by C. D. Payne
After all the votes had been counted, Donk announced that the results were very close. Tarkan placed two votes behind the leaders, who had finished in a dead heat. It was a tie. So the committee decided to award four points to Jiri and me, and a consolation three points to the talented Turk. New rankings: Mrs. Fulke - 20, Tarkan -21, Jiri - 22.
Thank God it turned out I have a sense of humor. I was beginning to fear the worst.
FRIDAY, August 12 — Another “wee small hours of the morning” phone call from Connie. She’s in despair because they can’t find a decent house in their price range.
“Well, what is your price range?” I yawned.
“I’d like to keep it under five, Rick.”
“Five what?”
“Five million, of course.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“You mean to tell me, Connie, that you can’t find a decent house for five fucking million dollars?!”
“Not in a neighborhood I’d care to live in, Rick. It’s all fixers or tear-downs. Or some hideous eyesore that’s just been redone in some decorator’s wretched taste. And God forbid if it was ever owned by a movie star. Then the price is doubled. I mean would you pay $3 million extra just to say you live in a house that was once owned by Broderick Crawford?”
“Connie, you’re talking to a guy who’s living in a camel van. I’m having trouble relating to your problem.”
Even Connie could understand that. So she spent the next 20 minutes haranguing me for not staying in Albi and looking for my elusive wife.
“Rick, did I give up when my Paulo disappeared? Did I abandon my marriage plans?”
“No, Connie,” I conceded. “You didn’t.”
“I can’t believe you’re proposing to ditch Paulo’s pretty sister for some Bulgarian parrot freak.”
“Reina’s Czech, Connie. She’s a very nice person. I love her a lot.”
“If she’s so nice, why is little miss home wrecker accepting phone calls from married men?”
“Paul called her?!”
“Three times, Rick. Naturally, I have immediate access to his phone records. He called her yesterday in fact.”
“Maybe he wanted to tell her that he was going to be a father.”
“It doesn’t take 48 fucking minutes to convey that news!”
“Then you should be happy I want to marry her, Connie. Paul will have to give her up.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Rick,” Connie sighed. “Remember, we always want what we cannot have.”
Boy, do we ever. Damn, now I have to find a way to eavesdrop on Reina’s phone. I feel it’s a bad sign that she never told me she talked to Paul. Why is it that everywhere I turn there’s a Saunders busy fucking over my life?
10:18 a.m. I never got back to sleep. Just as well. I’d probably have a dream in which Sheeni was introducing me to a pack of her studly new boyfriends. At the first light of dawn I sneaked out with my towel and knocked on Reina’s caravan door. She was already awake, dressed, and looking heart-renderingly beautiful. Someday soon I hope to view a sunrise through her caravan window in some capacity other than early visitor.
After Mrs. Fulke showered and shaved, we settled onto Reina’s cozy dinette for coffee and croissants. By now I barely noticed the deafening parrot screeches.
“Your wig is looking nice this morning, Morag,” she commented.
“Thanks, Reina. It’s quite the amazing rug. You can even spin your entire body on it and it springs back into shape. Vastly superior to actual hair. Hardly shows the dirt either. And the camel spit brushes right out after you let it dry. How are my wrinkles?”
“Very uniform and authentic looking. Quite grandmotherly in fact.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I sipped my coffee and casually let it drop that I had heard from Mrs. Paul Saunders.
“Oh,” replied Reina with equal nonchalance, “how is she?”
“Rather stressed from house-hunting and being an expectant mother.”
“Yes, Paul mentioned that.”
“Oh, you’ve talked to him?”
“A few times. He calls me. You Americans think nothing of telephoning people on the other side of the world.”
“What does he, uh, call up to say? If I may be so nosy as to inquire?”
“He doesn’t think I should get married. He thinks the contest is stupid.”
“Really. Why’s that?”
“He says if I met the right person, I would know it. That I wouldn’t be troubled by these, uh, uncertainties.”
“Does he say anything about his marriage?”
