The Enormous Room | Page 6

and vaguely, feeling a new dignity.
"Well, if you didn't, maybe B---- did."
"Maybe," I countered, trying not to appear enthusiastic. As a matter of
fact I was never so excited and proud. I was, to be sure, a criminal!
Well, well, thank God that settled one question for good and all--no
more Section Sanitaire for me! No more Mr. A. and his daily lectures
on cleanliness, deportment, etc.! In spite of myself I started to sing. The
driver interrupted:
"I heard you asking the tin lid something in French. Whadhesay?"
"Said that gink in the Renault is the head cop of Noyon," I answered at
random.

"GOODNIGHT. Maybe we'd better ring off, or you'll get in wrong
with"--he indicated t-d with a wave of his head that communicated
itself to the car in a magnificent skid; and t-d's derby rang out as the
skid pitched t-d the length of the F.I.A.T.
"You rang the bell then," I commented--then to t-d: "Nice car for the
wounded to ride in," I politely observed. T-d answered nothing....
Noyon.
We drive straight up to something which looks unpleasantly like a
feudal dungeon. The driver is now told to be somewhere at a certain
time, and meanwhile to eat with the Head Cop, who may be found just
around the corner--(I am doing, the translating for t-d)--and, oh yes, it
seems that the Head Cop has particularly requested the pleasure of this
distinguished American's company at déjeuner.
"Does he mean me?" the driver asked innocently.
"Sure," I told him.
Nothing is said of B. or me.
Now, cautiously, t-d first and I a slow next, we descend. The F.I.A.T.
rumbles off, with the distinguished one's backward-glaring head poked
out a yard more or less and that distinguished face so completely
surrendered to mystification as to cause a large laugh on my part.
"You are hungry?"
It was the erstwhile-ferocious speaking. A criminal, I remembered, is
somebody against whom everything he says and does is very cleverly
made use of. After weighing the matter in my mind for some moments
I decided at all cost to tell the truth, and replied:
"I could eat an elephant."
Hereupon t-d lead me to the Kitchen Itself, set me to eat upon a stool,
and admonished the cook in a fierce voice:

"Give this great criminal something to eat in the name of the French
Republic!"
And for the first time in three months I tasted Food.
T-d seated himself beside me, opened a huge jack-knife, and fell to,
after first removing his tin derby and loosening his belt.
One of the pleasantest memories connected with that irrevocable meal
is of a large, gentle, strong woman who entered in a hurry, and seeing
me cried out:
"What is it?"
"It's an American, my mother," t-d answered through fried potatoes.
"Why is he here?" the woman touched me on the shoulder, and satisfied
herself that I was real.
"The good God is doubtless acquainted with the explanation," said t-d
pleasantly. "Not myself being the--"
"Ah, mon pauvre" said this very beautiful sort of woman. "You are
going to be a prisoner here. Everyone of the prisoners has a marraine,
do you understand? I am their marraine. I love them and look after
them. Well, listen: I will be your marraine, too."
I bowed and looked around for something to pledge her in. T-d was
watching. My eyes fell on a huge glass of red pinard. "Yes, drink," said
my captor, with a smile. I raised my huge glass.
"A la santé de ma marraine charmante!"
--This deed of gallantry quite won the cook (a smallish, agile
Frenchman) who shovelled several helps of potatoes on my already
empty plate. The tin derby approved also: "That's right, eat, drink,
you'll need it later perhaps." And his knife guillotined another delicious
hunk of white bread.

At last, sated with luxuries, I bade adieu to my marraine and allowed
t-d to conduct me (I going first, as always) upstairs and into a little den
whose interior boasted two mattresses, a man sitting at the table, and a
newspaper in the hands of the man.
"C'est un Américain," t-d said by way of introduction. The newspaper
detached itself from the man who said: "He's welcome indeed: make
yourself at home, Mr. American"--and bowed himself out. My captor
immediately collapsed on one mattress.
I asked permission to do the same on the other, which favor was
sleepily granted. With half-shut eyes my Ego lay and pondered: the
delicious meal it had just enjoyed; what was to come; the joys of being
a great criminal ... then, being not at all inclined to sleep, I read Le Petit
Parisien quite through, even to Les Voies Urinaires.
Which reminded me--and I woke up t-d and asked: "May I visit the