Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (2 page)

Philippe may have been winning the maidenly sighs, but I was the Yank getting his ashes hauled.

FRIDAY, May 14 — Rude shock at breakfast. While dining on my usual complimentary croissant (bacon and eggs apparently being unknown in this country), I happened to glance at the
International Herald-Tribune
, a newspaper legible to English speakers. The headline read: “U.S. Dollar Sinks to New Low against Euro.” It turns out that my bargain $18 Rumanian miners’ shoes actually cost over $200. And that tarte aux pommes I snacked on yesterday set me back nearly $10. Ten bucks for a goddam piece of apple pie!

“
Well, Rick,” commented Sheeni, sipping her complimentary canned o.j., “no one said Europe was a bargain. That’s why we need to find an apartment. Do you have any idea what this hotel is costing us?”

“
Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!”

“
It won’t be easy,” she continued. “I can put up my hair and pass for 20, but even in your rare mature moments you barely look your age. I suppose I could try to pass you off as my younger brother.”

“
Nothing doing. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Rick S. Hunter and that’s what it’s going to say on our door.”

“
Oh, dear. I seem to have married a Neanderthal. Well, at least try not to smile so much. The French don’t understand gratuitous smiling. They tend to assume you’re either insane or retarded.”

“
I feel the same way about them.”

“
Naturally there are only certain arrondissements in which I’m willing to live.”

“
What’s that?” I asked.

“
Those are the various districts of Paris. To compare it to the Bay Area, there are certain preferred districts like San Francisco and others like Oakland.”

“
Hey, I was born and raised in Oakland.”

“
Yes. That was precisely my point.”

2:15 p.m. Back at the hotel to change into our most “mature” outfits. We may have a lead on a possible apartment. Sheeni had the idea to go to the Sorbonne and check for rental notices on campus bulletin boards. If your concept of college is pretty coeds sauntering across leafy quadrangles toward ivy-covered halls, France’s oldest university will come as a jolt. It’s more like a soot-begrimed medieval urban slum. Not a frat house or football stadium in sight. Lots of pretty girls though, and more than a few that François would rate as strikingly beautiful. This may explain all those outdoor cafes. There are worse ways to pass your time than sipping a cognac on a Parisian boulevard while the cream of Gallic pulchritude passes by. I’d certainly rate it higher than watching 22 helmeted brutes pummel each other on a gridiron.

Improbably, we did locate a notice board and while Sheeni was jotting down some addresses, she was affably addressed by a tall Frog in a cashmere sweater who was only slightly better looking than Trent Preston. His aquiline nose shrieked of aristocratic forbears. It was complemented by one of those chins that appear to have been chiseled from granite. They had an interminable conversation in French that involved much eyelash fluttering, unconscious hair smoothing, and gratuitous smiling. All in all, I’d say it was a provocative case of blatant flirting. Nor was any effort made to involve or even acknowledge the scowling American in the sunglasses and unusual shoes. The upshot of all of this, I found out when at last the fellow tore himself away from my wife, was that “Alphonse” had revealed that a friend of his was soon to vacate his digs in the Montparnasse district.

“
You mean this Alphonse creep wants us to move in with him?” I asked, shocked. Did the French have no respect at all for the institution of marriage?

“
No, silly,” Sheeni replied. “His friend has a furnished flat in Alphonse’s building. He’s moving out on Sunday. Alphonse says the rents are affordable and his aubergiste is very liberal minded.”

“
Is that his mistress?”

“
Nickie, your incomprehension continues to astound. Aubergiste means landlady. And this one is willing to rent to students, Algerians, even Americans. It could be a wonderful break for us.”

Yeah, ruminated François darkly, and not a bad opportunity for Alphonse either.

5:17 p.m. The “flat” turned out to be a one-room attic apartment with an alcove for a bed and an open-air tin bathtub in the adjoining kitchenette. The elusive toilet we discovered in the skimpy clothes closet. The scarred walls and slanted low ceiling appeared not to have felt the lash of a paintbrush since Jean Gabin was in diapers. Up five long flights of stairs with no elevator in sight. At least there was an expansive view across the chimneypots (and satellite dishes) of Paris. The rent is E900 a month, which Sheeni thought was reasonable for a convenient location on a picturesque street off the avenue du Maine. But Madame Ruzicka, the “liberal-minded” elderly landlady, regarded us with a skeptical eye. After a long interrogation of Sheeni in her stuffy old lady’s apartment, she directed My Love to step out into the hall so she could have a private chat with the silent male. She looked me over as a disheveled green parrot grumbled in French on its messy iron stand.

