The Avion My Uncle Flew

by Cyrus Fisher

  A big fat Frenchman and a little yellow-haired girl, about five, walked by. The little girl saw me. She ran over to me and said, “Bon jour.”

  Even though I recognized by now that Albert was in cahoots with Monsieur Simonis, I cried, “Help, help!” to the big Frenchman, my voice probably weak and frightened. The little girl’s father asked Albert, “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?” and if it annoys you to see that string of French words put together which you can’t understand, how do you think I felt when he said all of that?

  I knew I was lost. It was the first time in my life I’d needed a Frenchman to understand what I was telling him—and here he was, big enough to help me, and he wasn’t any more use to me than if he was deaf!

  Albert chuckled. He replied. I don’t know what he said, but whatever it was, it was a lie because the big fat Frenchman laughed. He tipped his hat and said, “Bon jour, mon garçon.” The little girl laughed; and she said, “Bon jour,” too. Away they both went.

  I heard Albert make a gritty sound in his mouth, as if he were shoving his teeth together. He said, “For that, I vill twist your leg hard—” and he came at me. I grabbed at my crutches and jumped. I landed on the gravel path. I scurried up, trying to run with the crutches. I didn’t succeed very well. I was panting and half crying, thinking he was right behind me when I ran into somebody.

  I fell down. I was picked up, put on my feet. “Ah, now. What is this?” said a lively voice. I looked up. The man who had taken hold of me was gazing at me, cheerful and gay. He was about twenty or twenty-one, I imagine, dressed in baggy old French clothes. He had black curly hair and black eyes and a nose sticking so far out of his face you could hang your hat on it. He wasn’t much bigger than I was, either, although he gazed at me, his head flung back, as if he considered he was at least six feet tall.

  I’d seen photographs of him—and, once you’d seen a photograph of him from one side, showing the length of that nose, you’d never forget him. I exclaimed, “Oncle Paul!”

  “Voici!” said he, his eyes sparkling. “Jean!”

  Next thing, he kissed me on one side of the cheek and on the other. Afterwards I learned that was a method all French had when they greeted friends or relatives of theirs, men or women, it didn’t make any difference. I wriggled away, remembering about Albert and Monsieur Simonis. All my fear came back. I can see now how I must have confused mon oncle Paul, shouting the men were after me.

  When I got quieted down, I saw nobody was in the parc except oncle Paul and me. That Albert had decamped, too. He must have seen mon oncle pick me up and run to keep another and safer appointment. Mon oncle wheeled me to the hotel, explaining his train had been late. He’d arrived just a few minutes ago at the hotel. My mother had told him I’d probably be in the parc and he had gone to surprise me and fetch me back to the hotel.

  Back in the hotel I repeated everything that had taken place while my mother and my father and mon oncle Paul listened. Just as I’ve explained to you, Monsieur Simonis was too clever for me. It was exactly as if he expected me to report on him and had figured out a method to beat me, no matter.

  My mother and my father were simply confused. I think they considered I still was set against going to St. Chamant and had worked up a big tale about a mysterious man to persuade them not to send me. It didn’t help when I urged them to telephone down to the hotel manager and ask him to send Albert up to them, so they might question Albert. My father did telephone down.

  The hotel manager was sorry. Albert had left a note explaining his sudden departure. Albert’s sister in Rheims, a city north of Paris, had telegraphed Albert’s mother was sick. So Albert had departed. My father hung up and shook his head and said, “This beats me. Johnny, are you certain you saw that fellow Simonis?” He asked my mother, “Should I send for a doctor?”

  I didn’t want a doctor.

  From the other side of the room, mon oncle winked at me, as if he understood how dense grown-ups could be. He folded his brown hands around his knees. He said, “Voilà, perhaps I can explain this mystery.”

  “I certainly wish you could, Paul,” said my mother.

