The Enormous Room

by E. E. Cummings

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 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 stove-pipe—“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….