The Book of Salt - Monique Truong [88]
Take Basket and Pépé, for instance. Last month, Miss Toklas told me, "Only one meal a day." His Highness and the nervous little Pretender to his throne had gained too much weight. Actually, everyone at 27 rue de Fleurus, except Miss Toklas and I, had gained too much weight and was being placed on a restricted regime, everyone including GertrudeStein. No exceptions, I thought. By training, I am prone to respect absolutes. When I hear words like "only" and "one," I believe. But as anyone can see from the bulging bellies of the guilty three, that rule is far from absolute. When GertrudeStein is not looking, Miss Toklas feeds Pépé. When Miss Toklas is not looking, GertrudeStein feeds Basket. And who feeds GertrudeStein? I do, of course. She pays half of my salary, after all. This rule, believe me, is ironclad.
Sweet Sunday Man, I see you watching my Mesdames. I see you looking when you think they are not, searching their irides for all the things that you are otherwise not privy to. They have been watching you too. About this I would not lie, Sweet Sunday Man. My Mesdames' curiosity is piqued by implausible things. They saw your hands and immediately knew that you are no writer. Too clean and well groomed, they thought. Writers rarely have clipped nails. They tend to use their teeth. Too smooth and callus-free, they noted. You are not a laborer either, they knew. Yes, I know that they could have concluded that just from hearing you speak, but my Mesdames are in this way like me. They never assume that words can tell them the whole story. But, Sweet Sunday Man, it was not your hands that first gave you away. It was your back. GertrudeStein saw it twice during your first visit to 27 rue de Fleurus. It was such an unexpected sight because those who gather around GertrudeStein never depart while she is in midsentence. Never. Believe me, "the boys," as you call them, rarely break away from the conversation circle, not even to relieve themselves. Miss Toklas is always amazed at how clean the toilet is after these crowded gatherings. GertrudeStein could see from the way you held your head that you were hanging onto her every word, even as you were walking away. Not listening but hearing. Hearing but not listening. You, Sweet Sunday Man, were by then a shiny new paradox to brighten my Madame's day. Later that evening, GertrudeStein reported your actions to Miss Toklas over a dish of my best Singapore ice cream. They both could taste the vanilla and the crystallized ginger, but only Miss Toklas could detect that there was something deeper, something that emerged as a lingering lace of a feeling on the tongue.
Peppercorns, Miss Toklas. Steep the milk from morning till night with ten coarsely crushed peppercorns. Strain and proceed as usual. The "bite" that the peppercorns leave behind will make the eater take notice, examine this dish of sweet anew. Think of it as an unexpected hint of irony in a familiar lover's voice.
GertrudeStein, too intrigued to be offended by your disregard, wanted to invite you immediately to dinner and examine you over some braised grouses. Miss Toklas knew that GertrudeStein's menu choice had little to do with the availability of game birds during the month of December. For GertrudeStein, it had more to do with the hunt. Miss Toklas disagreed. She thought that such an uncharacteristic move would tip you off. Nothing can be gained from a subject who knows that he is being watched, a lesson that Miss Toklas had gleaned from all the detective stories that she has had to endure. Better than cowboys, she thought, but still she longed for those nights when GertrudeStein had read to her from the Lives of Saints. They had gotten only through the A's—St. Agatha with her amputated breasts, St. Agnes with her detached head, St. Appollonia with her bashed-in teeth—when GertrudeStein discovered the equally grim, though not