by C. D. Payne
MONDAY, July 11 — Not dead yet, though it was close. In fact, I’m freshly showered and more than a little cozy. My benefactor is Mr. Hamilton, whom I appealed to in desperation in his austere dressing room after his second performance last night.
“Who are you supposed to be?” he inquired, wiping off his makeup. “Edna May Oliver? Marie Dressler? Or perhaps Ruth Gordon as the sexy octogenarian in Harold and Maude?”
At least he didn’t guess Elsa Lanchester from Bride of Frankenstein. I explained my predicament and threw myself on his mercies.
“Kicked out of your elder hostel and rejected by three hotels,” he sighed. “How ungracious of them.”
“I’m not looking my freshest,” I conceded, “but I don’t see how anyone could mistake me for a prostitute.”
“You’d be surprised at some of the ladies making a living off tourists in this town. Well, Rick, you can’t go back to my place. I expect the building is being watched. But my accompanist has a spare room. She may be able to put you up for a few nights.”
“Is she to be trusted?”
“I certainly hope so, Rick. After all, she is my mother.”
For some reason Mrs. Hamilton goes by the name of Madame Zyxlenska, even though she’s an American widow from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Perhaps she always wanted to have the last name in the phone book. She and her two chubby cats occupy one of Paris’s odder apartments in a secret garden behind a high stucco wall in the once slummy, now swanky Marais district. This vine-covered dwelling consists of two retired streetcars stacked one atop the other and remodeled into a warren of tiny rooms. Jammed with exotic clutter, but still visible here and there are some of the original iron scrollwork and ornately carved wood. Tired Mrs. Fulke took a quick shower, then crashed under the lantern roof in the second-floor guest room. I didn’t even wake up when a 25-pound feline bedded down on my face.
2:27 p.m. More itchy bra strap irritation. Turns out if you wear such undergarments, daily showering is a must. Unfortunately, I have to remain dressed as the Scottish pensioner lest I be spotted by a nosy neighbor through one of the innumerable streetcar windows. Madame Zyxlenska, though, lent me a nicer wig to replace Mrs. Fulke’s drowned one and gave me the run of her cosmetics-laden vanity table. To thank her I made brunch (she formally retired from the kitchen some years ago) and got the score on her son. After a stint in the Navy as a pharmacist’s mate, he went on to study pharmacy in college on the G.I. Bill.
“All that talent,” she sighed, “and the guy was headed for a career as a pill pusher.”
“Did you try to talk him out it?” I asked.
“Never, Morag. I always told him it sounded like a wonderful career with loads of security.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Reverse psychology. If I told him he was wasting his life, he would have gone on doing it for sure. Do you ever listen to your mother?”
“Very rarely,” I admitted.
“Fortunately, Gene took a few music and theater classes as required electives. Then he was offered a role in a touring company of “Hair” and that was it for pharmacy school.”
Mr. Hamilton’s first name is Eugene, which may explain why he is known to all as “Mr. Hamilton.”
“Did he have to take off his clothes on-stage?” I asked, trying not to imagine a long-haired Mr. Hamilton cavorting in the buff.
“Sure, but he didn’t mind. We performers are all exhibitionists at heart. Did you ever consider a career as an actor?”
“Not really. Why?”
“Well, your Mrs. Fulke is a treat. It seems to me, though, if they can make a salve to give you unsightly wrinkles, they ought to be able to make one for me to take them away.”
She had a point there. Might be a worthwhile marketing opportunity for Mario and Kimberly to explore.
8:12 p.m. Weighed down by heavy dinners (grilled by me) and gigantic lap cats, we were vegging in front of the TV (the nightclub is closed on Mondays), when what should come on but T.P.’s new rapping granny video. Madame Zyxlenska said it was introduced as starring the notorious American Belmondo’s “closest friend” Trent Preston. Another shocking media untruth. The editing was peculiar too. Just a few cutaway shots of the old lady, while Piroque’s camera focused lovingly on the scantily clad American with the big wrench. Madame Z, for one, was smitten.
“Who is that gorgeous boy?” she asked. “Do you really know him?”
“I suppose,” I replied with ill-concealed boredom. “He used to go out with my wife until she dumped him for me.”
