A kiss in the mouth can become a kiss on the mouth. A hand on a shoulder can become a hand on the hips. A laugh on his lips can become a moan on mine. The moments in between these are often difficult to gauge, difficult to partition and subdivide. Time that refuses to be translated into a tangible thing, time without a number or an ordinal assigned to it, is often said to be "lost." In a city that always looks better in a memory, time lost can make the night seem eternal and full of stars. The trip from the rue Descartes to the Jardin du Luxembourg was slowed by the weight of our full bellies. Our feet shuffled underneath us, unaccustomed to the weight of a sated body. In my ear, anticipation sounded like a strong wind billowing against a taut sail, like a fire when its flames are drunk on a gust of air, less of a tone, more of a vibration that muffled his voice even though his body was only the span of one hand away from mine. When we opened our mouths to speak, the night air became scented with cinnamon. We both have been this way ever since the young woman walked over to our table and said to us, "Please, wait."
Oh no, the bill, I thought.
She disappeared behind the curtain and returned with a tart covered with a bumpy top crust. The aroma of cinnamon, unmistakable and insistent, especially when coupled with sugar and heat, surrounded us. An apple "pie," she said, placing the dessert down in the center of our table. "Compliments of the chef," she said. "He says that he's sorry that you"—her eyes addressed the scholar-prince—"must leave Paris tonight. Bon appétit, Messieurs."
I looked over at the curtain. It had closed. I looked over at the young woman. She was back at her post as the pretty cashier. I looked back at the man on the bridge. He was still there. But not even for the whole of the night, I thought. "There is a quiet place that I know in the Jardin du Luxembourg," I suggested, and the scholar-prince smiled.
Although we strap time to our wrists, stuff it into our pockets, hang it on our walls, a perpetually moving picture for every room of the house, it can still run away, elude and evade, and show itself again only when there are minutes remaining and there is nothing left to do except wait till there are none.
"I will walk you to the train station."
No, he shook his head. "Train stations are terrible places for good-byes."
I returned to the bridge alone. I always do.
10
"DRUNK AND ASLEEP," I confess to my Mesdames. "He gave me a bottle of rum. A bonus. I drank it all and fell asleep in the park," I lie. Really, how else could I explain yesterday's absence? If I had been late by two or three hours, maybe, but my disappearance for the entire twenty-four hours of a Monday that my Madame and Madame had bought and paid for was too much even for them to ignore. They are furious but not at me. They are horrified that you had given me such temptations. My Mesdames both drink wine like the apostles but consider hard liquor medicinal or a cake flavoring. No other use would be respectable. GertrudeStein calls you a "cad," and Miss Toklas takes the opportunity to remind us all that a telephone, if only GertrudeStein would agree to one, could settle this matter easily. "I would ring him right now and tell him in no uncertain terms that he need not attend next Saturday's tea," Miss Toklas assures me. "Do not worry about tonight's dinner, Bin. An omelet. No. Fried eggs will be more than fine," she adds, expressing her amnesty, her charity toward me via a code that all French cooks understand and practice. A soufflé, she knows, would require the most effort. An omelet takes practice to perfect and therefore is second best. Poached is third. Fourth and least are eggs that are fried. The preparation can barely be called cooking. An insult, in fact, if there are guests expected at the table. A plate of fried eggs can inform a "guest" as no words can that an invitation to dinner has to be earned and not willed. The latter is a pet peeve of Miss Toklas, who has over the years grown to loathe those artists and writers who have had the bad manners to arrive at the studio door actually "starving." "Twenty-seven rue de Fleurus is not a canteen!" she informed GertrudeStein, after several young Hungarians with German appetites insisted on paying their respects, their visits scheduled suspiciously closer and closer to dinnertime. "GertrudeStein is not at home. In addition, she has asked me to inform you that she wants never to see you again," declared Miss Toklas, delivering the quick but cruel blow to their Hungarian pride and to their German stomachs. Sitting in the shadows of the studio, temporarily darkened in order to emphasize further the finality of the expulsion, GertrudeStein was somewhat sad to see them go. Tonight, though, there would be just my Mesdames, a meal en famille, as the French would say. A platter of fried eggs and a loaf of bread placed in the center of a family's table are never an insult. It is a ritual in intimacy. It is food that has no business with the outside world, food that no hired cook would ever dare serve. A family member, maybe a friend, but never a servant. I understand my Madame's gesture perfectly. With Miss Toklas on one arm and GertrudeStein on the other, I step into the circle that Miss Toklas has in that moment drawn. There is no visible trace of its outline, but I always know that it is there. I have sensed its presence in all of the households that I have been in. Sometimes it is wide and expansive, its center bulging with Monsieur, Madame, and their entire brood of filles and fils. Family pets, the Baskets and Pépés of the world, are often found sleeping inside. On occasion there is even a nanny. I have also seen garreted spaces that have room only enough for one. The Old Man's house comes to mind, and, I am afraid, there are others. I want to cry, to shed tears and preserve this moment inside their orb, but my conscience has other plans. In the face of such unexpected kindness, such undeserved clemency, guilt makes a surprise appearance, forcing open my mouth and declaring to my Mesdames that "I am the cad," even though I was unsure what a "cad" would be. "He did not do anything," I lie. "I bought the rum," I lie again.
