Jean’s particular girl at La Ferté was “LOO-Loo”. With Lulu it was the same as with les princesses in Paris—“me no travaille,ja-MAIS. Les femmes travaillent,geev Jean mun-ee,sees,sees-tee,see-cent francs. Jamais travaille,moi.” Lulu smuggled Jean money;and not for some time did the woman who slept next Lulu miss it. Lulu also sent Jean a lace embroidered handkerchief,which Jean would squeeze and press to his lips with a beatific smile of perfect contentment. The affair with Lulu kept Mexique and Pete The Hollander busy writing letters;which Jean dictated,rolling his eyes and scratching his head for words.
At this time Jean was immensely happy. He was continually playing practical jokes on one of the Hollanders,or Mexique,or The Wanderer,or in fact anyone of whom he was particularly fond. At intervals between these demonstrations of irrepressibility( which kept everyone in a state of laughter )he would stride up and down the filth-sprinkled floor with his hands in the pockets of his stylish jacket,singing at the top of his lungs his own version of the famous song of songs—
après la guerre finit,
soldat angalis parti,
mademoiselle que je laissais en France
avec des pickaninee. PLENTY!
and laughing till he shook and had to lean against a wall.
Jean and Pete : a love letter
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 offering 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 toute,l’armée française.” John The Bathhouse,stretched comfortably in his bunk near me,grunted. “Toute” 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. Jean 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 Sheeney With 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 Sheeney—who found discretion the better part of valor and retired with a few dark threats;leaving Jean master of the situation and yelling for The Sheeney’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 beatific smile supplanting the frown—“hello Barbu. Est-ce que tu es là? Oui? Bon!”—evincing tremendous pleasure at having succeeded in establishing the connection satisfactorily—“Barbu? Est-ce que tu m’écoutes? Oui? Qu’est-ce que c’est Barbu? Comment? Moi? Qui,MOI? JEAN? jaMAIS! jamais,jaMAIS,Barbu. J’ai jamais dit que vous avez des puces. 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—“Comment? C’est pas vrai? Bon. Alors. Qu’est-ce que vous avez,Barbu? Des poux—OHHHHHHHHH. Je comprends. C’est mieux”—shaking with laughter,then suddenly tremendously serious—“Hellohellohellohello HEHLOH!”—addressing the stovepipe—“C’est une mauvaise machin,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 fuck me,me fuck you? Pas bon. You fuck you,me fuck me:—bon. Me fuck me,you fuck 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-neeeeeee.” After a repetition or two of his own name in English,he would demand sharply “Qui m’appelle? Mexique? Est-ce que tu m’appelles,Mexique?” and if Mexique happened to be asleep,Jean would rush over and cry in his ear,shaking him thoroughly—“Est-ce tu m’appelles,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...
The West Indian Negro
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 : “La femme qui fume n’est pas une femme.” 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 counter-charge—Jean remained un
shaken. 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 upstairs during the promenade,both because I wanted to write and because the weather was worse than usual. Ordinarily,no matter how deep the mud in the cour,Jean and I would trot back and forth,resting from time to time under the little shelter out of the drizzle,talking of all things under the sun. I remember on one occasion we were the only ones to brave the rain and slough—Jean in paper-thin soled slippers( which he had recently succeeded in drawing from the Gestionnaire )and I in my huge sabots—hurrying back and forth with the rain pouring on us,and he very proud. On this day,however,I refused the challenge of the boue.