High-fives were then exchanged. Yes, it’s nice to have someone on my side for a change. Even if she is a fat old lady.
TUESDAY, July 12 — Madame Zyxlenska took Mrs. Fulke to her favorite gypsy fortune teller. I was skeptical, but she claimed that four years ago Madame Gulumba correctly predicted her son would break up with his boyfriend and that she would inherit their cats and streetcar apartment. A long Métro ride to the south brought us to Madame Gulumba’s office, which was the back half of an old van up on blocks in an alley behind a tenement. The seer was a tiny brown crone with far more wrinkles than her two supplicants put together. Since Mrs. Fulke couldn’t very well say she was looking for her absent wife, I let Madame Z do the talking. She handed over one of Sheeni’s anklet socks (this precious artifact was the only article of her clothing retained by me), and said we were seeking a young woman who had been missing nearly two weeks. Madame Gulumba lit a tab of incense, chewed something intently (her gum?), and pondered the sock.
“She is with someone,” croaked the ancient gypsy.
“A woman?” I asked hopefully.
“A man!”
“Where are they?” inquired Madame Z.
“Mountains! I see mountains.”
“What mountains?” I demanded.
“Mountains. Green mountains.”
Could My Love actually be holed up in Vermont?
Try as we might, we couldn’t get the fortune-teller to nail down anything more specific—a not-unexpected copout. Sure, be vague about the details, but be very explicit about collecting your fee. I had to fork over E35 I could ill afford to find out my wife was off somewhere mountaineering with some stud.
1:15 p.m. In such a funk, I could barely make lunch. Not one of my better efforts either. Most of the mélange went to the two cats, who only picked at it. Their names are Jeeves and Ruggles, though it is clear that it is we who serve them. Phoned Babette, who said Alphonse had not been out of the city and barely out of her sight for many weeks. Definitely not off on any mountain expeditions. Damn. Who could Sheeni be with? I keep drawing a blank—unless she’s off trekking in Nepal with Vijay.
8:48 p.m. Just had a call from Connie in a most excited state. Paul’s probation lapses have been cleared up and they’re engaged to be married.
“You should see the size of the rock on my finger,” she bubbled.
Impressed I was not. “But, Connie, didn’t you buy it yourself?”
“Well, yes. But Paulo helped me pick it out. He has exquisite taste, you know.”
I asked Connie why the wedding wasn’t until next week.
“My Paulo needs a little time to recover from his surgery.”
“Is he sick?”
“No, but I was. I found out the silly dear had had a vasectomy.
You can imagine the shock to my unborn children.”
“Aren’t those kind of hard to reverse?”
“Not if you get the right surgeon. I’ve lined up the best tube and tickle guy in the West. Paulo goes under the knife tomorrow morning.”
“I hope it works out, Connie. Aren’t you worried about him bolting again?”
“All taken care of, Rick. I had a private chat with his surgeon. He’s going to slip in a GPS chip.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a little chip that ties into the Global Positioning Satellites. I’ll be able to track Paulo’s movements anywhere on the globe in real time with an accuracy of two fe
et.”
“You’re putting it in his balls?!”
“We have to, Rick. He’d notice the incision if we put it anywhere else.”
Looks like Connie finally will have her guy by the short hairs.
“If Sheeni comes back, Rick, and has her baby by caesarian, I recommend you slip one in too. These Saunders just can’t be relied on to remain on the porch.”
You can say that again. After Connie thanked me again for helping track down Paul, I told her she could return the favor by yanking our father-in-law out of France.
“I don’t know, Rick. I suppose I could invite him to the wedding, but that’s asking a lot.”
“You’ve got to, Connie. I know Sheeni won’t return until he’s left the country.”
“OK, Rick. I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps I can get him interested in my mother again. Even he would be an improvement on your father.”
“What’s my dad doing now?”
“He just got himself elected president of the American Chihuahua Society. The guy is such an obnoxious little climber. I really do detest him.”
Welcome to the club. It’s a big club with an active and ever- growing membership.