  According to mon oncle Paul the mayor of St. Chamant was a man named Monsieur Capedulocque. While most of the men, older boys too, of the village had gone away during the war and hidden in the montagnes when the Germans came, this mayor had remained. Mon oncle Paul said no one had ever proved Monsieur Capedulocque had actually worked with the Germans. No. The mayor had kept free from that suspicion. But he had taken over the vineyards and sold pigs and goats and made a lot of money. Now he was the wealthiest man in St. Chamant, with almost everyone else owing him money.

  Before the war, none of the Capedulocques had been very important. They were jealous of the Langres family, and the Meilhac family, and a few other important families living near the town. These families had been pretty much ruined by the war. Now the mayor was buying up their vineyards and land and forests. He had attempted to buy the Langres property cheaply. Mon oncle Paul had written him several times, refusing.

  Now mon oncle Paul finished, “I zink this—” He never could pronounce “think” as it should be pronounced. “I zink this mayor has arranged for an agent of his to come to Paris, my dear sister, and see you to persuade you to sell our land.”

  “That makes sense,” said my father, thoughtfully. “Then, you believe Monsieur Simonis was trying to purchase the land for that rascally mayor?”

  “Oui,” said mon oncle Paul, nodding his head, smiling at me. “It is simple. And Monsieur Simonis gives, maybe, a little money to this Albert to find out about you before approaching you. When we refuse to sell the land, Monsieur Simonis goes to Jean here—” He indicated me. “He wishes Jean to help him persuade you to sell by refusing to leave for St. Chamant. Is it not that, perhaps? Monsieur Simonis is most stupid, I zink. He zink if Jean and I do not go to St. Chamant and see how beautiful is our land, very soon my sister and I—we change our minds. We say, ‘Oui, we will sell.’ Voici!”

  My father glanced at me. He began grinning. “Johnny, I guess I made a mistake. I’m sorry for not believing you. Poor old Simonis was merely a French business man trying to make a sale and hoping you could help him. If you hadn’t let that wild young imagination of yours—”

  “But it wasn’t my imagination!” I cried. “He did threaten me.”

  There it was, again. Even if they had worked out a solution which satisfied them, they couldn’t realize there was something more to it than merely wanting to buy land owned by my mother and mon oncle. They persisted in believing I’d become excited because I had been sick and miserable and cooped up. My father laughed and picked me up in his arms, big as I was, and carried me into my bedroom and said I wasn’t to worry. A couple of months or so in the country, and I’d be well and strong and forget to be afraid of any stranger I happened to encounter.

  “Bosh,” said my father, and told me to rest now, to take a nap. He was going out to buy tickets. He wanted to give my mother and mon oncle a chance to see each other alone. I wasn’t to disturb them.

  Mon oncle Paul couldn’t remain for dinner. After talking with my mother, he left to arrange for supplies to be sent on down to him in St. Chamant for that avion he was determined to build. At dinnertime, my mother and my father were busy with their own plans of what they would do in England.

  That night I slept fairly well. I didn’t have dreams about Monsieur Simonis but I did awake early in the morning. I thought about him and about Albert and tried to puzzle out what they actually wanted. It seemed to me this morning, more sure than ever before, that my parents and mon oncle Paul failed to understand there was more to the mystery than someone merely wanting to buy a parcel of land. But if I talked about it any more, they’d consider I was merely attempting to wriggle out of my bargain to get the bicycle with the high gear and the low gear and the electric lighting dynamo. In the excitement of preparing to depart, I pushed away all thoughts about Monsieur Simonis and the mystery.…r />
  After breakfast, my mother let me help her pack my duds. I was to leave that afternoon. Ordinarily, I suppose I wouldn’t have wanted to go, considering what had happened. But I did want to get that bicycle. I was tired of never walking. It’s true, my mother showed she was a little nervous too. She said I was to write regularly from St. Chamant and if the mayor caused me any difficulty—or if, for that matter, anyone caused Paul and me difficulty she wanted to know in a hurry.

