by C. D. Payne
9:15 p.m. Instead of staying home and feeling suicidal, I went with Reina to help prepare her circus caravan for her summer tour. We packed her station wagon with cleaning supplies, a picnic lunch, and her talkative babies, then drove south through heavy weekend traffic to Vitry-sur-Seine, a nondescript suburb. Her caravan was stored in the fenced yard of a trucking company. Fairly big (about 25 feet long), but more lightly constructed than American trailers, it featured flamboyant European curves and a tasteful interior done in a light-grained fake wood. There was a dining lounge in front, then a compact kitchen, followed by the usual midget bathroom with large closet opposite, and a cozy bedroom in back. Modestly sized for full-time living, but Reina had toured happily in it for many years with her father and late brother.
“Wherever did you all sleep?” I asked.
“Papa and Dusan shared the bedroom; I slept up front here on the convertible sofa. Circus people don’t expect much privacy. We were quite comfortable, though sometimes I dreamed of having my own room in a real house. We’ve been storing it here since the accident, and I’m afraid I’ve rather neglected it.”
While I pumped up the four flat tires with a hand pump, Reina got to work cleaning the dusty interior. Her chatty birds watched us from their cages on the tailgate of the Mercedes. Alas, no hose was available, so I filled a bucket from a hose bib near the loading dock and gave a sponge bath to the caravan’s dingy exterior. Paris may be the City of Light, but there’s plenty of industrial grit in its air.
We ate our lunch of salad, savory mushroom tart, and red wine inside at the small dining table. The wine went to my head and I soon unloaded on Reina all my marital woes. She listened with concern and mulled over my predicament.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like she has a romantic interest in this fellow,” Reina remarked.
“You don’t think so?”
“Not from what you’ve told me, Rick. It may be she was feeling lonely and is enjoying the company of a familiar person from home. But she’s not being very considerate of you.”
“Well, that’s sort of typical.”
“I don’t know your wife, Rick, but I imagine that moving to a new country, and being newly married, and expecting a baby can be quite stressful.”
“You think I should cut her some slack?”
“I think there’s too much cheap advice being offered in this world, Rick. When I was ill from my accident, everyone kept telling me what I should do. It became quite tiresome. People should do what feels right to them. But I’m sure your wife loves and values you. How could she not?”
A welcome affirmation that seemed to apply equally well to my companion. In a dusty apron and with her hair tied up in an old scarf, she was still infinitely desirable. The trucking yard was deserted on Sunday; we were profoundly alone together; the cozy bed in the back bedroom beckoned from only a few steps away. I reined in François’s alcohol-inflamed impulses and wondered morosely if Sheeni was in similar proximity to a tempting bed. Would Vijay stoop to seducing the pregnant wife of his worst enemy? Do Republicans vote for tax cuts?
I spent the afternoon in even closer proximity to the bedroom and my employer. I helped Reina assemble and mount shelves in the hallway closet to hold her birdcages. She held, I drilled and screwed. Very tight quarters, very close bodily contact, very enticing bodily scents. Couples have gone on entire honeymoons and not experienced such intimacy. The shelf system had been engineered in France, so naturally its assembly defied all notions of logic. Exasperated by the mystery hardware, silly from the wine, we gave way to fits of giggling. It’s very hard to gauge the location of a bracket when you’re laughing like an idiot just one-half centimeter from someone who smelled that good.
10:15 p.m. For a change, my wife got home before I did. She looked up from her book when I entered.
“Where have you been?” she inquired coldly.
“Out. What’s this?”
Something new had been tacked up on the wall by the door. It was a document, written by hand in some blotchy brown ink, and signed in a bold script by one Vijay Joshi.
“As you can see,” said Sheeni, “it’s Vijay’s signed declaration that he has never betrayed me. He wrote it in his own blood.”
Yuck. Leave it to the vegetarian pacifists to start the bloodletting.
“It was an act of magnificent courage,” added Sheeni.
“But rather poor taste,” I replied. “I hope he sliced deeply into his jugular.”