“He said that if he didn’t marry her, she was going to have his parole revoked. You have interesting friends, Rick.”
“Connie never told me that, Reina. It may not be true.”
“I have no reason to disbelieve Paul, Rick.”
“Does he say anything about me?”
“He says you are going to have a hard time, Rick.”
“A hard time because of the littlest monkey?”
“He said nothing about that, Rick. What’s this about a monkey?”
But our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of another freeloading shower cadger. Jiri entered, attempted unsuccessfully to plant one on Reina’s lips, and gave Mrs. Fulke a look that could curdle cream. When, later, the bathroom door popped open, Reina and I both made a point of turning away and gazing out the front window. Someday that towel-waving exhibitionist is going to brush up against a parrot cage, and something large and floppy is going to receive a nasty bite.
5:12 p.m. The monkeys are revolting. At today’s matinee Mr. Granley blew his whistle and his monkeys just looked at him like he was the Gym Teacher from Mars. No one moved a muscle. Finally, Number Three consented to do a few sprongs on the trampoline, but that was it. Their entire program of tricks was suddenly off the menu. Since Captain Lapo was in no condition to eat fire or munch light bulbs, he had to run out and pound a few nails into himself while Mr. G’s act was rolled away in disgrace. No problem though with Donk’s monkey Dink, who handed out his treats and took his little bows with his usual aplomb. Then Mr. G had the nerve to blame the mutiny on Mrs. Fulke. The officious twit has banned disco music in general and my radio in particular from the monkey van. Mrs. Fulke is feeling a bit smug. She’s been trashing Mr. G privately to his troupe for weeks, and it finally looks like all that badmouthing has paid off. Now if only Tarkan’s ponies would start paying attention.
11:42 p.m. No performances tonight for Mr. G. He’s been excused for a few days of intensive act freshening. He did appear in the cookhouse along with other members of the company to observe tonight’s Tour de Wife contest titled “Visions of Love.” Too bad it wasn’t an eye test. I always ace those, being able to spot a wart on a gnat’s ass at 50 yards. No, tonight’s task was to draw a portrait of Reina, who kindly posed for us in all her fully clothed pulchritude. Passing out the paper and colored pencils, Donk stated that a good husband should be artistic—a rule that was news to me. Since Reina was going to all the trouble of holding still, many non- contestants clamored to join in. At least a dozen wannabe Picassos gathered round My Sweet Love to translate her comeliness into Personal Artistic Statements.
Now I have my egotistical moments, but one thing I have never claimed to be is an artist. Never will I forget that embarrassing incident in the sixth grade when an art teacher singled me out as someone who could draw “nothing except flies.” Her assessment, alas, was spot on. My artistic skills are nil, zilch, less than zero. Puling two-year-olds with soiled nappies and gum in their hair can wield a crayon with greater adroitness than any Twisp. We are not an artistic people. Nevertheless, I gazed at Reina’s perfect features and tried mightily to forge a link between my eager eyeballs and my spastic hand. I’ve heard it’s simply a matter of getting into the proper side of the brain. No such luck. Both orbs of my brain were equally inept. My portrait resembled a space alien as drawn by the traumatized victim of an intergalactic abd
uction and sex probe.
At last Donk blew his whistle, terminating the artistic torment. Everyone signed their drawings on the back, and Donk pinned them to the walls of the tent for judging.
Two, everyone agreed, stood out. One was no worse than the mature work of Johannes Vermeer of Delft. The other was a competent likeness. The rest were more or less pathetic, though one outshone all the others in incompetence. Once again a Twisp had achieved absolute artistic nadir.
Surprisingly, the competent likeness was by Donk. The master- piece—Reina was amazed to discover—was by the gifted hand of Marcel Fazy. Whoever would have supposed the atrabilious clown was such an artist? He graciously signed it again on the front and presented it to Reina with his compliments. She thanked him warmly and promised to have it framed. She also kissed Donk for his commendable effort.
