Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (33 page)

WEDNESDAY, August 3 — I woke up feeling pretty nervous. Today I must battle against formidable competition for the woman I love. Very unsettling to have devious Marcel devising the contests. That clown looked even more jaundiced than usual yesterday. I hope we won’t be asked to bite the heads off live chickens or walk barefoot across beds of flaming hot coals.

Jiri showed up at breakfast looking like something the cat dragged in. Dark circles under his eyes and he was clutching a bag of rigatoni begged off a sympathetic Serb. He sucks on the hard pasta like a cigarette until it softens, then spits it out. I suppose you could call this method of quitting smoking “cold turkey with pasta.” Appears to appease the grosser oral cravings, but nothing but crazed insanity was substituting for the missing nicotine. If only vigorous, confident Tarkan could be similarly incapacitated.

9:48 a.m. Madame Poco such a little tyrant. Has no respect for the rules of gentlemanly competition. Circus was supposed to depart last night, but move delayed by Batur clan’s mechanical difficulties. She fears we have exhausted Brive-La-Gaillarde’s shallow pool of circus lovers. Therefore, she arbitrarily decided that for the first event, the three contestants would be sent into town to peddle color- coded tickets to today’s shows. The guy who sells the most tickets wins the first leg of the Tour de Wife. The weak-kneed contest committee didn’t even protest. Donk commented that it would be a good test of a husband’s ability to “make it in the business world.” As if any of us had such aspirations. Mrs. Fulke handed a big stack of pink ducats to match her slacks. Kind Reina loaned me her French language phrase book, but “Would you like to buy a fucking circus ticket?” not in it. Can’t write any more. Our mad race into town kicks off at 10:00 a.m. sharp.

6:45 p.m. Quite exhausted. Barely capable of movement. Feel like Frog bicycle racer after particularly steep and grueling Alpine tour. Illegal steroids must be administered soon, if Mrs. Fulke to hobble over to cookhouse in time for dinner. Another hot, muggy day. Never suspected that France and Mississippi endure similar summers. French react rather coolly when oddly dressed old lady, sweating like a Yellow Fever victim, waves a circus ticket in their faces. Many assume wrongly that ticket being offered for free instead of actual price of E15. Difficult for non-native speaker to convey this subtle economic distinction to grasping Frog tightwads. A few took pity and coughed up the cash. Sold a total of four tickets, or one every two hours. Only E60 to show for Herculean effort, but I turned in another E405 from my fast-dwindling personal stash. That’s all I could afford. Feeling fairly confident of winning because not even Joan of Arc in a thong could sell over a dozen tickets in that tight-fisted town. Committee chairman Donk to announce today’s results after dinner, should I live that long.

9:12 p.m. I came in second. Jiri sold two tickets, I sold 31, and Tarkan sold 419. Either Brive-La-Gaillarde is lousy with spendthrift Turks, or old man Batur bought himself a boatload of pricey ducats. According to the committee’s rules, Tarkan has been awarded five points, I have three, and Jiri has one. Tarkan also received the daily winner’s kiss from the lovely Czech maiden. According to my calculations, I spent E405 to earn the same number of points I WOULD HAVE RECEIVED ANYWAY! More than six weeks of nonstop shit-shoveling will be required to earn it back.

Life sucks. Have I mentioned that lately?

THURSDAY, August 4 — We’re in Cahors. This town not only adjoins a river (the Lot), but is nearly encircled by it. Guess the French not too worried about floods. Quaint town does appear to have been around for centuries. Yet another medieval arched bridge in case I revisit the concept of a romantic watery death. And lots of nearby hills for my missing spouse to hide out in.

At breakfast a desperate-looking Jiri tried to renegotiate his contract with Reina so that he gives up smoking after he wins the contest. She said no way Jose and gave him an encouraging peck on his unshaven cheek. He’s run through his bag of pasta and has no money to buy more. I’m no expert, but it appeared to me he was sucking on the inserter tube from somebody’s tampon. Not a sexy look, if you ask me. I’m surprised he hasn’t mugged the youngest Batur for her pacifier. His unsightly lips also swollen nastily from excessive sucking and/or horn playing. Be a shame if he had to have them surgically removed.

