through. Miss Toklas, satisfied, released them. I held my hands behind my back. She wiped hers off on a dishtowel hanging from a nearby peg. She put her right hand into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a roll of cotton gauze. "This is enough," she said.
"Enough," I repeated.
Again, Miss Toklas's words may have sounded like a suggestion, but they were a line of instruction, a warning even. I knew what she and GertrudeStein thought. They thought I drank, that I could not hold my liquor, that I was sloppy because of it. When I was inebriated and in their kitchen, a sort of knife fight with myself, they imagined, ensued, and they had tasted the aftermath.
In the years that we have been together since then, I have found that my Mesdames are often right and wrong. I am comforted by that and, in turn, am comforted by them. I have felt that way from the very beginning. I never did blink an eye, not even after I saw that 27 rue de Fleurus had a Madame and a Madame and not a Monsieur in sight. Though I know that for the concierge, GertrudeStein qualifies for that position. Either way, my Mesdames cohabitate in a state of grace. They both love GertrudeStein. Better, they are both
in
love with GertrudeStein. Miss Toklas fusses over her Lovey, and her Lovey lets her. GertrudeStein feeds on affection, and Miss Toklas ensures that she never hungers. In exchange, in the fairest of trades Miss Toklas has the satisfaction of being GertrudeStein's only one. No man's god can tell me that
that
is wrong. A kiss freely given is a wonder to watch, even if it is being seen through the slit of a partially closed door.
I must admit that at first I was curious. I never once questioned the substance of their love, but I did want to know
whether their lovemaking was, well, the same. Yes and no. GertrudeStein is a boy, fifteen years of age to be exact, in her greediness. Miss Toklas gives a good chase, not literally of course. Remember my Mesdames were both in their fifties by the time I found them. For Miss Toklas, the hide-and-seek is all accomplished with her eyes. They retreat and are demure, charge and then acquiesce, close and give in. What comes next, I do not have to watch because I hear it. Every night, I hear it. Heat, believe me, has a distinctive sound. My Mesdames are very regular in all aspects of their domestic life. Since coming to 27 rue de Fleurus, I rarely go to bed cold anymore, though that may have less to do with my Mesdames' exploits and more to do with the electric radiators that they have installed. The radiators are smelly but warm, like too many of the men that I have been with. Humorous and true, sad all the same. As for being lonely, it will take more than electricity or my Mesdames to keep me from feeling that way. It will take a fire burning inside. The extreme cold or the usual bouts of loneliness will trigger my habit. I do not remember what happens next. I have a memory of it only from the first time:
I am nine and I am cutting scallions into little O's, green tips meeting the blade, sending it swiftly toward the pale rooted ends. There are five more bunches to go. My fingers, face, hair, stinking of raw scallions, all in exchange for my mother humming a tune that has no ending. I think this is an even trade. I have done this before and have often felt the slip of the knife as it is thrown off its course by the pungent slick that coats the inside of the O's. I grip the bunch with tighter fingers. I secure the cleaver's handle with my thumb. My mother is humming at a small piece of pork that will make the bowl of scallions into a feast. She is humming, and I think that I am hearing birds. I look up just to be sure, and I thread silver into my fingertips for the first time. Silver is threading my skin. Weightlessness overtakes me moments before my vision clears, my throat unclogs, and my body begins to understand that silver is threading my skin. I am floating away, and a sea of red
washes me back. I shove my
"Enough," I repeated.
Again, Miss Toklas's words may have sounded like a suggestion, but they were a line of instruction, a warning even. I knew what she and GertrudeStein thought. They thought I drank, that I could not hold my liquor, that I was sloppy because of it. When I was inebriated and in their kitchen, a sort of knife fight with myself, they imagined, ensued, and they had tasted the aftermath.
In the years that we have been together since then, I have found that my Mesdames are often right and wrong. I am comforted by that and, in turn, am comforted by them. I have felt that way from the very beginning. I never did blink an eye, not even after I saw that 27 rue de Fleurus had a Madame and a Madame and not a Monsieur in sight. Though I know that for the concierge, GertrudeStein qualifies for that position. Either way, my Mesdames cohabitate in a state of grace. They both love GertrudeStein. Better, they are both
in
love with GertrudeStein. Miss Toklas fusses over her Lovey, and her Lovey lets her. GertrudeStein feeds on affection, and Miss Toklas ensures that she never hungers. In exchange, in the fairest of trades Miss Toklas has the satisfaction of being GertrudeStein's only one. No man's god can tell me that
that
is wrong. A kiss freely given is a wonder to watch, even if it is being seen through the slit of a partially closed door.
I must admit that at first I was curious. I never once questioned the substance of their love, but I did want to know
whether their lovemaking was, well, the same. Yes and no. GertrudeStein is a boy, fifteen years of age to be exact, in her greediness. Miss Toklas gives a good chase, not literally of course. Remember my Mesdames were both in their fifties by the time I found them. For Miss Toklas, the hide-and-seek is all accomplished with her eyes. They retreat and are demure, charge and then acquiesce, close and give in. What comes next, I do not have to watch because I hear it. Every night, I hear it. Heat, believe me, has a distinctive sound. My Mesdames are very regular in all aspects of their domestic life. Since coming to 27 rue de Fleurus, I rarely go to bed cold anymore, though that may have less to do with my Mesdames' exploits and more to do with the electric radiators that they have installed. The radiators are smelly but warm, like too many of the men that I have been with. Humorous and true, sad all the same. As for being lonely, it will take more than electricity or my Mesdames to keep me from feeling that way. It will take a fire burning inside. The extreme cold or the usual bouts of loneliness will trigger my habit. I do not remember what happens next. I have a memory of it only from the first time:
I am nine and I am cutting scallions into little O's, green tips meeting the blade, sending it swiftly toward the pale rooted ends. There are five more bunches to go. My fingers, face, hair, stinking of raw scallions, all in exchange for my mother humming a tune that has no ending. I think this is an even trade. I have done this before and have often felt the slip of the knife as it is thrown off its course by the pungent slick that coats the inside of the O's. I grip the bunch with tighter fingers. I secure the cleaver's handle with my thumb. My mother is humming at a small piece of pork that will make the bowl of scallions into a feast. She is humming, and I think that I am hearing birds. I look up just to be sure, and I thread silver into my fingertips for the first time. Silver is threading my skin. Weightlessness overtakes me moments before my vision clears, my throat unclogs, and my body begins to understand that silver is threading my skin. I am floating away, and a sea of red
washes me back. I shove my
Similar Books