"You are truly feeble-minded!" the Old Man is screaming in my ears. "The first fools in this city to show any faith in you, and you throw it back at them. Those hags will never trust you again. A lie to save yourself is one thing. A lie to save another is pathetic."
Shut up, Old Man! This has nothing to do with you. My Mesdames have nothing to do with you. You are not allowed here!
I am trying to protect the only territory I have. The battle, though, is being lost on both fronts. The sight of warmth fading from Miss Toklas's eyes is a glimpse of my own death. Suddenly, I am no longer there.
"Bin, never lie to us. GertrudeStein and I will not have such behavior in our home," Miss Toklas warns. My Madame's anger registers on her lips, a controlled tremble, which lets me know that, while I have been permitted to stay within the doors of 27 rue de Fleurus, I have been excommunicated yet again from that perfect circle that is at the center of every home.
I have no hope, so all I have are suspicions. A pocketful of money and an empty bed mean the same things everywhere. You are dismissed. Your services here are done. I cannot bear to touch my coat, even though the weather is biting and cold with a bone-aching damp that makes me wonder why humans live near water. I barely make it back to the rue de Fleurus from the butcher. Two glasses of cognac—thankfully, Miss Toklas insists on cooking with only the best—cannot take away the chill. Sleet is now streaking and smearing the city's already sullen face. I take one look outside the kitchen window, and I give in. I go to my room and take my coat off of its hanger. Warmth never ceases to tempt me. Immediately I feel the money. Rolled into a neat coil, not stacked, doubled-over, or stuffed into a rumpled glomming mass. No matter, the effect is still the same. Unsolicited, unwanted and, worse, it is ruining the otherwise clean lines of my coat. I keep it on anyway and prepare to fight off the chill. Vanity, though, always compels me to do things I would rather not. I may be a fool, I think, but there is no need for me to look like one as well. I come to my decision after repeated attempts to press down and to smooth over the awkward lump growing from the left side of my chest. A fool with an enlarged, persistent heart, I reach in and take it out, spiraled and holding its shape with the help of a short length of string. Red, an unexpected attention to d
etail, I think. I slip the string off and watch the money uncurl in my hand. A small piece of paper shows itself and floats to the floor. I am horrified. A receipt, a protest, a threat, a complaint, what blundering thing did I do to deserve this? I bend down, and I feel my knees popping in protest. I pick up the piece of paper, and the French is so simply written, so carefully chosen, that even I can understand it on the first read: "For next Sunday's dinner. You and I are the only guests."
I look up, instinctually, as if someone has called out my name.
I am at sea again. I am at sea again. Not the choppy, churning body that bashes open a ship's hull like a newborn's soft skull. Yes, a sapphire that a ship's bow skims and grooves. A calming blue expanse between now and Sunday.
