The Enormous Room Page 30
He seems afraid that I don’t get his idea,I said to myself. “I understand what you say” I assured him.
“And you don’t believe it?” he screamed,showing his fangs and otherwise looking like an exceedingly dangerous maniac.
“Je ne le crois pas,Monsieur.”
“O God’s name!” he shouted. “What a fool,quel idiot,what a beastly fool!” And he did something through his frothcovered lips,something remotely suggesting laughter.
Hereupon the Surveillant again intervened. I was mistaken. It was lamentable I could not be made to understand. Very true. But I had been sent for—“do you know,you have been decided to be a suspect” Monsieur le Surveillant turned to me,“and now you may choose where you wish to be sent.” Apollyon was blowing and wheezing and muttering...clenching his huge pinkish hands.
I addressed the Surveillant,ignoring Apollyon. “I should like,if I may,to go to Oloron-Sainte-Marie.”
“What do you want to go there for?” the Directeur exploded threateningly.
I explained that I was by profession an artist,and had always wanted to view the Pyrenées. “The environment of Oloron would be most stimulating to an artist”—
“Do you know it’s near Spain?” he snapped,looking straight at me.
I knew it was,and therefore replied with a carefully childish ignorance : “Spain? Indeed! Very interesting.”
“You want to escape from France,that’s it?” the Directeur snarled.
“Oh,I hardly should say that” the Surveillant interposed soothingly,“he is an artist,and Oloron is a very pleasant place for an artist. A very nice place. I hardly think his choice of Oloron a cause for suspicion. I should think it a very natural desire on his part.”—His superior subsided snarling.
After a few more questions I signed some papers which lay on the desk,and was told by Apollyon to get out.
“When can I expect to leave?” I asked the Surveillant.
“Oh,it’s only a matter of days,of weeks perhaps” he assured me benignantly.
“You’ll leave when it’s proper for you to leave!” Apollyon burst out,“do you understand?”
“Yes,indeed. Thank you very much” I replied with a bow,and exited. On the way to The Enormous Room the Black Holster said to me sharply
“Vous allez partir?”
“Oui.”
He gave me such a look as would have turned a mahogany piano leg into a mound of smoking ashes,and slammed the key into the lock.
—Everyone gathered about me. “What news?”
“I have asked to go to Oloron as a suspect” I answered.
“You should have taken my advice and asked to go to Cannes” the fat Alsatian reproached me. He had indeed spent a great while advising me—but I trusted the little Machine-Fixer.
“Parti?” Jean Le Nègre said with huge eyes,touching me gently.
“Non,non. Plus tard,peut-être. Pas maintenant” I assured him. And he patted my shoulder and smiled,“Bon!” And we smoked a cigarette in honour of the snow,of which Jean—in contrast to the majority of les hommes—highly and unutterably approved. “C’est joli!” he would say,laughing wonderfully. And next morning he and I went on an exclusive promenade,I in my sabots,Jean in a pair of slippers which he had received( after many requests )from the bureau. And we strode to and fro in the muddy cour admiring la neige,not speaking.
One day,after the snow-fall,I received from Paris a complete set of Shakespeare in the Everyman edition. I had forgotten completely that B and I—after trying and failing to get William Blake—had ordered and paid for the better known William;the ordering and communicating in general being done with the collaboration of Monsieur Pet-airs. It was a curious and interesting feeling which I experienced upon first opening to As You Like It...the volumes had been carefully inspected,I learned,by the secrétaire,in order to eliminate the possibility of their concealing something valuable or dangerous. And in this connection let me add that the secrétaire,or( if not he )his superiors,were a good judge of what is valuable—if not what is dangerous. I know this because,whereas my family several times sent me socks in every case inclosing cigarettes,I received invariably the former sans the latter. Perhaps it is not fair to suspect the officials of La Ferté of this peculiarly mean theft;I should,possibly,doubt the honesty of that very same French censor whose intercepting of B’s correspondence had motivated our removal from the Section Sanitaire. Heaven knows I wish( like the Three Wise Men )to give justice where justice is due.
