Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (66 page)

How time flies. Carlotta must rush. She has to get ready for her dinner engagement with lovely Apurva.

11:30 P.M. I’m back. What a night. One plans a quiet evening with a close friend and winds up huddled under a juniper bush in the frigid darkness. Such are the vicissitudes of adolescent homelessness.

As is her custom, Carlotta arrived at the Golden Carp ten minutes early. Seated by Steve, the balding Chinese waiter, at a choice table under a carved rosewood pagoda, she sipped her tea and waited. 7
P.M.
, 7:15, 7:30. No Apurva. At 8:10
P.M.
, just as the now ravenous Carlotta was about to order the lonely budget dinner for one, the door opened and in rushed Sheeni Saunders—breathlessly aglow and achingly beautiful. My heart thumped in delighted surprise as My One and Only Love hurried over to my table.

“Oh, Carlotta, you’re still here,” said Sheeni. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Carlotta smiled warmly to hide her confusion. Had she somehow confused darling Sheeni with dear Apurva? Did wanton application of Writhe cause memory loss?

“Er, no, Sheeni,” stammered Carlotta. “Please, sit down. You’re right on time.”

Now it was Sheeni’s turn to appear confused. She paused in the act of hanging up her coat.

“On time for what, Carlotta?”

“Uh, whatever you like. Dinner, for example?”

“Oh, I’ve already eaten,” said Sheeni, sliding into the chair next to mine and removing her gloves. “Hours ago. But please, go ahead and order. Apurva won’t be coming.”

“She won’t?” Carlotta asked, at once relieved, disappointed, and excited.

“No. Sweet Vijay just called me with the bad news. Apurva’s being confined by her parents. She couldn’t reach you, so she asked Vijay to come here and tell you. He telephoned me instead.”

“Oh, I see,” said Carlotta, beckoning to Steve and ordering the Economy Dinner for one. Sheeni surveyed the menu and ordered a cappuccino—something cautious Nick would never have done in a Chinese restaurant. But he liked a woman who lived dangerously.

“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Apurva,” said Sheeni.

“Oh, we happened to meet recently, Sheeni. It’s a small town, you know.”

“Yes, distressingly small, Carlotta.”

“I’m sorry to hear about Apurva and her parents. Do you know what the difficulty is?”

“I received a brief summary from Vijay. Apurva told her parents last week that she was going to a choral recital in Willits, then spent the evening alone with Trent Preston. Somehow they found out.”

Ever alert to treachery, Carlotta smelled a rat. “How did they find out?”

Sheeni casually examined the immense rosewood temple looming overhead. “Don’t they ever dust that thing?” she asked.

“How did they find out?” Carlotta repeated.

“A letter detailing the alleged incident arrived in the mail today. It was unsigned.”

“The allegations could have been false,” Carlotta pointed out.

“Mr. Joshi called Trent’s parents and confirmed they were out of town at a convention on the evening in question. He also checked with Apurva’s choir director. She reported Apurva had excused herself from the concert that evening for reasons of health. Confronted with this evidence, Apurva confessed.”

“Poor Apurva,” sighed Carlotta. “She would do something silly like that.”

“Yes,” said Sheeni, “and now unfortunately she’s had to miss your nice engagement.”

“Who do you suppose sent the letter?” Carlotta asked. “Not many people could have known of the affair.”

“Just a handful, I presume.”

“Did you know about it, Sheeni?” Carlotta inquired casually.

“I might have,” Sheeni replied, just as casually. “I think Vijay mentioned something about it.”

At last, Carlotta’s long-delayed pork fried rice arrived, but my hunger had evaporated. The situation was painfully clear. Sheeni had sent the letter. She was still adamantly in love with Trent and wanted Apurva out of his life. Foolishly, I had abetted her schemes. Instead of counseling virginal restraint, I should have encouraged Apurva to demand what is rightfully hers: immediate, passionate possession by Trent Preston. As long as that deranged poet wavers on the brink, I shall know no peace. I must convince My Love that Trent is now and forever out of reach.

While Carlotta ruminated, Sheeni sent back her cappuccino. Then sent it back again.

“I recommend the tea,” said Carlotta, lifting her cup. “The Chinese have had more experience with this beverage.”

“I shouldn’t call that tannic swill tea,” answered Sheeni, eyeing my plate. “Carlotta, aren’t you going to eat your egg roll?”

“No. I’m not very hungry. You have it, Sheeni.”

