Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  “Now, young man, why are you wearing those glasses?” she inquired in excellent English. Her accent was from somewhere east of France. “Are you a drug addict?”

  I removed my sunglasses.

  “Ah, you bear a superficial resemblance to a certain movie actor. No doubt an inconvenience for you, though perhaps useful for attracting pretty young things. She is not your sister, of course.”

  “No, she’s my wife.”

  “Well, that is slightly more plausible than her story. And what age do you claim to be?”

  “I claim to be 18.”

  “Most extravagant. And your parents?”

  “All deceased.”

  “You should inform your wife. She is not aware of their passing. You were married where?”

  “In Mississippi last week. It was perfectly legal. We could show you the license, if you like.”

  “Legally married in Mississippi. How extraordinary. But I believe your South is quite an eccentric region. And why have you come to France?”

  “Sheeni—my wife—desires to live in Paris. She is a great enthusiast for all things French.”

  “Well, perhaps she will outgrow that delusion. Do your parents know where you are?”

  “Our parents have thrown up their hands. They are very narrow- minded. They kicked us out.”

  “I have heard American parents do that. Extraordinary. And how will you support yourselves? It’s most difficult to be employed legally in France.”

  “I invented a novelty watch that is very popular with teenagers. For this I have received royalties approaching one million dollars. It’s called a Wart Watch. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “I may have seen such a timepiece disfiguring the wrist of one of my tenants. Its appeal eludes me. And now the proud creator stands before me to boast of his accomplishment.”

  “Well, you asked how I was going to pay the rent,” I replied, offended. It wasn’t like I was dying to climb five flights every time I went out for a magazine. At these prices you’d think they could afford to put in an elevator.

  “Thank you, young man. This has been most enlightening. You may go now. I will call you if I decide in your favor.”

  9:47 p.m. No message from the nosy aubergiste. For a change of pace we had dinner in one of the numerous Vietnamese restaurants to be found in Paris—a legacy, says Sheeni, of past colonial misadventures in Indochina. The food was great, the prices were reasonable, and for a change we didn’t have to get down on our hands and knees to beg the waiter for the check.

  My fourth day in Paris and I’ve yet to spot the Eiffel Tower. Must not be as imposing as popularly supposed or perhaps they’ve taken it out for cleaning.

  SATURDAY, May 15 — I have been married for exactly one week. And who said teen marriages never last?

  “I’ve decided what you need is total immersion,” announced my anniversary bride at breakfast this morning. Perhaps in honor of the occasion the ubiquitous croissants had been replaced with complimentary mini baguettes. These were served with tabs of butter and tiny packets of Israeli jam. No costly protein as usual. All around us restive Germans were grumbling for sausages.

  “Total immersion,” I repeated hopefully. “In what—your nubile young body?”

  “In French,” she replied. “I can see now that is the only way you are going to learn. From this moment forth, I shall speak to you only in French. It’s for the best, darling.”

  She said more, but—not surprisingly—the balance of her remarks was unintelligible. Yes, it’s a bit disconcerting for a fellow when the only person he knows within 10,000 miles decides to withdraw unilaterally from their common language. Merde!

  My new all-French wife and I took the subway to today’s museum: the Orsay. This one, in a converted railroad station, was not as jammed with mossy antiquities as the ostentatious Louvre across the river. Room after room of stunning Impressionist paintings stuck away as an afterthought on the second floor. Those guys really knew how to paint, even if they couldn’t stay between the lines. I liked the Cézannes; Sheeni appeared to prefer the Renoirs, though perhaps she was admiring the sheen on the gilded frames. And what a shock to turn a corner and come face to face with Whistler’s Mother, enduring forever her maternal disappointments.

  We had lunch under the immense fin de siècle murals in the ritzy upstairs restaurant. Mobbed with tourists, but somehow the French manage to make institutional food quite palatable. Sheeni nodded approvingly while commenting on her trout. Or perhaps she was inviting me to employ her braised filet in some bizarre sexual rite. I hadn’t a clue. I hope she tires of this charade soon, as I feel it is not conducive to a placid marital life.

