Dimly, through a fog of disinterested inapprehension, I
realized that--with the exception of the _plantons_ and, of course,
Apollyon--everyone was trying very hard to help me; that The Zulu, Jean,
The Machine-Fixer, Mexique, The Young Skipper, even The Washing Machine
Man (with whom I promenaded frequently when no one else felt like taking
the completely unagreeable air) were kind, very kind, kinder than I can
possibly say. As for Afrique and The Cook--there was nothing too good for
me at this time. I asked the latter's permission to cut wood, and was not
only accepted as a sawyer, but encouraged with assurances of the best
coffee there was, with real sugar _dedans_. In the little space outside
the _cuisine_, between the building and _la cour_, I sawed away of a
morning to my great satisfaction; from time to time clumping my _saboted_
way into the _chef's_ domain in answer to a subdued signal from Afrique.
Of an afternoon I sat with Jean or Mexique or The Zulu on the long beam
of silent iron, pondering very carefully nothing at all, replying to
their questions or responding to their observations in a highly
mechanical manner. I felt myself to be, at last, a doll--taken out
occasionally and played with and put back into its house and told to go
to sleep.
Pages:
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399