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

of sees meel-i-own franc, that he was a son of the Lord Mayor of London by the Queen, that he had lost a leg in Algeria, and that the French were cochons. All of which assertions being duly disproved, Jean was remanded to La Ferté for psychopathic observation and safe keeping on the technical charge of wearing an English officer’s uniform.

Jean’s particular girl at La Ferté was “Loo-Loo.” With Lulu it was the same as with les princesses in Paris⁠—“me no travaille, jam-mais. Les femmes travaillent, geev Jean mun-ee, sees, sees-tee, see-cent francs. Jamais travaille, moi.” Lulu smuggled Jean money; and not for some time did the woman who slept next Lulu miss it. Lulu also sent Jean a lace embroidered handkerchief, which Jean would squeeze and press to his lips with a beatific smile of perfect contentment. The affair with Lulu kept Mexique and Pete The Hollander busy writing letters; which Jean dictated, rolling his eyes and scratching his head for words.

At this time Jean was immensely happy. He was continually playing practical jokes on one of the Hollanders, or Mexique, or the Wanderer, or, in fact, anyone of whom he was particularly fond. At intervals between these demonstrations of irrepressibility (which kept everyone in a state of laughter) he would stride up and down the filth-sprinkled floor with his hands in the pockets of his stylish jacket, singing at the top of his lungs his own version of the famous song of songs:

après la guerre finit,
soldat anglais parti,
mademoiselle que je laissais en France
avec des pickaninee. Plenty!

and laughing till he shook and had to lean against a wall.

B. and Mexique made some dominoes. Jean had not the least idea of how to play, but when we three had gathered for a game he was always to be found leaning over our shoulders, completely absorbed, once in a while offered us sage advice, laughing utterly when someone made a cinque or a multiple thereof.

One afternoon, in the interval between la soupe and promenade, Jean was in especially high spirits. I was lying down on my collapsible bed when he came up to my end of the room and began showing off exactly like a child. This time it was the game of l’armée française which Jean was playing.⁠—“Jamais soldat, moi. Connais tous l’armée française.” John The Bathman, stretched comfortably in his bunk near me, grunted. “Tous,” Jean repeated.⁠—And he stood in front of us; stiff as a stick in imitation of a French lieutenant with an imaginary company in front of him. First he would be the lieutenant giving commands, then he would be the Army executing them. He began with the manual of arms. “Com-pag-nie⁠ ⁠…” then, as he went through the manual, holding his imaginary gun⁠—“htt, htt, htt.”⁠—Then as the officer commending his troops: “Bon. Très bon. Très bien fait”⁠—laughing with head thrown back and teeth aglitter at his own success. John le Baigneur was so tremendously amused that he gave up sleeping to watch. L’armée drew a crowd of admirers from every side. For at least three-quarters of an hour this game went on.⁠ ⁠…

Another day Jean, being angry at the weather and having eaten a huge amount of soupe, began yelling at the top of his voice: “Merde à la France,” and laughing heartily. No one paying especial attention to him, he continued (happy in this new game with himself) for about fifteen minutes. Then The Trick Raincoat (that undersized specimen, clad in feminine-fitting raiment with flashy shoes, who was by trade a pimp, being about half Jean’s height and a tenth of his physique,) strolled up to Jean⁠—who had by this time got as far as my bed⁠—and, sticking his sallow face as near Jean’s as the neck could reach, said in a solemn voice: “Il ne faut pas dire ça.” Jean astounded, gazed at the intruder for a moment; then demanded: “Qui dit ça? Moi? Jean? Jamais, ja-mais. Merde à la France!” nor would he yield a point, backed up as he was by the moral support of everyone present except the Raincoat⁠—who found discretion the better part of valour and retired with a few dark threats; leaving Jean master of the situation and yelling for the Raincoat’s particular delectation: “May-rrr-de à la France!” more loudly than ever.

A little after the epic battle with stovepipes between The Young Pole and Bill The Hollander, the wrecked poêle (which was patiently waiting to be repaired) furnished Jean with perhaps his most brilliant inspiration. The final section of pipe (which conducted the smoke through a hole in the wall to the outer air) remained in place all by itself, projecting about six feet into the room at a height of seven or eight feet from the floor. Jean noticed this; got a chair; mounted on it, and by applying alternately his ear and his mouth to the end of the pipe created for himself a telephone, with the aid of which he carried on a conversation with The Wanderer (at that moment visiting his family on the floor below) to this effect:

—Jean, grasping the pipe and speaking angrily into it, being evidently nettled at the poor connection⁠—“Heh-loh, hello, hello, hello”⁠—surveying the pipe in consternation⁠—“Merde. Ça marche pas”⁠—trying again with a deep frown⁠—“heh-loh!”⁠—tremendously agitated⁠—“Hehloh!”⁠—a beautiful smile supplanting the frown⁠—“hello Barbu. Are you there? Oui? Bon!”⁠—evincing tremendous pleasure at having succeeded in establishing the connection satisfactorily⁠—“Barbu? Are you listening to me? Oui? What’s the matter Barbu? Comment? Moi? Oui, moi? Jean? jamais! jamais, jamais, Barbu. I have never said you have fleas. C’était pas moi, tu sais. Jamais, c’était un autre. Peut-être c’était Mexique”⁠—turning his head in Mexique’s direction and roaring