“But what about my drawing?” pouted Tarkan, pointing to a portrait of an ugly horse-faced girl. “Is it not clearly superior to all the others?”
No, was the unanimous verdict. The three contestants were judged equally untalented and awarded one point each. (New rankings: Mrs. Fulke - 21, Tarkan - 22, Jiri - 23.) Fervid but ultimately futile protests by the Baturs against consignment to the same category as Mrs. Fulke. As for Jiri, he merely shrugged and tore up his muddled effort, which to my eyes looked more like Omar than Reina.
Considering the slew of drunkards, adulterers, and wife-abusers who’ve made it big in the art world, I wonder if “artistic temperament” is a quality one should seek in a husband. Sure, Trent Preston can paint like Cézanne, but would you really want to marry the twit? That reminds me, I must get an update soon on his marital woes.
SATURDAY, August 13 — Can you believe it’s been over three months since Sheeni and I were wed in distant Mississippi? And nearly half that interval has passed since our tragic parting. I marked the occasion with a somber memorial wank. For a change I mentally undressed Sheeni rather than Reina while flailing away. The usual thunderous climax followed almost immediately by a black depression. Those feel-good serotonins never linger in my brain when I contemplate my departed wife.
Wish I had an American tape measure. It seems to me my T.E. is looking more impressive these days. Who knows? I soon may be nudging Reina’s bathroom door open myself to flash a Notable Specimen.
This morning’s contest theme was “Judicious Thrift.” The contestants and committee adjourned to Mende, whose main street hosts a regular Saturday morning flea market. Lots of rustic natives peddling items from the backs of their cars or from small makeshift trailers. As specified, each contestant arrived with exactly E10 in cash. As instructed by Donk, we were to wander about and purchase those items best exemplifying “judicious thrift.” The guy who returned with what was judged (by Reina) the most bang for his bucks would win. (This presupposes she desires to marry a cheap tightwad.) All items had to be purchased outright and could not be obtained through loans or other devious means. To prevent cheating, each of us would be accompanied by a committee member.
This time Mrs. Fulke drew Marcel, who sighed loudly and gave me a look that could tan leather. Then Donk blew his whistle and off we went.
Even out of his clown outfit, Marcel is not the ideal shopping companion. Anything you pick up to inspect triggers a great display of contemptuous eye rolling. Hey, I wasn’t going to buy that rusty calf-castrating tool, I just wanted to see how it worked. Do you suppose they used a similar implement on poor Abelard?
Nor can the Mende market be termed a bargain hunter’s paradise. Farm produce and such ilk comprised about a third of the offerings. Yes, you could buy an entire wheel of cheese, but not for E10. Another third was apparel related. I spotted an interesting wedding gown that might have fit Reina, but it was priced at a delusional E45. Then you had your optimistic displays of rusty tools, odd car parts, musty books (almost all in French), yellowed magazines, old-lady handicrafts, dubious electronic items, obsolete computer components, previously sweated-in shoes, battered toys, and suspect jewelry. I asked Marcel if he thought a rather attractive pair of earrings were real pearls, but he just sighed and rolled his eyes. So I passed on them. I did find a picture frame that seemed the right size for Marcel’s drawing. The man was asking E5, but I turned Mrs. Fulke’s accent up and nailed it for a mere E2. Sharp bargaining is to be expected—all Europe knows—when you’re confronting a Scot. That left me with E8 and less than 15 minutes to go in our one-hour shopping spree. Time to pick up the pace.
A hand-carved oak cradle seemed just the thing to appeal to Reina’s maternal side, but the obstinate vendor wouldn’t budge from E12. A bit bulky for a crowded caravan anyway. For the same reason I had to nix a rusty but repairable Peugeot bicycle in my price range. Then I spotted a glint of gold. An old pocket watch, and yes, it appeared to be ticking. A rather plain dial, but perhaps hand- painted. I pried open the hinged back. An intricate movement with gleaming red things that might be jeweled bearings. Rubies? Sapphires? A tiny hallmark on the case that my eagle eyes deciphered as “18k.” I held up the watch and looked inquiringly at the ancient lady vendor. Marcel grudgingly translated.
