Whenever Plooie went shuffling by my bench, I used to think of an old
and melancholy song that my grandfather sang:
"And his skin was so thin
You could almost see his bones
As he ran, hobble--hobble--hobble
Over the stones."
Before I could wholly recapture the quaint melody, my efforts would
invariably be nullified by the raucous shriek of his trade which had
forever fixed the nickname whereby Our Square knew Plooie:
"Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder!" He would then recapitulate
in English, or rather that unreproducible dialect which was his
substitute for it. "Oombrella for mend? Annie oombrella for mend?"
So he would pass on his way, shattering the peaceful air at half-minute
intervals with his bilingual disharmonies. He was pallid, meagerly
built, stoop-shouldered, bristly-haired, pock-marked, and stiff-gaited,
with a face which would have been totally insignificant but for an
obstinate chin and a pair of velvet-black, pathetically questioning
eyes; and he was incurably an outlander. For five years he had lived
among us, occupying a cubbyhole in Schepstein's basement full of ribs,
handles, crooks, patches, and springs, without appreciably improving his
speech or his position. It was said that his name was Garin--nobody
really knew or cared--and it was assumed from his speech that he
was French.
Few umbrellas came his way. Those of us affluent enough to maintain such
non-essentials patch them ourselves until they are beyond reclamation.
Why Plooie did not starve is one of the mysteries of Our Square, though
by no means the only one of its kind. I have a notion that the Bonnie
Lassie, to whom any variety of want or helplessness is its own
sufficient recommendation, drummed up trade for him among her uptown
friends. Something certainly enlisted his gratitude, for he invariably
took off his frowsy cap when he passed her house, whether or not she was
there to see, and he once unbosomed himself to me to the extent of
declaring that she was a kind lady. This is the only commentary I ever
heard him make upon any one in Our Square, which in turn completely
ignored him until the development of his love affair stimulated our
condescending and contemptuous interest.
The object of Plooie's addresses was a little Swiss of unknown
derivation and obscure history. She appeared to be as detached from the
surrounding world as the umbrella-mender himself. An insignificant bit
of a thing she was, anaemic and subdued, with a sad little face, soft
hazel eyes slightly crossed, and the deprecating manner of those who
scrub other people's doorsteps at fifteen cents an hour.
For a year their courtship, if such it might be termed, ran an
uneventful course. I had almost said unromantic. But who shall tell
where is fancy bred or wherein romance consists? Whenever Plooie saw the
drabbled little worker busy on a doorstep, he would cross over and open
the conversation according to an invariable formula.
"Annie oombrella for mend? Annie oombrella?" Thereby the little Swiss
became known as, and ever will be called locally, "Annie Oombrella."
Like most close-knit, centripetal communities, we have a fatal penchant
for nicknames in Our Square.
She would look up and smile wanly, and shake her head. Where, indeed,
should the like of her get an umbrella to be mended!
Then would he say--I shall not attempt to torture the good English
alphabet into a reproduction of his singular phonetics: "It makes fine
to-day, it do!"
And she would reply "Yes, a fine day"; and look as if the sun were a
little warmer upon her pale skin because of Plooie's greeting, as,
perhaps, indeed, it was.
After that he would nod solemnly, or, if feeling especially loquacious,
venture some prophecy concerning the morrow, before resuming his
unproductive rounds and his lugubrious yawp. One day he discovered that
she spoke French. From that time the relationship advanced rapidly. On
Christmas he gave her a pair of red woolen gloves. On New Year's he took
her walking among the tombstones in God's Acre, which is a serious and
sentimental, not to say determinative, social step. Twice in the
following week he carried her bucket from house to house. And in the
glowing dusk of a crisp winter afternoon they sat together hand in hand,
on a bench back of my habitual seat, and looked in each other's eyes,
and spoke, infrequently, in their own language, forgetful of the rest of
the world, including myself, who was, perhaps, supposed not to
understand. But even without hearing their words, I could have guessed.
It was very simple and direct, and rather touching. Plooie said:
"If one marries themselves?"