The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [15]
Miss Toklas likes the smell of fresh ink on fingertips.
She types and proofs all of GertrudeStein's writings. The intimacy that she has with these written words cannot be had, she thinks, by merely reading the finished, typewritten pages. She longs for the scrawl, the dark, dark lines where her Lovey has pressed firmly, deliberately. She recognizes each break in the flow of the ink, sometimes in midword, pauses for her pleasure. Not until she cries out "Mercy, please have mercy!" does the ink resume its flow. When Miss Toklas first moved into 27 rue de Fleurus, there were other women typing and proofing for GertrudeStein. Miss Toklas immediately recognized the familiarity that such acts bestow. She did not want to see the unfamiliar pairs of white kid gloves lying on the table, a shed serpent skin, fingers poised for the cool touch of the typewriter keys. She thought she smelled their sweat corrupting the ink on the pages. She needed to know that this was not so. Miss Toklas has long since made herself indispensable to GertrudeStein. She is as much a guardian of their temple as the solid door to the studio. She is the first line of defense, the official taster of the King's food, the mother hen. Miss Toklas throws open the studio door with a single flick of her wrist, a revelation in the strength of her hands. She sees my face, and says, "I am Alice B. Toklas, and who are you?"
4
"THIN BIN," says GertrudeStein, merrily mispronouncing my name, rhyming it instead with an English word that she claims describes my most distinctive feature, declining to share with me what that feature would be. I have learned that my Madame, while not cruel, is full of mischief. She never fails to greet me with a smile and a hearty American salutation: "Well, hello, Thin Bin!" She then walks on by, leaving me to speculate again on what this "thin" could be.
Short, I think, is the most obvious answer.
"Stupid," the Old Man insists.
Handsome, I venture, is the better guess.
All my employers provide me with a new moniker, whether they know it or not. None of them—and this I do not exaggerate—has called me by my given name. Their mispronunciations are endless, an epic poem all their own. GertrudeStein's just happens to rhyme. Every time she says my name, I say it as well. Hearing it said correctly, if only in my head, is a desire that I cannot shake. I readjust and realign the tones that are missing or are sadly out of place. I am lonesome all the same for another voice to say my name, punctuated with a note of anticipation, a sigh of relief, a warm breath of affection.
"Thin Bin," says GertrudeStein, "how would you define 'love'?"
While my Madame begins her question with what I have to come to accept as my American name, she has to deliver the rest of it, the meat of it, to me in French. It is, after all, the only language that we have in common. And GertrudeStein's French is, believe me, common. It is a shoe falling down a stairwell. The rhythm is all wrong. The closer it gets, the louder and more discordant it sounds. Her broad American accent, though, pleases her to no end. She considers it a necessary ornamentation, like one of the imposing mosaic brooches that she is so fond of wearing. She uses it freely on her daily stroll around the neighborhood with Basket pulling at her by a red rope leash. GertrudeStein never walks the Chihuahua. Pépé does not perform well when there is dirt or stone underneath his stiletto paws. First he shakes and then he passes gas. For a dog the size of a guinea hen, he passes more than can be imagined. GertrudeStein prefers the goat-sized poodle. Basket's cape, she believes, gives him a sensible air. Together these two ample ambassadors of American goodwill canvass the streets of the Left Bank, engaging the shopkeepers in their doorways, the old men walking their tiny dogs, the kind that, like Pépé, shiver all year round. It is always surprising for me to see Basket strolling with GertrudeStein. For all of His Highness's haughtiness