10:47 p.m. All alone by the telephone. No calls from Sheeni, alas. Madame Zyxlenska off performing. So as not to attract undue attention on the Métro, she commutes in her usual shapeless housedress, then dolls herself up at the club. She has an entire wardrobe there of sequin-strewn gowns—like a time capsule of Ethel Merman’s closet.
Cats and I trying to watch TV, but the networks here do irritating things like dub “The Simpsons” into French. Too depressed to remain conscious a minute longer. Time for bed.
WEDNESDAY, July 13 — Another restless night of psychological self-abuse. Unlike the physical kind, this can go on endlessly with no pleasurable sensations whatsoever. Why has my life so seriously derailed? First, I have parents who are thrilled to see the back of me. Then I fall in love with a girl who takes all my money and abandons me. For my best pal I choose a kid (Lefty) who finks on me to the cops and another (Fuzzy) who would see me dead for enhanced zero-to-60 performance. Trying to look on the bright side though. For example, the wrinkle creme is doing wonders for my skin. Not a zit in sight—helpful when you’re an adolescent trying to pass for 74.
2:17 p.m. Went shopping in the neighborhood with Madame Zyxlenska. More proof that Paris is trying to copy San Francisco. The Marais is like our gay Castro District, only with more historic buildings and not as rigid Levis-and-moustache dress code. Lots of trendy shops, though we stuck to our local boulangerie, fromagerie, and épicerie, where Madame Z was well known and received friendly service, even though to my ears her “French” sounded like an outrageous parody. Affable welcome also extended to her silent houseguest in the bilious dress and ridiculous hat. A typically warm Parisian experience, though I think I would have preferred the faceless anonymity of grocery shopping at Safeway in America.
Over lunch Madame Z told me how she came to leave suburban Scranton in her late sixties for a nightclub career in Paris. It seems that her son’s elaborate act, timed down to the second, requires a skilled accompanist who can mind all the cues and stay on the beat. Yet this is just the sort of profession that attracts unreliable artsy types prone to on-the-job abuse of mind-altering substances.
“Want to know how to get ahead in this world, Morag?” she asked.
“OK.”
“Show up on time and do your job. That’s all there is to it.”
Good advice, I suppose, though she didn’t mention that it helps to be related to the person doing the hiring. Considering my relatives, I’ll probably wind up grooming chihuahuas for my father or guarding my jumbo nephew Tyler in his carnival sideshow exhibit.
THURSDAY, July 14, Bastille Day — Does it surprise you that the most important national holiday in France commemorates a riot? Rather like California celebrating Watts Day or New York sending all the school kids home for Attica Day. Woke up to the sounds of jet fighters screaming by overhead. Not as I feared air cover for the SWAT team sent to arrest me. These planes spewed red, blue, and white plumes to dress up the sky for the big military parade on the Champs-Elysées. Watched a little of it on TV, but saw no rose-covered floats or giant pneumatic figures of Napoleon— just a bunch of military types marching in formation. Pretty boring, but intimidating, I suppose, to the Belgians or other hostile neighbors.
Not easy being depressed, on the run, and cross-dressing as a senior in a city filled with millions dancing and partying in the streets. Mrs. Fulke took a lonely hike through the throngs of celebrants along the Seine. Lots of bands, food booths, strolling entertainers, and marginally clad chicks gyrating to the music. Kept my eyes peeled for Sheeni, but saw not a hair of her. Many orange stickers in evidence though. Comforting to think that my minions are everywhere. Ran into T.P. and Violet walking along arm-in-arm. Must be great being young and in love in swinging Paris. I’ll have to try it sometime. Trent in dark glasses to escape crazed groupies mad about his new video. Violet reported that Mr. Bonnet has been deluged with requests for TV and radio appearances by the hot new American star. T.P. set to record his first solo song next week. Possible movie deal also in the works. With luck, he may get back to Ukiah in time for his kid’s high school graduation. Didn’t linger long in case T.P. being followed by undercover gendarmes. He did report, however, that Sheeni hasn’t contacted him either.
Rick S. Hunter still has one leg up on his handsome rival. Passing a newsstand, Mrs. Fulke was startled to see I’d made the cover of Paris Match magazine. Didn’t dare buy a copy, but will send Madame Z out for one later. A very gratifying addition to my scrapbook, and a magazine cover sure to be reprinted frequently in future Twisp-Hunter biographies.
