In the end as in the beginning, there are specific instructions to see the concierge. As the blaring horns of the floating city announce to the inhabitants of Le Havre that a journey is about to begin, Miss Toklas tells me to leave my name and forwarding address with the concierge so that when she and GertrudeStein return to 27 rue de Fleurus to collect Basket and Pépé, they can send for me if the need should arise.
Of course, Madame, of course.
Within minutes, I am back on the docks standing in a crowd of waving well-wishers, bidding "safe journey" to those aboard the SS Champlain. For GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas, I expand upon the general sentiment and add the word "home."
Believe me, I was never so naive as Basket and Pépé. I realized early on that I, like those two dogs, was never going to see America. Not with GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas, that is. I held no resentment toward my Mesdames. By the sound of those hotel menus, their culinary needs would be well taken care of in the months to come. So when my Madame and Madame requested that I accompany them to Le Havre, I did not hesitate to say yes. From the number of trunks that were lining up against the walls of the studio, I knew that GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas would require an extra pair of eyes to ensure that the first leg of their journey went smoothly, that nothing of importance would be left behind. In exchange, Miss Toklas asked me whether I wanted a round-trip train ticket back to Paris or the amount in cash so that I could purchase a one-way ticket to some other destination. With this question, I again did not hesitate. "The money, please," I replied. I did not know where I wanted to go after Le Havre. So asking for cash as opposed to a prepaid ticket was my way of making no decision at all.
In the weeks prior to my Mesdames' departure, I must admit that I had slipped out of 27 rue de Fleurus for a number of post-midnight, mid-workweek drinks. When I am in Paris, I suffer from the delusion that drinking will help me think. It does not. I, unfortunately, did not remember this until I was broke. Another summer in Bilignin had built up my tolerance for alcohol, one that my limited budget could not sustain back in Paris, the City of Lights and, I would add, Very Expensive Drinks. This past summer, my Mesdames' sixth and my fifth in Bilignin, the farmers had been more generous than ever. When I got off the train, I was dressed all in white and without the customary hat, and they, in their own way, understood that that meant that I was in mourning. I did not have to tell them in words that my mother had passed away during the first full moon of the year. When it became clear to the farmers of Bilignin, after the first couple of weeks, that my traveling outfit was going to be my attire for the rest of the summer, they wondered aloud whether I was also mourning a lost lover. When I asked them why they would say such a thing, they claimed that they have seen lost love turn a man's hair white so why would it not do the same to his clothes? I did not have to tell them in words that Lattimore had gone, that an unseasonably warm February day had come to Paris and taken him away, leaving nothing behind in his garret except wide-open windows, still wet walls, and a warm Buddha belly stove that I, in a moment of longing, stooped down and embraced. But, of course, let me not forget the pithy note of thanks. A man of good breeding through and through, Lattimore wanted me to know that he was grateful for all that I had given him in exchange for what turned out to be a half-paid-for photograph of a satisfied customer and me.
You are more than welcome, Lattimore, or shall I call you "Monsieur"? If you care to know, if you are ever denied a minute of sleep when you close your eyes and you see the silver glint of guilt at your throat, please rest assured that my Mesdames have yet to discover their loss. In my long experience with broken dishes, misplaced silverware, and similar unforeseen removal of personal effects, if Monsieur and Madame do not take note of the item's disappearance within the first week, then they are unlikely to ever. Or if they do notice, I am usually no longer in their employ and am no longer the paid recipient of the fine spittle of their rage. Words are words, I tell myself. Handwritten, typewritten, all were written by GertrudeStein, and as you would say, anything written by GertrudeStein is an original. Miss Toklas, I assure myself, must also have her usual three typewritten copies of The Book of Salt. I know what those words mean now, Lattimore. I copied them from your thank-you-but-no-thank-you note onto a clean sheet of paper and gave it to the concierge. While the concierge had no sentimental attachments toward my Mesdames, he did have dreams of America and was learning English in preparation for the day when his dreams would come true. Until then, he intended to practice his English with Basket and Pépé. He translated the words into French for me, and then he asked whether it was the title of a cookbook. "No," I answered, "a book about a cook." The concierge seemed impressed anyway.
Salt, I thought. GertrudeStein, what kind? Kitchen, sweat, tears, or the sea. Madame, they are not all the same. Their stings, their smarts, their strengths, the distinctions among them are fine. Do you know, GertrudeStein, which ones I have tasted on my tongue? A story is a gift, Madame, and you are welcome.
GertrudeStein, unflappable, unrepentant, unbowed, stares back at me and smiles. This photograph of her and Miss Toklas, the second of two that I have of that day, was taken on the deck of the SS Champlain. It captures my Mesdames perfectly. I am over there, the one with my back turned to the camera. I am not bowing at GertrudeStein's feet. I am sewing the button back onto her right shoe. The button had come loose in the excitement of coming aboard ship. When I saw this one printed in the newspaper alongside the photograph taken at the Gare du Nord, I cut them both out, and I have kept them with me ever since. My Mesdames, I know, have them as well, carefully pressed in their green leather album, bulging by now with family photographs of only the public kind. I am partial to the one of them at the train station. GertrudeStein and Miss Toklas are perched on the bench ahead of me. My Madame and Madame are posing for a small group of photographers who have gathered for the occasion. GertrudeStein looks almost girlish. The folds of a smile are tucked into her ample cheeks. Miss Toklas looks pleased but as always somewhat irritated, an oyster with sand in its lips, a woman whose corset bites into her hips. We are waiting in the Gare du Nord surrounded by the sounds of trains—their arrivals a jubilant clanging, their departures dirgelike, spent sorrows and last-minute sentiments caught underneath their accelerating wheels. My eyes are closed because thinking, for me, is sometimes aided by the dark. I see there the waters off Le Havre. I see there how that body is so receptive to the light of a full October moon. I feel there my body growing limp in that soft light. "What keeps you here?" I hear a voice asking. Your question, just your desire to know my answer, keeps me, is my response. In the dark, I see you smile. I look up instinctually, as if someone has called out my name.
* * *
MONIQUE TRUONG was born in Saigon in 1968 and moved to the United States at age six. She graduated from Yale University and the Columbia University School of Law, going on to specialize in intellectual property. Truong coedited the anthology Watermark: Vietnamese American Poetry and Prose. Her first novel, The Book of Salt, a national bestseller, has been awarded the 2003 Bard Fiction Prize and the Stonewall Book Award–Barbara Gittings Literature Award, among other honors. Granting Truong an Award of Excellence, the Vietnamese American Studies Center at San Francisco State University called her "a pioneer in the field, as an academic, an advocate, and an artist." She now lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Front
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Back
uong, The Book of Salt
The Book of Salt Page 27