“Je suis Américain,” I admitted.
“Eh-bi-en uh-ah uh-ah—We were expecting you.” He surveyed me with great interest.
Behind this seedy and restless personage I noted his absolute likeness, adorning one of the walls. The rooster was faithfully depicted à la Rembrandt at half-length in the stirring guise of a fencer, foil in hand, and wearing enormous gloves. The execution of this masterpiece left something to be desired; but the whole betokened a certain spirit and verve, on the part of the sitter, which I found difficulty in attributing to the being before me.
“Vous êtes uh-ah KEW-MANGZ?”
“What?” I said, completely baffled by this extraordinary dissyllable.
“Comprenez vous fran-çais?”
“Un peu.”
“Bon. Alors, vous vous ap-pel-lez KEW MANGZ, n’est-ce pas? Edouard KEW-MANGZ?”
“Oh,” I said, relieved, “yes.” It was really amazing, the way he writhed around the G.
“Comment ça se prononce en anglais?”