“She says she is holding it for a mad foreigner accompanied by a giant.”
Unquestionably Jiri. I waved my E8 and smiled into her cloudy green eyes. Don’t be fooled by the wig, I telegraphed, it’s a face you remember from your youth. A liverish hand reached out and grabbed the cash. The deed was done. A moment later I spotted Jiri hurrying in our direction. We turned and melted into the crowd. Then Donk’s whistle sounded from down the block. Our shopping spree was over.
2:28 p.m. The cargo was laid before Reina at lunchtime in the cookhouse. Mrs. Fulke went first.
“Here is a picture frame for your portrait by Marcel. My guess is it’s lime or pear wood. You’ll notice the wavy glass is quite old.”
“Very nice,” said Reina.
“And here’s an antique pocket watch. Probably Swiss or French, with an 18-karat solid gold case and jeweled movement. I think it couldn’t be any later than early 19th Century. And as you can see, it works fine.”
It had lost ten minutes since I had set it, but one could hardly demand precision timekeeping from something that old.
“A beautiful watch!” exclaimed Reina. “Thank you, Morag.”
Next up was Jiri, who began by flashing me a look that could bruise exposed flesh. The spendthrift was sucking a large piece of peppermint candy, doubtless purchased in town with funds embezzled from his “judicious thrift” monies.
“Here is old zither, Reina,” he said, producing a decrepit stringed instrument. “Not such good condition, but I play you a tune.”
He then manipulated the thing to produce a quaint melody and a large cloud of musty mold spores. Jarringly out of tune, but apparently charming to its recipient. Reina thanked him heartily.
“Show her what else you got,” prodded Donk.
Jiri reluctantly extracted something from his pocket. It was a distressingly familiar-looking gold watch.
Marcel smiled and offered an explanation. “These fakes are flooding in from Russia. Thin brass-plating over pot metal. Hong Kong movements. They usually sell for two or three euros.”
For a change, Mrs. Fulke gave him the nasty look. Thanks a pantsful, creep.
“Well, they’re very pretty timepieces,” said Reina, perceiving our embarrassment. “I’m sure they will come in handy.”
For what, I wondered? Target practice? Sock darning? Braining an amorous horn player?
Finally, Tarkan coughed up his baksheesh.
“Dearest Reina, I bought for you this enchanting pair of pearl earrings.”
Mrs. Fulke saw red.
“Those things are fake!” she charged.
Ignoring me, the cad smiled at Reina and handed her a formal- looking certificate.
“Anticipating such objections,” he said, “Captain Lapo and I had my purchase appraised this morning at Mende’s largest jewelers. As you can see, they were declared genuine and value
d at E480. The settings are 14k gold.”
“They are lovely, Tarkan,” said Reina, “but I cannot accept them.”
“But why not, my darling?” he asked.
“I cannot accept from you your mother’s pearl earrings.”
A tremendous uproar. Expostulations of outrage from the other contestants. Indignant denials of treachery by the Baturs. Dazed confusion by Captain Lapo when pressed if such a substitution could have been made. More outrage when Mrs. Batur mysteriously unable to produce her own pair of pearl earrings. Then she “recalled” she had left them in Istanbul, but several witnesses testified they had seen her wearing them on this tour. Donk acted decisively. Declared Jiri the winner, Mrs. Fulke second, and Tarkan a fraud. The Turk socked with zero points for the day, and earrings handed back to his mom. She again denied they were hers, but grabbed them in a flash when Mrs. Fulke volunteered to take them. New rankings: Tarkan - 22, Mrs. Fulke - 24, Jiri - 28.
Some satisfaction in seeing Tarkan get his comeuppance, but still smarting from fleecing by elderly Frog sharpie. How can Europe hope to stay united when innocent visitors from UK are prey to such swindles? And why hasn’t that old lady been locked away in some luxurious rest home? I thought the socialists were running this country.