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By Root 343 0

the remains of my Mesdames' supper. As to be expected, there were also some items, presumably American in origin, that I did not recognize. By the end of the recitation, Miss Toklas looked impressed, maybe even a bit proud. GertrudeStein looked simply relieved. She had located the two items, apparently the only two items on the menu that she had any interest in. In the month since, we at the rue de Fleurus have received more menus from hotels in cities all over America. The same reading aloud has occurred with each one. When oysters and honeydews were not read aloud or even when they were but the wording was vague or made references, I assumed, to seasonal availability, a frantic course of correspondence would then begin with Miss Toklas drafting telegrams and anxiously awaiting their replies. More often than not, though, GertrudeStein recited "oysters" and "honeydews" with a noticeable sigh of pleasure after each word, and the tension that accompanied these proceedings would then leave the room.

Oysters on the half shell and fresh honeydews both served on a bed of crushed ice, you tell me, are the only foods that GertrudeStein can eat before she gives a lecture.

"Lecture? But I thought my Madame writes books."

"She does. Then she lectures about them."

"Oh."

You had heard a rumor about GertrudeStein that, until now, seemed far-fetched. It had been whispered at the Saturday teas that she is nervous before she lectures, that this monument of a woman actually has to sit down to keep from fainting. Even though you are an iridologist and not particularly interested in the internal organs, you know that a jittery stomach is a sensitive one. So while you personally could not imagine keeping down a meal of raw oysters and cold honeydews even on the best of days, you could certainly understand how the delicate colors of these two foods could have a calming effect on GertrudeStein.

"Before she lectures," I say, trying to imagine GertrudeStein standing before an audience of people so formidable that they could cause my Madame's confidence to waver.

"That's why the Steins are returning to America in October."

"How do you know?" I ask.

"I read it in the newspapers."

My face expresses shock that the newspapers would know about my Madame's prelecture menu, and you smile.

"Oh, that. Don't worry, only you and I know about the oysters and honeydews," you assure me.

"Shh, Messieurs, please remain still and look straight ahead," the photographer Lené instructs.

We both take in a long deep breath and wait motionless for the flash of white light. In the middle of the ocean in the middle of the night, the stars, believe me, are never that bright.

"Come back next Sunday, Messieurs. I will be here, and so will your photograph," the photographer Lené says, as he hands you the receipt. You fold the blue slip of paper in half and place it inside the pocket of your coat.

"Only seven days," I say to myself.

When we return to the rue de l'Odéon, the scent of narcissus, the sunlight undressing at the garret windows, the belly of the Buddha stove growing full and warm, all assure me that this was a gamble worth taking. A week's worth of anxiety for a week's worth of anticipation, a fair enough trade, I think. Anything for my scholar-prince, I think. Really, how can I not imagine you in that role? Your interest in my Madame's books is far from casual. Your desire to examine the writings in her notebooks is certainly academic in purpose. Your ability to gather facts about her and Miss Toklas has lately equaled even my own.

***

Powdered sugar, cracker crumbs, salt. A short walk out onto these city streets today, and I will be covered with them. I am no poet, so forgive my lack of appreciation, my nonaffection for the snow. Back at the Governor-General's, the chauffeur told us that it was like the softest down of the whitest dove, that it nestled like blossoms in the hats of all the pretty French girls. He told us that when snow touched his face it felt like a kiss. I know now that that was just memory talking, blatantly making things up because