by C. D. Payne
7:12 p.m. Took a leave of absence from my many jobs today for an expedition by train to the Palace at Versailles. Didn’t see the whole thing because My Love’s feet gave out. That will teach her to sneer at practical Rumanian footwear. Perhaps the French language offers sufficient superlatives to describe Louis XIV’s suburban development, but I find English sorely lacking. It just goes to show what a guy can accomplish if he’s the absolute ruler of the richest state in Europe, has millions of peasants dutifully paying their taxes, commands the finest artisans in the world, wants to invite 20,000 of his fellow aristocrats to sleep over, isn’t a devotee of restrained Danish Modern, and never has to worry about zoning officials or building inspectors. Just when you think things can’t get any more mindbogglingly stupendous, you turn a corner and discover you were just in the guest quarters. The really impressive stuff is still ahead. The whole place makes Hearst’s San Simeon (visited long ago on a tension-packed family vacation) look by comparison like a tool shed. Nor did Louis scrimp on the gardens. Offhand, I’d estimate it would take me several lifetimes to mow his grass. And just the thought of all that geometrical hedge-trimming makes my arms tired. The French may be even more rigorously anal in their landscaping than the Japanese. Quite a shock to the system to go from such monumental gilded splendor back to our own modest hovel. I switched on the radio and instantly had an entire band singing rap in my living room. That, at least, is a luxury Louis XIV never enjoyed.
WEDNESDAY, May 26 — I introduced myself this morning to our diminutive neighbor. When we met in the corridor, he was dressed modestly for the street in a red satin cape with matching turban. A large red stone (ruby?) was flashing fire from his right earlobe. His name is Señor Alfredo Nunez, he is 53 inches tall, and he’s from San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. He is employed as a clown by the most prestigious circus in Paris. Apparently, there are several year-round circuses in Paris operating in permanent premises. He informed me that the boisterous stonecutters across the hall are fellow entertainers: the Boccata brothers, a team of precision acrobats from Italy.
“And please, Rick, may I inquire what is your favorite song?”
Señor Nunez speaks a formal and rather florid English.
I admitted I was partial to Frank’s version of “My One and Only Love.”
“I know it well,” he replied. “Often in times of adversity I have endeavored to emulate the panache of your Mr. Sinatra. But perhaps you prefer monsieur Belmondo. No?”
I assured him that Frank would always rank Number One in my pantheon of Cultural Champions.
Señor Nunez was so pleased he forked over two complimentary passes to the circus.
No tourism today. My Love is taking it easy. The perfection of her divine right foot is now marred by a painful reddish lump on her little toe. Sheeni is calling it a callus; I think it looks suspiciously like a nascent corn. Unconscionable that such an incipient carbuncle could gain a toehold upon one so genetically blessed. My Love must now weigh her inclination to explore Paris against her commitment to fashionable footwear. An aesthetic dilemma I hope she resolves soon as it has left her cranky in the extreme.
Her mood was not improved when I inquired if she’d given any thought to summer employment.
“What would you have me do?” she demanded. “Slouch against a lamppost on the rue Saint-Denis and solicit fat German businessmen?”
I suggested she check to see if the wig salon was hiring. “It might be congenial work,” I pointed out. “The location is convenient. And it would give your feet a rest.”
She gave me a look that could freeze off warts.
Both Maurice and I were happy to escape for a bracing walk to our favorite café on the rue Delambre. They serve a tarte tatin that makes your taste buds roll over and swoon. The waiter, evidently a Belmondo fan, gives me improbably fast service and in computing the bill often makes glaring errors in my favor. Not once has he added the compulsory tip. After such an artery-clogging snack, Maurice and I like to sniff around the deserted lanes of the Cimetière Montparnasse. I’m amazed the French devote so much valuable real estate to dead folks. Many of the wealthier decedents are salted away in their own miniature stone temples, encrusted with bizarre ornamentation. Artisans can really let their imaginations run riot when they’re working for clients who can’t complain. My favorite is a tomb for a guy named Charles Pigeon that features a full-length sculpture of him and his late wife lounging in bed. No nudity though. This macabre couple is stretched out for eternity in their best bronze pajamas.
