The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [41]
"Do I know you, Monsieur?"
"Let's say yes, and that way we can immediately call each other bạn," said the man who took his eyes from the Seine to address mine. He had on a black suit, coarse in fabric, too large for his frame, and many years out of fashion, that is, if there was ever a time in this city when such a suit was considered à la mode. Even if his last word had not confirmed it, that suit of his would have. He was undeniably Vietnamese.
"Bạn? Yes, why not?" I said, switching into the language that I now knew we shared. "Well, friend, are you lost or are you thinking? In my experience, when a person stands on a bridge, it usually means one or the other. "
"' Am I lost or am I thinking?' That, friend, is a question worthy of a philosopher," the man on the bridge replied. "I believe the answer is ... I am thinking about being lost."
"An answer also worthy of a philosopher," I said.
When some men smile, the skin on their face tightens, stretches to cover their cheekbones. His gave him the appearance of flesh underneath the skin. It filled in the hollows of his cheeks, brought out a face from some other time. Not that he appeared old otherwise. Rather the opposite. He appeared without age, I thought, when I first walked by him. Handsome too, I noted, as I turned around and headed back to where he stood.
"Are you a student?" I asked.
"No."
"Oh."
"Guess again," he said.
Ah, a game. Why am I always drawn, I thought, to men who play games?
"Friend, I would not even know where to begin," I said. "You do not have enough bulk on your body to be rich, I know that much."
"A fine start. Please go on."
"I would guess that you have not had cream or cheese for many years now. You may have had some meat but not fatty. No, definitely chewy with muscles. An animal who has worked for its life, if you know what I mean."
"A fine, fine start, friend. And if I were to guess, I would say that you are a cook. "
I smiled.
"Cooks have a vocabulary all their own," he continued, "and I know it always comes from right here." He pointed to the place where his belly would be, if he had had one.
"You must be a cook as well, then?"
"Yes, once."
"Let me guess ... pastries. Thin people always make good pastries."
"Remarkable," he said looking at me admiringly. "Yes, I made pies.'"
"What?"
"' Pies.' It's the English word for tartes."
"Oh."
"Assistant cook in the 'pie' bakery of a five-star hotel, under the command of a five-star chef de cuisine," he added, mocking a military salute and stance.
"Here, in the city?"
"No, in another city."
"Oh, of course! Forgive me, friend, I am slow when it comes to such details. A city that eats pies' must be a city that speaks English. You must have gotten paid well," I said, looking at him in a somewhat refurbished light. A man with savings, I thought.
"Paid well? I was paid very well, if you think paper is an even exchange for the salt of your labor or that—"
"Friend," I interrupted, "I am afraid you are losing me." The truth, I know, saves time, and as I had no idea how much of it I would have with the man on the bridge I thought it best to speak plainly.
"Please excuse me," he said, "the philosopher in me is talkative today. All I mean to say is that the bakery was unbelievably hot, twenty-four hours a day. We all had to wear a cloth tied around our foreheads so that our sweat wouldn't turn the pies from sweet to savory. I lost so much weight there that I thought one day I would just disappear. I had the moment all pictured in my head like the final scene of a play. ' Where's Ba?' Chef Escoffier would ask. ' There he is!' the other assistants would answer, pointing in unison to a wet spot on the floor, as the stage lights dimmed."
"Well, Ba, that's—"
"' Ba' is not my name, friend," he corrected. "That's what they called me. "
"Oh."
"And you, friend, where do you work?"
"Everywhere," I replied. When I am telling the truth, why does it so often sound like a lie?
"Yes, I have worked there too," he said.
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
"Oh, of course. I told you I am slow."
He laughed