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By Root 379 0

night's dessert, three others disguised as curiosity about the recipe for yesterday's soup. In the end, they are indistinguishable from the type twos except for the defining core of their obsession. They have no true interest in where I have been or what I have seen. They crave the fruits of exile, the bitter juices, and the heavy hearts. They yearn for a taste of the pure, sea-salt sadness of the outcast whom they have brought into their homes. And I am but one within a long line of others. The Algerian orphaned by a famine, the Moroccan violated by his uncle, the Madagascan driven out of his village because his shriveled left hand was a sign of his mother's misdeeds, these are the wounded trophies who have preceded me.

It is not that I am unwilling. I have sold myself in exchange for less. Under their gentle guidance, their velvet questions, even I can disgorge enough pathos and cheap souvenir tragedies to sustain them. They are never gluttonous in their desires, rather the opposite. They are methodical. A measured, controlled dosage is part of the thrill. No, I am driven out by my own willful hands. It is only a matter of time. After so many weeks of having that soft, steady light shined at me, I begin to forget the barbed-wire rules of such engagements. I forget that there will be days when it is I who will have the craving, the red, raw need to expose all my neglected, unkempt days. And I forget that I will wait, like a supplicant at the temple's gate, because all the rooms of the house are somber and silent. When I am abandoned by their sweet-voiced catechism, I forget how long to braise the ribs of beef, whether chicken is best steamed over wine or broth, where to buy the sweetest trout. I neglect the pinch of cumin, the sprinkling of lovage, the scent of lime. And in these ways, I compulsively write, page by page, the letters of my resignation.

***

"Yes, yes, they're still looking for a cook," confirms the concierge. "You'll have to come back in an hour or so when they've returned from their drive. Just knock on that door to your left. It leads to the studio. What did you say your name was?"

"Bình," I answer.

"What?"

"Bình."

"Beene? Beene, now that's easy enough on the tongue. You seem like a nice boy. Let me give you a bit of advice—don't blink an eye."

"What?"

"Don't blink an eye," repeats the concierge, raising his brows and his voice for added emphasis. "Do you understand?"

"No."

"The two Americans are a bit, umm, unusual. But you'll see that for yourself as soon as the door to the studio is opened."

"Studio? Painters?"

"No, no, a writer and, umm, a companion. But that's not the point! They are nice, very nice."

"And?"

"Well, no point really. Except. Except, you should call her by her full name, Gertrude Stein. Always GertrudeStein.' Just think of it as one word."

"Is that it? What about the other one?"

"Her name is Alice B. Toklas. She prefers ' Miss Toklas.'"

"And?"

"Well, that's it. That's it."

"I'll be back in an hour, then. Good-bye, Monsieur."

3

This is a temple, not a home.

The thought—barely formed, fluid, just beginning to mingle with the faint smells introduced by the opening door—changes so quickly from prophecy to gospel that I am for a brief moment extricated from my body, made to stand beside myself, and allowed to serve as a solemn eyewitness. Ordinarily, I am plagued, like the Old Man, with a slowness. In him, it was triggered by cowardice. In me, it is aggravated by carelessness. Ours is a hesitancy toward an act that is habitual and common to those around us: the forming of conclusions. We are, instead, weighted and heavied by decades of observations. We gather them, rags and remnants, and then have no needle and thread with which to sew them together. But once they are formed, ours become the thick, thorny coat of a durian, a covering designed to forestall the odor of rot and decay deep inside. But to the neighbors whose prying eyes were members of our extended family, the Old Man was a person of sure-footed opinions, a man of unwavering morals, a man who laid down