The Book of Salt by Monique Truong Read Free Book Online Page A

kitchen. GertrudeStein, I now know, never goes into the kitchen. She must have sensed the potential in me from the very beginning. I wanted that afternoon to ask Miss Toklas whether the household budget would allow for the purchase of two pineapples for a dinner to which my Mesdames had invited two guests. I wanted to tell her that I would cut the first pineapple into paper-thin rounds and sauté them with shallots and slices of beef; that the sugar in the pineapple would caramelize during cooking, imparting a faint smokiness that is addictive; that the dish is a refined variation on my mother's favorite. I wanted to tell her that I would cut the second pineapple into bite-sized pieces, soak them in kirsch, make them into a drunken bed for spoonfuls of tangerine sorbet; that I would pipe unsweetened cream around the edges, a ring of ivory-colored rosettes. And because I am vain and want nothing more than to hear the eruption of praises that I can provoke, I wanted to tell her that I

would scatter on top the petals of candied violets, their sugar crystals sparkling.
    "Madame, I want to buy a pear ... not a pear."
    Miss Toklas looked at me, recognition absent from her eyes.
    I, yes, lost the French word for "pineapple" the moment I opened my mouth. Departing at their will, the words of this language mock me with their impromptu absences. When I am alone, they offer themselves to me, loose change in a shallow pocket, but as soon as I reach for one I spill the others. This has happened to me many times before. At least I now know what to do, I thought. I repeated my question, but this time I had my hands on top of my head, with only the bottom of my palms touching my hair. My fingers were spread like two erect, partially opened fans. Complete with my crown, I stood in front of my new Madame and Madame the embodiment of "a-pear-not-a-pear." I remember seeing GertrudeStein smile. Already, my Madame was amusing herself with my French. She was wrapping my words around her tongue, saving them for a later, more careful study of their mutations.
    GertrudeStein has since made it her habit to test my skills. At first she was satisfied with my resourceful renaming of foods, animals, household objects. But as it was also her habit never to master any language but her own, she first has to compile her list in English, rummage through Miss Toklas's dictionary for the French equivalent, and then locate an illustration or physical sample for me to examine. This is an after-dinner activity for GertrudeStein. She devotes no more than half an hour to it, a diversion before she cracks open a broad-spined book for the remainder of the night. Miss Toklas is always nearby, her needlework bobbing in her hands. Recently GertrudeStein has decided that it would be more efficient if she begins with the last step of her formula. To do otherwise, she now thinks, is simply too impractical, like an artist who paints a portrait and then roams the world searching for its model. Conveniently for GertrudeStein, she already has a whole world stashed away in the rooms of 27 rue de Fleurus. Buttons, seashells, glass globes,
horseshoe nails, matchboxes, cigarette holders—the last inspired by Miss Toklas, whose voice reveals her habit—are deposited throughout the apartment. Some are grouped by types, some by years of acquisition, others by sentiment. By the time Miss Toklas moved into the rue de Fleurus, GertrudeStein had already acquired a sizable collection. Miss Toklas immediately understood. She did not have to be told that the objects of everyday life become relics and icons once they have touched GertrudeStein's hands. She already believed it.
    The dinner dishes have been cleared and washed, and I have been again summoned to the studio. Surely after four years of this game, I think, there cannot be anything left in this apartment that we have not named. Last week, for instance, I had to inform GertrudeStein for the third time this year that Basket