Sheeni ate the egg roll, most of my pork fried rice, and a considerable portion of my prawns with vegetables. This drew frowns from Steve, still smarting from the rejection of his cappuccino. The menu stated clearly in small print that the Economy Dinner for one was
not
to be shared. Steve, I knew, took these issues seriously. He worked 18 hours a day, seven days a week, and consequently saw life as a grim struggle for existence. Oddly, I hardly work at all, yet share a similar philosophy.

Ignoring Steve’s sighs of outrage, Sheeni asked Carlotta about her school life in Switzerland. “Carlotta, was your finishing school in the French-, German-, or Italian-speaking region of Switzerland?”

No way I was going to step into that trap. “It was in the English-speaking region, Sheeni,” Carlotta replied.

Sheeni put down her chopsticks. “The English-speaking region?”

“That is to say, the main focus of the school was inculcating students with a knowledge of English. That was the only language permitted on campus, and, indeed, in the surrounding countryside.”

“Then you weren’t afforded the opportunity of learning a foreign language?”

“No, I learned only English spoken haltingly by nonnative speakers. I picked up a dreadful accent, or so Mother used to tell me.”

“How is your mother?” asked Sheeni, helping herself to my champagne sherbet.

“Very well, thank you,” Carlotta lied. Under the circumstances, she did not feel she could share her grief with her friend.

We chatted on another half hour—Sheeni wanting to know about my glamorous life in Hollywood, angry Steve wanting us to pay the damn bill and leave, lovesick Carlotta wanting only to grab her dinner companion and ravish her on the moldering red carpet. Finally, one of us satiated, we rose from the table and Carlotta paid the bill. She noticed with surprise that Steve had tacked on $2 for the rejected cappuccino and another $2 for “extra plate.” The latter charge she protested silently by leaving a more than usually niggardly tip.

“Thank you very much for the cappuccino,” said Sheeni as we walked out into the freezing darkness.

“My pleasure,” replied Carlotta, shivering in the icy wind. “Shall I walk you home, Sheeni?”

“No, thank you, Carlotta, I’m not going home.”

“Oh? Where are you off to on such a dismal night?” Carlotta asked with all the feigned casualness she could muster.

“I’m going to Vijay’s. He’s rented a French film. We’re going to watch it together on his VCR.”

“Really?” said Carlotta, through fiercely clenched teeth. “Isn’t it a bit late for movie watching?”

“Of course not, Carlotta,” she laughed. “It’s only 9:30. Don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

“And what film are you seeing, Sheeni?”

“Oh, something by Truffaut.
Stolen Kisses
I believe.”

Carlotta lurched backward from this grievous blow. “Well,” she croaked, “have a nice time.”

“I’ll do my best,” replied My Love cheerfully. “Do you have any messages for poor Apurva?”

“Yes, tell her not to despair. And tell her love will prevail. She and Trent will be together soon, I am certain of that.”

The light went out of Sheeni’s smile. “Such confidence may be misplaced, Carlotta. But I shall convey the sentiment, if an opportunity arises. Good night.”

“Good night, Sheeni.”

Separating from the source of her pain, Carlotta trooped homeward in
black despair. A private dinner with The Woman I Love, and all I had to show for it was gastric distress, acute heartache, and a serious case of homicidal rage. My mood did not improve when—sneaking around the garage from the alley—Carlotta found a large silver Lincoln parked in the late Mrs. DeFalco’s driveway.

“Fucking hell!” muttered Carlotta. “It’s Frank’s mother’s car!”

And where one encounters the underwired and oversexed Nancy DeFalco, can my home-wrecking dad be far away?

Infiltrating the bushes alongside the house, Carlotta spotted a light in a window, hoisted herself up by her fingertips, and peered in through the narrow opening. Six feet away, two walruses were wrestling under an antique quilt. It was the adulterous couple, humping away in my bed.

“Damn!” muttered Carlotta, releasing her grip and slumping down into the prickly blackness. “The nerve of some people!”

Huddled against the icy stucco, Carlotta listened with appalled fascination to the grunts, salacious moans, and sloppy thumps of middle-aged love-making. “Goodness,” she observed to herself, “it’s just like being in the pig barn at the county fair.”

As the grunting intensified, I realized the gravity of the situation. Dressed as a woman, I was eavesdropping on my father making love to my best friend’s mother, who had once tried to seduce me. What a field day my future analyst will have with this episode. Even now, as I write this, I can feel fresh stalactites of neuroses erupting on my twisted psyche.

