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

flash, with a horrible tearing sob, Jean leaped from the surrounding plantons and rushed for the coat which lay on his bed screaming⁠—“Ahhhhh⁠—mon couteau!”⁠—“Look out or he’ll get his knife and kill himself!” someone yelled; and the four plantons seized Jean by both arms just as he made a grab for his jacket. Thwarted in his hope and burning with the ignominy of his situation, Jean cast his enormous eyes up at the nearest pillar, crying hysterically: “Everybody is putting me in cabinot because I am black.”⁠—In a second, by a single movement of his arms, he sent the four plantons reeling to a distance of ten feet: leaped at the pillar: seized it in both hands like a Samson, and (gazing for another second with a smile of absolute beatitude at its length) dashed his head against it. Once, twice, thrice he smote himself, before the plantons seized him⁠—and suddenly his whole strength wilted; he allowed himself to be overpowered by them and stood with bowed head, tears streaming from his eyes⁠—while the smallest pointed a revolver at his heart.

This was a little more than the Surveillant had counted on. Now that Jean’s might was no more, the bearer of the croix de guerre stepped forward and in a mild placating voice endeavoured to soothe the victim of his injustice. It was also slightly more than I could stand, and slamming aside the spectators I shoved myself under his honour’s nose. “Do you know,” I asked, “whom you are dealing with in this man? A child. There are a lot of Jeans where I come from. You heard what he said? He is black, is he not, and gets no justice from you. You heard that. I saw the whole affair. He was attacked, he put up no resistance whatever, he was beaten by two cowards. He is no more to blame than I am.”⁠—The Surveillant was waving his wand and cooing “Je comprends, je comprends, c’est malheureux.”⁠—“You’re god damn right its malheureux” I said, forgetting my French. “Quand même, he has resisted authority” The Surveillant gently continued: “Now Jean, be quiet, you will be taken to the cabinot. You may as well go quietly and behave yourself like a good boy.”

At this I am sure my eyes started out of my head. All I could think of to say was: “Attends, un petit moment.” To reach my own bed took but a second. In another second I was back, bearing my great and sacred pelisse. I marched up to Jean. “Jean” I remarked with a smile, “you are going to the cabinot but you’re coming back right away. I know that you are perfectly right. Put that on”⁠—and I pushed him gently into my coat. “Here are my cigarettes, Jean; you can smoke just as much as you like”⁠—I pulled out all I had, one full paquet of Maryland, and a half dozen loose ones, and deposited them carefully in the right hand pocket of the pelisse. Then I patted him on the shoulder and gave him the immortal salutation⁠—“Bonne chance, mon ami!”

He straightened proudly. He stalked like a king through the doorway. The astounded plantons and the embarrassed Surveillant followed, the latter closing the doors behind him. I was left with a cloud of angry witnesses.

An hour later the doors opened, Jean entered quietly, and the doors shut. As I lay on my bed I could see him perfectly. He was almost naked. He laid my pelisse on his mattress, then walked calmly up to a neighbouring bed and skillfully and unerringly extracted a brush from under it. Back to his own bed he tiptoed, sat down on it, and began brushing my coat. He brushed it for a half hour, speaking to no one, spoken to by no one. Finally he put the brush back, disposed the pelisse carefully on his arm, came to my bed, and as carefully laid it down. Then he took from the right hand outside pocket a full paquet jaune and six loose cigarettes, showed them for my approval, and returned them to their place. “Merci” was his sole remark. B. got Jean to sit down beside him on his bed and we talked for a few minutes, avoiding the subject of the recent struggle. Then Jean went back to his own bed and lay down.

It was not till later that we learned the climax⁠—not till le petit belge avec le bras cassé, le petit balayeur, came hurrying to our end of the room and sat down with us. He was bursting with excitement; his well arm jerked and his sick one stumped about and he seemed incapable of speech. At length words came.

“Monsieur Jean” (now that I think of it, I believe someone had told him that all male children in America are named Jean at their birth) “I saw some sight! le nègre, vous savez?⁠—he is strong: Monsieur Jean, he’s a giant, croyez moi! C’est pas un homme, tu sais? Je l’ai vu, moi”⁠—and he indicated his eyes.

We pricked up our ears.

The balayeur, stuffing a pipe nervously with his tiny thumb said: “You saw the fight here? So did I. The whole of it. Le noir avait raison. Well, when they took him downstairs, I slipped out too⁠—Je suis le balayeur, savez vous? and the balayeur can go where other people can’t.”

I gave him a match, and he thanked me. He struck it on his trousers with a quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his squeaky pipe, and at last shot a minute puff of smoke into the air: then another, and another. Satisfied, he went on; his good hand grasping the pipe between its index