To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [145]
The sounds were reaching him now, people calling out, the voices growing louder, one continuous chorus. He glanced at Painlevé, saw the man raise his hand, a casual wave to the crowds, the gesture inspiring the people to a new burst of cheering. The crowds were closing in on the street now, the limousine slowing to a crawl. The people continued to press forward, hands touching the car, some reaching out, voices calling directly to him. He pulled himself tightly together, felt an odd fear, had seen something like this in the Philippines. There the crowds were menacing, the hands reaching out from faces that wore the sickness of desperation, hunger, and disease, the soldiers working hard to push them away, each soldier knowing that the begging hand might also hold a pistol, a bomb. But there was no menace in these people, and Pershing saw the faces, old and young, men with children perched on their shoulders, young women clutching to fat bouquets of brightly colored flowers. The chorus was more distinct now, the people recognizing Painlevé, some shouting his name, others focusing only on Pershing, this stranger in a strange uniform. He heard a thump, something impacting the car, flinched in response, but saw a bunch of flowers sprayed across the hood. Now more flowers came, a large soft bouquet landing in his lap, more, floating down from above. He looked up, saw hands waving from windows, higher up, rooftops, more flowers raining down. He turned, saw the same thing on the cars behind them, a vast shower of color filling the air. He moved the bouquet aside, and immediately another took its place, flowers filling the space all around him. A woman suddenly surged forward, leaned up against the car, reached out, touched his arm, and he could see tears, saw she was very young, heard her voice above the others, close to him, “Vive l’Amérique! Vive l’Amérique!”
He smiled at her, took her hand, didn’t know what else to do, and she began to sob, held her grip tightly on his hand, pulled along by the slow movement of the car. Behind her, more people were surging forward, more hands, and she released her hold, seemed to fall away, disappearing into the mass of people. But the words still came, rising in the chorus of voices, finding a rhythm, one voice now, “Vive l’Amérique!”
The car was still moving, the people in front giving way grudgingly. He could see the street opening up into a wide circle, a fountain in the center, a garden of colorful flowers all around the base. But the crowds were still there, a vast ring of faces and raised hands, a small flutter of French flags, one old man holding a tattered Stars and Stripes. The limousine moved into the circle, and a new round of cheering began, more flowers launched at the parade of limousines. Pershing was relaxing now, allowed himself to smile, waved to them as Painlevé waved, realized the limousine was nearly full of flowers, covering his legs. He allowed their cheering to flow through him, felt foolish now for his concern. He felt foolish as well for assuming that his reception in France would be the same as it was in England. He was not sure why these people had come out into the street this way, why so many flowers. He leaned toward Painlevé, said, “This was unexpected. I don’t understand.”
Painlevé continued to wave, said, “It is simple, General. You are American. And you are here.”
THE CROWDS HAD SURROUNDED HIS HOTEL, AND HE COULD NOT simply ignore them. His room had a narrow veranda, overlooking the street, and he stepped outside yet again, knew by now what to expect. The cheering began again, his appearance inspiring them to push closer. He waved for a few moments, both hands above his head, thought, All right, that is enough. It is not necessary that you treat me this way. But no