by C. D. Payne
“Read that!” she demanded.
“Sorry, darling. I have not spontaneously acquired the ability to read French.”
Sheeni was obliged to translate. The headline read: “A ghost in Montparnasse?” It seems that visitors to the Cimetière du Montparnasse in recent days have reported witnessing a young man who resembles Jean-Paul Belmondo lurking in the vicinity of the grave of Jean Seberg.
“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 have undergone such extensive facial reconstruction. I mentioned a mishap with a skateboard as he was thrusting a gloved finger where few except Dwayne Crampton had dared to venture. Not pleasant. If intercourse for women feels that intrusive, it’s no wonder they take such a jaundiced view of men. If I were a chick, I’m sure I’d be committed to thoroughly inhibited lesbianism.
4:30 p.m. No cemeteries and their controversial inhabitants for us today. Maurice and I took a long stroll to the Parc Montsouris, a pleasant hilly park with a lake, artificial waterfall, and winding paths leading to quaint grottos. Lots of apartment-sized dogs like Maurice attached to attractive females. One elegantly dressed woman who stopped to chat as heinies were sniffed was perhaps only slightly more beautiful than Fanny Ardant. I stood there suddenly incredulous that I could not respond in her own tongue. I feel I have a natural affinity for French. It’s just the vocabulary that is giving me trouble.
We got back in time to share a pre-bird-lugging lemon water with lovely Reina. She has been offered a position with a small but highly regarded circus touring the provinces this summer. I might not see her for months!
“I love the life of the road,” she admitted. “And it would be a good test for my babies.”
“I don’t know,” I said, skeptically. “Parrots are very territorial. They may not like being dragged around from town to town.”
“But, Rick, many birds fly thousands of miles. They enjoy new places.”
As we were conversing in her odoriferous abode, I took a quick survey of my feelings—always well buried in Twisps. It was true: I longed to take her in my arms and kiss her delicious lips. Such censurable desires I could not even lay at the door of lusty François. They appeared to be coming straight from the heart.
5:52 p.m. Every one is abandoning me. When I returned from vigorous bird-hauling, I found a note from my absent wife. She has gone to the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris with Señor Nunez. I should not expect her home for dinner. Damn, I wish that woman would cultivate some female friends. Now I have to feel jealous of a dwarf.
10:10 p.m. No sign of my wayward spouse. I took the rent money down to Madame Ruzicka, who invited me in to watch TV with her and Henri. Tonight’s entertainment was an old movie starring Catherine Deneuve—with my hostess providing sporadic translations and commentary. Since bored newlywed Catherine couldn’t get it on with her handsome and respectable husband, she took a day job as a prostitute specializing in grotesquely repulsive clients. The worst was a degenerate with a mouthful of metal teeth. Maidenly Catherine really seemed to dig that dude. Very creepy and disturbing. Not a film designed to calm the anxieties of a fellow whose wife was out on the town with another man. Especially since the long-suffering husband wound up in a wheelchair—paralyzed for life!
WEDNESDAY, June 2 — My wife arrived home at 1:42 a.m.
Rather late, I thought, for a 15-year-old. Señor Nunez took me aside and apologized man-to-man for the lateness of their arrival. Although he was too polite to say so, I gathered that it was his companion who wished to remain out so late. Apparently, they had dinner at a noted restaurant on the place Saint-Germain-des- Prés and then went to a club on a barge on the Seine that caters to dwarves and midgets. Paris truly is a town with something for everyone.
While Sheeni was flossing her teeth, she casually let it drop that she had kissed her companion on the stairs.
“Well,” I replied, keeping my cool, “I suppose that is an
appropriate venue for kissing a dwarf in comfort.”
“He’s quite an extraordinary man, Nickie. He’s lived an incredible life. Did you know he’s a marvelous flamenco dancer?”
That was an image I did not care to ponder in the middle of the night. I turned out the lights and we went to bed. For the first time since our wedding, I did not kiss the lips that kissed you know who.
10:12 a.m. Truly miserable morning. My parents, of course, often had it this bad, but somehow I had supposed my own marriage would be different. We ate our breakfast in sullen silence. Lately, I’ve noticed, Sheeni hasn’t been throwing up quite as much. I suppose that’s good news for our struggling zygote. I’m beginning to understand the source of domestic violence. Usually when I look at her I experience a surge of affection, but today I just wanted to smack her a good one. Hard to believe this alteration in feelings. Can’t write any more. Too anguished.