  10:47 p.m. Back from a perusal of the bookstores on Boulevard St. Michel. A warm, pleasant evening, though relations with incommunicado spouse getting frostier. One of the shops had an English-language section, so at least I could reacquaint myself with my mother tongue. Not for long. Sheeni yanked the computer magazine from my hand and replaced it with the latest issue of Paris Match. Enjoyed the rampant nudity in French ads, though doubt it contributed much toward vocabulary building.

  Still no message from Madame Ruzicka, nor sightings of E.T. (Eiffel Tower). Annoyed wife just removed my probing hand from her delectable body while making forceful declarative statements. François prays she has not resorted to the ultimate linguistic weapon: no sex until I learn French!

  The buzzing telephone rudely awakened us at 6:14 a.m. Fearing it might be the FBI, I grunted a disguised “bonjour.” It was Madame Ruzicka calling to say the apartment was ours if we still wanted it. We did. But not even this good news broke the language barrier. Excited wife leaped out of bed and, throwing on her clothes, harangued me to: hurry? stand on my head? leap naked from the window? Every toddler in France could understand her, but I was clueless as usual.

  2:48 p.m. We’re moved! Already, I have climbed those marble stairs nine times—four while hefting weighty suitcases. Extremely aerobic. In a few weeks I may have the lungs and leg muscles of a Swiss mountain goat. Thank God for my deep-cushioning Rumanian shoes. I expect even Sheeni may be sporting them soon. Madame Ruzicka admitted natural selection at work in winnowing tenants for top-floor apartments. Only the very young in prime physical condition can make the grade. Seems like a pretty lively floor from what I’ve seen so far of our neighbors.

  Three muscular young guys live across the hall. Next door is a swarthy dwarf with a Clark Gable moustache and Norma Shearer head scarf. I wouldn’t want to climb all those stairs with legs that short. Our building is all 19th Century carved stone on the outside, but the interior is a letdown: narrow stairs, pinched corridors, crumbling plaster, and gloomy lighting. A wig shop occupies the ground- floor storefront. No budget “miracle fiber” styles like Carlotta used to wear. According to Madame Ruzicka, they sell only hand-sewn human hair wigs fashioned on the premises. Each one can take a month or more to make. Sounds like even more tedious work than some of my former mind-numbing wage-slave jobs. And a mere three centuries late for the big fashion boom in wigs.

  Extortionate rent and deposits made a scary dent in diminishing stash of hundred dollar bills. Then the vacating tenant showed up and demanded E500 for the decrepit kitchen gear and appliances. Seems all the landlady provides is the dripping sink. He settled for $300 in U.S. greenbacks as I could sense he was not anxious to haul the midget stove and refrigerator down all those stairs. Must get cash infusion soon from Sheeni’s clandestine accounts!

  Rudimentary furnishings are included with the apartment, but Sheeni has gone off with Alphonse’s cute girlfriend Babette to buy towels and sheets. Despite her French-sounding name, Babette is a rosy-cheeked English girl—speaking that most welcome language with a charming Welsh accent. I suspect one or both of them is rolling in euros. They live in a swanky third-floor apartment down the hall from our landlady. (Note: Sheeni informs me that the French refer to the third floor as the second floor, and the second floor as the first floor. Can an entir
e nation not count?)

  I should talk. Previous stair count in error. We’re six flights up, though God only knows what floor we’re on.

  4:35 p.m. We’re swaddled in Egyptian cotton. Our apartment may not be much, but we’ve got linens worthy of a Rothschild. While Sheeni was out, I took the bare mattress for a mid-afternoon test snooze (and lonely wank), finding both moderately satisfactory. We also have a couple of tables, a fake pine bureau, some non- designer lamps, and a threadbare sofa no worse than old Mrs. DeFalco’s in Ukiah. No radio or TV—how will we fill those silent hours?

  While our domestic arrangements are coming together, our marriage seems to be falling apart. Wife just handed me this alarming note:

  Nick/Rick,

  If anyone asks, tell them you’re 18. And please don’t mention that we’re married. Why are you speaking Spanish???

