The Enormous Room E. E. Cummings (snow like ashes TXT) 📖

“C’est l’américain.”

I felt much pleased, and said “Oui, j’suis américain, Monsieur.”

He rolled half over backwards in his creaking chair with wonderment at such an unexpected retort. He studied my face with a puzzled air, appearing slightly embarrassed that before him should stand l’américain and that l’américain should admit it, and that it should all be so wonderfully clear. I saw a second dictum, even more profound than the first, ascending from his black vest. The chain and fob trembled with anticipation. I was wholly fascinated. What vast blob of wisdom would find its difficult way out of him? The bulbous lips wiggled in a pleasant smile.

“Voo parlez français.”

This was delightful. The planton behind me was obviously angered by the congenial demeanour of Monsieur le Gestionnaire, and rasped with his boot upon the threshold. The maps to my right and left, maps of France, maps of the Mediterranean, of Europe, even, were abashed. A little anaemic and humble biped whom I had not previously noted, as he stood in one corner with a painfully deferential expression, looked all at once relieved. I guessed, and correctly guessed, that this little thing was the translator of La Ferté. His weak face wore glasses of the same type as the hippopotamus’, but without a huge black ribbon. I decided to give him a tremor; and said to the hippo “Un peu, Monsieur,” at which the little thing looked sickly.

The hippopotamus benevolently remarked “Voo parlez bien,” and his glasses fell off. He turned to the watchful planton:

“Voo poovez aller. Je vooz appelerai.”

The watchful planton did a sort of salute and closed the door after him. The skullcapped dignitary turned to his papers and began mouthing them with his huge hands, grunting pleasantly. Finally he found one, and said lazily:

“De quelle endroit que vooz êtes?”

“De Massachusetts,” said I.

He wheeled round and stared dumbly at the weak faced one, who looked at a complete loss, but managed to stammer simperingly that it was a part of the United States.

“Uh.” The hippopotamus said.

Then he remarked that I had been arrested, and I agreed that I had been arrested.

Then he said “Have you got any money?” and before I could answer clambered heavily to his feet and, leaning over the table before which I stood, punched me gently.

“Uh,” said the hippopotamus, sat down, and put on his glasses.

“I have your money here,” he said. “You are allowed to draw a little from time to time. You may draw 20 francs, if you like. You may draw it twice a week.”

“I should like to draw 20 francs now,” I said, “in order to buy something at the canteen.”

“You will give me a receipt,” said the hippopotamus. “You want to draw 20 francs now, quite so.” He began, puffing and grunting, to make handwriting of a peculiarly large and somewhat loose variety.

The weak face now stepped forward, and asked me gently: “Hugh er a merry can?”⁠—so I carried on a brilliant conversation in pidgeon English about my relatives and America until interrupted by

“Uh.”

The hip had finished.

“Sign your name, here,” he said, and I did. He looked about in one of the tomes and checked something opposite my name, which I enjoyed seeing in the list of inmates. It had been spelled, erased, and re-spelled several times.

Monsieur le Gestionnaire contemplated my signature. Then he looked up, smiled and nodded recognition to someone behind me. I turned. There stood (having long since noiselessly entered) The Fencer Himself, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back and regarding me with approval, or as a keeper regards some rare monkey newly forwarded from its habitat by Hagenbeck.

The hippo pulled out a drawer. He found, after hunting, some notes. He counted two off, licking his big thumb with a pompous gesture, and having recounted them passed them heavily to me. I took them as a monkey takes a coconut.

“Do you wish?”⁠—the Gestionnaire nodded toward me, addressing the Fencer.

“No, no” the Fencer said bowingly. “I have talked to him already.”

“Call that planton!” cried Monsieur le Gestionnaire, to the little thing. The little thing ran out dutifully and called in a weak voice “Planton!”

A gruff but respectful “Oui” boomed from below-stairs. In a moment the planton of plantons had respectfully entered.

“The promenade being over, you can take him to the men’s room,” said the Surveillant, as the Hippo (immensely relieved and rather proud of himself) collapsed in his creaking chair.

Feeling like a suitcase in the clutches of a porter, I obediently preceded my escort down two flights, first having bowed to the hippopotamus and said “Merci”⁠—to which courtesy the Hippo paid no attention. As we went along the dank hall on the ground floor, I regretted that no whispers and titters had greeted my descent. Probably the furious planton had seen to it that les femmes kept their rooms in silence. We ascended the three flights at the farther end of the corridor, the planton of all plantons unlocked and unbolted the door at the top landing, and I was swallowed by The Enormous Room.

I made for B., in my excitement allowing myself to wave the banknotes. Instantly a host had gathered at my side. On my way to my bed⁠—a distance of perhaps thirty feet⁠—I was patted on the back by Harree, Pompom and Bathhouse John, congratulated by Monsieur Auguste, and saluted by Fritz. Arriving, I found myself the centre of a stupendous crowd. People who had previously had nothing to say to me, who had even sneered at my unwashed and unshaven exterior, now addressed me in terms of more than polite interest. Judas himself stopped in a promenade of the room, eyed me a moment, hastened smoothly to my vicinity, and made a few oily