Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (6 page)

“
I’m Reina Vesely. Forgive the mess.”

We shook hands and she sniffed the air. “I hope it doesn’t smell too bad. Five birds can get rather offensive. I don’t even notice it myself now.”

“
It’s fine,” I lied. Monosyllables were all I could manage. She was quite overpoweringly beautiful. Pale skin like Meissen porcelain under cascades of deep bronze hair. Aristocratic cheekbones. Delicate features laid on in supernal harmony.

“
So thirsty from those stairs. Would you join me in some lemon water?”

It took a moment for my dazzled brain to compute that she was not proposing a mixed-sex scented bath. “Sure.”

Her kitchenette had actual cupboards, not stacked-up wooden crates like ours. She filled two tall glasses with sparkling water and handed one to me.

“
Salut,” she said, clinking her glass against mine and swallowing deeply. “Sometimes I think those stairs are getting steeper.”

“
I know the feeling. Weren’t there any apartments available on lower floors?”

Her smile lit up her extraordinary gray eyes. “I’m like my birds, Rick. I like to be close to the sky. Besides, climbing stairs is good therapy for my leg.”

“
You have, uh, a disease?”

“
No. It was an accident. Two years ago. I’m much better now.

You and your beautiful wife are quite the topic of conversation in the building.”

“
You’ve met Sheeni?”

“
No, but I’ve passed her on the stairs.”

“
So you’re Madame Ruzicka’s niece?”

“
Only spiritually. We’re both Czech, but not related as far as we know. She was friends with my grandfather. And now she is my kind benefactress.”

“
She seems like a nice old lady.”

“
She is my dearest friend. She saved my life. But I won’t bore you with that story. How do you like Paris, Rick?”

I filled her in on my limited Parisian experiences.

“
Oh, but, Rick, you must see the Eiffel Tower! You must go to the top! I love it up there. But perhaps I was born for high places.”

You can say that again. Anything less than a grand palace would be a crime against nature.

6:33 p.m. My Love is back from solo tourism, with several detours for more clothes shopping. She points out that a person living in Paris cannot be expected to make do with a wardrobe acquired in the boondocks of Mississippi. I suppose not, but if she buys any more clothes, we’ll need a map to find the toilet in the closet. She was interested to hear that I had made the acquaintance of Ms. Vesely. “It’s a pity that someone so pretty has such an affliction,” she commented.

“
You think she’s pretty, darling? I hadn’t noticed.”

I am resolved to learn from the mistakes of my idiot divorced father: one does NOT praise another woman to one’s wife.

“
Yes, rather attractive. I wonder what sort of accident it was?”

“
She was probably run down in the street by some crazed Twingo driver. It’s all poor Maurice and I can do to get across the streets in one piece.”

“
You have to be careful, Nickie.”

My Love is concerned for my welfare!

“
That dog is owned by an American,” she continued. “If anything happened to it, I’m sure we’d be sued.”

“
Uh, right, Sheeni. I suppose tourist-flattening is a daily occurrence here. Back home drivers actually stop for pedestrians in cross walks.”

“
Motorists are rather polite in California,” she acknowledged.

A surprising admission. Is it possible that My Love is herself experiencing a twinge of homesickness for the Golden State?

TUESDAY, May 25 — A sudden tragedy yesterday in Los Angeles. At 2:33 a.m. Connie called me with the shocking news. Her father, noted industrialist Bernard H. Krusinowski, has suffered a massive cerebral thrombosis. The prognosis is not good. He’s deceased. Connie was devastated.

“
How did it happen, Connie? Where? When?”

“
It was right after lunch, Rick. He was taking a siesta with Lacey.”

“
He was in bed with Lacey!?”

“
That’s right. Apparently, they were right in the middle of things when he suddenly reared up and went limp. I mean, his body went limp.”

“
Right, Connie. I understand. That’s awful.”

A tragic end to an eventful life. But, personally, I couldn’t think of a nicer send-off to the next world.

“
How’s Lacey?”

“
She’s a mess, Rick. She’s under sedation. Rita is taking it hard too.”

Rita Krusinowski is Connie’s mother and my father-in-law’s alleged mistress.

“
I think I killed my father, Rick. I think it was the strain of the divorce that pushed him over the edge.”

“
Don’t be silly, Connie. Your father was a competitive, hard- driving executive. He was a victim of America’s obsession with success, rich foods, and large smooth-riding automobiles. Did he do much walking?”

“
Nobody walks in L.A., Rick. The smog would kill you.”

“
And how about all those cigars he smoked, Connie?”

“
Dad did enjoy a nice Cuban cigar. You think maybe they hardened his arteries?”

“
No question about it, Connie. They call it Castro’s revenge. Your father was a walking time bomb. Have the arrangements been made?”

“
Yeah, Rita’s taking charge as usual. She wants to bury him in Palm Springs, but I’m against it.”

“
Why, Connie?”

“
Palm Springs is where you go for the weekend, Rick. It’s not a place to spend eternity.”

I told Connie not to blame herself and to call me any time she needed emotional support. Hard to believe just a few months ago I got naked in a hot tub with a rich old guy who is now a corpse. I just hope I didn’t pick up any of his cerebral thrombosis germs.

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.”