Not long after The Zulu arrived I witnessed a mystery : it was toward the second Soupe,and B and I were proceeding( our spoons in our hands )in the direction of the door,when beside us suddenly appeared The Zulu—who took us by the shoulders gently and( after carefully looking about him )produced from,as nearly as one could see,his right ear a twenty franc note;asking us in a few well-chosen silences to purchase with it confiture,fromage,and chocolat at the canteen. He silently apologized for encumbering us with these errands,averring that he had been found when he arrived to have no money upon him and consequently wished to keep intact this little tradition. We were too delighted to assist so remarkable a prestidigitator—we scarcely knew him at that time—and après la soupe we bought as requested,conveying the treasures to our bunks and keeping guard over them. About fifteen minutes after the planton had locked everyone in,The Zulu driftingly arrived before us;whereupon we attempted to give him his purchases—but he winked and told us wordlessly that we should( if we would be so kind )keep them for him,immediately following this suggestion by a request that we open the marmalade or jam or whatever it might be called—preserve is perhaps the best word. We complied with alacrity. Now( he said soundlessly ),you may if you like offer me a little. We did. Now have some yourselves,The Zulu commanded. So we attacked the confiture with a will,spreading it on pieces or rather chunks of the brownish bread whose faintly rotten odour is one element of the life at La Ferté which I,for one,find it easier to remember than to forget. And next,in similar fashion,we opened the cheese and offered some to our visitor;and finally the chocolate. Whereupon The Zulu rose up,thanked us tremendously for our gifts,and—winking solemnly—floated off.
Next day he told us that he wanted us to eat all we could of the delicacies we had purchased,whether or no he happened to be in the vicinity. He also informed us that when they were gone we should buy more until the 20 francs gave out. And,so generous were our appetites,it was not more than two or three weeks later that The Zulu,having discovered that our supplies were exhausted,produced from his back hair a neatly folded twenty franc note;wherewith we invaded the canteen with renewed violence. About this time the Spy got busy and The Zulu,with The Young Pole for interpreter,was summoned to Monsieur le Directeur,who stripped The Zulu and searched every wrinkle and crevice of his tranquil anatomy for money( so The Zulu vividly informed us )—finding not a sou. The Zulu,who vastly enjoyed the discomfiture of Monsieur,cautiously extracted( shortly after this )a twenty franc note from the back of his neck,and presented it to us with extreme care. I may say that most of his money went for cheese,of which The Zulu was almost abnormally fond. Nothing more suddenly delightful has happened to me than happened,one day,when I was leaning from the next to the last window—the last being the property of users of the cabinet—of The Enormous Room,contemplating the muddy expanse below,and wondering how the Hollanders had ever allowed the last two windows to be opened. Margherite passed from the door of the building proper to the little washing-shed. As the sentinel’s back was turned I saluted her,and she looked up and smiled pleasantly. And then—a hand leapt quietly outward from the wall,just to my right;the fingers clenched gently upon one-half a newly broken cheese;the hand moved silently in my direction cheese and all,pausing when perhaps six inches from my nose. I took the cheese from the hand,which departed as if by magic;and a little later had the pleasure of being joined at my window by The Zulu,who was brushing cheese crumbs from his long slender Mandarin mustaches,and who expressed profound astonishment and equally profound satisfaction upon noting that I too had been enjoying the pleasures of cheese. Not once,but several times,this Excalibur appearance startled myself and B : in fact the extreme modesty and incomparable shyness of The Zulu found only in this procedure a satisfactory method of bestowing presents upon his two friends...I would I could see that long hand once more,the sensitive fingers poised upon a half-Camembert;the bodiless arm swinging gently and surely with a derricklike grace and certainly in my direction....
