by Cyrus Fisher
As we worked mon oncle said ma mère had written him, saying she was worried. He promised to write her tonight to tell her there wasn’t any need for her to be concerned. If a German was hiding, he seemed to want to hide and do nothing to be found. Mon oncle wagged his head at me and said, “Besides, if your mother takes you away from here now, you will never win that bicycle, hein? It would be a great misfortune.”
I agreed with him there. By now, I was nearly certain I’d be able to walk those two miles. What concerned me more was winning that electric lighting dynamo by writing a letter in French. My French didn’t seem to improve a third as much as my leg was doing.
The following morning, Tuesday, I think it was, le forgeron and I made the first trip to the meadow in the oxcart. Monsieur Niort did most of the unloading of the tools and the lumber and canvas for the slide and shelter. To launch the avion, mon oncle counted upon building a kind of runway, about ten feet from the top of the ground at one end. The avion would coast down this runway and gather speed before it took off to sail over le village.
Partly by speaking French, partly by making signs with his hands when I didn’t understand, Monsieur Niort let me know he meant to remain up here and erect the shelter while I drove the oxcart back down to le village. He led the ox around. He switched the ox. He waved at me, thundering away in his big voice, “Au revoir, Jean! Reviens vite!”
I’d hoped I might encounter Charles or Suzanne as I descended vers le village—toward le village. But I didn’t see a sign of either one. Probably they were working over on the other side of la montagne. I was a shade uneasy, first because it was a new thing to drive that big lumbering ox—secondly, because I was still not too sure la montagne was as safe as I’d made out in my letters to ma mère. Just the fact that someone was somewhere up there, hiding, wasn’t calming to the mind.
It required about an hour for that huge ox to haul the cart down the montagne into le village. It was a fine experience for me. I’d never driven an ox before. Fact is, I let the ox take its own head. It knew the way. It was slow as molasses, never going faster than a walk, but nothing could stop it. The cart had two big squeaking wooden wheels, high as my head. A mile off, you could hear us coming.
Mon oncle was ready for me at the shop. You might expect it to be difficult for one man and a boy my age, with a lame leg, to lift that avion onto the cart. It wasn’t difficult at all. Even though the frame of the avion was put together, and the wings stuck out on each side all of thirty feet wide and more, all of it didn’t weigh more than a hundred or a hundred and ten pounds. It was marvelously constructed to be both light and strong as possible.
An avion with a motor is a different affair altogether. The motor whips around a propeller. The propeller sets up a breeze. It drags the avion across the ground faster and faster until the avion leaps into the air. An avion with a motor has wheels. Mon oncle’s avion didn’t have any wheels. All it had were two short skids under the wings to land on. In the center of the wings was slung a canvas belt, which was the seat. Mon oncle planned to sit astraddle of this seat, the steering wheel in front of him, and take off from the runway. The avion was supposed to voler through the air and voler over le village and the crick and descend into the meadow. To do all that without a motor, it had to be light as possible.
Consequently, I didn’t have to do any lifting to speak of when we put the thing on the oxcart. Mon oncle merely crawled under the wings until he was in the middle. He straightened up. He carried his avion to the cart. Next he hauled it upwards, the long wings vibrating and trembling like the wings of a bird.
The ox snorted a little, not knowing what was happening. My job was to steady one end of the wing.
While the oxcart squeaked up la montagne we ate goat’s cheese and black bread and had our first wild cherries of the season. You’d be surprised how good such simple food can be. By the time we arrived in the mountain meadow, le forgeron had begun to erect the canvas shelter. He marched over towards us to give mon oncle a hand with the avion.
I climbed down one of the big wheels to steady a wing. As they lifted the framework, the left wing circled toward the ox. Nothing probably would have happened even then, because ordinarily an ox is as steady as stone, if at that second my leg hadn’t decided to take a rest of its own accord. It flopped. I fell against the ox. Startled, the ox lunged forward. The wing cracked.
The ox didn’t move more than a couple of feet. But the damage was done. Instead of rushing to save his avion, mon oncle had jumped to me, picking me up, being concerned about me. He carried me under a tree and sat me down and rolled up my pant’s leg. I wasn’t hurt. I’d had falls like that before. I was ashamed and grieved about what I’d done to the avion.
Mon oncle inspected the damage. He came back to me. He said, “Oui, l’avion est cassé.”
I knew what “cassé” was—“broken.”
“But—” And he smiled. “But not very much. The tip of the wing. Pouf!” He snapped his fingers. “By demain—by tomorrow I will fix it. By demain, l’avion est réparé. You will see. I do not joke.”
