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By Root 309 0

out in the studio, the same paper-thin china cups and saucers, the same bouquets of flowers, drooping, however, as they are unaccustomed to the oven's heat. Miss Toklas keeps the conversation rolling along. She compares and contrasts the latest trends in dresses and shoes, shares her opinions about the city's better milliners and seamstresses, and dispenses unsolicited culinary and gardening advice. The women—colleagues, collaborators, friends, and occasionally lovers of the young men who at that moment are all in the studio, oblivious to their absence—remain for the most part silent. From shock, I am sure. Sitting in the kitchen with Miss Toklas and her "Chinaman," as they inexplicably think that I am, is not where these American ladies have traveled all this way to be. Shanghaied, they must feel. Well, yes, my dear, but at least on Miss Toklas's barge, you have me to serve you tea and cake.

As the afternoon wears on, some of the women shift gears. Maybe if they amuse Miss Toklas, maybe then, they will be ushered into the glow and the hum of that other room. Their sleek heads lean into my Madame's voice and their shoulders cup her words. As they speak, they motion their heads toward the direction of the studio, their bodies yearning to follow.

No hope of that, my dear. Why fight my Madame so? Miss Toklas, believe me, is a package worth unwrapping. An artichoke, if you know what I mean. They never do.

Miss Toklas enjoys the attention, graciously answers all of their questions, and never forgets the task at hand. As the sun sinks, as the sounds coming from the studio rise, the women become resigned to the fact that the kitchen is their final destination. The more astute among them wonder whether they are confined here at the behest of Miss Toklas or GertrudeStein.

Both, really. But for different reasons.

GertrudeStein considers these women all merely "wives." Their actual marital status does not interest her, nor their sometimes obvious sexual interest in one another. Wives are never geniuses. Geniuses are never wives. GertrudeStein, therefore, has no use for them, especially at her Saturday tea. A social occasion, yes, but above all it is the first rite for the devoted. Those who amuse her, flatter her, hand over their beating hearts to her, are rewarded with an invitation for lunch, the second station toward intimacy. The third station can only be reached via an invitation for dinner. If there are wives involved, my Madame extends the dinner invitation to them as well, out of courtesy and rarely out of interest. For GertrudeStein, who already has one, thank you very much, wives are comforting, comfortable, and often someone to be comforted. They are amusing in small doses, distracting even, especially when their shapely legs arrive at the rue de Fleurus slipped into sheer stockings, a barely present mist that GertrudeStein knows can be made to disappear with several waves of her hands. Miss Toklas knows that GertrudeStein appreciates wives in her own ways. She sees GertrudeStein following the curves snaking up their skirts. Hell, blind men can even see GertrudeStein looking. Her appreciation for the female form is difficult to ignore. When Miss Toklas first visited the rue de Fleurus, she felt GertrudeStein's "appreciation" on her like a ribbon of steel. She felt her flesh rubbing against it, felt sweat dripping down her back, sliding down the inside of her thighs. She crossed her legs, and GertrudeStein looked at her as if she knew. Salt enhances the sweetness. Delicious, thought GertrudeStein.

Dangerous, Miss Toklas now knows. GertrudeStein, as usual, misreads Miss Toklas's motivation and privileges her own. "Selfless," my Madame sighs, and thanks her lucky star that Miss Toklas is always there to keep the wives at bay. Wives are so irksome when there is work to be done. Not Pussy, though. No, never Pussy. But those who make the rules reserve the right to carve out the exceptions to the rules. Behind the door of 27 rue de Fleurus, my Mesdames are always the exceptions. Miss Toklas, though, could never be a genius,