The promenaders had been singularly noisy,I thought. Now they were mounting to the room making a truly tremendous racket. No sooner were the doors opened than in rushed half a dozen frenzied friends,who began telling me all at once about a terrific thing which my friend the noir had just done. It seems that The Sheeney With The Trick Raincoat had pulled at Jean’s handkerchief( Lulu’s gift in other days )which Jean wore always conspicuously in his outside breast pocket;that Jean had taken The Sheeney’s head in his two hands,held it steady,abased his own head,and rammed the helpless Sheeney as a bull would do—the impact of Jean’s head upon The Sheeney’s nose causing that well-known feature to occupy a new position in the neighborhood of the right ear. B corroborated this description,adding The Sheeney’s nose was broken and that everyone was down on Jean for fighting in an unsportsmanlike way. I found Jean still very angry,and moreover very hurt because everyone was now shunning him. I told him that I personally was glad of what he’d done;but nothing would cheer him up. The Sheeney now entered,very terrible to see,having been patched up by Monsieur Richard with copious plasters. His nose was not broken,he said thickly,but only bent. He hinted darkly of trouble in store for le noir;and received the commiserations of everyone present except Mexique,The Zulu,B and me. The Zulu,I remember,pointed to his own nose( which was not unimportant ),then to Jean,then made a moue of excruciating anguish,and winked audibly.
Jean’s spirit was broken. The well-nigh unanimous verdict against him had convinced his minutely sensitive soul that it had done wrong. He lay quietly,and would say nothing to anyone.
Some time after the soup,about eight o’clock,The Fighting Sheeney and The Trick Raincoat suddenly set upon Jean Le Nègre à propos nothing;and began pommelling him cruelly. The conscience-stricken pillar of beautiful muscle—who could have easily killed both his assailants at one blow—not only offered no reciprocatory violence but refused even to defend himself. Unresistingly,wincing with pain,his arms mechanically raised and his head bent,he was battered frightfully to the window by his bed,thence into the corner( upsetting the stool in the pissoir ),then along the wall to the door. As the punishment increased he cried out like a child : “Laissez-moi tranquille!”—again and again;and in his voice the insane element gained rapidly. Finally,shrieking in agony,he rushed to the nearest window;and while the Sheeneys together pommelled him yelled for help to the planton beneath.—
The unparalleled consternation and applause produced by this one-sided battle had long since alarmed the authorities. I was still trying to break through the five-deep ring of spectators( among whom was The Messenger Boy,who advised me to desist and got a piece of advice in return )—when with a tremendous crash open burst the door;and in stepped four plantons with drawn revolvers,looking frightened to death,followed by the Surveillant who carried a sort of baton and was crying faintly : “Qu’est-ce que c’est!”
At the first sound of the door the two Sheeneys had fled,and were now playing the part of innocent spectators. Jean alone occupied the stage. His lips were parted. His eyes were enormous. He was panting as if his heart would break. He still kept his arms raised as if seeing everywhere before him fresh enemies. Blood spotted here and there the wonderful chocolate carpet of his skin,and his whole body glistened with sweat. His shirt was in ribbons over his beautiful muscles.
Seven or eight persons at once began explaining the fight to the Surveillant,who could make nothing out of their accounts and therefore called aside a trusted older man in order to get his version. The two retired from the room. The plantons,finding the expected wolf a lamb,flourished their revolvers about Jean and threatened him in the insignificant and vile language which plantons use to anyone whom they can bully. Jean kept repeating dully “laissez-moi tranquille. Ils voulaient me tuer.” His chest shook terribly with vast sobs.
Now the Surveillant returned and made a speech,to the effect that he had received independently of each other the stories of four men,that by all counts le nègre was absolutely to blame,that le nègre had caused an inexcusable trouble to the authorities and to his fellow-prisoners by this wholly unjustified conflict,and that as a punishment the nègre would now suffer the consequences of his guilt in the cabinot.—Jean had dropped his arms to his sides. His face was twisted with anguish. He made a child’s gesture,a pitiful hopeless movement with his slender hands. Sobbing he protested : “C’est pas ma faute,monsieur le surveillant! Ils m’attaquaient! J’ai rien fait! Ils voulaient me tuer! Demandez à lui”—he pointed to me desperately. Before I could utter a syllable the Surveillant raised his hand for silence : le nègre had done wrong. He should be placed in the cabinot.
—Like a 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 this hope and burning with the ignominy of his situation,Jean cast his enormous eyes up at the nearest pillar,crying hysterically : “Tout le monde me fout au cabinot parce que je suis noir.”—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 endeavored 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 it’s 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.”
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