  While we were packing, my mother also told me a little more about her brother. She said first he’d been in the army and then he’d been with the French underground and had fought against the Germans all during the war. She explained he was dreadfully poor now, because all the money her father had left him had been stolen by the Germans. He had learned how to fly. While he’d been in the hospital he had thought of a new kind of avion. She wasn’t very clear in her own mind what kind of avion it was—you know how women are, that way. But I could see she was concerned over her brother. He had a little money the French government had given him while he was a lieutenant, saved out of his pay. With that he planned to live in this little town of St. Chamant during the rest of the summer and fall and hoped to build his avion himself before he ran out of money.

  My mother said he wouldn’t take anything from my father. So, she said, my father planned to give me quite a lot of money for a boy of my age, almost three hundred dollars, changed into French money. She asked me to look out for mon oncle Paul without hurting his pride and to make sure he didn’t spend all his money on his avion and that he ate enough food and took proper care of himself. The result was, I had a responsibility, too.

  My father and mother were leaving late that night for London. We had lunch together, all four of us. Mon oncle Paul was still in his old worn clothes, but to look at him you’d never realize he might be aware of how shabby he looked. His clothes were clean. He kept them neatly pressed. His curly black hair was brushed. He was gay as ever, telling my parents they were to have a good time in England and not to be concerned about me.

  When he talked fast he made me want to laugh because sometimes he wouldn’t say our words exactly right—he’d say “ziss” for “this” and “I zink” for “I think”—but for all his easy, light-hearted manner he was a proud, touchy little fellow, and I didn’t care to laugh for fear of wounding his feelings. My mother had told him about the bargain I’d made to earn that bicycle with the high gear and the low gear and the real electric lighting dynamo.

  Now he said, “That bicycle, Jean—” He never did call me “John.” “Ah, we shall get it for you, I zink for a certainty. I, personally, will teach you the great French language. You will see. I promise. For the honor of the family, zat I promise!”

  You know, I thought he was half joking, just making conversation. I never realized he was in dead earnest and privately considered it was his obligation to help me win that bicycle and electric lighting outfit. I could have saved myself an almighty lot of trouble later if I had known mon oncle Paul Langres never trifled when he took on a job, whether it was fighting the Germans, inventing an avion, or taking charge of an American nephew.

  When it was four o’clock in the afternoon and time for mon oncle and me to get to our train, all of us, I guess, became a little solemn. My father rolled out the wheel chair. Mon oncle Paul shot a glance at me. I took a long breath. I tucked my crutches under my arms. I remarked I could go to the station without that chair.

  “In two months,” mon oncle told my father, “Jean will run. Jean va courir, you watch!”

  “What does that mean?” I inquired.

  “What is what?” asked mon oncle. “Jean va courir?”

  “Oui,” said I. “What does ‘Jean va courir’ mean, please?”

  Mon oncle said, “‘Va’ in French can be both ‘goes’ or ‘is going.’ And ‘courir’ is ‘to run.’ Now you tell me what ‘Jean va courir’ is, my friend.”

  I thought. “Jean va” according to him could be either “John goes” or “John is going.” The first one didn’t make sense with “courir”—to run. So I said it meant I was going to run. I hoped he was right. I hoped in two months I was going to run.

  “Exactly,” said mon oncle. “It is easy.”

  It was time to shove. I didn’t need anyone to carry me. The porters came up for our baggage. My mother and father went into the corridor. I came after them, trying not to let them notice how the pain jogged me every time I used my left leg. Mon oncle waited behind me. So they wouldn’t see my face, I looked back at him. Then to say something, I asked, “Mon oncle Paul va?”

  I must have said, “My uncle goes?” well enough in French because he grinned and said, “Bien!” giving his fingers a snap. “Très bien! Oui, ton oncle Paul va aussi, Jean.”

  I didn’t know what that “aussi” at the end of the sentence meant but it sounded like “also.” Later, I learned it was “also.” Sometimes you can pick up words in sentences without having anyone tell you what they are. And that “ton oncle,” of course, was simple: “Your uncle.” I could guess that much.

