The Book of Salt by Monique Truong Page B

I to know?
    "Chef Blériot wants you to go with him to the market," said Anh Minh, or Minh
Still
the Sous Chef, as I had begun to call him.
    "Why me?" I asked.
    "He wants you to show him around, translate when necessary."
    "Translate? Did you tell him I could speak French?"
    "I said that you've been learning. Don't worry about it. You know more French words than Blériot does of Vietnamese. Here that makes you a translator."
    "Oh."
    "Remember, just don't lie."
    "What do you mean? I haven't—"
    "Of course not, I only meant that if you don't know the word in French, just say so. Don't lie. They always figure it out, and then they are pissed when they do."
    "Oh."
    "I'm serious. There is no kidding around with this guy. Remember to call him Chef' Blériot and remember that what you do reflects back on me."
    Anh Minh's words were always considered but often trite. This language of mirroring was overused, especially within the confines of our family. It sounded like something the Old Man would say, except his version would have a swearword at the beginning and at the end. Either way, the threat of having all my indiscretions paraded on the surface of my brother's skin was still not enough to keep me away.
    "Slower, slower. Chef Blériot, please, speak slower. My French is not very good. "
    He smiled, a closed-mouth movement that concentrated attention in the curves of his lips. At first I saw it as a smirk, a mocking pockmark of an expression, but somewhere between the woman selling bitter melons and the blind man selling onions and garlic, I saw the curves and I saw the lips.
    "How old ... are ... you?"
    "Nineteen, twenty soon, Chef Blériot."
    He smiled again. This time there was nothing that I could do. This image of him shading his blue eyes, each with a black bursting star inside, from the yellow of the early morning sun had already archived itself in me. Somewhere between the twin sisters selling mangosteens and the old woman selling whatever she had in her garden that day, I asked him the same question.
    "Twenty-six," he answered.
    "Oh."
    "Tomorrow, you'll show me the fish market."
    "Yes, tomorrow, the fish market I'll show you."
    A promise sealed in the language of commerce, in a place of barter and trade.

    "Sole?" Blériot asked.
    "Sole," I translated.
    "Catfish?"
    "Catfish."
    "Shark?"
    "Shark."
    A slow seduction, now that I think about it, amidst the fruits of the sea. But back then, well, back then there was nothing to think about. It was already impossible. Blériot, though, took his time. He was a cook, after all. For tenderness, we all know that braising is better than an open flame. At first I met him at the back gate of the Governor-General's house at five-thirty in the morning. By the time we reached the central market, the vendors were just about done setting up. By the end of the first week, all the vendors knew his name, even the blind seller of onions and garlic. I told Blériot that it is no coincidence that this man sells what he does. With onions and garlic, he can protect himself from thieves, because he can always smell them walking away. A little lie makes for a good story. Blériot looked at me as if he agreed. All the market vendors also knew his position—Chef Blériot, the
chef de cuisine
at the Governor-General's house, a man who was more important to them than the Governor-General would ever be. They competed for his biweekly purchases of chicken eggs by the cartful. They saved their wormless tomatoes for him, put aside cucumbers the size of their fingers for him. They agreed to grow spinach for him. They traded their scallions for leeks grown in the central mountain region for him. They learned that he would not barter, and so they always quoted him their most optimistic price. Either
he would buy or he would walk. It was the gamble they took for a chance at an easy week's profit. As for me, they had seen me before, but now they really looked at me, wondering where my