  —Sheeni

  Why? Because two can play those games, kiddo. Yep, I have dredged up my primitive schoolyard Spanish. Every time Sheeni speaks to me, I reply: Habla Ingles, por favor. This ploy, though, may be backfiring. I just noticed that she has removed her wedding ring. Talk about blatant “don’t exist” messages. And this one from my loving wife!

  MONDAY, May 17 — Middle of the night. Awakened by a mystery noise. Traced annoying sounds to our closet, where I discovered my forgotten cellular phone chirping away in a suitcase. I closed the door, sat on the toilet, and answered the call. It was Connie Krusinowski, my ally in amours, stuck in desperate traffic on the 405 Freeway in Los Angeles.

  “Rick, why haven’t you been keeping in touch?”

  “Sorry, Connie. I didn’t think my phone would work over here.”

  “That’s obvious. But thoughtful Connie just paid your bill and had the service switched over to international.”

  “Thanks, Connie. What’s happening with Sheeni’s parents?”

  “You can relax for the time being, Rick. They are presently scouring Mexico for their runaway daughter.”

  “Mexico! Why there?”

  “Simple, amigo. I sent my maid Benecia down to Tijuana with some bribe money. She got a suspicious Hunter-Saunders marriage entered there on the public records.”

  “Connie, that’s brilliant.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty devious even for me. So, where are you, guy?”

  I filled in my friend on the events of the past week. She was not pleased to hear that Sheeni was no longer wearing her wedding ring.

  “Jesus, Nick, it’s hard enough to drag a Saunders to the altar. Don’t tell me now I have to worry about poor Paulo backsliding on me.” Connie has been conspiring to wed Paul, Sheeni’s jazz- playing incarcerated older brother.

  “They can be pretty skittish, Connie. Kind of like adopting a feral cat. I’m thinking of getting Sheeni 10 wedding rings—one for each finger. So what’s happening with you?”

  Connie reported that things were going so well it was almost scary. Her parents’ lawyers were thrashing out the divorce settlement, her dad was now engaged to Lacey (glamorous erstwhile girlfriend of both Paul and my father), and Paul was getting friendlier every time she visited him in jail (where he’s confined on a marijuana rap).

  “Has he asked you to marry him?”

  “Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time. I am resolved on that point. You are my inspiration, Rick.”

  “Thanks, Connie. I appreciate all your help in springing Sheeni from that prison camp for unwed mothers.”

  “My pleasure, guy. So, how many hours a day are you spending with her?”

  “Well, approximately 24. We’re on our honeymoon, you know.”

  “Too many, Rick. That’s obviously your problem. You can’t crowd a Saunders. Remember, Rick, everyone wants what they cannot have. You have to be more unavailable.”

  “OK, Connie. I’ll try.” Promising to stay in touch, we rang off.

  Mulling it over, I decided to bone up on my Spanish. Latin men, François reminds me, are notorious for their unavailability—especially to their wives.

  7:48 p.m. Another day in language hell. No museum-hopping as most such venues closed on Mondays. Sheeni buried lovely nose in heavy French tome. Hope it’s a book on baby rearing and not a guide to do-it-yourself divorce. To boost my unavailability, I went grocery shopping and did the laundry. No Safeways in Paris? Bought necessities in little specialized shops, where you allegedly receive personalized service and certainly pay through the nose. Lugged ten days’ worth of laundry and two bags of groceries up six flights.

  Made dinner with our antique pots and pans. Surprised they weren’t melted down for cannon during the Napoleonic wars. Must upgrade soon to Teflon. Wife had seconds of pot roast and commented, I hope, approvingly on the cuisine. She apparently never heard of the rule that the person who doesn’t cook does the washing up. Should have worked out the division of labor back when we were still speaking English. Since I didn’t know the Spanish for “Look, the dishes are stacking up,” I washed them myself.

  Lots to learn about being married, I can see that now. Not just uninhibited sexual congress 24 hours a day. Wonder who started that myth? The need to remain aloof now in fundamental conflict with desire for sex. I must deny my need for what Sheeni isn’t willing to give so that she will want what she cannot have. I’m beginning to understand now why married men seek out prostitutes. Paying for it in cash is just so much less complicated.

