by C. D. Payne
9:05 a.m. Lots of Prestonian yawns at the breakfast table. He mentioned that he had stayed up half the night conversing with Violet and found her “quite an interesting person.” She has promised to show him some of the preliminary bender stretches. (He already has the necessary gimmick; he could recite bad poetry while tying himself in knots.) I encouraged him to chat on as I knew these sorts of revelations are poison to other females. Why should I be the only guy getting in the doghouse with Sheeni? It worked like a charm. Her tone was distinctly arctic when she told him to get lost so she could take a bath.
10:17 a.m. More proof that the Celebrity Lifestyle is not all great sex in luxurious settings. Such annoyances! I was squeezing a nascent zit when the door suddenly burst open and in stormed a French television crew with lights glaring and camera rolling. A cute chick in a black beret and tight sweater stuck a microphone in my face and addressed me in rapid French. I stood there stupefied while Sheeni screamed, rose up in the tub like an angry goddess of the bath, and nailed the cameraman on the nose with a bar of soap. He grunted but continued taping. I ducked behind my wife’s moist pink torso—calculating that unless French TV broadcast full-frontal nudity they wouldn’t be getting much useful footage. Switching to English, the crazed reporter doggedly pursued her victim. “Did you come to France to become the ‘American Belmondo?’ Are you planning more videos with the Three Magdas? Who is this girl? Are you lovers? How long have you . . .”
“No comment!” I chanted, grabbing a towel and draping it over my head. “No comment!”
“Get out!” screamed Sheeni, hurling herself at the inquisitive newsperson and wrestling for the microphone. “Get out of here!”
I didn’t see much of what happened after that, being under the towel, but I gather the Boccata brothers burst in and quickly ejected the intruders. No doubt they lingered on the scene to ogle my wife, who yanked the towel from my head, clutched it to her exquisite body, and ordered everyone to leave. I pray our next apartment has a private bath. And a burly doorman to halt trespassers at the lobby.
Sheeni just informed me the TV invaders were Dutch not French. How she knows this I haven’t a clue.
11:28 a.m. I ran into Señor Nunez on the stairs. He has purchased his own 38 triple-short admiral’s uniform, which he is adding to his act. He for one is thrilled that our first music video is such a runaway success, and expects it will do wonders for his career. He believes the appeal of the song lies in its very simplicity, as “any moron” can appreciate it. I agreed that profound mental impairment was certainly an asset for digging The Three Magdas.
3:37 p.m. After a lonely lunch (my wife being off as usual with another man), I dragged out the full complement of toxic chemicals and tried to catch up on my graffiti abatement. I’ve been talking up portable sandblasters and anti-graffiti coatings to Madame Ruzicka, but she seems to prefer corrosive solvents and my free labor. No doubt in 30 years when I come down with multiple cancers she will be too dead to sue. As usual my labors attracted a small crowd of kibitzers, and I had the opportunity of introducing Babette and Violet. They have a lot in common, each being one of approximately 30 million UK females. I’m hoping Violet can show Babette some contortionist maneuvers for escaping the vile clutches of randy Alphonse.
Babette lingered long enough to serve as interpreter when Madame Lefèbvre bustled out from the wig salon to inquire about the handsome young American seen so frequently these days with my lovely wife. I explained the circumstances and reassured her that he was both married and sleeping with Violet. This, I’m sure, will raise a few eyebrows in the salon. I also asked her to be on the lookout for invading news crews, paparazzi, and Mafia hoodlums. She promised her staff’s full cooperation and gave me my daily quota of hugs and cheek kisses. Even better, Babette caught the bug and felt compelled to throw herself at me for quite a stimulating squeeze.
Later, the postman brought me this welcome missive:
Dear Rick,
Somehow everything got packed away and we are on the road at last. Thank you again for your assistance in loading my car. My babies went on strike! Our first performance was a disaster. But their issues have been sorted out and they are adjusting to the traveling routine. Of course, they miss the nice young American who has been so kind to us these past months. I’m enclosing a program with our scheduled route. It can change, of course, from unforeseen delays and disasters. As you can see, our direction is generally south. A Miss Barnes should be arriving soon to occupy my apartment for the summer. Thank you very much for helping her if she has any problems.
