The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [54]
"The Prince looked up and said the oddest thing, Bee."
Prince Norodom said, "Dr. Lattimore, if even a quack can recognize fractures, then quacks are all that Cambodia needs right now."
He sounds like the man on the bridge, I think.
The Prince agreed to an examination nevertheless. You sat him down near a bright lamp and asked him to look straight ahead and past your face. You told him that every iris is unique, which made him smile. You had never seen royal irides before, you tell me. Now, you have seen four.
"Competition is a marvelous thing, Bee."
Sweet Sunday Man is an American, after all, I think.
You saw it immediately. There was a cluster of tiny spots in the right iris at about five o'clock. Unmistakable, but you continued with the examination without showing your agitation. You needed time. You needed to find the right words. You thought about leading up to it with a series of questions, but then you thought that if this was you, you would want it clearly and succinctly.
"Impotence, Prince Norodom."
The Emperor of Vietnam telephoned you the very next day. He wanted an appointment for later that same afternoon. He said that he would send over his automobile. The Emperor knew that Prince Norodom would see the vehicle, with its telltale curtains, cruising down the rue de l'Odéon. The Emperor's chauffeur opened the car door, waited for you to climb in, and shut it with just the right amount of force, a good sign in a driver. It says that the chauffeur is unlikely to go over a cliff with you asleep in the back seat. Once inside, you looked around, touched the flocked cushions, pulled the velvet curtains open, and wondered how many women the Emperor had sent for in this very car. Every bonne vivante in this town has at least one story to tell about the young Emperor. The plot is appallingly similar. The Emperor of Vietnam spots a beautiful Mademoiselle or Madame. The Emperor has no particular age or marital status preferences, but she must have blond, blond hair. The color of wheat is even too dark for him. His Highness sends his car for her. She arrives at his abode and is given a tour, which ends in his bedroom. He points her toward an ornate armoire and opens the door. The armoire, depending on who tells the story, is filled with stacks of French francs, carved jade bracelets, loose diamonds sitting atop red velvet pouches, gold bars stacked like a display of foil-wrapped chocolates. The supposed contents are endless. They grow more and more extravagant with each telling. As the Mademoiselle or Madame is sucking in her breath, trying to keep her knees from shaking, the Emperor says, "Please, ma chérie, choose a little something for yourself." The act of choosing, of course, has its consequences. Many blond, blond Mesdemoiselles and Mesdames have strolled into the fashionable cafés of Paris, not to mention Nice and Monte Carlo, with very consequential bracelets and diamond rings.
"He's not a subtle man, Bee."
A "cad," I think.
"Are you a Negro, Lattimore?" the Emperor of Vietnam immediately asked upon your entrance into the room.
"No, Emperor, I am an iridologist."
He winked at you, and said, "Doctor, please drop the ' Emperor. ' I obviously know who I am. I thought I may know who you are as well. "
There was another wink. A nervous tic? you wondered.
"Doctor, I've seen your face before. I can smell the bleach in your hair, the touch of lye. I'm not a bigot, Doctor Lattimore, but I'm no fool. You and I, we understand each other now, and that is the beginning of a trusting relationship. Vous comprenez?"
"Not a subtle man, Bee."
An Old Man, I think.
You took out the maps and searched