  TUESDAY, May 18 — Fixed my darling a big plate of bacon and eggs this morning. Miraculously, this culinary return to our Anglo-Saxon roots restored her facility with English.

  “Nickie, this isn’t working out.”

  I froze, fork stalled in mid-air. “What isn’t?” I gasped.

  “Full immersion in French. And do you know why?”

  “Why, darling?”

  “Because you’re not making an effort. And I’d like to know why not!”

  Pushed to the linguistic wall and just aced out on the last piece of bacon, I confessed. Science had determined, I informed her, that I was incapable of learning a second language.

  “That’s awful!” she exclaimed. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  I sipped my coffee. “I don’t know. It’s, uh, a guy thing.”

  “OK, Nick, I admit it. I’m not a guy. So please explain.”

  “Darling, when a fellow gets married, he wants to be . . . the hero. He wants his wife to admire him, to be proud of him. He doesn’t like to admit to, well, any weakness.”

  “But speaking infuriatingly crummy Spanish in France is OK?”

  “Well, it’s not great,” I admitted.

  “But, Nickie, what are you going to do if you can’t learn French? How will you get by?”

  “Search me, Sheeni. That’s why I suggested we conserve our money by living in Topeka.”

  Sheeni sighed and slumped down in her chair. “Nickie, this is terrible.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “If Hemingway had had my problem, he would never have met Gertrude Stein.”

  6:15 p.m. Distressed wife, at least, was cheered by the news that her parents were off combing Mexico on a fruitless quest. Perhaps they’ll turn up Ambrose Bierce instead. To get reacquainted, we only toured one museum (Musee de Cluny: more medieval detritus— from moth-eaten tapestries to Charlemagne’s jockstrap) and spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. After sloppy seconds, I dared to broach the subject of my love’s naked ring finger.

  “Nickie, marriage is a very private affair.”

  “Really? I thought it was a rather public statement of one’s mutual and loving commitment.”

  Sheeni thought this over while I fondled an area once off-limits by statute to anyone except lawful husbands. What a travesty this modern age has made of those customs!

  “Nickie, we’re residing in one of the world’s most sophisticated cities. Even you will have to admit that being knocked up and married at age 15 is rather déclassé.”

  “Lots of great people got married young, darling.”

  “Please, Nick, I�
�d rather not hear any more about your Mr. Gandhi and his child bride. I think we should keep our marital status a secret until we’re older.”

  “And if other guys ask you out?”

  “Nick, I’m in France to learn, not for the opportunity to date a slew of attractive and fascinating Frenchmen.”

  Somehow I was not entirely reassured by that statement.

  TUESDAY, May 18 — Another middle-of-the-night phone call. I can see I’ll have to send Connie a Rolex set to Paris time.

  “Freeway backed up again, Connie?” I yawned.

  “The pits, Rick. There was another police chase. What some people won’t do to get on TV. You know somebody named Joan Twisp?”

  “Sure, she’s my sister,” I replied, suddenly alert.

  “I thought maybe there was a connection. There can’t be that many Twisps around. I mean it’s kind of a funny name.”

  “Connie, were the cops chasing her?”

  “What? No, there was an article about her in the L.A. Times. She had a kid.”

  “Oh, right. She was due about now as I recall.” More yawning.

  “Well, Rick, your sister made the front page.”

  Another familiar quiver at the base of my scrotum. Why was news of my family always so dire?

  “Why, Connie? What happened?!”

  “Ms. Twisp delivered a gorilla. She dropped an 18 pounder.”

  “You’re kidding, Connie.”

  I thought my sister looked more than usually blimp-like the last time I saw her.

  “No, they had a photo of the bruiser. It’s quite a monster. She named it Tyler Twisp. You could tell the hospital P.R. people wanted to make a big deal out of it, but they were kind of embarrassed because she wasn’t married.”

  “I know, Connie. It’s another shocking Twisp scandal.”

  “The father is a guy named Dimby. Some married rocket scientist. He refused to comment on camera. You want me to break up his marriage?”

  “Don’t bother, Connie. The guy’s a creep. My sister is well rid of him.”