7:10 p.m. When I returned from walking Maurice, I was surprised to discover Sheeni was not alone. She and handsome Alphonse were having a tête-à-tête in intimate proximity on the sofa. Oblivious to my presence, they chattered on in that mellifluous language whose very phonemes suggest wanton licentiousness even when discussing the weather. After the interloper finally departed, we faced off for angry words.
“Why shouldn’t I have visitors during my convalescence?” Sheeni demanded.
I pointed out that she had a toe callus not brain cancer. And wives weren’t supposed to entertain attractive men while their husbands were away.
“What about your private liaison with that pretty parrot fetishist?”
I replied that assisting tenants was part of my concierge duties. I said I was tired of doing all the work around here. “I’m your husband, Sheeni, not your goddam maid.”
She said if I were her maid, I would have been discharged long ago. She said if I desired a “domestic queen,” I should have married my “previous girlfriend” Sonya Klummplatz.
A low blow. Just because a guy takes a girl to a dance and inadvertently has sex with her doesn’t mean he likes her.
The fight went on. Sheeni said she did not intend to go through life with dishpan hands.
I offered to buy her some rubber gloves.
She told me where I could put those gloves. She complained that all I cared to do was exercise some “abbreviated inbred dog,” while “virtually ignoring” the world’s richest cultural milieu.
I said I liked Paris, but thought we should try to get a handle on our expenses.
She said this was the opportunity of a lifetime and she intended to make the most of it—even if her body and her “so-called marriage” had to suffer.
After more ugly words and much slamming of our two available doors, we hammered out an uneasy compromise. Sheeni has agreed to do some occasional “light dusting” and to shop for “groceries and other essentials.” And I will make an effort to display more enthusiasm for exploring “this magical city.” No, attending circus performances via complimentary ducats does NOT qualify.
Sheeni, of course, is a tough negotiator. But François stood firm and refused all entreaties to ditch our comfortable Rumanian footwear. He informed her in no uncertain terms that one cripple in the family was enough.
THURSDAY, May 27 — The wee small hours of the morning. The lone accordionist was serenading the night with my favorite song. Even Frank would approve of this version of “My One and Only Love.” I sighed and gazed across the pillow at that slumbering person, so desirable in the soft moonlight. Like Frank I was bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. Is it a bad sign, I wondered, that I love her most of all when she’s asleep?
10:55 a.m. Strange happenings are afoot. My cellular phone rang during breakfast. “Hello, Connie,” I said. “How’s the freeway?” But it was some Frog speaking French. I passed the phone to Sheeni, who had a long animated conversation with the guy. Turns out it was the fellow with the Palm Pilot who accosted us on the street last week. We have an appointment to meet with him tomorrow. All I could get out of my suddenly Sphinx-like wife is that he might be able to assist us with “visa matters.”
3:14 p.m. I have yet another job. Reina has contracted for me to help her move her birds up and down the stairs. She has a trained bird act with a small circus in a northern suburb. She can only play in intimate venues where the audience sits close to the action. In bigger, better-paying sho
ws the birds would get lost—too far away to be seen clearly. Plus, she’s only been training “her babies” for a few years and they cannot always be relied upon to perform like little troupers. Theoretically, they’re supposed to shoot baskets, ride scooters, wave French flags, and do other cute tricks. But they can be temperamental and sometimes get distracted.
“And what do you do when that happens?” I asked, hoisting the travel carriers into her aging Mercedes station wagon, crowded with colorful props.
“I scold them, Rick. I pretend like it’s all part of the act. Our audiences are mostly children and they don’t seem to mind. The owner of the circus threatens to fire me, but he hasn’t so far. He’s something of a beast.”
“Sexual harassment?”
“Daily, Rick. But I can handle him. I get back about 22:30. Are you sure you don’t mind helping me so late?”
“No problem, Reina. That’s still early afternoon on American time.”
We shook hands and I watched as she drove off. Something felt amiss. Oh, right. I felt deprived. She hadn’t given me a tasty seed from her pocket.