Shortly after the traumatic climax, the phone rang.

“Who on earth could that be?” I heard Nancy ask.

“I’m not here!” said Dad, evidently lighting a cigar. (More grist for my analyst!)

“Hello?” said Nancy. “No, I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name. Who? She looks like what? No, certainly not. You must have the wrong number. That’s all right. Goodbye.”

“Who was that?” asked Dad.

“Somebody wanting somebody named Carlotta.”

“Carlotta who?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She said she had an important message. She had to tell Carlotta that she looked like Liberace.”

Thanks a pantsful, Tina!

“Liberace, the piano player?” inquired Dad.

“What other Liberaces are there?” she replied.

“If she looks like Liberace,” commented Dad, “this Carlotta must be one
ug-g-gly
chick.”

A second overflowing pantsful for Dad!

“You know, George,” she said, “you look a little like Liberace yourself.”

“Get outa here!” he replied.

“No, you do. Just a little—around the eyes especially. Too bad you don’t have his musical talent.”

“That swish was as flaky as a three-dollar bill,” replied my tolerant father.

“He had more soul than some people I could mention,” said Nancy. “And more money.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Dad.

“Figure it out yourself, George. And put out that damn stinky cigar!”

Many arctic minutes later, as they were climbing back into their passion-rent garments, I heard Nancy shout, “That lousy rat!”

“What’s the matter, Irene?” asked Dad, apparently confusing the name of his date.

“It’s gone!” she replied. “The money!”

“What money?” asked Dad, his curiosity naturally piqued.

“Polly’s money! Over $2,000! I took it from his pants when the cops were hauling him out of the hot tub. I hid it here in this drawer. Fuck!”

“What happened to it?” Dad demanded.

I could hear sounds of drawers being violently rifled and Carlotta’s delicate underthings being strewn about savagely.

“It’s gone,” said Nancy. “The rat got my money.”

“What rat?” demanded Dad.

“The slimy, sneaky rat I’m married to,” she replied. “He’s got the only other key.”

“Shit!” exclaimed Dad, clearly distraught over this sudden loss of vicarious wealth.

“He’s probably been bringing his bimbos here,” she continued. “The towels in the bathroom are damp, there’s a ring around the tub, and I saw three empty garbanzo bean cans in the trash.”

“So?” asked Dad.

“So Dom loves garbanzo beans. I refuse to serve them because he stinks up the house for days. But his mother used to buy them by the case. He probably screws his bimbos right here in his mother’s bed.”

“What a rat!” said Dad, probably contemplating the scene of his own recent debaucheries.

“Only one thing doesn’t figure,” she added.

“What’s that?”

“The bathtub,” said Nancy. “The dirty rat hates to take baths.”

Twenty minutes later, after the big Lincoln finally pulled away, a nearly hypothermic Carlotta stumbled into the house and gazed in profound dismay at her violated bedroom: clothing scattered everywhere, expensive hosiery dangling from the overhead lamp, bed torn apart, mattress askew, pillows and blankets in disarray, large odorous wet spot despoiling the center of the once-virginal sheet. And a dead cigar snubbed out in my hot-water bottle.

Too tired to clean up the mess, I am going to retire on the couch. At least I still have my money and a designated patsy to take the rap for grand theft. I suppose the Frog movie must be over by now.
Stolen Kisses
. Perhaps it’s a crime film, and not—as I fear—a libido-inflaming romance. Damn those French. Damn Vijay. Damn them all!

SATURDAY, December 12
— 2:47
A.M
. Waking from a bad dream, I just had one of those ugly revelations that come—as Frank puts it—in the wee small hours of the morning. Nancy was right: Dad does look like Liberace.

Especially around the eyes.

9:52
A.M
. A hard night on a soft couch. To cheer myself up, Carlotta bought a newspaper and went out to her usual hole-in-the-wall (and in-the-food) breakfast place.

Gulping down a double order of my usual assortment, Carlotta read with interest the latest developments in the big Seattle drug haul. It seems a special agent from the Oakland PD had arrived and, much to everyone’s annoyance, identified the suspect as a Nick Twisp impostor. It was also disclosed that the suspect might have passed unscathed into the country had it not been for some suspicious, obviously forged custom stamps in his passport. (I hope the Cub Scouts don’t insist I return my printing badge.)