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

because a guy takes a girl to a dance and inadvertently has sex with her doesn’t mean he likes her.
    The fight went on. Sheeni said she did not intend to go through life with dishpan hands.
    I offered to buy her some rubber gloves.
    She told me where I could put those gloves. She complained that all I cared to do was exercise some “abbreviated inbred dog,” while “virtually ignoring” the world’s richest cultural milieu.
    I said I liked Paris, but thought we should try to get a handle on our expenses.
    She said this was the opportunity of a lifetime and she intended to make the most of it—even if her body and her “so-called marriage” had to suffer.
    After more ugly words and much slamming of our two available doors, we hammered out an uneasy compromise. Sheeni has agreed to do some occasional “light dusting” and to shop for “groceries and other essentials.” And I will make an effort to display more enthusiasm for exploring “this magical city.” No, attending circus performances via complimentary ducats does NOT qualify.
    Sheeni, of course, is a tough negotiator. But François stood firm and refused all entreaties to ditch our comfortable Rumanian footwear. He informed her in no uncertain terms that one cripple in the family was enough.
     
    THURSDAY, May 27 — The wee small hours of the morning. The lone accordionist was serenading the night with my favorite song. Even Frank would approve of this version of “My One and Only Love.” I sighed and gazed across the pillow at that slumbering person, so desirable in the soft moonlight. Like Frank I was bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. Is it a bad sign, I wondered, that I love her most of all when she’s asleep?
    10:55 a.m. Strange happenings are afoot. My cellular phone rang during breakfast. “Hello, Connie,” I said. “How’s the freeway?” But it was some Frog speaking French. I passed the phone to Sheeni, who had a long animated conversation with the guy. Turns out it was the fellow with the Palm Pilot who accosted us on the street last week. We have an appointment to meet with him tomorrow. All I could get out of my suddenly Sphinx-like wife is that he might be able to assist us with “visa matters.”
    3:14 p.m. I have yet another job. Reina has contracted for me to help her move her birds up and down the stairs. She has a trained bird act with a small circus in a northern suburb. She can only play in intimate venues where the audience sits close to the action. In bigger, better-paying shows the birds would get lost—too far away to be seen clearly. Plus, she’s only been training “her babies” for a few years and they cannot always be relied upon to perform like little troupers. Theoretically, they’re supposed to shoot baskets, ride scooters, wave French flags, and do other cute tricks. But they can be temperamental and sometimes get distracted.
    “ And what do you do when that happens?” I asked, hoisting the travel carriers into her aging Mercedes station wagon, crowded with colorful props.
    “ I scold them, Rick. I pretend like it’s all part of the act. Our audiences are mostly children and they don’t seem to mind. The owner of the circus threatens to fire me, but he hasn’t so far. He’s something of a beast.”
    “ Sexual harassment?”
    “ Daily, Rick. But I can handle him. I get back about 22:30. Are you sure you don’t mind helping me so late?”
    “ No problem, Reina. That’s still early afternoon on American time.”
    We shook hands and I watched as she drove off. Something felt amiss. Oh, right. I felt deprived. She hadn’t given me a tasty seed from her pocket.
    6:45 p.m. Sheeni took her tender toe for a test-walk and returned with some vital groceries, including a whole, intact, slimy, semi- smelly fish which she expected me to decapitate and clean. It really is amazing what married people can find to argue about. Somehow we never debated the uses of a guillotine as a kitchen appliance back when we