9:35 p.m. Talked to Connie. My father is in L.A. She’s met him. Very discouraged that her hopes now pinned on Lacey warming up again to such a “total creepy loser.” Expressed hope that balding George Twisp not as bad as his negative first impression. I said “don’t count on it.” One piece of good news: L.A. County in major budget crisis. Contemplating early release for some nonviolent petty criminals. Paul to be sprung soon from jail?
Connie not distressed by Sheeni dwarf-kissing. Deemed it an obvious power ploy. Said I must have been succeeding in appearing unavailable. Dismissed my fears that Sheeni on some kind of sick amatory down slope: from tall Trent Preston, to me, to dwarf. What will she be kissing next, I asked, a hamster? Connie sanguine. Said I should keep my cool and resist all impulses to get whiney or clingy.
Not the sort of impulse I’m worried about. Wife and Alphonse off somewhere in his Twingo. Wish now I hadn’t bought that big German knife.
THURSDAY, June 3 — Another conference with Mr. Bonnet in Belleville. Apparently, I have passed muster. The contract is almost ready for me to sign. Riding home on the Métro, Sheeni at last clued me in. They want me to appear in a music video. With those giggling schoolgirls!
“Hey, I thought we were keeping a low profile?”
“We are, Nickie. Don’t worry. The whole thing is merely a vanity enterprise. No one’s going to see it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those three girls are Dutch. They have an act called De Drie Magdas—you know The Three Magdas. It seems they’re all named Magda and they sing some sort of tiresome novelty songs. So their star-struck parents, having more money than sense, have hired Monsieur Bonnet to produce a music video, for which they require a young Belmondo look-alike.”
“But I can’t sing.”
“Not a problem. The girls will do the singing.”
“I don’t know, Sheeni . . .”
“Nickie, this is a wonderful opportunity. Monsieur Bonnet and his lawyers can help us get a Carte de Sejour.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a residency permit that would let us remain here legally.”
“Why?” I demanded. “So you can go out with Alphonse and that genius Señor Nunez? Not to mention the Boccata brothers!”
“You shouldn’t get so jealous, Nickie. I don’t object when you go out with Ms. Vesely. At least I don’t lie about where I’ve been.”
Remarkably well informed, as usual. I wondered if the wig-makers had ratted on me.
“I never kissed her,” I volunteered.
“Glad to hear it,” she said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Will you do the video, darling?”
“Give me one more reason why I should.”
“Well, for one day’s work they’ll pay you E3,000.”
A pretty good reason. I agreed, but specified that all dwarf-osculation must cease immediately.
“I guess that leaves you off the menu, short guy,” she winked.
She paid for that remark. For more than an hour. This afternoon in bed.
FRIDAY, June 4 — Rick S. Hunter is soon to be an obscure video star. I signed the contract this morning in Mr. Bonnet’s office. Then we went to Mr. Petit’s office where we filled out our health insurance enrollment forms. France, it seems, does not want any medical deadbeats on its hands. Mr. Petit is still working on a solution for my suspect passport. He asked me if I had any strong objections to becoming a citizen of Estonia. I said not unless I was expected to speak Estonian. Then he drove us to the Prefecture of Police, where we filled out more forms and submitted our health certificates and other documents. Very nervous as the place was crawling with gendarmes. Kept my sunglasses on the entire time, arousing suspicions of harried bureaucrats. Good thing we were accompanied by our own high-priced lawyer. We have an appointment in two months for a final decision on our applications. Getting into France is certainly more complicated than entering the U.S. Back home you just have to be willing to swim the Rio Grande.
As MTV seldom showcases my sort of music, I’m not a devotee of that channel. Therefore, I’m not entirely sure what being in a music video entails. All I can recall is Michael Jackson shuffling backwards in an oversized glove and grabbing his crotch. Call me Mr. Inhibited, but I think I’d be rather embarrassed doing that. I hope pre-camera anxiety does not cause massive facial eruptions. I’m sure Mr. Bonnet would not be thrilled to pay E3,000 to some wannabe teen heartthrob with a mugful of zits. Have been practicing some Sinatra hits just in case. Surgically altered voice prone to sudden eructations far off the musical scale. Rather distressing to my ear. Of course, these days an inability to sing is no hindrance to a meteoric ascent of the pop music charts.