Next leg of the contest, “Strength and Bravery,” gets underway at 10 a.m. Feeling rather strong and not unbrave, all things considered. The committee also announced that one stage of the contest will be ongoing over the next several weeks. The contestants will be observed by the members of the committee and judged whether they manifest one particular husbandly virtue. What that is they aren’t saying. God, I hope it’s not “Good Grooming.” Mrs. Fulke wouldn’t stand a chance in that category—not that the competition is all that formidable.

7:12 p.m. I did pretty well today, diary, in the “Strength and Bravery” category. The dark horse candidate is proving more formidable than many had supposed. The entire company gathered at the designated hour behind the main tent, where two steel cages had been set up about 20 feet apart. Coiled in one of them, I noted with alarm, was Panther, the larger and scarier of our two resident snakes. A husband worthy of Reina, declaimed Donk, must possess demonstrable strength and courage. To determine which of the three contestants excelled in this category, a simple test had been devised. While Donk kept time with his stopwatch, each victim in turn was to transport the snake from one cage to the other, employing only his bare hands. The fastest finisher would be declared today’s winner.

“
That is, if any remain alive,” smiled a sadistic clown.

While roustabouts and midgets feverishly placed their wagers, the three pale-faced contestants gathered to draw lots to see who would go first. Mrs. Fulke sensed that within at least two other scrotums, testicles were bobbling wildly.

“
Wait!” shouted Reina, holding up a lovely hand. “I believe I specified no violence.”

“
You saida no brawlin’,” Captain Lapo indignantly reminded her.

“
This test entails no violence,” sneered Marcel. “You’d have to be an idiot to employ violence against a six-meter boa constrictor.”

“
Don’t worry, Reina,” said Donk. “We gave him a rabbit last night. Ole Panther’s not at his friskiest.”

“
I won’t have it,” Reina insisted. “It’s too dangerous.”

Cries of protest from the crowd.

“
You want to marry some milksop?” demanded Donk.

“
You will have to devise some other test,” she insisted. “The snake is out.”

More angry protests, led—I noticed—by Mr. Granola, but my darling remained firm. Fresh waves of love for that dear girl welled up in my heart.

“
I don’t mind wrestling the snake,” remarked Tarkan, very brave after the fact.

“
Nor I!” insisted Jiri, chewing his tampon applicator.

“
Me neither,” Mrs. Fulke reluctantly squeaked.

“
No snakes!” declared Reina.

Clearly disgusted, the committee huddled to discuss this crisis. Finally, the two cages were taken away and Donk returned with three shovels in one massive hand and three picks in the other. These he tossed at our feet.

A husband worthy of Reina, he declared, must possess demonstrable strength and endurance. The test for these qualities would be a digging contest. The combatant who dug the deepest hole within one hour would be declared today’s winner.

“
Measured from where?” demanded Mrs. Fulke, no stranger to shovel work.

“
Well, from ground level,” said Donk.

“
And who decides where that is after all the dirt starts flying?” I demanded.

The gamblers in the crowd agreed that was a good point. So a level line was strung across the field just above head level. Holes were to be dug directly under the line, spaced about 15 feet apart, and final depths would be measured from the line via string and plumb bob. Absolutely no dirt was to be flung into an opponent’s hole.

“
Are you satisfied, Mrs. Fulke?” asked Donk.

“
Yes, thank you,” I replied.

“
Can we drop a snake in their holes?” inquired a roustabout.

“
No snakes!” replied Reina.

Manly Tarkan and Jiri stripped to their waists, less manly Mrs. Fulke powdered her nose and donned her work gloves. Then Donk counted down from ten, clicked his stopwatch, and blew his whistle. The race was on. Dirt—and lots of it—began to fly.

Such a contest is not just grunt work. Some strategy is required. How big do you make your hole? Keep it narrow and you can dig down faster, but then your pit becomes too confined for efficient use of your tools. I decided the best compromise was a hole about one yard square. Naturally, everyone in the company gathered ’round to shout encouragement, place bets, and give advice. The consensus seemed to be that Mrs. Fulke’s excavation was way too big—not that anyone cared much. All the serious money was on the muscular Turk. Only the longest odds could attract even a nibble of action on the skinny ex-smoker and the geriatric dame.