He said “réparé” almost like we would say repaired. I understood that word. By tomorrow, or, demain, he was telling me, the avion is repaired. I wasn’t sure if the break was as unimportant as he made out. I thought he might be trying to spare me grief. But he gave me a light whack on the back. “Voyons!” he exclaimed—look here—see here. He told me to come and see for myself. He showed me where the linen cloth was ripped at the tip of the wing. Demain—tomorrow—he’d glue on a new patch. That was all there was to it. I felt better. Even my leg felt better. “Very soon,” he said, cheerfully, “the airplane will be ready to fly—prêt à voler. You will see.”
“Prêt? That means ready?”
“Oui,” said he. “The airplane will be prêt. And you—toi? Will you be prêt to win your bicycle?”
That was one thing I didn’t know. Sometimes I figured I was sure to win. Other days, I’d still have cramps in my leg. I’d lose hope.…
I didn’t have a chance to see Charles about my scheme for a couple of days. Mon oncle and le forgeron were as busy as could be, erecting that slide. They built it about fifty feet below the ruins of the maison. On a beau jour I could stand next to the great stone walls of the maison and look down across the meadow and over the valley and voir—see—the river and le village and the cow field and meadows and voir men no bigger than ants working in the vineyards. Some of the leaves were beginning to change to yellow and red. It was hard to believe I’d been here for so many weeks.
The way I was when I first arrived, I’d never have stayed in a hotel without mon oncle or somebody kin to me even if I’d received a hundred dollars for doing it. I guess, without my realizing it, I had improved some.
I’d go down to St. Chamant with le forgeron. Here, I’d eat dinner with the Graffoulier kids, spending the evening with them, sweating on my French, experimenting even by trying to write a letter in French. I knew quite a heap of French words, now, too. The trouble was, I didn’t know the right words to join together for a letter. Sure, I could ask for things. I could make people understand me. I could get around in the language. But to sit down in cold blood and attempt to compose a letter to ma mère all in French—why, it was harder than learning how to walk.
After mon oncle left the hotel, I learned something he’d done. I gathered enough spunk to ask Madame Graffoulier for my bill, how much I owed her. Well, do you know what? Mon oncle had gone and paid for me out of his own pocket! She told me he had. I didn’t know what to do. There he was, poor as a church mouse, slaving on his avion, probably no one coming to see it voler when he was ready, not much chance of anyone knowing if it would be any good because of what le maire had done—and yet, he paid my bill. He figured I was his guest. According to his lights, he was supposed to pay. I never knew a man as proud and touchy about what was right and wrong in matters of honor as was mon oncle.
Of course, I asked mon oncle when I saw him, t
elling him mon père had given me money to pay my own bills. But he wouldn’t hear any talk about it. He said it was understood I was his guest. His black eyebrows clamped down over his big nose. He asked, “Am I so poor I cannot have my own neveu for a guest, hein? Ah, non!” Then, he changed back. He smiled. He said when he came to visit me, I would have to pay for him. He clapped me on the arm and walked away, whistling, as if everything was agreed to between us. It wasn’t. But I couldn’t argue with him. I guess nobody could argue with mon oncle when he was set upon something. I didn’t know how to explain to ma mère, though, after she’d cautioned me to keep an eye out for him.…
Business was picking up at the hotel as summer moved toward early fall. The fisherman still remained, leaving often before daylight, coming back late at nuit. The salesman from Tulle moved on. A blind pots-and-pans mender stayed there for a time. He set up shop in the courtyard. The women of le village brought their pans to him and he heated his solder and fixed the pans, all by touch. Day or night didn’t make any difference to him. Sometimes at night I’d hear his sad sweet voice, singing old songs out in the courtyard, while he worked.
Finally, the framework for the wooden runway was nearly finished. I spent the noon exploring the cellar in the ruins. Mon oncle went with me. The Germans had bombed the place. The cellar was dark and gloomy and with his flashlight mon oncle showed me how the earth had piled in after the explosion. Under a pile of dirt in one corner we found a couple of rusty tin cans with German words on them, German rations. And we found rabbit bones, too, where whoever had stayed there had eaten. That was on a Thursday, I think. On the way to St. Chamant, I asked le forgeron to let me off before we reached town. I tested myself. I walked in. The distance was nearly a mile and a quarter.
I was late for dinner but my leg had plugged along, giving me no trouble at all. I decided to increase the distance—maybe Friday, try to walk over to the Meilhacs’ to see Charles. It bothered me how the jours were racing by, with me having no chance still to do anything. That Thursday evening I was tired and sleepy. I didn’t spend much time with little Philippe on French. I went to bed early. A queer thing happened. Along about midnight I awakened, with the impression someone near me was humming that same silly tune Albert used to hum back in Paris. Probably it was because I was so tired. Pretty soon the humming ended. I fell asleep. For the first time in weeks again I dreamed of the long white face of Monsieur Simonis. Friday morning I awoke, feeling depressed.
