Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (25 page)

Mr. Hamilton is working up some younger gals, since he feels his “Tallulahs and Dinahs and Sophies” are starting to “sail right over the heads” of contemporary audiences. He did his Madonnain- progress for us. Very good, I suppose, though I’m not really qualified to say, not being tuned in to the post-Woodstock pop music scene. Hell, I’m still annoyed that Frank had to share the 1950s with Elvis.

Both mother and son expressed amazement that Sheeni still at large despite massive media attention. Mr. Hamilton suggested that, like me, she might be disguising her identity.

“
Disguising it as what?” I asked.

“
Well, perhaps as a male,” he speculated.

I tried to contemplate Sheeni metamorphosed into a young dude. The request did not compute.

“
Does she have a theatrical bent like you?” inquired Madame Z.

“
Possibly,” I admitted.

“
If she’s as intelligent as Morag says,” Mr. Hamilton said, “I’m sure the thought has occurred to her.”

“
But she’s an awfully pretty girl to make herself over into a boy,” Madame Z pointed out.

“
Well, let’s see,” replied her son. “Do you still have that newspaper with her photo?”

With a few deft strokes of his pen, Mr. Hamilton gave My Love a boy’s haircut. The effect was decidedly unmasculine. Then he drew in a trim moustache. Slightly more plausible. Then he added a small goatee.

“
There,” he said. “A handsome youth.”

“
You don’t think she’d have a full beard?” asked Madame Z.

“
Not likely,” he replied. “Too much work and they always look fake. What do you think, Morag?”

“
She looks a bit like her brother,” I conceded.

“
She’d need a passport or identity card,” said Madame Z. “Does she have much money?”

“
Lots,” I replied. “All mine, unfortunately.”

“
Of course, she could be adopting some other disguise,” Mr. Hamilton pointed out.

“
Perhaps an older woman like you, Morag,” suggested his mother.

“
Not likely,” I replied. “If Sheeni changed her identity, it would be to something attractive and fashionable. A bag lady she’s not.”

While the Hamiltons rehearsed some new numbers, I took Maurice for a walk for old time’s sake. I brought along my Michelin map since neither of us were familiar with that neighborhood. We discovered a fancy street called rue de Rivoli that was crowded with affluent shoppers. While Maurice sniffed the lampposts, I stared intently at every passing young man sporting facial hair. I think I spooked a few, who detoured from their paths to give me a wide berth. One semi-Sheeniesque youth—transfixed by my gaze—halted in his tracks, fished a one-euro coin from his jeans, and pressed it into my startled palm. From that act alone I knew he couldn’t be my missing wife.

Sheeni as a guy? I don’t know, it seems like such a stretch. She would have to cut her lovely chestnut hair and somehow bind her increasingly prominent bosom. (Girls, I’ve noticed, seem to get bigger upstairs when they’re preggers, perhaps anticipating looming cafeteria duties.) Nor could I see her swaggering up to some smelly urinal to let fly. Still, she did have that manly, take-charge attitude toward life. As I recall during our marriage there was a fairly constant struggle over who was going to wear the pants in the family. And she did prefer the female superior position during sex. One comforting thought: Perhaps it was Sheeni himself whom the gypsy saw accompanying my wife in the mountains.

When we returned, Mr. Hamilton took me aside for a few words before departing.

“
You know, Morag, Frank loved Ava, but they didn’t stay married for long. It just didn’t work out between them.”

“
I know. He tried to commit suicide over her.”

“
Sometimes great love, great passion isn’t enough.”

“
Yeah, I suppose not.”

I could tell Mr. Hamilton was well-meaning and spoke from experience. Except for his oddly pruned eyebrows, he was the blandest of men in appearance. Average height, average build, average paunch, average bald spot. A complete nonentity, if you judged only by his looks. Yet he was unquestionably a man of distinction— a great artist who was the master of a difficult craft. He had known momentous love and had suffered for it. On the other hand, I’m not like him and Frank. I don’t fucking give up.

