The Book of Salt by Monique Truong Page A

father in name only or the tightness of Monsieur and Madame's hands around my neck even when they are not there. A curse, I remembered thinking when I first heard the basket weaver's story, was that man's boundless search or, perhaps, his steadfast belief that there existed an alternative to the specific silt of his family's land.

    When I first heard the weaver's story, I was twenty years old and in love. I mean
in
love, painfully, involving every part of my body except for my head, in a way that I now suspect only a twenty-year-old man can be. Not so much a fever but a quake, a continuous tremor that made it difficult or just unnecessary to think. Talking was difficult as well. Speech was definitely one of the first things to go, as this sort of feeling can be better expressed in other ways. I had been working at the Governor-General's house for about seven years by then. He had been there for less than a month, but he arrived as the
chef de cuisine
and was, of course, French. Both things added up to a seniority beyond any of my earthly years. "So much power bestowed on someone so young!" was the refrain coursing through the Governor-General's house on the day that he arrived. "Abuse and waste," those of us within the ranks of the household staff predicted, "will soon follow." But Chef Blériot made up for his youthful appearance with a harshness of manner that surprised even us. We would have called him Napoleon, except that he defied us by being neither short nor pudgy around the waistline. No, Blériot was as commanding in his looks as in his manners. He was a remarkable specimen of French manhood, we all had to admit. His hair, "chestnut" brown, according to the chauffeur, held the beginnings of several strategic curls that would now and then fall, slightly grazing the arch of his brow, a lyrical move that impressed us in spite of ourselves. And who among us did not look a moment too long into his eyes, blue with black bursting stars inside? "Cow's milk in its immeasurable forms," said the chauffeur, "was responsible for the rest." That, however, was an open topic for debate. We in the household staff often sat and
speculated upon the substance of this man. We cursed his name and blessed his body with words of our desires, all different. The gardener's helper wanted his youth. The chauffeur envied his height. Madame's secretary, we could all tell, was in need of everything that Chef Blériot had to offer. I, of course, was predisposed against him from the start. My oldest brother, after all, would have to settle for the title of Minh the Sous Chef for yet another lifetime of years.
    On the day of Chef Blériot's arrival, Anh Minh sat in a corner of the kitchen, this vastness that he had called his own for two unprecedented weeks, with his hands resting on his lap. There was nothing left for him to do. The pots and pans had been scrubbed and rescrubbed and were as shiny as they could ever be. The larder had been swept and cleaned. The sous chef had already taken off the chef's toque and had had it laundered and starched. The sight of my brother sitting, bareheaded, stilled by disappointment, taught me lessons he never intended. This man, who at home was the subject of boasts and the object of praise, was here nothing. Less than nothing, he was just another servant in waiting. I am certain that the rest of the household staff remembered the expression on my brother's face, but I cannot. When I close my eyes and see him now, I see his hands. Hollow, they seem to me. Flimsy enough to be thrown from his lap by the breeze of a slamming door. By the time sorrow shows itself in the hands, it is deep and infinite, no longer a wash but an out and out drowning. This is what I have taken with me, these hands that I now periodically look for in my own. The sight of them should have put an end to the story or there should have been no story at all, but then Blériot chose such a subtle, almost forgettable beginning. How was