Not very long after The Zulu’s arrival occurred an incident which I give with pleasure because it shows the dauntless and indomitable,not to say intrepid,stuff of which plantons are made. The single seau which supplied the( at this time )sixty-odd inhabitants of The Enormous Room with drinking water had done its duty,shortly after our arrival from the first Soupe,with such thoroughness as to leave a number of unfortunates( among whom I was one )waterless. The interval between soupe and promenade loomed darkly and thirstily before said unfortunates. As the minutes passed,it loomed with greater and greater distinctness. At the end of twenty minutes our thirst—stimulated by an especially salty dose of luke-warm water for lunch—attained truly desperate proportions. Several of the bolder thirsters leaned from the various windows of the room and cried
“De l’eau,planton;de l’eau,s’il vous plaît”
upon which the guardian of the law looked up suspiciously;pausing a moment as if to identify the scoundrels whose temerity had so far got the better of their understanding as to lead them to address him,a planton,in familiar terms—and then grimly resumed his walk,gun on shoulder,revolver on hip,the picture of simple and unaffected majesty. Whereat,seeing that entreaties were of no avail,we put our seditious and dangerous heads together and formulated a very great scheme : to wit,the lowering of an empty tin-pail about eight inches high,which tin-pail had formerly contained confiture,which confiture had long since passed into the guts of Monsieur Auguste,The Zulu,B,myself,and—as The Zulu’s friend—The Young Pole. Now this fiendish imitation of The Old Oaken Bucket That Hung In The Well was to be lowered to the good-hearted Margherite( who went to and fro from the door of the building to the washing-shed );who was to fill it for us at the pump situated directly under us in a cavernous chilly cave on the ground floor,then rehitch it to the rope,and guide its upward beginning. The rest was in the hands of Fate.
Bold might the planton be;we were no fainéants. We made a little speech to everyone in general desiring them to lend us their belts. The Zulu,the immensity of whose pleasure in this venture cannot be even indicated,stripped off his belt with unearthly agility—Monsieur Auguste gave his,which we tongue-holed to The Zulu’s—somebody else contributed a necktie—another a shoe-string—The Young Pole his scarf,of which he was impossibly proud—etc. The extraordinary rope so constructed was now tried out in The Enormous Room,and found to be about thirty-eight feet long;or in other words of ample length,considering that the window itself was only three stories above terra firma. Margherite was put on her guard by signs,executed when the planton’s back was turned( which it was exactly half the time,as the planton’s patrol stretched at right angles to the wing of the building whose troisième étage we occupied ). Having attached the minute bucket to one end( the stronger looking end,the end which had more belts and less neckties and handkerchiefs )of our improvised rope,B Harree myself and The Zulu bided our time at la fenêtre—then seizing a favorable opportunity,in enormous haste began paying out the infernal contrivance. Down went the sinful tin-pail,safely past the window-ledge just below us,straight and true into the waiting hands of the faithful Margherite—who had just received it and was on the point of undoing the bucket from the first belt when,lo! who should come in sight around the corner but the pimply-faced brilliantly-uniformed glitteringly-putteed sergent de plantons lui-même. Such amazement as dominated his puny features I have rarely seen equaled. He stopped dead in his tracks;for one second stupidly contemplated the window,ourselves,the wall,seven neckties,five belts,three handkerchiefs,a scarf,two shoe-strings,the jam-pail,and Margherite—then,wheeling,noticed the planton( who peacefully and with dignity was pursuing a course which carried him further and further from the zone of operations )and finally,spinning around again,cried shrilly
“Qu’est-ce que vous avez foutu avec cette machin-là?”
At which cry the planton staggered,rotated,brought his gun clumsily off his shoulder,and stared,trembling all over with emot
ion,at his superior.
“Là-bas!” screamed the pimply sergent de plantons,pointing fiercely in our direction.
Margherite,at his first command,had let go the jam-pail and sought shelter in the building. Simultaneously with her flight we all began pulling on the rope for dear life,making the bucket bound against the wall.
