Part 76 (2/2)
”How many dependents?” muttered the major through his teeth, poring over the application.
”None. It's for discharge in France to study music.”
”Won't do. You need an affidavit that you can support yourself, that you have enough money to continue your studies. You want to study music, eh? D'you think you've got talent? Needs a very great deal of talent to study music.”
”Yes, sir.... But is there anything else I need except the affidavit?”
”No.... It'll go through in short order. We're glad to release men....
We're glad to release any man with a good military record.... Williams!”
”Yes, sir.”
A sergeant came over from a small table by the door.
”Show this man what he needs to do to get discharged in France.”
Andrews saluted. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figures in the mirror, saluting down an endless corridor.
When he got out on the street in front of the great white building where the major's office was, a morose feeling of helplessness came over him.
There were many automobiles of different sizes and shapes, limousines, runabouts, touring cars, lined up along the curb, all painted olive-drab and neatly stenciled with numbers in white. Now and then a personage came out of the white marble building, puttees and Sam Browne belt gleaming, and darted into an automobile, or a noisy motorcycle stopped with a jerk in front of the wide door to let out an officer in goggles and mud-splattered trench coat, who disappeared immediately through revolving doors. Andrews could imagine him striding along halls, where from every door came an imperious clicking of typewriters, where papers were piled high on yellow varnished desks, where sallow-faced clerks in uniform loafed in rooms, where the four walls were covered from floor to ceiling with card catalogues. And every day they were adding to the paper, piling up more little drawers with index cards. It seemed to Andrews that the s.h.i.+ny white marble building would have to burst with all the paper stored up within it, and would flood the broad avenue with avalanches of index cards.
”b.u.t.ton yer coat,” snarled a voice in his ear.
Andrews looked up suddenly. An M. P. with a raw-looking face in which was a long sharp nose, had come up to him.
Andrews b.u.t.toned up his overcoat and said nothing.
”Ye can't hang around here this way,” the M. P. called after him.
Andrews flushed and walked away without turning his head. He was stinging with humiliation; an angry voice inside him kept telling him that he was a coward, that he should make some futile gesture of protest. Grotesque pictures of revolt flamed through his mind, until he remembered that when he was very small, the same tumultuous pride had seethed and ached in him whenever he had been reproved by an older person. Helpless despair fluttered about within him like a bird beating against the wires of a cage. Was there no outlet, no gesture of expression, would he have to go on this way day after day, swallowing the bitter gall of indignation, that every new symbol of his slavery brought to his lips?
He was walking in an agitated way across the Jardin des Tuileries, full of little children and women with dogs on leashes and nursemaids with starched white caps, when he met Genevieve Rod and her mother. Genevieve was dressed in pearl grey, with an elegance a little too fas.h.i.+onable to please Andrews. Mme. Rod wore black. In front of them a black and tan terrier ran from one side to the other, on nervous little legs that trembled like steel springs.
”Isn't it lovely this morning?” cried Genevieve.
”I didn't know you had a dog.”
”Oh, we never go out without Santo, a protection to two lone women, you know,” said Mme. Rod, laughing. ”Viens, Santo, dis bonjour au Monsieur.”
”He usually lives at Poissac,” said Genevieve.
The little dog barked furiously at Andrews, a shrill bark like a child squalling.
”He knows he ought to be suspicious of soldiers.... I imagine most soldiers would change with him if they had a chance.... Viens Santo, viens Santo.... Will you change lives with me, Santo?”
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