The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [119]
24
"OYSTERS, Lovey, there will always be oysters," Miss Toklas insists.
GertrudeStein shoots a rueful look at Miss Toklas by way of expressing her growing apprehension that oysters alone may not be enough.
This exchange, repeated every few minutes or so with Miss Toklas's words getting lost now and then in the whistle of the train, has taken us from Paris right through to Rouen. Miss Toklas began her mollusk mantra right after the last of the photographers were escorted off the already moving train by a conductor who, like the concierge at 27 rue de Fleurus, kept on shaking his head, unable to comprehend the source of the attraction. The looks of dismay from GertrudeStein followed soon after.
"And honeydews," Miss Toklas offers, "they assured us that there will be honeydews."
This addition to my Madame's repertoire confirms, as I suspected, that we have just passed a significant juncture in our journey. If I push down the window and hang my head out, I know that soon I will smell the sea. The church bells in Le Havre, like those in all port cities, transmit the city's proximity to the water with every swing that they take, wafting its salt breezes, its mineral odors, far beyond the usual boundaries of such things. Miss Toklas must know about this as well because for the first time since our journey began she leans over and cracks open the window closest to her. I take in a long, slow breath. Oysters, I think. Really, what else could I think about with Miss Toklas's incessant intoning? To ride the train with my Mesdames has long been my wish. To share a first-class compartment with them a secret desire. Wishes, as I have always known, can be cruel in the terms and conditions of their fulfillment. Yes, since our journey began I have thought of nothing but oysters. Even before I knew their word for them, I knew that Americans, at least those who were invited to the rue de Fleurus for dinner, were all very partial to oysters. GertrudeStein, however, was an exception. She has rarely exhibited in the years that we have been together a great love or appetite for them, especially in their raw, gelatinous state.
"And honeydews," Miss Toklas again reminds GertrudeStein, "they assured us that there will be honeydews."
Now that surprised me even more. Even when we were in Bilignin, where fruits of all sorts grow lush in the gardens of my Mesdames' summer house, I have seen GertrudeStein wave away a vine-ripened Charentais melon, split in half, baring its orange belly and its button full of seeds for all the world and especially for GertrudeStein to see. Miss Toklas, I knew, trembled with a mild form of heartbreak each time. She was the gardener, the only one, who tended to that beauty from the time it blossomed to when it globed in the heat of the summer sun.
As the train pulls us closer and closer toward the sea, I understand more and more about my Mesdames' unusual pairing of oysters and honeydews. I want to tell Lattimore that his color-based explanation is not complete, but as usual my conclusion is too slow in coming. Lattimore had left me and presumably Paris at the end of February. The train that my Mesdames and I are on is smoking its way through a French countryside lit by October's harvest light. There is no doubt in my mind that he is right. Oysters and honeydews are soothing to GertrudeStein. Miss Toklas has been acting on that very assumption from the moment our train left the Gare du Nord, and even now as it is coming to a stop in the Le Havre station. Miss Toklas believes that just hearing the words is enough to sedate her Lovey. As for the effect on her cook, Miss Toklas for once has made me very full. Raw oysters, I think, can slide