It is pleasant to be traveling again, though I find I am missing my father and brother very much. I will write again when I can. If you wish to write to me, please address your letter to the circus’s Paris office and they will forward it. (Sorry, I don’t have e-mail yet.)
I think of you often and look forward to seeing you both again in the autumn.
Fondly,
Reina
No mention of Paul. That could be good news, or he may have asked her to keep mum about his presence. Rereading the letter, I could perceive no hint at all of whirlwind romances with passionate American jazz musicians. And such excitements, it seems to me, would have to leave some imprint on her prose.
5:45 p.m. Connie just called in a state while I was cooking dinner. My miserable in-laws have been leaving alarmed messages for Paul on Connie’s phone. Because of the upcoming July 4 holiday, Paul’s probation officer has had to move up his appointment. To this coming Friday! That’s only three days from today.
“Damn,” I said, “Paul’s going to miss it for sure.”
“You have to call up Paulo’s parents, Rick.”
“What?!”
“I have it all figured out, Rick. You can call them tonight from
my hotel. You can pretend to be Paulo. You can tell them you’re delayed here and ask them to call the damn probation officer to reschedule.”
“But, Connie, I don’t sound anything like Paul!”
“Just speak with a hoarse voice. And say you’ve got a cold. We have to buy some time. I’m sure my detectives are homing in on Paulo. I have a jet standing by. We’ll fly straight to L.A. as soon as he’s captured, I mean found.”
Somehow, Connie got me to agree to her plan. I think it was the prospect of her leaving the country that did it. That and her usual threats.
7:18 p.m. For dinner I made my version of Mrs. Crampton’s world-famous chop suey. Authentic bean sprouts and real water chestnuts from the can. About 98 percent of the latter remained uneaten on the plates, leading me to wonder how much longer those professional chestnut divers will have jobs. I imagine it is rather perilous work too.
While T.P. was doing the washing up in the kitchenette, Sheeni took me aside to confide that the cad hasn’t spoken to his wife since he got here. Apparently, they’d had “words” just before Trent’s departure. About what Sheeni did not know, though as any husband can tell you, when it comes to marital squabbles there is an entire universe of topics to choose from. It wouldn’t surprise me if my own alluring wife figured prominently in the Prestons’ airport wrangle. And now Trent is playing Mr. Passive-Aggressive, a tactic I would have thought beneath him. So I ducked into our closet, dialed my old number in Ukiah, said “Hi, Apurva, could you hold, please?” when she answered, and handed the phone to her startled husband. He was still deep in conversation when I left for Connie’s hotel. To Sheeni I merely stated that I was going for a walk—trusting that the indeterminacy of my return would discourage extramarital trespasses upon her person. Helpful to my peace of mind, though for all I know they may have been going at it like adulterous rabbits all afternoon in some tawdry hotel. They were rather vague at dinner about the day’s cultural activities.
10:32 p.m. Well, another of Connie’s wacky schemes blew up in my face. Sheeni’s old man, crafty lawyer that he is, wasn’t fooled for long by his putative son’s claims of a virus-induced throat frog.
“Who is this?” he
demanded.
“It’s me, Dad. Paul.” I croaked. “I’m too sick to travel. Just a bad cold. Can you ask my probation officer to reschedule? Say, in another month?”
“At what age did you acquire your first saxophone?”
“Er, what?”
“Name three of your best buddies in high school.”
“Well, let’s see, uh, there was John. Uh . . . Mike . . . uh, bye- bye.”
Totally panicked, I bailed on the call. Connie was not pleased.
“I can’t believe that my own mother chose to sleep with that man,” she snarled. “I’m putting my foot down with Paulo. Sorry, but I am not inviting his father to my wedding.”
“His mother certainly added a great deal to my wedding through her absence,” I pointed out.
“Neither will be invited,” she declared. “I hate to say this, Rick, but I wish my Paulo had been born an orphan.”
