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

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