My wife was not amused. She gave me the cold shoulder. Fortunately for all concerned, François did not grab any large German knives and reply in kind to these provocations.
MONDAY, June 14 — No check from my sister! The $10,000 extortion rebate should have arrived by now. Meanwhile, my so- called wife is off again with you know who. How much longer can life go on kicking Rick S. Hunter in the balls? Nick Twisp I could understand, but suave Rick’s not the sort of guy to take this grief lying down. Performed my slave concierge duties today with notable lack of enthusiasm. Fellows in my emotional state should not be asked to haul out the debris from other people’s weekend frolics. Snarled at several tenants, dumped trash cans on curb in disorderly row, neglected to mop lobby, and directed offensive French gesture at passerby who pointed indignantly at fresh Maurice deposit on sidewalk. Today’s language project: learn the French for “Up yours!”
TUESDAY, June 15 — At last, a friendly female voice. Too bad it had to be Connie Krusinowski phoning at 2:00 a.m. with momentous news. Trustworthy, nonviolent felon Paul Saunders has been sprung from jail. To recover from the traumas of imprisonment, he has accepted her invitation to accompany her on a luxury getaway.
“That’s nice,” I yawned from my closet toilet perch. “Are you two off to Palm Springs?” “Hardly, Rick. I have to get Paulo to an extremely romantic location far away from Lacey and your lousy sister. We’re coming to Paris.”
“You’re what!?”
“We’re arriving on Friday. I think when Paulo sees how happily married his sister is, he’ll pop the question for sure.”
Quickly disabusing Connie of that notion, I filled her in on the whole ugly story.
“This is awful, Rick. She hasn’t spoken to you for days?”
“Not much. The last thing she said to me this evening was: ‘Don’t touch me, you repulsive degenerate’.”
“Oh dear. And you have no proof that you didn’t betray her?”
“Well, no.”
“Why not? Oh, I see.”
“At the time it seemed like the best course for all parties, Connie. And I did disguise my voice to sound like Vijay.”
“I understand perfectly, Rick. Well, we’ll have to get her away from that interfering Indian.”
“I’ve been thinking of nudging him off the Eiffel Tower—the uppermost platform.”
“Why don’t you wait on that, Rick? I’ll see what I can do from my end.”
“OK, Connie. How’s the Dogo-Lacey matchmaking going?”
“Not good, Rick. I’ve contrived to bring them together, but Dogo isn’t rising to the bait. That guy always has his own agenda. He’s furious because my mother is considering becoming a patron to your father. Why didn’t you mention that the creep was a novelist?”
“He’s not. His one and only magnum opus is stalled permanently on page 12.”
“Well, my mother is thinking of underwriting his latest project. It’s to be the definitive chihuahua novel. He’s already moved into her guest room and produced some sort of outline.”
At least one Twisp was getting ahead in his writing career. Go Dad!
4:45 p.m. No check from my sister! If it doesn’t arrive by tomorrow, I’ll be forced to call her and whisper anonymous voodoo baby curses into the phone. After I rudely snubbed Alphonse’s pidgin- English request to wash his Twingo (for a measly E2!), his girlfriend came out and invited me on an afternoon stroll. While we walked arm-in-arm down the boulevard Raspail in the warm sunshine, I explained to Babette why everybody’s favorite janitor sud
denly has evolved into the Grouch that Spurned Paris. She was most sympathetic and assured me that it is universally agreed that the first year of marriage is the toughest. I said I would be thrilled just to make it through the first two months without a major homicide. To place my marital woes in perspective, Babette suggested a visit to one of our district’s more unusual tourist attractions. We paid our E5, walked down spiral steps into deep subterranean gloom, switched on our rented flashlights, and took an extended amble through the Catacombs of Paris. These are ancient limestone quarries piled high with the bleached bones (and scary skulls) of six million long-deceased Parisians. Even in François’s most sadistic Vijay reveries, I had never conceived of death on such a massive scale. Gallery after gallery of skeletal remains heaped in great mounds—creatively fenced in by pickets of long thighbones. Quite overwhelming. Our fellow tourists, I noticed, spoke in hushed tones. Only a few dared to chuckle at the macabre signs offering quotations such as “Happy is he who always has the hour of his death in front of his eyes, and readies himself every day to die.” My companion seemed to take these sentiments to heart.