  When we reached the station we had about ten minutes to wait. In France there are three classes on trains, not like ours. There is a magnificent and expensive first-class where nobody rides but swells and lords and dukes, I guess; and a second-class, about like ours; and a third-class where, as nearly as I could find out later, everyone in France actually rode because it was so cheap. Mon oncle Paul said we should have gone third-class and he expected to pay for the tickets. But by now my father knew how to handle him. My father apologized. He said he was sorry he had purchased second-class tickets and he hoped Paul would forgive him for doing it. But he thought I might be more comfortable going second-class this time.

  Inside, French trains are cut up into compartments, with the aisle running down one side. The aisle has big greenish colored windows. Mon oncle and I stood in the aisle, watching my father and mother as the train started chuffing out of the station. We waved and they waved and then they were gone. Mon oncle and I took our seats. We were the only people in our compartment.

  I felt pretty low, all at once. Oncle Paul opened his old-fashioned black leather valise. He didn’t seem to notice how low I felt. He pulled out a long flute and said, “You like music, no?”

  I said, “Music?”

  He could have asked if I liked the Greek language or moonlight served in toasted sandwiches, fried in butter, for all I cared right then. He gave me a sort of grin, the corners of his mouth going up, his eyes creasing into little slits, the light and sparkle dancing behind the slits. He slid down on the seat and stuck the flute to his mouth and shut his eyes and began playing, softly, gently, hardly so anyone could hear. I never heard music like the music that came out of mon oncle’s old flute.

  I don’t suppose you’d say there was a tune, either. At least, not a tune anybody would recognize. The music seemed to steal out of that flute, only for him and me to hear. It made me forget the sounds of the train. The music stole out of that flute and caressed me and spoke of rivers in Wyoming, although how mon oncle ever knew the way a Wyoming river sounded is beyond me. And it made little laughing noises, like sheep, and the music danced ever so lightly as if wind was fluttering through our poplar trees back home and I could almost hear the voices of Bob Collins and old Jake and then the tune, if you call it a tune, again changed, and it was like French soldiers marching down a long avenue, gay and proud and noble, something thrilling to hear them, with it going deep and quick in your blood. Oh, I don’t know how to tell you. It was a marvel the way he played on that flute, all so softly. He might have gone on playing forever, with us rushing off into a wonderful land that flute was trying to speak to me about, if I hadn’t happened to lift my head.

  A man was watching us from the aisle. I caught a glimpse of that dead white face, and the eyebrows lifted upwards, sneering and haughty. I shouted, “That’s him—” and tried to get my crutches. I fell smack in between the seats. Mon oncle opened his e
yes. By the time he’d picked me up and put away his flute, the aisle was empty. I told mon oncle I’d seen Monsieur Simonis for sure. He was on this train.

  Mon oncle rubbed his nose. Very slowly he asked, “You are not afraid to stay here a few minutes?”

  I was afraid. But after listening to that flute, somehow I couldn’t admit it. I shook my head.

  “I’ll be back,” said mon oncle, lifting up his long nose and sniffing as if he were trying to sniff out that white-faced man. Never once did my oncle question the truth of what I was saying. He believed me. He went out and he must have searched up and down the train, every car in it. When he returned, he said, “I am sorry. I do not see anybody like him.”

  More than ever I was bewildered. Nobody could miss Monsieur Simonis. He was too tall to be missed. Just describing him was enough. Mon oncle laid his brown hand gently on my arm. “Have no fear, hein? I zink, back there, when the train slow down a little, he has jumped off. It is a good thing you see him, I zink. Now he will not follow us.”

  “But why would he want to follow us?”

  Mon oncle shrugged. “I do not know, my nephew. I zink the mayor is jealous, perhaps, of the Langres and does not wish a Langres any more to live in St. Chamant. This man wishes to get to St. Chamant as quickly as we do, and inform the mayor he has failed. I have friends in Paris.” He laid his finger against his big nose, smiling, encouraging me. “Today I have told these friends about the man and that Albert. My friends, they are with the police. I zink we must not worry your mama and your papa. It is best they do not worry. Your papa has much now to do. My friends in the police will find soon that Albert and write me what is this that has happened. And—pouf!” He snapped his fingers. “We have no troubles.”