***
Bão told me on two separate occasions—one was during our first night at sea and the second was during our last—that I should change my name the moment we reached French shores. He said that it was the perfect opportunity to adopt something new, something heroic, perhaps. He boasted that he had had at least seven, one for every time that he left Vietnam for the waters of the South China Sea. What kept you coming back? I wanted to know and never did ask. Bão's answers, I thought, would only make me sad, make me endure an enumerated list of all the things that I do not have. Ignorance, I have always felt, is best for a man like me. Well, not "always." I am afraid that I am beginning to remember myself in a sea of absolutes, "always, nothing, never, forever." That makes me think of the Old Man, and that makes me cringe in front of his mirrored image. I forget that I have not always felt this way. I forget that I have had to amass these words, like slivers of glass in the palm of a hand, caked blood underneath my nails. It is difficult to remain objective when I am alone in my memory. I place undue trust in my recollections of the past because there is no one here who cares to contradict me, to say in defiance, No, that is not true. The truth for me has become a mixture of declarations, conjectures, and allegations, which are all met by a stunning lack of opposition. (Except for the Old Man, but, believe me, he is a liar.) In this void, I flatter myself, the truth lies. To contradict oneself is an uncomfortable posture to assume, but in this instance I am willing to retract and say, I did not always feel this way. In fact, I can still remember the day, the exact moment in time, when ignorance stepped forward and recommended itself to me:
My mother and I were taking the long way home. When I first began going to the marketplace with her, we would sometimes take a roundabout route back to the Old Man's house, especially when business was good and all the rice packets sold early in the day. "Shall we take The-Long-Way-Home?" she would ask, renaming the two streets that we would then add to our walk. These streets were lined with little shops, and my mother would walk by all of them with her head held high. I thought that she was proud that her money belt was filled and heavy with change, that she could walk through any doorway and buy what she wanted. So I too pulled my shoulders back and pushed my chin forward, exhibiting, mimicking, what I thought was pride. Cloth-draped tables crowded the front of each entryway, colorful come-ons for the pleasures within. I rarely wanted any of the things set out before us. I, after all, already believed that all of it could be ours, if only my mother would so please. Nothing was worth stopping for, I concluded. Otherwise why would my mother and I continue to walk on by?
It was bound to happen. I was a child and far from a saint. One day as we passed by a display of brightly painted wooden statuettes, temptation nailed me to the ground, refused to let me go, and insisted that this was worth stopping for. "Look, Má! Hoàng, Tùng, and me," I shouted, pointing to the figures of three small monkeys, lined up in a row, and joined together at the base. I liked the expressions carved into their faces and, particularly, into the corners of their eyes. Anh Minh, my oldest brother was, of course, exempt from the assembly of Monkeys, or for that matter Idiots, Stupids, and Fools, all names that the Old Man saved for us, the three who followed. "I am the one with his hands over his mouth. Hoàng has his over his ears, and Tùng ... Tùng is the one covering his eyes." I doubled over with laughter, impressed even then by my own winsome wit. "Which one are you, Má?" My mother let go of my hand and placed hers over her heart. I looked up and saw sorrow scarring her face, cratering her eyes, slashing at the grooves around her mouth, sparing nothing from the forehead that I kissed at night, not even her earlobes.
My mother had worn jade earrings when she first came to his house, but that was long ago. She remembered the gold needle heated over an open flame, the thrust, the burn, the coolness of blood and then of the jade, soothing the pain. Tender flesh. Tender flesh. She was given a matching pair for her ears. "Tenderness," she was told, would have other meanings as well, those relating to matters of the heart. But that was long ago. After she came to his house, "tenderness" would mean only her flesh tender with pain. Jade, she was told, is a living, breathing stone. It would grow old with her, chronicling the passage of time. Kept in a box, it would remain a cloudy green brew. Worn against the body, jade would gradually deepen in color, melting away its own whitish veins. Only in old age would jade reward her with its true character and hue. A thing she could look forward to, she was told. He took them from her on the day that I was born. "She will survive, but she will never give birth again," the midwife informed him. Jade in the palm of his hand cooled his rage, lessened his ire toward such shoddy goods. A slight dimple in each lobe is all that I, her lastborn, would ever see.
Sorrow preys on the unprotected openings, the eyes, ears, mouth, and heart. Do not speak, see, hear, or feel. Pain is allayed, and sadness will subside. Ignorance, I was beginning to learn, is best for someone like me.
"I, myself, prefer humor," Bão said on our first night together at sea.
"But, I like the name I have."