“Me too,” I admitted.
How much simpler life would be if Sheeni and I had met in some home for orphaned teens. Some progressive, sexually enlightened institution far away from Trent, Vijay, Connie, Mr. DeFalco, Uncle Sal, Señor Nunez, The Three Magdas, and all things French.
WEDNESDAY, June 29 — Another beautiful day; the tourists have descended in force. Everywhere you go you hear obese, sweaty people complaining in Midwestern twangs about the exorbitant prices. Alphonse for one despises the Americans even more than the UK and German tourists. He says if we showed a little discipline and didn’t buy all that needless made-in-China junk and run up record budget deficits, the dollar might still be worth a dime. True, my countrymen may be profligate in their ways, but at least we’re not driving around in Twingos.
My despondent pal Violet accompanied Maurice and me on our morning walk. She is quite bent out of shape over T.P.
“Not only is he gorgeous beyond belief,” she declared, “but we connect on every level. I feel like I’ve known him forever.”
Me too, but I don’t find the sensation at all pleasant.
“He’s rather young,” I pointed out.
“But very mature for his age, Rick. I want him so. I can barely stand it.”
“What do you mean you want him?” I asked, ever eager for insights into the female mind.
“I mean I want him,” she insisted.
“How exactly?” I persisted.
“Well, if you must know, I want him inside me.”
An extraordinary admission. Women actually experience sexual desire. Sheeni practically has to be dragged kicking and screaming to bed, and then she treats it like she’s just doing you a favor.
“Men are pretty weak,” I replied. “You could have him if you made an effort.”
“Possibly, Rick. But what would that accomplish? It would just make things worse. Like taking that first big hit of heroin. Sure, it’s great while it lasts, but then you want more. And your friend loves his wife. I know he’d wind up despising me.”
We walked on in silence while Maurice sniffed the lampposts. Odd, he’s taken a vow to sniff every post, yet rarely displays much interest when he encounters an actual dog. Violet took advantage of these pauses to stretch into improbable configurations while blasé Parisians passed us by without a glance.
I was still a bit unclear on the concept. “Why exactly, Violet, do you want a guy inside you? I mean, what’s the appeal? Isn’t it rather, uh, uncomfortably intrusive?”
“Rick, are you entirely deranged? You claim to be married. Why don’t you ask your wife?”
I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer on that topic. I never do.
1:42 p.m. Unexpected guests for lunch. Sheeni and T.P. returned early with a discouraging report from Belleville. According to Mr. Petit’s spies, the dirt on Vijay came from high up in U.S. military intelligence. Lunch was rather discouraging as well. All I could scrounge up was a dented can of bouillabaisse left behind by the previous tenant. This I hastily stretched with some flat Pepsi found in the back of the frig. Fortunately, T.P. volunteered to make a run for an emergency baguette.
“There must be a mix-up,” commented Trent, recoiling from his first sip. “Joshi is a pretty common Indian name. There could be thousands of Vijay Joshis out there. The authorities must have him confused with someone else.”
“Or Vijay could be a deep-cover radical extremist,” I speculated, “sent by his masters to infiltrate the West under the guise of an obnoxious high school student.”
“Rick, your soup tastes like bilge water,” commented My Love.
“Why do you call him Rick when he’s really Nick?” inquired T.P.
A rather impertinent question, I thought.
Sheeni gave the matter some thought. “He’s a person with multiple personalities—all rather tiresome. I suppose at some level I must prefer Rick to Nick.”
“And how is one preferable to the other?” he asked, persisting in his impertinence.
“Rick is I believe—though here I may be deluding myself— slightly less devious than Nick. I like to think he is imbued with a certain Gallic . . .” Here followed a phrase in French, which brought a snort of derision from my adversary. The balance of their discussion re: my character and its flaws continued in French. It grew quite lively and rather heated at times. I didn’t mind. I enjoy being the center of attention even when my many shortcomings are being dissected in an unintelligible tongue.
