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

fashionable designer surplus. Sheeni bought a pair that verged on the sensible and wore them the rest of the day with positive results. She had me carry her old pair, which I “accidentally” misplaced. I accepted the subsequent angry reprimand as another sacrifice for love.
    On the ride home we had to drive around forever to find a place to park. All that bouncing around with bonny Babette revived my dormant prostate with predictable results. If she noticed, she was too polite to mention it. Really, she shouldn’t lean over a guy so familiarly to scan out the window for parking spots. I won’t mention where her right breast wound up.
    5:15 p.m. My Love just left with the Boccata brothers for the circus. The men have to get there early to change into their costumes, adjust their jockstraps, and tape up. I expect even brawny guys risk sprains or hernias tossing each other about like that. Pleading a debilitating headache brought on by excessive brain whirling the day before, I was reluctantly excused. They went by Métro, so I expect there will be some sibling competition to see who gets to sit next to my wife. Not too apprehensive as three beefy Italians seem somehow less threatening than one intellectual Frog.
    10:45 p.m. Back from my “business” social outing with Reina. For the first half hour or so I regressed again to monosyllables. Such overpowering comeliness can be intimidating even to François. Instead of the many tourist boats that ply the Seine, we opted for a city public transit boat. Less expensive, and according to Reina, this choice spared us the “obnoxious amplified commentary.” We embarked on the quay opposite Notre-Dame and cruised sedately downriver. Disneyland should offer a ride so enchanting. Afloat on a river of green under the bluest of skies through the heart of Paris. The quays, trees, and grand buildings washed in gold by the setting sun. Then plunging momentarily into an echoing coolness as we sailed under the arch of a bridge. The quays alive with families, joggers, and lovers enjoying the warm evening. Tourists waving from passing Bateaux-Mouches boats. And then looming suddenly over the southern rooftops: the Eiffel Tower! Immensely tall, ablaze in lights. Wow!
    “ Can you imagine the effect when it was built in 1889?” asked Reina. “Rising in a few months in the middle of Paris—the tallest structure in the world?”
    “ Pretty impressive,” was all I could mutter. I was thinking: “Damn. Eat your heart out Golden Gate Bridge.”
    The ride back upriver in the deepening twilight was just as enthralling: the indigo Seine now outlined on both sides by ribbons of lamps. The ornate facades of riverside structures illuminated from below to stand out against the darkening sky. Passing cruise boats, lit up like Christmas morning, sweeping the quays with inquisitive searchlights. And at my side, the exciting, unsettling, nerve-roiling presence of Reina Vesely.
    We had dinner at a small untouristy bistro near the Pont Neuf and quais des Augustins. I was beginning to appreciate the French fondness for leisurely meals. Hey, what’s the rush? Who cares if the waiter is bogarting the check and your neighbors are puffing out toxic clouds of nicotine vapors? Don’t be so uptight, you Type-A Americans. And candlelight, we must remember always to pause and light the candles. Did anyone in the history of public dining ever look more ravishing illuminated by candlelight than Reina Vesely? I doubt it.
    She told me the story of her accident. In keeping with family tradition, from girlhood she had been a trapeze artiste. She performed all over Europe with her father and older brother. (Her mother died of meningitis when she was nine.) Several years before, the circus was making a jump from Toulouse to Arles in bad weather.
    “ We usually performed in public halls,” she said, stirring her café creme, “but in Arles we would be under canvas. There were delays. Everything was rushed. My father