“When the daily annoyances build up, this is my refuge,” commented Babette. “I suppose you find that rather ghoulish?”
“Not unless you bring home souvenirs.”
“You can’t, Rick. Everyone is searched upon leaving.”
Damn. There went my plan to swipe a rib bone, bloody it up, and present it to my wife as a self-amputated gesture of sincerity.
“All these people had problems,” she added. “They loved, they suffered, and now look where they are.”
“You are advocating suicide?”
“Not at all, Rick. Just the opposite in fact. Life is a gift, and we must treasure our time here. In the end, as all those around us discovered, our days here are all too short.”
A comforting philosophy, I suppose. But one inconsistency troubled me. Why was she wasting her precious time keeping company with that cad Alphonse?
WEDNESDAY, June 16 — Another unsettling breakfast table chat. Sometimes I think I was better off when my wife only spoke to me in French. According to Sheeni, Vijay has divulged that a contract has been placed on my life.
“Oh, that’s just a silly rumor,” I scoffed. “Your father is not that criminally inclined.”
“I think I know my father,” she replied. “He is not a man of reason. You have crossed him many times. You have stolen his only daughter.”
“Well, he can have her back.”
This jest drew no laugh. My Love studied me coldly.
I coughed and went on. “You have some reason to believe this allegation?”
“I can tell you what Vijay told me. My father recently visited Dominic DeFalco at his concrete plant. A dispatcher there named Mertice Palmquist listened in on their conversation over the desk intercom. They were discussing how to locate and cause great bodily injury to someone named Rick S. Hunter. She relayed the details of this conversation to Trent, who told Apurva, who told Vijay.”
“And you guys think Fuzzy’s dad has some connection to the Mafia?”
“Have you ever met Mr. DeFalco?” she asked.
I had, unfortunately. As I recall, he was one intimidating dude, who had already made a serious attempt on the life of one Twisp (the near crushing of my father under tons of gravel).
I couldn’t tell if Sheeni was exaggerating this threat to mess further with my head or she really believed there were paid sociopaths on my tail. In any case, I was more than a little disturbed that Vijay knew both that people were looking for me and where I lived. This is not the type of sword one likes to hand to your mortal enemy.
After My Love left for yet another day of alleged culture-mining with vile aliens, I made an emergency call to Fuzzy DeFalco in Ukiah. The hirsute teen was winding down from a hot date by watching late-night TV in his bedroom.
“I did it with Lana four times tonight, Rick. It’s my new record. I’m a little sore inside down there now. You think I busted something?”
“It’s just a strained prostate,” I said, conscious that my own once- energetic gland was shriveling now from disuse. “Nothing to worry about, guy. Where were you doing the deed?”
“My parents were out, so we went at it in my bedroom. Lana likes it better here than in the back seat of my Falcon.”
“Better watch you don’t stain the upholstery, guy. That’s a valuable classic car.”
“I’d still rather have a Camaro, but we always do it on a blanket. How’s the action on your end, Rick?”
“Great. We’re going at it night and day,” I lied. “Fuzzy, mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Shoot, buddy.”
“Does your father have some connection to the underworld?”
“You mean like the Mob? No way, Rick.”
“Glad to hear it. So you never had any FBI guys snooping around?”
“No way. You must be thinking of my uncle Sal.”
“Who’s he?” I asked, alarmed.
“Well, he’s actually my father’s uncle. He owns a laundry in Vegas.”
“That sounds pretty harmless.”
“Well, it’s a pretty big laundry. They do the sheets and towels for lots of casinos. The FBI got interested because they had a few stiffs turn up in their hampers. But they never pinned a thing on my uncle. He’s a great guy. He always sends me very expensive Christmas presents.”
I didn’t like the sound of this Uncle Sal. I asked my pal to make a few discreet inquiries and promised to check back with him in a few days.
