The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [18]
I will forget that you whispered to Miss Toklas that you were looking for a cook. You accompanied my Madame into the kitchen, bestowing upon her all the while compliments and congratulations for the composition of her tea table. The cakes are almost as sublime as their setting, you said. Honeysuckle roses and acacias, you lied, are your favorite floral combination. Leaning in, you explained in a conspiratorial tone that some friends are visiting and that you want to host a dinner party in their honor. I hope that I may impose upon you for a bit of advice, you murmured into the curving canals of my Madame's ear, and in that polite but intimate way you began the story that you were telling for me.
Miss Toklas admired the timbre of your voice. She wondered if she were hearing bells. She thought that you resembled a young novice whose face she once had glimpsed through the crumbling, honeycombed walls of a Spanish convent. Something feral and fast underneath the gentle garb, she recalled. Her eyes lingered on the cut of your suit. So American in its forthrightness, she thought. No bells and whistles, she thought. Miss Toklas approved of the scent of bay and lime on your skin. Like a Frenchman, she thought, announcing himself even before he enters the room, making an impression even after he is gone. With each breath my Madame was taking you in, and you knew it.
Later that night Miss Toklas asked me what I did with my Sundays. I had been in their household for over four years, and that night was the first time, the first time either one of my Mesdames had asked me about my one day away from them. My Sundays belong to me, I thought.
"Nothing," I said.
"Nothing," Miss Toklas repeated with a smile.
Are you mocking me, Madame? I thought.
"Why?" I asked.
"Do you remember the young man who came into the kitchen with me this afternoon?"
Remember him? If I am fortunate, I will think of nothing but him all night long, I thought.
"Yes," I said.
"He is looking for a cook for this Sunday.
"I am the cook he is looking for, I thought.
"Oh," I said, without blinking an eye.
Miss Toklas explained to me that you were a young bachelor who would allow me free rein with planning the menu. An American, but one who could still afford to pay a premium, she assured me, for the inconvenience created by such short notice. She handed me your calling card and told me to meet you the following day at a quarter past two.
"Did I mention that he complimented you on those lovely, actually, I think he said sublime,' cakes that you served this afternoon?" Miss Toklas added, knowing that I am vain and that my vanity would understand the honey in her voice, even if I had to flick aside her hollow words like ants.
I had no hope, so I had no suspicion. I looked at the name on the card and saw nothing there but a fine pair of boots for the winter. My shirt cuffs are worn. Frayed edges are the telltale filigree of secondhand garments. My gloves bare the tips of my fingers to cold, observant eyes, but my shoes, my shoes belong to a man who does not think twice about strolling through life on the heels of luxury. Supple leather, hand-stitched details, eloquent in form and function and, yes, they gleam. I shine them each day with the sweat of my labor. I shine them each night until I can see my reflection, muddied and unpolished. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, and there was no one home.
I sat in the doorway of 12 rue de l'Odéon and lost myself in the passing street life. In this way, I am afraid, I am very French. I am entertained best by the continuous flow of people whom I do not know. I am amused by the faces that fade in and fade out as they pass me by. What these Parisians will declare out loud under their blue-tented sky, I will never fully understand, but I do not need their conversations. There are always the stock characters with their classic poses, which even I can comprehend: lovers, best when configured in threes, two locked in a visual embrace, the third trailing,