In minutes I was down two feet through loamy topsoil and banging against a concrete-like layer of viscous clay. This required preliminary dislodging by pick, then scooping out by shovel. The moist, heavy clay clung to my tools as I flailed away. Very arduous work, but I could tell my adversaries were also struggling, so at least I knew the ground strata were uniform. Fortunately, the day was a little cooler and not nearly as humid. Still, I worked up an awesome sweat. Kindly Reina and other ladies circulated with cups of water, which we gulped with the greatest of haste.

Every ten minutes Donk shouted out the time remaining. To my west, out-of-shape Jiri huffed and puffed like a steam engine. Heart attack material, it seemed to me, but at least they could bury him in his own hole. East of me, energetic Tarkan was digging away like 400 prairie dogs in heat.

At last I was through the clay and into a layer of sandy gravel. A few big rocks slowed me down, but I made good progress. And unlike my opponents, I had plenty of room to maneuver my shovel. All around my pit, the dirt rose higher and higher as I shoveled my way toward Tahiti. The buzz of excitement above me turned into a clamor of amazement as the indefatigable Pride of Scotland toiled away like a distaff John Henry. Then I heard Donk shout “One more minute!” and the entire crowd began to count down the seconds. One last furious burst of digging got me down at least another foot before the whistle blew. I dropped my shovel, wiped my brow, and felt a phalanx of powerful hands lift me bodily out of the pit.

All three diggers collapsed expectantly on the ground while the measurements were being made. Jiri had lost his oral pacifier, and his blistered hands were bleeding badly. Tarkan was one massive greaseball of soiled sweat. I had no feeling at all from my shoulders all the way down my arms. They were like two foreign appendages dangling from their sockets.

Jiri’s cavity was the first measured: 3.68 meters from line to greatest depth. Then came Mrs. Fulke’s: 4.26 meters. Finally, the plumb bob was lowered into Tarkan’s pit, the string was marked, then hauled up and measured: 4.24 meters.

A gasp of incredulity from the crowd. Could the old lady have pulled off the upset of the century? Tarkan’s father demanded an immediate re-measurement. He grabbed the plumb bob and leaped into my hole, “accidentally” triggering a small landslide. Shouts of protest as loose dirt tumbled down the sides into my excavation. Mr. Batur scooped out a token handful and repositioned the plumb bob. Product of this new measurement: 4.21 meters. Tarkan now the victor?

Explosion of vicious wrangling, as mucho euros on the line. Much shouting, swearing, name-calling, and shoving. Angry midgets seen kicking red-faced roustabouts in shins. I’d have joined in if I weren’t semi-paralyzed. Finally, Madame Poco waded into the fracas, declared it too close to call, and announced it was a tie. Tarkan and Mrs. Fulke awarded four points each, hapless Jiri credited with his customary one point. Magnanimous Reina kissed us both (though only Tarkan on lips), then Madame Poco ordered everyone back to work. Since Tarkan and Jiri had to get cleaned up for the next show, guess who was ordered to refill the holes?

I thought my arms would fall off, but eventually the last shovel- full of earth was tamped back into place. All in all, I think I would have preferred wrestling the 200-pound snake.

Yeah, I was robbed.

Yeah, I’m pissed.

Yeah, implacable François is determined to even the score.

11:42 p.m. I was lounging on the rear bumper of the camel van, practicing my juggling and listening to Frank, when who should materialize out of the ether but Jiri Mestan.

“
That is Frank Sinatra,” he announced.

Was I supposed to be impressed?

“
So it is,” I grunted. “Is that an arm?”

Jiri was sucking on what appeared to be the amputated right arm of a small plastic doll. Such mislaid toys often turn up in the dusty litter under the bleachers. He looked like a cannibal in the act of swallowing an infantile snack.

Jiri removed his oral appliance and gave it a deprecating wave. “I not really need this,” he replied, returning it to his mouth. “You like Frank Sinatra?”

“
Sure, why not?”

“
Your son, he is also musical?”

“
Stanley? Oh yes, ever so.”

“
My playing today was very bad. Did you hear?”