11:47 p.m. Stolid Mrs. Fulke among the millions crowded on the Champ-de-Mars to observe the fireworks at the Trocadéro light up the Eiffel Tower. Wild electric colors, especially that rare, intense purple seen only at the fiery center of a rocket’s blast. With every “ooh” and “aah” rising from that great crowd I pretended they were admiring me. Only a tepid boost to the ego, but a cheap form of do-it-yourself therapy. All in all, the show was pretty awesomely spectacular—even if someone did try to pick my purse—a fashion accessory I devote exclusively to used Kleenex. Get my germs and die, you filthy thief!
FRIDAY, July 15 — Invited Mr. Hamilton and Maurice over for a late lunch. The latter has worked out a nervous truce with Ruggles and Jeeves, who leave him unmolested as long as he stays off their furniture and doesn’t nibble from their bowls. All spilled food items are off-limits to dogs as well. I made my version of Mrs. Crampton’s celebrated Hash ’d Ham, which was well received by all. So far I’ve been subjected to nine years of formal education, but it seems to me the few months spent at Mrs. Crampton’s bulky knee have proven far more valuable in equipping me for Adult Life.
Considering she is his mother, Mr. Hamilton seems to have quite a cordial relationship with Madame Zyxlenska. She doesn’t criticize him or boss him around, and he doesn’t tell her to flake off or drop dead. They listen with apparent interest when the other talks, and respond as you would to a friend or colleague. Needless to say, it was a whole new paradigm of parent-child communication for me.
Mr. Hamilton is working up some younger gals, since he feels his “Tallulahs and Dinahs and Sophies” are starting to “sail right over the heads” of contemporary audiences. He did his Madonnain- progress for us. Very good, I suppose, though I’m not really qualified to say, not being tuned in to the post-Woodstock pop music scene. Hell, I’m still annoyed that Frank had to share the 1950s with Elvis.
Both mother and son expressed amazement that Sheeni still at large despite massive media attention. Mr. Hamilton suggested that, like me, she might be disguising her identity.
“Disguising it as what?” I asked.
“Well, perhaps as a male,” he speculated.
I tried to contemplate Sheeni metamorphosed into a young dude. The reques
t did not compute.
“Does she have a theatrical bent like you?” inquired Madame Z.
“Possibly,” I admitted.
“If she’s as intelligent as Morag says,” Mr. Hamilton said, “I’m sure the thought has occurred to her.”
“But she’s an awfully pretty girl to make herself over into a boy,” Madame Z pointed out.
“Well, let’s see,” replied her son. “Do you still have that newspaper with her photo?”
With a few deft strokes of his pen, Mr. Hamilton gave My Love a boy’s haircut. The effect was decidedly unmasculine. Then he drew in a trim moustache. Slightly more plausible. Then he added a small goatee.
“There,” he said. “A handsome youth.”
“You don’t think she’d have a full beard?” asked Madame Z.
“Not likely,” he replied. “Too much work and they always look fake. What do you think, Morag?”
“She looks a bit like her brother,” I conceded.
“She’d need a passport or identity card,” said Madame Z. “Does she have much money?”
“Lots,” I replied. “All mine, unfortunately.”
“Of course, she could be adopting some other disguise,” Mr. Hamilton pointed out.
“Perhaps an older woman like you, Morag,” suggested his mother.
“Not likely,” I replied. “If Sheeni changed her identity, it would be to something attractive and fashionable. A bag lady she’s not.”
While the Hamiltons rehearsed some new numbers, I took Maurice for a walk for old time’s sake. I brought along my Michelin map since neither of us were familiar with that neighborhood. We discovered a fancy street called rue de Rivoli that was crowded with affluent shoppers. While Maurice sniffed the lampposts, I stared intently at every passing young man sporting facial hair. I think I spooked a few, who detoured from their paths to give me a wide berth. One semi-Sheeniesque youth—transfixed by my gaze—halted in his tracks, fished a one-euro coin from his jeans, and pressed it into my startled palm. From that act alone I knew he couldn’t be my missing wife.