6:45 p.m. Sheeni took her tender toe for a test-walk and returned with some vital groceries, including a whole, intact, slimy, semi- smelly fish which she expected me to decapitate and clean. It really is amazing what married people can find to argue about. Somehow we never debated the uses of a guillotine as a kitchen appliance back when we were dating. Then I discovered that we had a fish but no lemon, so we had to grapple over who was going to brave all those stairs to run that errand. Needless to say, it was the guy in the sensible shoes that got elected. And should one lousy lemon cost E5? I really have to find some way to cram French numbers into my brain.
Ten minutes later: Puffing like a steam engine, Sheeni is back with my change. She has given that larcenous shopkeeper a piece of her mind.
11:30 p.m. Back from more bird lugging. My physique may soon rival those of the muscle-bound acrobats across the hall. Reina introduced me to her fellow performers. Big-billed Jiri is a toco toucan. Radek and Milena are blue/gold macaws. Salmon-tinged Damek is a Moluccan cockatoo. And friendly Zuza is a green-winged macaw. All raised by Reina from babyhood (I should have had it so nice).
Reina invited me to share a nightcap with her. My first experience of brandy, which I judged no worse than regular unleaded. No photographic evidence in her apartment of a loving boyfriend. Hard to believe. The place doesn’t smell that bad. At the very least you’d think those lusty acrobats down the hall would be camped outside her door. Not to mention lonely Señor Nunez.
Sheeni was not pleased that toting five birds up six flights took nearly one hour. And I don’t think she’ll be thrilled to learn that François accepted an invitation from Reina to take a sunset cruise on a Seine excursion boat this Sunday. No mention was made of bringing along any extraneous spouses. Somehow I’ll have to make the whole thing sound like strictly a business matter. That will take some doing, even for me. Fortunately, Sunday is a long way off.
FRIDAY, May 28 — My phone chirped in the middle of the night. For the sake of my nerves I prayed it was Connie Krusinowski. It was.
“Rick! There’s been another disaster!”
“What, Connie? Is your father not buried yet?”
“Of course he’s buried. Over 200 mourners showed up for his funeral at Forest Lawn, including Paulo’s father comforting my mother—not that I need his services any longer. I wish the old fart would just butt out. Anyway, it was all very moving.”
“You buried your dad in Glendale?”
Somehow that didn’t sound like much of a step up from Palm Springs.
“It’s quite a prestigious plot, Rick. It’s just a few hundred yards from Marilyn Monroe’s crypt. Rick, my father changed his will!”
“Oh? Bad news, Connie?”
Somehow I sensed he hadn’t thought to cut me in for a tidy sum.
“He left Lacey ten million dollars!”
Wow, Lacey was now sexy, beautiful, and rich. What an attractive combination of qualities.
“Well, Connie, they were engaged to be married.”
“And whose share of the estate do you think her pile is coming out of? Not my mother’s, that I can assure you!”
“Oh, dear, Connie. Are you suddenly impoverished?”
“Not hardly, Rick. But now Lacey is a wealthy woman on the loose. I just know she’s going to make a play again for my Paulo.”
“But Paul isn’t at all materialistic, Connie.”
“I know that, Rick. But deep down even the most spiritual guy likes to know where his next meal is coming from. Rick, you’ve got to call your father.”
“What!?”
“You’ve got to tell him his old girlfriend is now a millionaire and wants him back.”
“But, Connie, Lacey despises my father.”
As, come to think of it, do I.
“She’s emotionally devastated, Rick. Former lovers are always slightly more appealing under those circumstances. But your father’s window of opportunity here is very narrow. You have to insist he get on the ball immediately.”
“Jesus, Connie, I don’t know . . .”
“Rick, who flew you guys out of Crescent City?”
“OK, Connie,” I sighed, “I’ll call him.”
Damn. Back to being matchmaker for that creep. What did he ever do for me, besides donate some defective sperm?