Upon hearing the dreadful exclamation “Là-bas!” the planton almost fell down. With a supreme effort he turned toward the wing of the building. The sight which greeted his eyes caused him to excrete a single mouthful of vivid profanity,made him grip his gun like a hero,set every nerve in his noble and faithful body tingling. Apparently however he had forgotten completely his gun,which lay faithfully and expectingly in his two noble hands.
“Attention!” screamed the sergeant.
The planton did something to his gun very aimlessly and rapidly.
“FIRE!” shrieked the sergeant,scarlet with rage and mortification.
The planton,cool as steel,raised his gun.
“NOM DE DIEU TIREZ!”
The bucket,in big merry sounding jumps,was approaching the window below us.
The planton took aim,falling fearlessly on one knee,and closing both eyes. I confess that my blood stood on tip-toe;but what was death to the loss of that jam-bucket,let alone everyone’s apparel which everyone had so generously lent? We kept on hauling silently. Out of the corner of my eye I beheld the planton—now on both knees,musket held to his shoulder by his left arm and pointing unflinchingly at us one and all—hunting with his right arm and hand in his belt for cartridges! A few seconds after this fleeting glimpse of heroic devotion had penetrated my considerably heightened sensitivity—UP suddenly came the bucket and over backwards we all went together on the floor of The Enormous Room. And as we fell I heard a cry like the cry of a boiler announcing noon—
“Too late!”
I recollect that I lay on the floor for some minutes,half on top of The Zulu and three-quarters smothered by Monsieur Auguste,shaking with laughter...
Then we all took to our hands and knees,and made for our bunks.
I believe no one( curiously enough )got punished for this atrocious misdemeanor—except the planton;who was punished for not shooting us,although God knows he had done his very best.
And now I must chronicle the famous duel which took place between The Zulu’s compatriot,The Young Pole,and that herebefore introduced pimp,The Fighting Sheeney;a duel which came as a climax to a vast deal of teasing on the part of The Young Pole—who,as previously remarked,had not learned his lesson from Bill The Hollander with the thoroughness which one might have expected of him.
In addition to a bit of French and considerable Spanish,Rockyfeller’s valet spoke Russian very( I did not have to be told )badly. The Young Pole,perhaps sore at being rolled on the floor of The Enormous Room by the worthy Sheeney,set about nagging him just as he had done in the case of neighbor Bill. His favorite epithet for the conqueror was “moshki” or “moski”,I never was sure which. Whatever it meant( The Young Pole and Monsieur Auguste informed me that it meant “Jew” in a highly derogatory sense )its effect upon the noble Sheeney was definitely unpleasant. But when coupled with the word “moskosi”,accent on the second syllable or long o,its effect was more than unpleasant—it was really disagreeable. At intervals throughout the day,on promenade,of an evening,the ugly phrase
“MOS-ki mosKOsi”
resounded through The Enormous Room. The Fighting Sheeney,then rapidly convalescing from syphilis,bided his time. The Young Pole moreover had a way of jesting upon the subject of The Sheeney’s infirmity. He would,particularly during the afternoon promenade,shout various none too subtle allusions to Moshki’s physical condition for the benefit of les femmes. And in response would come peals of laughter from the girls’ windows,shrill peals and deep guttural peals intersecting and breaking joints like overlapping shingles on the roof of Craziness. So hearty did these responses become one afternoon that,in answer to loud pleas from the injured Moshki,the pimply sergent de plantons himself came to the gate in the barbed-wire fence and delivered a lecture upon the seriousness of venereal ailments( heart-felt,I should judge by the looks of him )as follows:
“Il ne faut pas rigoler de ça. Savez-vous? C’est une maladie,ça” which little sermon contrasted agreeably with his usual remarks concerning and in the presence of les femmes,whereof the essence lay in a single phrase of prepositional significance—
“bonne pour coucher avec”
he would say shrilly,his puny eyes assuming an expression of amorous wisdom which was most becoming...The Sheeney looked sheepish,and waited.