I have the greatest admiration for Mr. Hamilton. Yet am I the only one who thinks that dressing up as assorted gals six nights a week to parade in front of your mom is a bit peculiar?

SATURDAY, July 16 — Ten weeks, diary. Ten short weeks since I applied the marital brand to my mate-for-life. Yes, we have faced some adversity. Yes, we shall be together again.

Large scary eruption on my forehead. I don’t think it’s a zit. I think it’s a goddam fleabite from Ruggles. I wish he’d use somebody else’s face for a mattress. Can’t write much. Have to go out and search Paris for goateed young men. Also need some more wrinkle creme. Mrs. Fulke getting dangerously low on her Transylvanian beauty formula.

10:24 p.m. Even in cloud-like Rumanian shoes, dogs barking again. Must have walked 30 miles in summer heat under hot, airless wig. Most enervating. Seems to be sudden revival of facial hair among Parisian men. Inspected thousands of hirsute faces—many indignant at being stared at, more than a few obviously repulsed by appearance of starer. Forehead boil now the size of an angry red golf ball. Madame Zyxlenska all for making emergency visit to local clinic, but vetoed by me as too dangerous. Madame Z now heating up large intimidating needle for proposed lancing operation. Lance: frightening procedure that can scar one for life. Lance: evil cop stepfather who can scar one for life. Just a coincidence? I think not.

SUNDAY, July 17 — Had to stay inside today as I have a feminine sanitary napkin fastened over my draining facial boil. Does wonders for Mrs. Fulke’s already severely impaired looks. Hard to believe all that ghastly pus produced by my innocent teen body. Enough to gag a goat, but brave Madame Z has not yet run screaming from her home. Women, I think, have a higher nausea threshold for these sorts of horrors. It’s so they won’t be repulsed by the numerous foul discharges expelled daily by their disgusting babies.

Madame Z kindly translated the Paris Match article for me. Hard to believe all the errors of fact the French press can cram into 800 words. Still, it’s often said that for media personalities there is no such thing as bad publicity. Rick S. Hunter has realized his dream of international mega-fame, even if he does (temporarily, I hope) have to hide out from the cops.

Inspired by Clyde Barrow and John Dillinger (other misunderstood fugitives), I have composed another missive to the press. This one treats in greater detail the events leading up to my marriage to my alleged abductee, Sheeni Saunders, and details in full our loving regard for one another. It was previewed approvingly by Madame Z, who thought it was just the sort of heart-wrenching saga to appeal to the French public’s romantic side.

“
It’s just like the story of Abelard and Héloïse,” she commented.

“
Oh? Who are they?”

“
He was a great poet and philosopher in 12th Century Paris. He wrote beautiful letters to Héloïse, but things didn’t work out and he wound up being castrated.”

A sudden scrotal spasm. That was not the sort of reassurance I had in mind.

MONDAY, July 18 — Another anniversary. One year ago today I commenced writing this modest journal. Back then I was a lonely miserable kid in Oakland. Now I’m a lonely miserable married person in France. No longer a kid, not yet a man, and detoured temporarily (I hope) into female senescence. All in all, not the sort of year I expected when I journeyed to the shores of Clear Lake last summer for that fateful first meeting with you know who.

Back to mundane life. Purulent boil from hell mostly drained, but forehead now looks like I’ve been igniting cherry bombs on it. Have discarded sanitary pad, and Mrs. Fulke combing gray locks down low in front. Look like Alice B. Toklas on an especially bad day. Have banished Ruggles from my room, though he has figured out that by heaving his furry bulk against the door he can spring open the lock. Very smart for a cat. Wonder if he could extricate himself from a mailbag at the bottom of the Seine?

4:12 p.m. Just had a phone call from Connie. The news started off fairly good. She interrogated Paul in the hospital while he was coming out of the ether. She did this because she’d read that modern anesthetics work just like truth serum. People in a groggy, post- operational state do not have the mental perspicacity to lie. “Did you ask him if he loves you?”

“
Don’t be silly, Rick. I had more important fish to fry. As it was I had to bribe the nurse, and she only gave me five minutes.”

“
What did you find out?”

