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

Who the hell is Jean Seberg?” I asked.
    “ Don’t play dumb, Nickie. You know Jean Seberg was
    Belmondo’s romantic co-star in A bout de souffle.”
    “ Sorry. Never heard of the chick. Or seen the movie. She’s buried there, I take it?”
    “ Yes, of course. Hounded to an early grave by the FBI for her association with the Black Panthers. Nickie, we’re supposed to be keeping a low profile here!”
    “ Well, pardon me for living. I assumed the graveyard was a safe place to hang out. Any mention of Maurice?”
    “ Yes. Witnesses have reported the man is accompanied by a small dog in a trench coat, which may symbolize the detectives who pursued Belmondo throughout the film.”
    Leave it to the French to over-intellectualize impish Maurice. I mixed the tuna salad and explained to my suspicious wife why I again reeked of someone else’s perfume.
    4:12 p.m. As I was helping Reina carry down her birds, we encountered my lovely wife on the stairs. I made the mumbled introductions. Why is it when guys are introduced, they shake hands, say “hi,” and that’s that? But bring two attractive women together, and even a guy can sense that only about one percent of the subsequent human discourse is at the verbal level.
    “ It’s so nice to meet you,” said Reina, “Your husband is such a dear to assist me.”
    “ Yes,” replied Sheeni, smiling just as affably. “Rick . . . does have his uses at times.”
    “ He’s very popular with everyone in the building,” added Reina. “But you particularly, I think. I like your perfume, Ms. Vesely.”
    “ Call me Reina. You must give me the name of your coiffeuse. That cut is so flattering.”
    “ Of course. Rick tells me you’ve trained your pets to do extraordinary things.”
    “ Parrots are quite intelligent. They respond to love and patient guidance.”
    “ A useful strategy in many endeavors, I should think,” smiled My Love. “We must come and see you perform.”
    “ I’d love that,” agreed Reina.
    “ Well, I won’t hold you two up,” said Sheeni. “I’m sure you have a busy agenda. Au revoir, Reina.”
    “ Au revoir, Sheeni.”
    Not bad. Call me a cockeyed optimist, but I think those two hit it off rather well.
    6:45 p.m. Dynamic Mr. Bonnet just called. We are scheduled tomorrow for health exams at a hospital in Ménilmontant, wherever that is. Can it be that the French also require prenatal checkups for expectant fathers? Perhaps they’ll demand a post-conception sperm sample to probe for genetic anomalies. I think I prefer the old days when you just went at it like rabbits and took potluck on whatever came out.

 
    JUNE
     
    TUESDAY, June 1 — Sometime before dawn. My Love just poked me in the ribs.
    “ Nickie, are you awake? I hear music.”
    “ When you think of me?”
    “ What?”
    “ Sorry. Still asleep.” I listened. A nearby accordion was conjuring from the ether of memory the evanescent notes of “Time after Time.”
    “ It’s an accordion, darling.”
    “ I can tell that, Nickie. Who do you suppose it is?”
    “ My guess is Señor Nunez. He often plays in the lonely hours of the night.”
    “ You’ve heard him before?”
    “ Many times.”
    “ Why didn’t you waken me?”
    “ You had not indicated a prior interest in late-night accordion recitals.”
    “ It’s so sad . . . so beautiful.”
    “ So romantic?”
    It was. We went at it like rabbits. Then lay entwined, still joined in our own secretions, as the birds of Paris got it together to greet another dawn. My Love was contemplating perhaps the solitary accordionist; I was brooding over the rent that was due today.
    2:15 p.m. I now have an official certificate, signed by a French- licensed physician, attesting to the soundness of my health. Unlike many of my papers, it is an entirely genuine document. Oddly, the curt Ménilmontant doctor seemed not to care one whit that we were expecting a new citizen of the Republique. He only inquired if I had been in an accident to