Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne Read Free Book Online

bite in Baby’s milk fund. We got some nice china dishes (slightly chipped), some glasses that may be crystal, a Scrabble game, a portable radio-tape player, and a used skillet with only one nasty scratch in the Teflon. Saw several affordable TVs, but the French government makes every TV owner pay a whopping compulsory tax to support public television. In America, of course, the public TV stations just beg for money and are politely ignored.
    One stall specialized in vintage French movie posters, which are much larger and more vividly printed than American versions. Featured in the front window was a mint-condition broadsheet for A bout de souffle—that landmark film (Breathless) in the history of Twisp-Saunders relations. I suggested it couldn’t hurt to go in and inquire about the price, but Sheeni said “don’t bother” as she has “gone off” that film.
    Damn! I hope that wasn’t a gratuitous “don’t exist” message for Jean-Paul Belmondo.
    We had spicy takeout from a couscous stand for lunch, then hit another street of sellers. Bad move. Sheeni spied an old portable typewriter with an extra row of keys for French accent marks. She exclaimed that it was even nicer than her French language typewriter back in Ukiah because this one was made in France. Big deal. I tried to convince her that investing in a typewriter these days was like buying a horse collar or an eight-track stereo, but she was unpersuaded as usual. She didn’t even negotiate (she thinks haggling is uncouth), and paid the beaming vendor the full E50. And guess who had to lug the damn thing around the rest of the day?
    Personally, I think the French should get over this pretentious fascination with accent marks. They just clutter up the page, and God knows they have to cripple your typing speed.
    No pickpockets on crowded train home. And nobody swiped the typewriter, which I had left rather unattended. Have been experimenting with our new radio-tape player (no tapes, alas). Lots of unintelligible talk programs and station after station playing rap in French. Something of a revelation. Believe I have now discovered the lowest form of music on the planet.
    8:47 p.m. I successfully cornered Maurice’s wily papa and extracted from him all accumulated dog-walking fees. I knocked on his door and was surprised when it was opened by Miss Bette Davis— complete with flighty right hand waving about her lit cigarette. “Ah, a tradesman,” she said, removing a fleck of tobacco from her tongue. “I was expecting Paul Henreid, but I suppose you’ll have to do.”
    Mr. Hamilton is not, as I had supposed, some dull business functionary transferred to Paris by his American employers. He is a celebrated female impersonator who performs six nights a week at a nightclub on the place Pigalle. Of course, suspicious Carlotta already had noticed that his eyebrows were rather more groomed than is typical for middle-aged men. His Carol Channing impersonation, I’m told, is the toast of five continents. He is also reputed to do a mean Joan Crawford.
     
    MONDAY, May 24 — Much litter in building from riotous weekend. While sweeping the fifth floor hallway, I heard someone far below toiling slowly up the stairs. Some wheezing octogenarian, I thought. But when the climber at last came into view, it turned out to be a girl (not much older than me) carrying a large colorful bird in a metal cage. She looked grimly at the stairs ahead of her, then smiled when she caught sight of me.
    “ Bonjour. You must be my aunt’s new American protégé.”
    “ I’m Rick,” I replied, dropping my broom and hurrying down toward her. “Would you like me to carry that for you?”
    “ Would you, Rick? That would be most kind.”
    The bird squawked angrily when she passed me the cage. Even relieved of her burden, she labored haltingly up the stairs and walked with a limp as she led me down the hallway toward her door. She extracted her key from her purse and turned it in the lock.