The Enormous Room, E. E. Cummings [beautiful books to read txt] 📗

with laughter⁠—“Hello, heh-loh. Barbu? Tu sais, Barbu, j’ai jamais dit ça. Au contraire, Barbu. J’ai dit que vous avez des totos”⁠—another roar of laughter⁠—“What? It isn’t true? Good. Then. What have you got, Barbu? Barbu? Lice⁠—Ohhhh. I understand. It’s better”⁠—shaking with laughter, then suddenly tremendously serious⁠—“hellohellohellohello hehloh!”⁠—addressing the stovepipe⁠—“C’est une mauvaise machine, ça”⁠—speaking into it with the greatest distinctness⁠—“Hel-l-loh. Barbu? Liberté, Barbu. Oui. Comment? C’est ça. Liberté pour tou’l’monde. Quand? Après la soupe. Oui. Liberté pour tou’l’monde après la soupe!”⁠—to which jest astonishingly reacted a certain old man known as the West Indian Negro (a stocky credulous creature with whom Jean would have nothing to do, and whose tales of Brooklyn were indeed outclassed by Jean’s histoires d’amour) who leaped rheumatically from his paillasse at the word “Liberté” and rushed limpingly hither and thither inquiring Was it true? to the enormous and excruciating amusement of The Enormous Room in general.

After which Jean, exhausted with laughter, descended from the chair and lay down on his bed to read a letter from Lulu (not knowing a syllable of it). A little later he came rushing up to my bed in the most terrific state of excitement, the whites of his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared, his kinky hair fairly standing on end, and cried:

“You⁠—me, me⁠—you? Pas bon. You⁠—you, me⁠—me: bon. Me⁠—me, you⁠—you!” and went away capering and shouting with laughter, dancing with great grace and as great agility and with an imaginary partner the entire length of the room.

There was another game⁠—a pure child’s game⁠—which Jean played. It was the name game. He amused himself for hours together by lying on his paillasse tilting his head back, rolling up his eyes, and crying in a high quavering voice⁠—“Jaw-neeeeee.” After a repetition or two of his own name in English, he would demand sharply “Who is calling me? Mexique? Es-ce que tu m’appelle, Mexique?” and if Mexique happened to be asleep, Jean would rush over and cry in his ear, shaking him thoroughly⁠—“Es-ce tu m’appelle, toi?” Or it might be Barbu, or Pete The Hollander, or B. or myself, of whom he sternly asked the question⁠—which was always followed by quantities of laughter on Jean’s part. He was never perfectly happy unless exercising his inexhaustible imagination.⁠ ⁠…

Of all Jean’s extraordinary selves, the moral one was at once the most rare and most unreasonable. In the matter of les femmes he could hardly have been accused by his bitterest enemy of being a Puritan. Yet the Puritan streak came out one day, in a discussion which lasted for several hours. Jean as in the case of France, spoke in dogma. His contention was very simple: “The woman who smokes is not a woman.” He defended it hotly against the attacks of all the nations represented; in vain did Belgian and Hollander, Russian and Pole, Spaniard and Alsatian, charge and countercharge⁠—Jean remained unshaken. A woman could do anything but smoke⁠—if she smoked she ceased automatically to be a woman and became something unspeakable. As Jean was at this time sitting alternately on B.’s bed and mine, and as the alternations became increasingly frequent as the discussion waxed hotter, we were not sorry when the planton’s shout “A la promenade les hommes!” scattered the opposing warriors. Then up leaped Jean (who had almost come to blows innumerable times) and rushed laughing to the door, having already forgotten the whole thing.

Now we come to the story of Jean’s undoing, and may the gods which made Jean le Nègre give me grace to tell it as it was.

The trouble started with Lulu. One afternoon, shortly after the telephoning, Jean was sick at heart and couldn’t be induced either to leave his couch or to utter a word. Everyone guessed the reason⁠—Lulu had left for another camp that morning. The planton told Jean to come down with the rest and get soupe. No answer. Was Jean sick? “Oui, me seek.” And steadfastly he refused to eat, till the disgusted planton gave it up and locked Jean in alone. When we ascended after la soupe we found Jean as we had left him, stretched on his couch, big tears on his cheeks. I asked him if I could do anything for him; he shook his head. We offered him cigarettes⁠—no, he did not wish to smoke. As B. and I went away we heard him moaning to himself “Jawnee no see LooLoo no more.” With the exception of ourselves, the inhabitants of La Ferté Macé took Jean’s desolation as a great joke. Shouts of Lulu! rent the welkin on all sides. Jean stood it for an hour; then he leaped up, furious; and demanded (confronting the man from whose lips the cry had last issued)⁠—“Feeneesh LooLoo?” The latter coolly referred him to the man next to him; he in turn to someone else; and round and round the room Jean stalked, seeking the offender, followed by louder and louder shouts of Lulu! and Jawnee! the authors of which (so soon as he challenged them) denied with innocent faces their guilt and recommended that Jean look closer next time. At last Jean took to his couch in utter misery and disgust. The rest of les hommes descended as usual for the promenade⁠—not so Jean. He ate nothing for supper. That evening not a sound issued from his bed.

Next morning he awoke with a broad grin, and to the salutations of Lulu! replied, laughing heartily at himself “Feeneesh Loo Loo.” Upon which the tormentors (finding in him no longer a victim) desisted; and things resumed their normal course. If an occasional Lulu! upraised itself, Jean merely laughed, and repeated (with a wave of his arm) “Feeneesh.” Finished Lulu seemed to be.

But un jour I had remained