3:10 p.m. We barely made it back in time from our mystery appointment for me to help Reina carry her birds down to her car. And poor Maurice had to hold it all morning (his papa sleeps in from his late-night theatrical high jinks). We took the Métro to Belleville, an exotic, somewhat seedy Sino-African district. The address was a former clothespin factory, now converted to trendy offices. Mr. Denis Bonnet’s suite was on the third floor. No, his name is not pronounced like your granny’s old sun hat. His tall, anorexic secretary dresses like she recently relocated from Mars. She served us some sort of fizzy herbal beverage, then Mr. Bonnet appeared and had another earnest conversation with Sheeni. He is one intense dude. Even his sharp black suit looked like it was on an adrenaline rush. I’d guess his age as around 30.
Then three giggling schoolgirls—dressed like prostitutes—entered, squealed when they saw me, and jumped around clutching each other as if it were 1964 and they had just spotted Ringo Starr. This went on for quite some time. I wondered why they weren’t in school or heavily medicated. More people entered. Very outlandishly garbed. Everyone was smoking, talking at once, and looking me over. One artsy guy in yellow silk pantaloons and muddy combat boots offered me a small cigar from a case hammered out of old East German license plates. I politely declined. You’d think people that hip would know a little English, but everyone prattled away in French. I sipped my herbal drink and listened to My Love’s calm responses. God knows what she was telling them. Then, suddenly, everyone was shaking hands and kissing cheeks. The schoolgirls were led away (back to their padded cell?) and the meeting adjourned.
Mr. Bonnet introduced us to another guy in a suit, a Mr. Petit, who escorted us back to his office, where we had a seat while he inspected our passports. I noticed that he exclaimed and slapped his forehead several times while interrogating Sheeni about my documents. This I took as a bad sign. He also made several phone calls that appeared to be urgent in nature. Hey, I never wanted to come to his damn country in the first place.
Eventually, that meeting concluded as well, and we returned to the reception area, where I was photographed from every angle by the secretary. Then, at last, we were trooping down the stairs to the street. The whole thing had been only slightly worse than root canal surgery gone awry.
My Love is still clammed up about what’s going on. She says there’s no need for a long speculative discussion since at this point things are still “so tentative.”
I informed her that I was keeping an open mind, but wished to go on record that as far as I was concerned “total nudity” was off the table.
“I�
��m not taking my clothes off, darling,” I insisted. “Especially not around those wacky girls.”
“You are one sick individual,” was her only comment.
9:30 p.m. Couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Called my father at his lumber company office in Ukiah. I figured he’d be back from lunch—poised at his keyboard for more public relations dissimulations. “Hiya,” I squeaked, “this is Nick.”
“Nick who?” he demanded.
Another profound parental “don’t exist” message. I’m used to them.
“Nick Twisp. Remember? Your son?”
“Nick! Where the hell are you? Are you calling from some jail? Hey, buddy, I’m not bailing you out!”
“I’m not in jail, Dad. I’m doing fine. I’m OK.”
“Oh, yeah? I suppose you’re on the streets somewhere, peddling your ass for drug money.”
“No, Dad. I’ve got three jobs. I’m not on drugs. I’m doing great.”
“Jesus, Nick, I never thought you’d turn out so bad. I should have slapped you down hard after that first smart remark.”
Leave it to my father to belt a three-year-old.
For Connie’s sake I soldiered on. “Dad, I’ve got some interesting news. Lacey’s boyfriend just died and left her ten million dollars.”
“I’m not falling for your lies, Nick. No way that drug-addict horn player had that kind of dough.”
“I’m not talking about Paul Saunders, Dad. Lacey dumped him when he got arrested. She was engaged to an older man who manufactured truck springs in L.A. He just had a stroke and left her a fortune. You can read about it in the L.A. Times. His name was Bernard Krusinowski.”
“Ten million, huh? That’s a lot of lettuce.”
“Yes, Dad, Lacey’s extremely distraught. You might think about calling her to offer some solace.”
“You’ve talked to her? Does she want to hear from me?”
“Of course, Dad. I heard her tell a girlfriend that you were the love of her life.”
Why I wasn’t struck dead for telling that lie I’ll never know.