Damn. I hate to sound bloodthirsty here, but François should have bumped off Vijay and aimed more carefully when he was plugging our father-in-law.
4:48 p.m. At last, a money order arrived from my sister. For a measly $4,500! She enclosed a note explaining she had to buy a bigger bassinet for Tyler, and our father put the bite on her for an additional three grand. He’s quit his job! She wasn’t going to lend him a dime, but he convinced her that he will soon be marrying into a large truck-springs fortune. She says unless she wins the lottery, that’s her only hope for college education funds for Tyler. If that’s the case, I think my jumbo nephew better get ready for a lifetime as an undereducated blue-collar slave. One positive note: Joanie reports that Kimberly and Mario liked my flashy metal teeth idea, although Mario is thinking more along the lines of hygienic molded plastic with rhinestone inserts. Still, the concept is mine, so royalties must be paid.
THURSDAY, June 17 — Continuing silent treatment from my devoted spouse. Just to refresh my memory of what her voice sounds like, I let it slip that her brother was arriving tomorrow. She kept her enthusiasm in check. These Saunders can be a cold bunch. After she left I hurried to the local American Express office, where I cashed in my money order for euros. These I have cached separately from our communal funds in an envelope I taped under the bottom drawer of the dresser.
12:47 p.m. A curious development. My Love arrived home in a huff. A certain Vile Alien stood her up. They were supposed to rendezvous at the Musée des Arts et Métiers, but the twit never showed. (You’d think they’d eventually run out of musées, but apparently the supply is inexhaustible. If the French despise tourists so much, why do they provide so many attractions?)
Since a hole had been shot in her social calendar, I invited Sheeni out to lunch, but she scrounged up a better offer from Babette. I’m hoping my Welsh friend puts in a good word for the beleaguered husband.
7:35 p.m. Vijay is nowhere to be found. My wife made some inquiries at his dorm and discovered that he was taken away this morning. By the French state police! Naturally, My Love relayed this news to me in her most accusatory tone.
“Yeah, right, Sheeni. Like I have some clout with the gendarmes? Get real.”
“You know nothing about this?”
“Only what you just told me, darling. I’m totally in the dark and I’m totally pleased. It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving cretin.”
My Love
’s response I shall not record here, lest—by the act of writing down each inflammatory syllable—the stinging emotional torment which they inflicted shall be unnecessarily prolonged.
FRIDAY, June 18 — A day of high anxiety. Even getting all that exercise walking Maurice and lugging birds, I know my stress levels are off the chart. I really should be smoking some major mind- calming hallucinogen. Perhaps I could get Fuzzy to airmail me some of Lana’s soothing homegrown reefer.
My Love returned from her morning investigations with the news that Vijay won’t be coming back. The guy’s been deported! So much for his summer plans. For this “monstrous injustice” she continues to blame me. Personally, I think it’s bad enough that she has to excoriate me for acts which I did commit, let alone for swinish misdeeds for which I’m blameless. I told her if she didn’t get off my back, I would be forced to do something we’d both regret.
“Like what?” she demanded, her fine nostrils flaring.
“Like . . . like, heave your damn typewriter out the window!”
She directed at me what could only be termed a sneer.
“And what if it struck some innocent person on the sidewalk? And killed them!”
A valid point; I gave the matter some thought.
“Well, I’d make sure I donned gloves before tossing it.”
“You don’t own any gloves, you idiot. And it would be just like you to try and pin your nefarious crimes on me.”
“Not just you, darling. You forget: Bernardo Boccata also handled that typewriter.”
“And what about the innocent vendor who sold it to me?”
“I’d send him to the guillotine too!”
Marital spats. They do ramble off topic sometimes.
5:38 p.m. A call from Connie. They have arrived. Even though they flew first class and received 19 hours of nonstop privileged pampering, they’re both feeling tired and jet-lagged. So they’ve decided to crash at their sumptuous five-star hotel and connect up with us tomorrow. I wished her well and confided that the climate at Chez Hunter was still bitterly sub zero.