Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne

perhaps he was just relieved that the “music” had at last been silenced. At his insistence, we pushed our way into the jammed caravan for the cast party. All too soon I was pinned in a corner by the three Magdas, all chattering away in excited Dutch and force-feeding me exotic low-country snacks. I could only wave forlornly as across the length of the trailer my wife slipped out the door with our neighbor. This caused me some concern. Aside from the issue of dwarfish entanglements, Sheeni as usual was packing all my money.
     
    MONDAY, June 7 — I woke up with a hacking cough from breathing all that aerosol oil the smog machines were belching yesterday. Even Sheeni’s exquisite lungs were slightly impaired. What’s worse, that damn song keeps ricocheting through my head like some endless loop tape employed by Nazi torturers to drive their victims insane. Not a problem for my wife as she had been warned in advance by the sound engineer, who loaned her a pair of earplugs. Considering the extremely negligible contribution of the Dutch to the pop music scene, it hardly seems fair that they have to clog both my lungs and brain with such rubbish. At least I have chiseled my video euros from the clutches of my rapacious wife. We are “banking” them jointly in the closet with our dwindling stash of Yankee greenbacks.
    9:15 a.m. Bernardo Boccata just burst in with a copy of today’s Libèration. At the bottom of page one was a photo of a sequin- bedecked sailor wrestling a downsized admiral. It seems that Mr. Bonnet’s overzealous P.R. staff scored some press coverage of yesterday’s shoot. Sheeni translated the lurid headline: “Ghost of Montparnasse Now a Video Star?” No article this time. Just a caption that reported the bare facts of young American Rick S. Hunter’s video debut.
    “ You famous guy,” said Bernardo, slapping me on the back.
    “ This is most unfortunate,” said Sheeni.
    “ It’s a disaster,” I replied. “I’m going to strangle that idiot Bonnet!”
    My Love sighed and studied the photo.
    “ I’m surprised they published such a homoerotic image,” she added.
    “ What do you mean?” I demanded.
    “ Check it out yourself, darling.”
    I grabbed the paper and inspected it closely. An unfortunate lighting flare had highlighted Piroque’s requested padding. I appeared to be sporting a fairly spectacular T.E., presumably induced by homosexual dwarf grappling. How acutely embarrassing. Now all of Paris thinks I’m some kind of deviate dwarfophile.
    3:46 p.m. My life as celebrity janitor goes on. Many tenants smiled and waved as I carried down their trash. Babette winked at me as she strolled off with Alphonse. The ladies of the wig salon gathered in the lobby and gave me a spontaneous ovation. Gratifying, but couldn’t they have waited until my newly mopped floor had dried? Señor Nunez thanked me for the free publicity, but complained that the caption hadn’t mentioned his name or profession. I said I had nothing to do with it and thought he had a legitimate beef. When I returned from walking Maurice, Mr. Hamilton looked at me with new respect and excused me from further baggie inspections. Exploiting my new prestige, Madame Ruzicka sent me on errands throughout the neighborhood. Only her lovely niece seemed suddenly restrained in her amiability. Lugging down Reina’s birdcages, I realized there was no way I could attempt to explain that bizarre photo without sounding like a complete degenerate. One simply does not broach the subject of theatrical crotch padding with France’s comeliest virgin.
    “ I look forward to seeing your video,” she said softly, when we finished loading her car.
    “ It’s awful,” I sighed, not looking at her. “I only did it for the money.”
    She gently touched my arm. “Take care, my friend.”
    “ You too,” I replied.
    She does get under a guy’s skin. Even her birds are warming up to me. No one’s tried to bite me lately and this afternoon Zuza