried not to glance at my reflection in shop windows. I looked just like one of those bag ladies I used to see mumbling curses to unseen companions in downtown Oakland.

Then I got really morbid and thought about my homicidal mother. I wondered if her trial for assault with a deadly weapon was over yet. Perhaps it was, and she was already driving nuts her new cellmate in some maximum-security prison. Unfortunate, I suppose, but at least she had a roof over her head.

5:37 p.m. Still raining. Thanks a pantsful, God. Mrs. Fulke’s bouffant wig has lost all of its pouf. I look like something the tide washed up. And I wish the damn wrinkle creme was less soluble in water. Now I look like a drowned old lady with peculiar streaks of blooming youth. I made a call to Babette, but Alphonse answered. So I asked him point-blank where he was hiding my wife. He replied in French, but François was in no mood for that merde and told him so. In halting English he said he was completely in sympathy with me, had no idea where Sheeni was, and hoped very much that I located her soon. Sounded quite sincere too. Damn. I suppose it’s nice to know that guy isn’t as big a jerk as I thought he was, but there goes my one best hope of getting a bead on My Love. Unless the treacherous bastard was lying through his teeth. Question of the moment: Shall I scrounge up a budget dinner or throw myself into the Seine? I could hardly get much wetter.

MONDAY, July 11 — Not dead yet, though it was close. In fact, I’m freshly showered and more than a little cozy. My benefactor is Mr. Hamilton, whom I appealed to in desperation in his austere dressing room after his second performance last night.

“
Who are you supposed to be?” he inquired, wiping off his makeup. “Edna May Oliver? Marie Dressler? Or perhaps Ruth Gordon as the sexy octogenarian in Harold and Maude?”

At least he didn’t guess Elsa Lanchester from Bride of Frankenstein. I explained my predicament and threw myself on his mercies.

“
Kicked out of your elder hostel and rejected by three hotels,” he sighed. “How ungracious of them.”

“
I’m not looking my freshest,” I conceded, “but I don’t see how anyone could mistake me for a prostitute.”

“
You’d be surprised at some of the ladies making a living off tourists in this town. Well, Rick, you can’t go back to my place. I expect the building is being watched. But my accompanist has a spare room. She may be able to put you up for a few nights.”

“
Is she to be trusted?”

“
I certainly hope so, Rick. After all, she is my mother.”

For some reason Mrs. Hamilton goes by the name of Madame Zyxlenska, even though she’s an American widow from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Perhaps she always wanted to have the last name in the phone book. She and her two chubby cats occupy one of Paris’s odder apartments in a secret garden behind a high stucco wall in the once slummy, now swanky Marais district. This vine-covered dwelling consists of two retired streetcars stacked one atop the other and remodeled into a warren of tiny rooms. Jammed with exotic clutter, but still visible here and there are some of the original iron scrollwork and ornately carved wood. Tired Mrs. Fulke took a quick shower, then crashed under the lantern roof in the second-floor guest room. I didn’t even wake up when a 25-pound feline bedded down on my face.