“
Now, young man, why are you wearing those glasses?” she inquired in excellent English. Her accent was from somewhere east of France. “Are you a drug addict?”

I removed my sunglasses.

“
Ah, you bear a superficial resemblance to a certain movie actor. No doubt an inconvenience for you, though perhaps useful for attracting pretty young things. She is not your sister, of course.”

“
No, she’s my wife.”

“
Well, that is slightly more plausible than her story. And what age do you claim to be?”

“
I claim to be 18.”

“
Most extravagant. And your parents?”

“
All deceased.”

“
You should inform your wife. She is not aware of their passing. You were married where?”

“
In Mississippi last week. It was perfectly legal. We could show you the license, if you like.”

“
Legally married in Mississippi. How extraordinary. But I believe your South is quite an eccentric region. And why have you come to France?”

“
Sheeni—my wife—desires to live in Paris. She is a great enthusiast for all things French.”

“
Well, perhaps she will outgrow that delusion. Do your parents know where you are?”

“
Our parents have thrown up their hands. They are very narrow- minded. They kicked us out.”

“
I have heard American parents do that. Extraordinary. And how will you support yourselves? It’s most difficult to be employed legally in France.”

“
I invented a novelty watch that is very popular with teenagers. For this I have received royalties approaching one million dollars. It’s called a Wart Watch. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“
I may have seen such a timepiece disfiguring the wrist of one of my tenants. Its appeal eludes me. And now the proud creator stands before me to boast of his accomplishment.”

“
Well, you asked how I was going to pay the rent,” I replied, offended. It wasn’t like I was dying to climb five flights every time I went out for a magazine. At these prices you’d think they could afford to put in an elevator.

“
Thank you, young man. This has been most enlightening. You may go now. I will call you if I decide in your favor.”

9:47 p.m. No message from the nosy aubergiste. For a change of pace we had dinner in one of the numerous Vietnamese restaurants to be found in Paris—a legacy, says Sheeni, of past colonial misadventures in Indochina. The food was great, the prices were reasonable, and for a change we didn’t have to get down on our hands and knees to beg the waiter for the check.

My fourth day in Paris and I’ve yet to spot the Eiffel Tower. Must not be as imposing as popularly supposed or perhaps they’ve taken it out for cleaning.

SATURDAY, May 15 — I have been married for exactly one week. And who said teen marriages never last?

“
I’ve decided what you need is total immersion,” announced my anniversary bride at breakfast this morning. Perhaps in honor of the occasion the ubiquitous croissants had been replaced with complimentary mini baguettes. These were served with tabs of butter and tiny packets of Israeli jam. No costly protein as usual. All around us restive Germans were grumbling for sausages.

“
Total immersion,” I repeated hopefully. “In what—your nubile young body?”

“
In French,” she replied. “I can see now that is the only way you are going to learn. From this moment forth, I shall speak to you only in French. It’s for the best, darling.”

She said more, but—not surprisingly—the balance of her remarks was unintelligible. Yes, it’s a bit disconcerting for a fellow when the only person he knows within 10,000 miles decides to withdraw unilaterally from their common language.
Merde!

My new all-French wife and I took the subway to today’s museum: the Orsay. This one, in a converted railroad station, was not as jammed with mossy antiquities as the ostentatious Louvre across the river. Room after room of stunning Impressionist paintings stuck away as an afterthought on the second floor. Those guys really knew how to paint, even if they couldn’t stay between the lines. I liked the Cézannes; Sheeni appeared to prefer the Renoirs, though perhaps she was admiring the sheen on the gilded frames. And what a shock to turn a corner and come face to face with Whistler’s Mother, enduring forever her maternal disappointments.