"I'm not talking about throwing away your name, you dumb ass. The new name isn't for you. It's for them. TÔiNgườiĐiên, AnhĐẹpTrai, TôiYêuEm..." he began listing for me his chosen names. After the third one, we were laughing so hard he could get no further. We rolled on our bunks, him on the top and me on the bottom. In between gasps of air, he told me that they never know which is the given name and which is the surname, so it usually comes out all at once. It made life worth living, Bão said, when he could hear, "Hey, IAmCrazy, if you're late again, I'm throwing your lazy butt right off this boat, and I don't mean when we reach shore! Do you understand me, IAmCrazy?" or "Come over here, GoodLookingBrother, you call this deck clean?" or, his personal favorite, "ILoveYou! Hurry up with those crates! ILoveYou, a trained monkey can do a better job!"
By then, laughter had performed a miracle, separating me from my body, allowing me to forget at least for a while that there was a storm raging inside and out. The sky and the water had turned the same shade of pitch, and seasickness had been taking me by the ankles and throwing me headfirst into the waves. Bão must have heard my groaning and feeble protests, which he knew were useless. My body had to first let go of land before it could survive at sea. It is the body's stubborn resistance and violent refusal that are solely at fault, producing sham symptoms, tricking the mind into believing that the culprit is the ocean. It was unusual for Bão, actually it was unheard of for him as I would later learn, but that night he never stopped talking. He knew that the sickness would have to pass on its own, that sometimes the sound of a human voice is a steady raft on a lurching sea.
He usually worked, he told me, on large shipping liners, which carried more than seven hundred passengers and crew. Most recently Bão had crewed on a liner called the Latouche Tréville, which, like the Niobe, made its primary run between Saigon and Marseilles. He would have never considered a freighter as bare-bones as the Niobe, he said, but he was broke, and having no money at sea, he had learned, is better than having no money on land. All meals are taken care of, and there is nothing on board to buy except, maybe, cigarettes or a bottle of gin. There are also no women on board or none who are for sale. "A great money saver," Bão assured me. It was only my firs
t night at sea, and the Niobe, despite everything, did not seem so shabby to me. So I asked him why the Latouche Tréville was that much better. "Even the ship's cooks had cooks!" Bão replied, jumping off his bunk, leaning his upper body into mine.
Even the ship's cooks had cooks? How in hell does that affect you? I wanted to know but did not ask. The slight shift in the air temperature, a sudden warming as his body came closer to mine, was making it difficult for me to speak. AnhĐẹpTrai is definitely a fitting name for you, I thought. GoodLookingBrother, indeed.
By the time we left the Niobe, I had a long list of questions that I had never asked Bão. I learned early on that his answers were unhelpful at best and at worst entirely uncommunicative. A ruse to deny me the full depth of his feelings, I told myself. If I had questions, lingering and persistent, I was better off answering them for myself. For instance, the Latouche Tréville was better because Bão, I imagined, liked being so close to luxury, so intimate with its smells, the rumpled linens loaded in his arms, lavender-scented still by the fresh-bathed bodies of women whom he would never meet, the perfume and cigar smoke still dancing in the air as he mopped the decks clean at three in the morning. He walked on water, but he was a servant, after all. And like all servants he had to take solace from wealth and pleasure, even if they were not his own.
11
THE GARRET is cold this morning. You must have been out late last night, coming home shoulder to shoulder with the rising sun. I throw another piece of wood into the stove, a funny iron Buddha, presiding in the middle of the room. You prefer the steam heat, which rumbles through the coiled pipes, an innovation that you pay extra for with each month's rent. Odd that this modern contraption produces such ancient sounds. A trapped animal, it sounds like to me. I prefer the wood-burning stove. If I am to feel the warmth, I insist on seeing the flames. I kiss you hello, your cheeks, eyes, temples, saving your lips for last. I press my body against you to say that my lips have longed for you, have begged to touch your skin. I say your name, "Maacus Laat-ti-moe," a greeting that makes you laugh. I try again, "MARcus Lat-timore." You award my effort with a kiss, one that does not end until we are on the floor, fumbling for buttons, flaps of fabric, until we are skin on skin, a prayer for the Buddha with the fire in his heart. You tell me that on Friday I was at the flower market on the Île de la Cité, that I had a small white blossom drooping from my lapel, that I looked lost. As I begin to understand what you are saying to me, I become acutely aware of my skin. I detect the existence of a forgotten terrain. I believe that my relationship to this city has now changed. I have been witnessed. You have testified to my appearance and demeanor. I have been sighted. You possess a memory of my body in this city, ink on a piece of paper, and you, a magician and a seer, could do it again. How can I carry my body through the streets of this city in the same way again?
The Book of Salt Page 11