Somehow or other,reading Shakespeare did not appeal to my disordered mind. I tried Hamlet and Julius Caesar once or twice and gave it up,after telling a man who asked “Shah-kay-spare,who is Shah-kay-spare?” that Mr. S. was the Homer of the English-speaking peoples—which remark,to my surprise,appeared to convey a very definite idea to the questioner and sent him away perfectly satisfied. Most of the timeless time I spent promenading in the rain and sleet with Jean Le Nègre,or talking with Mexique,or exchanging big gifts of silence with The Zulu. For Oloron—I did not believe in it,and I did not particularly care. If I went away,good;if I stayed,so long as Jean and The Zulu and Mexique were with me,good.
At least the Surveillant let me alone on the Soi-Même topic. After my brief visit to Satan I wallowed in a perfect luxury of dirt. And no one objected. On the contrary everyone( realizing that the enjoyment of dirt may be made the basis of a fine art )beheld with something like admiration my more and more uncouth appearance. Moreover,by being dirtier than usual I was protesting in a( to me )very satisfactory way against all that was neat and tidy and bigoted and solemn and founded upon the anguish of my fine friends. And my fine friends,being my fine friends,understood. Simultaneously with my arrival at the summit of dirtiness—by the calendar,as I guess,December the twenty-first—came the Black Holster into The Enormous Room and with an excited and angry mien proclaimed loudly
“L’américain! Allez chez le Directeur. De suite.”
I protested mildly that I was dirty—
“N’importe. Allez avec moi” and down I went to the amazement of everyone and the great amusement of myself. “By Jove,wait till he sees me this time” I remarked half-audibly...
The Directeur said nothing when I entered.
The Directeur extended a piece of paper,which I read.
The Directeur said,with an attempt at amiability “Alors,vous allez sortir.”
I looked at him in eleven-tenths of amazement. I was standing in the bureau de Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de La Ferté-Macé,Orne,France,and holding in my hand a slip of paper which said that if there was a man named Edward E. Cummings he should report immediately to the American Embassy,Paris,and I had just heard the words
“Alors,vous allez sortir.”
Which words were pronounced in a voice so subdued,so constrained,so mild,so altogether ingratiating,that I could not imagine to whom it belonged. Surely not to the Fiend,to Apollyon,to the Prince of Hell,to Satan,to Monsieur le Directeur du Camp de Triage de La Ferté-Macé—
“Get ready. You will leave immediately.”
Then I noticed the Surveillant. Upon his face I saw an almost smile. He returned my gaze and remarked
“uh-ah,uh-ah,Oui.”
“That’s all” the Directeur said. “You will call for your money at the bureau of the Gestionnaire before leaving.”
“Go and get ready” the Fencer said,and I certainly saw a smile...
“I? Am? Going? To? Paris?” somebody who certainly wasn’t myself remarked in a kind of whisper.
“Parfaitement.”—Pettish. Apollyon. But how changed. Who the devil is myself? Where in Hell am I? What is Paris—a place,a somewhere,a city,life,to live : infinitive. Present first singular I live. Thou livest. The Directeur. The Surveillant. La Ferté-Macé,Orne,France. “Edward E. Cummings will report immediately.” Edward E. Cummings. The Surveillant. A piece of yellow paper. The Directeur. A necktie. Paris. Life. Liberté. La liberté. “La Liberté”—I almost shouted in agony.<
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“Dépêchez-vous. Savez-vous,vous allez partir de suite. Cet après-midi. Pour Paris.”
I turned,I turned so suddenly as almost to bowl over the Black Holster,Black Holster and all;I turned toward the door,I turned upon the Black Holster,I turned into Edward E. Cummings,I turned into what was dead and is now alive,I turned into a city,I turned into a dream—
I am standing in The Enormous Room for the last time. I am saying good-bye. No,it is not I who am saying good-bye. It is in fact somebody else,possibly myself. Perhaps myself has shaken hands with a little creature with a wizened arm,a little creature in whose eyes tears for some reason are;with a placid youth( Mexique? )who smiles and says shakily
“Good-bye Johnny,I no for-get you”
with a crazy old fellow who somehow or other has got inside B’s tunic and is gesticulating and crying out and laughing;with a frank-eyed boy who claps me on the back and says
“Good-bye and good-luck t’you”
(is he The Young Skipper,by any chance?);with a lot of hungry wretched beautiful people—I have given my bed to The Zulu by Jove,and The Zulu is even now standing guard over it,and his friend The Young Pole has given me the address of “mon ami” and there are tears in The Young Pole’s eyes,and I seem to be amazingly tall and altogether tearless—and this is the nice Norwegian,who got drunk at Bordeaux and stole three( or four was it? )cans of sardines...and now I feel before me someone who also has tears in his eyes,someone who is in fact crying,someone whom I feel to be very strong and young as he hugs me quietly in his firm alert arms,kissing me on both cheeks and on the lips...