Exhausted by his encounter with my cuisine, T.P. excused himself to take a nap at Violet’s. After he departed, Sheeni dropped her bombshell. Mr. Bonnet is most impressed with Trent. He wants him for his next music video. Since T.P. desperately needs money for baby bassinets, etc., he has agreed to delay his departure and go before the cameras next week.
Rick S. Hunter, for one, was put out by this news.
“Hey, I thought I was supposed to be their big new video star!”
“Rick, that was a serious miscalculation. I can see that now. You can never rely on horrible acts to bomb deservedly. We have to keep a low profile.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. But shouldn’t Trent be keeping one too?”
“Not at all. If he became famous, he could speak out publicly against the injustice done to Vijay. He could put pressure on the U.S. government. Plus, Trent is fluent in French. And he’s a great singer!”
Big deal. I found the whole thing very unsettling. True, I didn’t really want to be in the center of a massive media spotlight. But I sure as hell didn’t want to share it with that twit either.
4:26 p.m. Spent most of the afternoon composing a letter to Reina. Despite Rick S. Hunter’s best efforts to project a cool Gallic reserve, I’m afraid it emerged as something of a mash note. Dropped it into the post with a sense of guilty anticipation. Adultery, I find, is even more unnerving a prospect than marriage was.
11:47 p.m. Sheeni opened her purse strings—something she does even less often than her thighs. Can’t believe I just wrote something that catty about My One and Only Love. Oh well, I’m a bit drunk. She took us out to dinner (a double date with Trent and Violet), and then we went to see Maurice’s Dad. That guy is so great. If writing doesn’t work out as a career, perhaps Carlotta could apprentice herself to Mr. Hamilton. I can see myself prancing nightly across the stage as a buxom Liz Taylor, fingering my faux beauty spot and flaunting bogus diamonds the size of stalactites. Uh-oh, head is swimming, room is spinning. Must stop now. And so to bed, perhaps to snare a piece . . .
THURSDAY, June 30 — No nooky last night. Sheeni objected to sharing her ravishing body with objectionable drunks. But sex, glorious sex was on the menu this a.m. I’ve decided to take Violet at her word and accept that chicks desire and enjoy sex as much as guys—even if 98 percent of the fun takes place within their persons. It was time to put my traumatic rape behind me and acknowledge that females embrace another aesthetic in bed. No more tentative or apologetic approaches. To overuse some common agricultural metaphors, I plowed that familiar furrow until the rooster crowed, the cows came home, and the silo was emptied of
its last groat.
11:17 a.m. Must always wear my sunglasses now when I go out, even on days like today when rain threatens. Even so disguised I was stopped by several people on the street this morning while walking Maurice. Three ominous words stood out in their unintelligible inquiries: “Heee, Lekker Ding.” Naturally, I shook my head and kept on walking. Had to drag poor Maurice past several enticingly aromatic trees too. How difficult life must be for the dogs of celebrities.
1:33 p.m. Yesterday’s excruciating lunch seems to have scared off all my customers. Just as well. I’m not running a restaurant here. I grabbed a quick takeout crepe from my favorite discount stand, then forced myself to check in again with loathsome, treacherous Sonya back in Ukiah. Somehow, she always seems to be loitering beside the phone. Naturally, she demanded to know what steps I’d taken to render T.P. single and available. Before replying, I made her promise that anything I divulged would go no further than her big fat ear.
“Well, Sonya, I got him to extend his trip here. He won’t be going back to Apurva anytime soon.”
“Nor to me from the sound of it,” she replied sourly. “What else have you done?”
“Well, he’s now sleeping in the rooms of a female contortionist.”
“What!”
“Don’t worry, Sonya. He’s not stuck on her. But you can’t wean a guy away from his wife without reintroducing him to the concept of attractive, available females.”
“Contortionist, huh? I suppose they’re having great sex in impossible positions.”
See, it’s a very common train of thought.
“Not at all, Sonya. Violet won’t sleep with him because he’s married.”
“Is she nuts?”
“No, she’s English. They’re very reserved. I’ve also lined up a starring role for Trent in a new music video.”