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

one of the tin-derbies the high identity and sacred mission of this personage. I knew that with the exception of ourselves everyone in the section had been given his seven days’ leave⁠—even two men who had arrived later than we and whose turn should, consequently, have come after ours. I also knew that at the headquarters of the Ambulance, 7 rue François Premier, was Monsieur Norton, the supreme head of the Norton Harjes fraternity, who had known my father in other days. Putting two and two together I decided that this potentate had sent an emissary to Mr. A. to demand an explanation of the various and sundry insults and indignities to which I and my friend had been subjected, and more particularly to secure our long-delayed permission. Accordingly I was in high spirits as I rushed toward the bureau.

I didn’t have to go far. The mysterious one, in conversation with monsieur le sous-lieutenant, met me halfway. I caught the words: “And Cummings” (the first and last time that my name was correctly pronounced by a Frenchman), “where is he?”

“Present,” I said, giving a salute to which neither of them paid the slightest attention.

“Ah yes” impenetrably remarked the mysterious one in positively sanitary English. “You shall put all your baggage in the car, at once”⁠—then, to tin-derby-the-first, who appeared in an occult manner at his master’s elbow⁠—“Go with him, get his baggage, at once.”

My things were mostly in the vicinity of the cuisine, where lodged the cuisinier, mécanicien, menuisier, etc., who had made room for me (some ten days since) on their own initiative, thus saving me the humiliation of sleeping with nineteen Americans in a tent which was always two-thirds full of mud. Thither I led the tin-derby, who scrutinised everything with surprising interest. I threw mes affaires hastily together (including some minor accessories which I was going to leave behind, but which the t-d bade me include) and emerged with a duffle-bag under one arm and a bedroll under the other, to encounter my excellent friends, the “dirty Frenchmen,” aforesaid. They all popped out together from one door, looking rather astonished. Something by way of explanation as well as farewell was most certainly required, so I made a speech in my best French:

“Gentlemen, friends, comrades⁠—I am going away immediately and shall be guillotined tomorrow.”

—“Oh hardly guillotined I should say,” remarked t-d, in a voice which froze my marrow despite my high spirits; while the cook and carpenter gaped audibly and the mechanician clutched a hopelessly smashed carburetor for support.

One of the section’s voitures, a FIAT, was standing ready. General Nemo sternly forbade me to approach the Renault (in which B.’s baggage was already deposited) and waved me into the FIAT, bed, bedroll and all; whereupon t-d leaped in and seated himself opposite me in a position of perfect unrelaxation, which, despite my aforesaid exultation at quitting the section in general and Mr. A. in particular, impressed me as being almost menacing. Through the front window I saw my friend drive away with t-d Number 2 and Nemo; then, having waved hasty farewell to all les Américains that I knew⁠—three in number⁠—and having exchanged affectionate greetings with Mr. A. (who admitted he was very sorry indeed to lose us), I experienced the jolt of the clutch⁠—and we were off in pursuit.

Whatever may have been the forebodings inspired by t-d Number 1’s attitude, they were completely annihilated by the thrilling joy which I experienced on losing sight of the accursed section and its asinine inhabitants⁠—by the indisputable and authentic thrill of going somewhere and nowhere, under the miraculous auspices of someone and no one⁠—of being yanked from the putrescent banalities of an official nonexistence into a high and clear adventure, by a deus ex machina in a grey-blue uniform, and a couple of tin derbies. I whistled and sang and cried to my vis-à-vis: “By the way, who is yonder distinguished gentleman who has been so good as to take my friend and me on this little promenade?”⁠—to which, between lurches of the groaning FIAT, t-d replied awesomely, clutching at the window for the benefit of his equilibrium: “Monsieur le Ministre de Sûreté de Noyon.”

Not in the least realizing what this might mean, I grinned. A responsive grin, visiting informally the tired cheeks of my confrère, ended by frankly connecting his worthy and enormous ears which were squeezed into oblivion by the oversize casque. My eyes, jumping from those ears, lit on that helmet and noticed for the first time an emblem, a sort of flowering little explosion, or hair-switch rampant. It seemed to me very jovial and a little absurd.

“We’re on our way to Noyon, then?”

T-d shrugged his shoulders.

Here the driver’s hat blew off. I heard him swear, and saw the hat sailing in our wake. I jumped to my feet as the FIAT came to a sudden stop, and started for the ground⁠—then checked my flight in midair and landed on the seat, completely astonished. T-d’s revolver, which had hopped from its holster at my first move, slid back into its nest. The owner of the revolver was muttering something rather disagreeable. The driver (being an American of Vingt-et-Un) was backing up instead of retrieving his cap in person. My mind felt as if it had been thrown suddenly from fourth into reverse. I pondered and said nothing.

On again⁠—faster, to make up for lost time. On the correct assumption that t-d does not understand English the driver passes the time of day through the minute window:

“For Christ’s sake, Cummings, what’s up?”

“You got me,” I said, laughing at the delicate naivete of the question.

“Did y’ do something to get pinched?”

“Probably,” I answered importantly and vaguely, feeling a new dignity.

“Well, if you didn’t, maybe B⁠⸺ did.”

“Maybe,” I countered, trying not to appear enthusiastic. As a matter of fact I was never so excited and proud. I was,