“Goo-bye boy”
—O good-bye,good-bye,I am going away Jean;have a good time,laugh wonderfully when le neige comes...
And I am standing somewhere with arms lifted up. “Si vous avez une lettre,sais-tu,il faut dire. For if I find a letter on you it will go hard with the man that gave it to you to take out.” Black. The Black Holster even. Does not examine my baggage. Wonder why? “Allez!” Jean’s letter to his gonzesse in Paris still safe in my little pocket under my belt. Ha ha,by God,that’s a good one on you,you Black Holster,you Very Black Holster. That’s a good one. Glad I said good-bye to the Cook. Why didn’t I give Monsieur Auguste’s little friend,the cordonnier,more than six francs for mending my shoes? He looked so injured. I am a fool,and I am going into the street,and I am going by myself with no planton into the little street of the little city of La Ferté-Macé which is a little,a very little city in France,where once upon a time I used to catch water for an old man...
I have already shaken hands with the Cook,and with the cordonnier who has beautifully mended my shoes. I am saying good-bye to les deux balayeurs. I am shaking hands with the little( the very little )Machine-Fixer again. I have given him a franc and I have given Garabaldi a franc. We had a drink a moment ago on me. The tavern is just opposite the gare,where there will soon be a train. I will get upon the soonness of the train and ride into the now of Paris. No,I must change at a station called Briouze did you say? Good-bye,mes amis,et bonne chance! They disappear,pulling and pushing at a cart,les deux balayeurs...de mes couilles...by Jove what a tin noise is coming,see the wooden engineer,he makes a funny gesture utterly composed( composed silently and entirely )of merde. Merde! Merde. A wee tiny absurd whistle coming from nowhere,from outside of me. Two men opposite. Jolt. A few houses a fence a wall a bit of neige float foolishly by and through a window. These gentlemen in my compartment do not seem to know that La Misère exists. They are talking politics. Thinking that I don’t understand. By Jesus,that’s a good one. “Pardon me,gentlemen,but does one change at the next station for Paris?” Surprised. I thought so. “Yes,Monsieur,the next station.” By Hell I surprised somebody...
Who are a million,a trillion,a nonillion young men? All are standing. I am standing. We are wedged in and on and over and under each other. Sardines. Knew a man once who was arrested for stealing sardines. I,sardine,look at three sardines,at three million sardines,at a carful of sardines. How did I get here? O yes of course. Briouze. Horrible name “Briouze”. Made a bluff at riding deuxième classe on a troisième classe ticket bought for me by les deux balayeurs. Gentlemen in the compartment talked French with me till conductor appeared. “Tickets,gentlemen?” I extended mine dumbly. He gave me a look “How? This is third class!” I look intelligently ignorant. “Il ne comprend pas français” says the gentleman. “Ah!” says the conductor,“tease ease eye-ee thoorde claz tea-keat. You air een tea say-coend claz. You weel go ean-too tea thoorde claz weal you yes pleace at once?” So I got stung after all. Third is more amusing certainly,though god-damn hot with these sardines,including myself of course. Oh yes of course. Poilus en permission. Very old some. Others mere kids. Once saw a planton who never saw a razor. Yet he was réformé. C’est la guerre. Several of us get off and stretch at a little tank-town-station. Engine thumping up front somewhere in the darkness. Wait. They get their bidons filled. Wish I had a bidon,a dis donc bidon n’est-ce pas. Faut pas t’en faire,who sang or said that?
PEE-p...
We’re off.
I am almost asleep. Or myself. What’s the matter here? Sardines writhing about,cut it out,no room for that sort of thing. Jolt.
“Paris”
Morning. Morning in Paris. I found my bed full of fleas this morning,and I couldn’t catch the fleas,though I tried hard because I was ashamed that anyone should find fleas in my bed which is at the Hôtel des Saints-Pères whither I went in a fiacre and the driver didn’t know where it was. Wonderful. This is the American Embassy. I must look funny in my pelisse. Thank God for the breakfast I ate somewhere...good-looking girl,Parisienne,at the switch-board upstairs. “Go right in,sir.” A-1 English by God. So this is the person to whom Edward E. Cummings is immediately to report.