To celebrate my new career and the end of our marital estrangement, I took my loving wife out to dinner at a famous boulevard du Montparnasse restaurant that was once the haunt of Hemingway, Picasso, and other notables willing to pay tall francs for butter- laden cuisine. A vast, swanky place with grand chandeliers, velvet booths, and acres of polished brass trim. Very condescending waiter as you’d expect at those prices. Not taking any chances, I ordered a steak, while My Love had the petit-gris, which turned out to be a plate of disgusting snails. She claimed to enjoy them, but I say you have to be nuts to pay E35 to eat bugs out of the weed patch. No famous film stars in attendance, but Sheeni thought she spotted Roman Polanski, a fellow artist on the lam.
10:45 p.m. Reina invited me in for a post-bird-lugging brandy, but I politely declined. I’m reminding myself now that I’m a married man, and there’s no point in associating heavily with attractive neighbors if it’s just going to drive my wife into the arms of the nearest dwarf. I know guys are genetically programmed to scatter their seeds widely, but François will just have to stifle those impulses— especially since we have one bun in the oven already.
SATURDAY, June 5 — My fourth week as a wedded person.
I’ve been successfully married for nearly a month! That’s considerably longer than many Hollywood celebrities manage, even with all their fame and money.
Piroque, the director, dropped by this morning for wardrobe fittings. I’m not sure if that’s his first name or his last name. He was wearing burgundy silk pantaloons today and the same muddy combat boots. He must do a lot of slogging through bogs. Today he was packing his little cigars in a purse made from the spare tire of a Vespa scooter. It’s a good thing Piroque is a music video director, since, considering the way he dresses, he’d have a tough time landing a normal job.
Yvette, the attractive wardrobe mistress, made me strip and proceeded to dress my near-naked torso without embarrassment. Thankfully, I’d had debilitating anniversary intercourse barely an hour before, which took the edge off my erectile response when she was doing up my pants buttons. Very stimulating as you can imagine. My costume was that of an old-time French sailor: striped shirt, bell bottoms, and squashed little cap that looks like someone stepped on it. The ponytail of my brown wig was tied with a gay red ribbon that matched my shirt. And for defense against bashers, I was issued a bejeweled cutlass for my belt.
After a great deal of intrusive poking and prodding, Piroque pronounced himself satisfied with my look. Sheeni translated his acting instructions. The main thing I was to remember was to appear aloof from the proceedings. He didn’t want me to look like I was getting excessively into the music. I said I didn’t think that would be a problem.
After finishing with me, they went next door to dress Señor Nunez. It seems they were in desperate need of a dwarf as well, so Sheeni recommended our neighbor. I wasn’t too pleased to hear of this, but at least my fast-thinking wife has cut herself in for ten percent of his fee.
Taking it easy for the rest of the day. Must rest up so as to be fresh for my video debut. The studio is sending a car for us tomorrow morning. Early. Our makeup call is at 4:00 a.m.!
SUNDAY, June 6 — It was still dark when we motored off in the big chauffeur-driven Citroën. I could get used to this lifestyle, but probably won’t have the opportunity. Señor Nunez was doing his gracious best to put certain ugly incidents behind us. He greeted me warmly and only nodded toward my wife. He also resisted Sheeni’s efforts to engage him in conversation, and pretended not to notice when she elbowed me hard after I inquired politely if she had “felt the baby kick” during the night.
The right bank of the Seine was alive with activity when we pulled up in front of the Hôtel de Sens, an ancient turreted pile that appeared to be a relic of the middle ages. (Note: to keep the tourists on their toes, in France a hôtel is seldom actually a hotel.) Pulling strings with civic authorities, Mr. Bonnet had succeeded in having portions of the posh rue du Figuier and neighboring quai des Célestins closed off to traffic. These blocks were now crowded with equipment vans, catering trucks, trailers loaded with lights, mobile wardrobe vans, and a large caravan providing every creature comfort for the pampered female stars. Groups of technicians were bustling about with gear as Piroque blew on a police whistle and pitched what sounded to me like major fits. Señor Nunez and I were quickly nabbed by Yvette, who hustled us into a wardrobe van, while My Love wandered off to score breakfast from the catering truck.