“
You know that wacky bird girl you tried to fix him up with? My Paulo never slept with her!”

“
He didn’t?!”

“
Definitely not. He tried, of course. Well, Paulo is a virile guy and will be even more so when his stitches come out—so his surgeon assures me. But that girl turned him down.”

“
She did?!”

“
Indisputably so. Not even heavy petting. Paulo was sleeping in one of the equipment vans. The trumpet was on loan from the circus. My Paulo never betrayed me!”

“
That’s great, Connie. How’s his chip working?”

“
Flawless. I can tell every time he gets up to use the john from clear across town.”

“
That should be very helpful, I suppose. Is Mr. Saunders coming to your wedding?”

“
That’s what I called to warn you about, Rick. There’s been a hitch in our plans.”

Instant alarm.

“
What kind of hitch?”

“
Paulo’s odious father refuses to come home. He claims the police there are close to making an arrest.”

“
An arrest of whom?!”

“
Well, they wouldn’t be arresting Sheeni. I think you better take another powder, Rick. And quick! The cops may be closing in on you.”

Fuck! And double fuck!

7:38 p.m. On the train to Amboise. I’ve had to say farewell to Madame Zyxlenska and her Streetcar Named Sanctuary. She seemed sad to see me go. She said Mrs. Fulke was a model houseguest and was welcome back anytime. She assured me that France has mountainous regions galore to the south. Since that is the direction Reina’s circus is heading, I thought I’d team up with her. Mrs. Fulke can lay low with her and keep her eyes peeled for goateed young men. Since Sheeni was so taken with Señor Nunez, the Boccata Brothers, and other such types, I feel it is likely that she will be drawn to any circuses visiting her area. Naturally, Reina’s private life is her own, and it is no concern of mine whether she had an affair with Paul. The fact that he threw himself at her and was rejected does not imply that the object of her heart’s affection lies elsewhere. Still, that smoldering kiss on the stairs must have counted for something. Really, I should not feel so excited at the thought of seeing her again. After all, as I keep reminding myself, Mrs. Fulke is a married woman.

TUESDAY, July 19 — I’ve decided lovely Reina is a bit like her birds: friendly, but not appreciative of surprises. She was certainly taken aback last night when an elderly Scottish pensioner showed up at her caravan door. She’d been following the press reports with interest, so there were numerous misconceptions to clear up. No, I was not a sexual predator and kidnaper. Yes, I was wanted by the police, hence the funky disguise. No, I did not really enjoy dressing up like old ladies. No, I had not been in a terrible accident. It was just an unfortunate reaction to a fleabite, possibly exacerbated by excessive use of wrinkle creme. No, I was not interested in turning myself in to the gendarmes. Yes, my hunt for my missing wife had turned south and could I possibly accompany her in that direction?

This request brought the conversation to a dead stop. I had never seen gracious Reina look so stricken. She explained all the reasons why this would be impossible. Her birds would not tolerate another person in the caravan. Circus people are very close-knit and most suspicious of strangers. She could get in trouble for harboring a fugitive and be expelled from France. My wife would find such an arrangement most objectionable. And so on. Very disheartening. Soon we were both weeping over our cups of tea as her empathetic birds fluttered restlessly on their perches. She did consent to let me crash that evening in her station wagon, where I passed a most uncomfortable night and woke at dawn. Where to now? God only knows. I seem to have come to the end of the road.

8:45 a.m. Walked into town to scrounge up some breakfast. Must be some ugly towns in France, but I’ve yet to see one. This one looked like it was posing for scenic postcards in every direction.

Picturesque bridge over Loire, quaint river promenade lined with dazzling flowers, fairytale buildings nestled under great fortified château. Found a café and wolfed down three croissants. No dinner last night, so semi-famished despite profound despair. Should I jump off bridge? Be an inspiring final view. Very romantic location for suicide of modern-day Abelard. Might become a tourist destination over time. Boon to local economy. Sheeni could move here when she got old to write a wistfully regretful memoir of our days together. She could open a little shop and sell her book along with postcards of the two fabled lovers in younger and happier days.