We had lunch under the immense fin de siècle murals in the ritzy upstairs restaurant. Mobbed with tourists, but somehow the French manage to make institutional food quite palatable. Sheeni nodded approvingly while commenting on her trout. Or perhaps she was inviting me to employ her braised filet in some bizarre sexual rite. I hadn’t a clue. I hope she tires of this charade soon, as I feel it is not conducive to a placid marital life.

10:47 p.m. Back from a perusal of the bookstores on Boulevard St. Michel. A warm, pleasant evening, though relations with incommunicado spouse getting frostier. One of the shops had an English-language section, so at least I could reacquaint myself with my mother tongue. Not for long. Sheeni yanked the computer magazine from my hand and replaced it with the latest issue of Paris Match. Enjoyed the rampant nudity in French ads, though doubt it contributed much toward vocabulary building.

Still no message from Madame Ruzicka, nor sightings of E.T. (Eiffel Tower). Annoyed wife just removed my probing hand from her delectable body while making forceful declarative statements. François prays she has not resorted to the ultimate linguistic weapon: no sex until I learn French!

The buzzing telephone rudely awakened us at 6:14 a.m. Fearing it might be the FBI, I grunted a disguised “bonjour.” It was Madame Ruzicka calling to say the apartment was ours if we still wanted it. We did. But not even this good news broke the language barrier. Excited wife leaped out of bed and, throwing on her clothes, harangued me to: hurry? stand on my head? leap naked from the window? Every toddler in France could understand her, but I was clueless as usual.

2:48 p.m. We’re moved! Already, I have climbed those marble stairs nine times—four while hefting weighty suitcases. Extremely aerobic. In a few weeks I may have the lungs and leg muscles of a Swiss mountain goat. Thank God for my deep-cushioning Rumanian shoes. I expect even Sheeni may be sporting them soon. Madame Ruzicka admitted natural selection at work in winnowing tenants for top-floor apartments. Only the very young in prime physical condition can make the grade. Seems like a pretty lively floor from what I’ve seen so far of our neighbors.

Three muscular young guys live across the hall. Next door is a swarthy dwarf with a Clark Gable moustache and Norma Shearer head scarf. I wouldn’t want to climb all those stairs with legs that short. Our building is all 19th Century carved stone on the outside, but the interior is a letdown: narrow stairs, pinched corridors, crumbling plaster, and gloomy lighting. A wig shop occupies the ground- floor storefront. No budget “miracle fiber” styles like Carlotta used to wear. According to Madame Ruzicka, they sell only hand-sewn human hair wigs fashioned on the premises. Each one can take a month or more to make. Sounds like even more tedious work than some of my former mind-numbing wage-slave jobs. And a mere three centuries late for the big fashion boom in wigs.

Extortionate rent and deposits made a scary dent in diminishing stash of hundred dollar bills. Then the vacating tenant showed up and demanded E500 for the decrepit kitchen gear and appliances. Seems all the landlady provides is the dripping sink. He settled for $300 in U.S. greenbacks as I could sense he was not anxious to haul the midget stove and refrigerator down all those stairs. Must get cash infusion soon from Sheeni’s clandestine accounts!

Rudimentary furnishings are included with the apartment, but Sheeni has gone off with Alphonse’s cute girlfriend Babette to buy towels and sheets. Despite her French-sounding name, Babette is a rosy-cheeked English girl—speaking that most welcome language with a charming Welsh accent. I suspect one or both of them is rolling in euros. They live in a swanky third-floor apartment down the hall from our landlady. (Note: Sheeni informs me that the French refer to the third floor as the second floor, and the second floor as the first floor. Can an entire nation not count?)

I should talk. Previous stair count in error. We’re six flights up, though God only knows what floor we’re on.

4:35 p.m. We’re swaddled in Egyptian cotton. Our apartment may not be much, but we’ve got linens worthy of a Rothschild. While Sheeni was out, I took the bare mattress for a mid-afternoon test snooze (and lonely wank), finding both moderately satisfactory. We also have a couple of tables, a fake pine bureau, some non- designer lamps, and a threadbare sofa no worse than old Mrs. DeFalco’s in Ukiah. No radio or TV—how will we fill those silent hours?