One day we were all upon afternoon promenade,it being beau temps( for that part of the world ),under the auspices of by all odds one of the littlest and mildest and most delicate specimens of mankind that ever donned the high and dangerous duties of a planton. As B says : “He always looked like a June bride.” This mannikin could not have been five feet high,was perfectly proportioned( unless we except the musket upon his shoulder and the bayonet at his belt ),and minced to and fro with a feminine grace which suggested—at least to les deux citoyens of These United States—the extremely authentic epithet “fairy”. He had such a pretty face! and so cute a mustache! and such darling legs! and such a wonderful smile! For plantonic purposes the smile—which brought two little dimples into his pink cheeks—was for the most part suppressed. However it was impossible for this little thing to look stern : the best he could do was to look poignantly sad. Which he did with great success,standing like a tragic last piece of uneaten candy in his big box at the end of the cour,and eyeing the sinful hommes with sad pretty eyes. Won’t anyone eat me?—he seemed to ask.—I’m really delicious,you know,perfectly delicious,really I am.
To resume : everyone being in the cour the cour was well filled,not only from the point of view of space but of sound. A barn-yard crammed with pigs cows horses ducks geese hens cats and dogs could not possibly have produced one-fifth of the racket that emanated,spontaneously and inevitably,from the cour. Above which racket I heard tout à coup a roar of pain and surprise;and looking up with some interest and also in some alarm,beheld The Young Pole backing and filling and slipping in the deep ooze under the strenuous jolts jabs and even haymakers of The Fighting Sheeney;who,with his coat off and his cap off and his shirt open at the neck,was swatting luxuriously and for all he was worth that round helpless face and that peaches-and-cream complexion. From where I stood,at a distance of six or eight yards,the impact of The Sheeney’s fist on The Young Pole’s jaw and cheeks was disconcertingly audible. The latter made not the slightest attempt to defend himself,let alone retaliate;he merely skidded about,roaring,and clutching desperately out of harm’s way his long white scarf,of which( as I have mentioned )he was extremely proud. But for the sheer brutality of the scene it would have been highly ludicrous. The Sheeney was swinging like a windmill and hammering like a blacksmith. His ugly head lowered,the chin protruding,lips drawn back in a snarl,teeth sticking forth like a gorilla’s,he banged and smote that moon-shaped physiognomy as if his life depended upon utterly annihilating it. And annihilate it he doubtless would have,but for the prompt( not to say punctual )heroism of The June Bride—who,lowering his huge gun,made a rush for the fight;stopped at a safe distance;and began squeaking at the very top and even summit of his faint girlish voice
“Aux armes! Aux armes!”
which plaintive and intrepid utterance by virtue of its very fragility penetrated the building and released the Black Holster—who bounded through the gate,roaring a salutation as he bounded,and in a jiffy had cuffed the participants apart. “All right,whose fault is this!” he roared. And a number of highly reputable spectators such as Judas and The Fighting Sheeney himself said it was The Young Pole’s fault. “Allez! Au cabinot! De suite!”—and off trickled the sobbing Young Pole,winding his great scarf comfortingly about him,to the dungeon.
Some few minutes later we encounter
ed The Zulu speaking with Monsieur Auguste. Monsieur Auguste was very sorry. He admitted that The Young Pole had brought his punishment upon himself. But he was only a boy. The Zulu’s reaction to the affair was absolutely profound : he indicated les femmes with one eye,his trousers with another,and converted his utterly plastic personality into an amorous machine for several seconds,thereby vividly indicating the root of the difficulty—then drifting softly off began playing hide-and-seek with the much delighted Little Man In The Orange Cap. That the stupidity of his friend The Young Pole hurt The Zulu deeply I discovered by looking at him as he lay in bed the next morning,limply and sorrowfully prone;beside him the empty paillasse which meant cabinot...his perfectly extraordinary face( a face perfectly at once fluent and angular,expressionless and sensitive )told me many things whereof even The Zulu might not speak,things which in order entirely to suffer he kept carefully and thoroughly ensconced behind his rigid and mobile eyes.
The Enormous Room Page 23
