John Passos - Three Soldiers

At the cabin door, Rosaline was playing with the parrot.

“Give me a kiss, Coco,” she was saying in a drowsy voice, “just a little kiss. Just a little kiss for Rosaline, poor little Rosaline.”

The parrot, which Andrews could hardly see in the dusk, leaned towards her, fluttering his feathers, making little clucking noises.

Rosaline caught sight of Andrews.

“Oh, I thought you’d gone to have a drink with the old man,” she cried.

“No. I stayed here.”

“D’you like it, this life?”

Rosaline put the parrot back on his perch, where he swayed from side to side, squawking in protest: “Les bourgeois à la lanterne, nom de dieu!”

They both laughed.

“Oh, it must be a wonderful life. This barge seems like heaven after the army.”

“But they pay you well, you Americans.”

“Seven francs a day.”

“That’s luxury, that.”

“And be ordered around all day long!”

“But you have no expenses… It’s clear gain… You men are funny. The old man’s like that too It’s nice here all by ourselves, isn’t it, Jean?” Andrews did not answer. He was wondering what Geneviève Rod would say when she found out he was a deserter.

“I hate it… It’s dirty and cold and miserable in winter,” went on Rosaline. “I’d like to see them at the bottom of the river, all these barges… And Paris women, did you have a good time with them?”

“I only knew one. I go very little with women.”

“All the same, love’s nice, isn’t it?”

They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled up so that her leg touched Andrews’s leg along its whole length.

The memory of Geneviève Rod became more and more vivid in his mind. He kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale-brown eyes wide open on the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb in the Fayoum.

“Mother’s talking to the old woman at the Creamery. They’re great friends. She won’t be home for two hours yet,” said Rosaline.

“She’s bringing my clothes, isn’t she?”

“But you’re all right as you are.”

“But they’re your father’s.”

“What does that matter?”

“I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris.”

“A woman?”

Andrews nodded.

“But it’s not so bad, this life on the barge. I’m just lonesome and sick of the old people. That’s why I talk nastily about it… We could have good times together if you stayed with us a little.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder and put a hand awkwardly on his bare forearm.

“How cold these Americans are!” she muttered, giggling drowsily.

Andrews felt her hair tickle his cheek.

“No, it’s not a bad life on the barge, honestly. The only thing is, there’s nothing but old people on the river. It isn’t life to be always with old people… I want to have a good time.” She pressed her cheek against his. He could feel her breath heavy in his face.

“After all, it’s lovely in summer to drowse on the deck that’s all warm with the sun, and see the trees and the fields and the little houses slipping by on either side… If there weren’t so many old people… All the boys go away to the cities… I hate old people; they’re so dirty and slow. We mustn’t waste our youth, must we?”

Andrews got to his feet.

“What’s the matter?” she cried sharply.

“Rosaline,” Andrews said in a low, soft voice, “I can only think of going to Paris.”

“Oh, the Paris woman,” said Rosaline scornfully. “But what does that matter? She isn’t here now.”

“I don’t know… Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway,” said Andrews.

“You’re a fool. You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you a deserter… Why, they may catch you and shoot you any time.”

“Oh, I know, you’re right. You’re right. But I’m not made like that, that’s all.”

“She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl.”

“I’ve never touched her.”

Rosaline threw her head back and laughed raspingly.

“But you aren’t sick, are you?” she cried.

“Probably I remember too vividly, that’s all… Anyway, I’m a fool, Rosaline, because you’re a nice girl.”

There were steps on the plank that led to the shore. A shawl over her head and a big bundle under her arm, the old woman came up to them, panting wheezily. She looked from one to the other, trying to make out their faces in the dark.

“It’s a danger… like that… youth,” she muttered between hard short breaths.

“Did you find the clothes?” asked Andrews in a casual voice.

“Yes. That leaves you forty-five francs out of your money, when I’ve taken out for your food and all that. Does that suit you?”

“Thank you very much for your trouble.”

“You paid for it. Don’t worry about that,” said the old woman. She gave him the bundle. “Here are your clothes and the forty-five francs. If you want, I’ll tell you exactly what each thing cost.”

“I’ll put them on first,” he said, with a laugh.

He climbed down the ladder into the cabin.

Putting on new, unfamiliar-shaped clothes made him suddenly feel strong and joyous. The old woman had bought him corduroy trousers, cheap cloth shoes, a blue cotton shirt, woollen socks, and a second-hand black serge jacket. When he came on deck she held up a lantern to look at him.

“Doesn’t he look fine, altogether French?” she said.

Rosaline turned away without answering. A little later she picked up the perch and carried the parrot, that swayed sleepily on the crosspiece, down the ladder.

“Les bourgeois à la lanterne, nom de dieu!” came the old man’s voice singing on the shore.

“He’s drunk as a pig,” muttered the old woman. “If only he doesn’t fall off the gang plank.”

A swaying shadow appeared at the end of the plank, standing out against the haze of light from the houses behind the poplar trees.

Andrews put out a hand to catch him as he reached the side of the barge. The old man sprawled against the cabin.

“Don’t bawl me out, dearie,” he said, dangling an arm round Andrews’s neck, and a hand beckoning vaguely towards his wife. “I’ve found a comrade for the little American.”

“What’s that?” said Andrews sharply. His mouth suddenly went dry with terror. He felt his nails pressing into the palms of his cold hands.

“I’ve found another American for you,” said the old man in an important voice. “Here he comes.” Another shadow appeared at the end of the gangplank.

“Les bourgeois à la lanterns, nom de dieu!” shouted the old man. Andrews backed away cautiously towards the other side of the barge. All the little muscles of his thighs were trembling. A hard voice was saying in his head: “Drown yourself, drown yourself. Then they won’t get you.”

The man was standing on the end of the plank. Andrews could see the contour of the uniform against the haze of light behind the poplar trees.

“God, if I only had a pistol,” he thought.

“Say, Buddy, where are you?” came an American voice.

The man advanced towards him across the deck.

Andrews stood with every muscle taut.

“Gee! You’ve taken off your uniform… Say, I’m not an M.P. I’m A.W.O.L. too. Shake.” He held out his hand.

Andrews took the hand doubtfully, without moving from the edge of the barge.

“Say, Buddy, it’s a damn fool thing to take off your uniform. Ain’t you got any? If they pick you up like that it’s life, Kid.”

“I can’t help it. It’s done now.”

“Gawd, you still think I’m an M.P., don’t yer?… I swear I ain’t. Maybe you are. Gawd, it’s hell, this life. A feller can’t put his trust in nobody.”