“Is this Mr. Cummings?”
“Yes.” Rather a young man,very young in fact. Jove I must look queer.
“Sit down! We’ve been looking all over creation for you.”
“Yes?”
“Have some cigarettes?”
By God he gives me a sac of Bull. Extravagant they are at the American Embassy. Can I roll one? I can. I do.
Conversation. Pleased to see me. Thought I was lost for good. Tried every means to locate me. Just discovered where I was. What was it like? No,really? You don’t mean it! Well I’ll be damned! Look here;this man B,what sort of a fellow is he? Well I’m interested to hear you say that. Look at this correspondence. It seems to me that a fellow who could write like that wasn’t dangerous. Must be a little queer. Tell me,isn’t he a trifle foolish? That’s what I thought. Now I’d advise you to leave France as soon as you can. They’re picking up ambulance men left and right,men who’ve got no business to be in Paris. Do you want to leave by the next boat? I’d advise it. Good. Got money? If you haven’t we’ll pay your fare. Or half of it. Plenty,eh? Norton-Harjes,I see. Mind going second class? Good. Not much difference on this line. Now you can take these papers and go to...No time to lose,as she sails tomorrow. That’s it. Grab a taxi,and hustle. When you’ve got those signatures bring them to me and I’ll fix you all up. Get your ticket first,here’s a letter to the manager of the Compagnie Générale. Then go through the police department. You can do it if you hurry. See you later. Make it quick,eh? Good-bye!
The streets. Les rues de Paris. I walked past Notre-Dame. I bought tobacco. Jews are peddling things with American trademarks on them,because in a day or two it’s Christmas I suppose. Jesus it is cold. Dirty snow. Huddling people. La guerre. Always la guerre. And chill. Goes through these big mittens. Tomorrow I shall be on the ocean. Pretty neat the way that passport was put through. Rode all day in a taxi,two cylinders,running on one. Everywhere waiting lines. I stepped to the head and was attended to by the officials of the great and good French government. Gad that’s a good one. A good one on le gouvernement français. Pretty good. Les rues sont tristes. Perhaps there’s no Christmas,perhaps the French government has forbidden Christmas. Cler
k at Norton-Harjes seemed astonished to see me. O God it is cold in Paris. Everyone looks hard under lamplight,because it’s winter I suppose. Everyone hurried. Everyone hard. Everyone cold. Everyone huddling. Everyone alive;alive : alive.
Shall I give this man five francs for dressing my hand? He said “anything you like,monsieur.” Ship’s doctor probably well-paid. Probably not. Better hurry before I put my lunch. Aweinspiring stink,because it’s in the bow. Little member of the crew immersing his guess what in a can of some liquid or other,groaning from time to time,staggers when the boat tilts. “Merci bien,Monsieur!” That was the proper thing. Now for the—never can reach it—here’s the première classe one—any port in a storm...Feel better now. Narrowly missed American officer but just managed to make it. Was it yesterday or day before saw the Vaterland,I mean the what deuce is it—that biggest in the world afloat boat. Damned rough. Snow falling. Almost slid through the railing that time. Snow. The snow is falling into the sea;which quietly receives it : into which it utterly and peacefully disappears. Man with a college degree returning from Spain,not disagreeable sort,talks Spanish with that fat man who’s an Argentinian. -Tinian? -Tinish,perhaps. All the same. In other words Tin. Nobody at the table knows I speak English or am American. Hell,that’s a good one on nobody. That’s a pretty fat kind of a joke on nobody. Think I’m French. Talk mostly with those three or four Frenchmen going on permission to somewhere via New York. One has an accordion. Like second class. Wait till you see les gratte-ciel,I tell ’em. They say “Oui?” and don’t believe. I’ll show them. America. The land of the flea and the home of the dag’ short for dago of course. My spirits are constantly improving. Funny Christmas,second day out. Wonder if we’ll dock New Year’s Day. My God what a list to starboard. They say a waiter broke his arm when it happened,ballast shifted. Don’t believe it. Something wrong. I know I nearly fell downstairs...