When le forgeron and I reached mon oncle, we found he was stirred up over something, too. During the night someone had stolen some wood—not much, half a dozen sticks. He kept shaking his head and said he didn’t understand it. The people around St. Chamant weren’t dishonest. If someone had wanted wood for a fire, he was certain he’d have been asked. I almost told him about the dream I had last night and how I’d awakened, thinking Albert was passing outside in the hall humming that silly tune. But in broad daylight, the fresh montagne wind blowing down upon us, everything seemed different. I could see how foolish I’d sound, worrying mon oncle that I was beginning to imagine things again just as he thought I’d recovered from all those fears. I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut—leastwise, that Friday morning, I thought I was being sensible.
Evidently, mon oncle noticed I’d been listening to him talking to le forgeron. He realized I was slowly learning to understand French conversations. Right away, he broke off speaking to le forgeron, saying it wasn’t important losing a little wood; and he shooed me off to the shelter to fetch more nails. The sun broke through the clouds along about ten o’clock. By eleven, the big wooden runway had been completed. We hoisted the avion on top of the runway, mon oncle attaching it in place with a rope, so it wouldn’t slide down.
I walked around it and looked at it up there, shimmering in the sunlight. I could hardly see where the wing had been fixed. He nodded his head at it. “Oui,” said he, pleased. “Je suis content. L’avion n’est pas cassé. L’avion est réparé. L’avion est prêt à voler. L’avion va voler très loin. Do you understand enough French for all of that, Jean?”
I said I’d understood most of it. “The airplane is not broken. The airplane is repaired. The airplane is ready to fly. The airplane is going to fly—” And then I said I was stuck on that word “loin.”
“Far,” he said. “‘Très loin’ is ‘very far.’ The airplane is going to fly very far. L’avion va voler très loin.”
“Ne volez pas trop loin, mon oncle,” I said, which meant “fly not too far, my uncle.” We’d probably say in English, “Don’t fly—” but in French they use that “ne volez pas” with the double “not’s.”
He smiled. “As-tu peur? Have you fear?”
I looked across the meadow to where the cliff dropped away, and le village was small, so far below; and I said maybe he ought to try out his avion not very loin at first, just a little jump. He laughed. “La peur n’est pas bonne, Jean. You will see. L’avion va voler dans le ciel—in the sky—for beaucoup de minutes. For many minutes!”
While we were talking in the shadow of the ruins, Suzanne and Charles marched across the crest of la montagne and saw us and hallooed and whooped and came court-ing or I should say “courant” in French, actually, for “running,” because “court” just means “runs.” It was a wonderful surprise. Here I’d been planning on asking mon oncle to go to their maison this afternoon and was afraid he might refuse—and now they were here. I saw this was my chance to get Charles to one side and make him understand he’d have to sneak down the montagne tonight and meet me outside the hotel for my scheme.
Before I could say anything, they did the same thing they did the other time. Charles gave me a quick hug, and kissed me on the cheeks. Suzanne gave me a hug and I might as well admit it, I’d been here so long and seen it was the natural greeting, that I gave her a quick hug back and probably didn’t do any more than turn all the colors of the rainbow.
Meanwhile, Charles was rapidly explaining to mon oncle.
Mon oncle repeated it to me. Because the Meilhac twins hadn’t seen me for so long, this morning they had gotten up before daylight to do their work. After finishing, they’d started over la montagne to visit me at the workshop in St. Chamant and luckily saw the avion up on the wooden runway and came here instead.
For the next half-hour, I didn’t have an opportunity to signal Charles I had to talk privately to him. Mon oncle showed Charles and Suzanne the avion, telling them about it, how it was supposed to coast down the wooden runway and gather enough speed to leap off into the air and voler. Le forgeron was splitting stakes with an ax. He laid the ax on the slide and came over to boom away on his own hook, probably boasting how loin the avion would voler once it was in the sky—le ciel.
Resting on top of the runway, the avion somehow appeared larger than when it was in the workshop or simply on the ground. Perched so high above us, more than ever before it resembled a gigantic butterfly, the wings quivering a little from the wind, the bracing wires thrumming a low soft steady note.
To demonstrate to the twins how it would fly, mon oncle climbed into the cockpit located in between the wings. The cockpit was open to the air. Mon oncle straddled the canvas sling serving as a seat, his feet touching the wooden runners of the runway. On either side of him were the skids to the avion. Le forgeron climbed up to the top and took a piece of soap from his pocket. He demonstrated how he would rub soap on the runners for the skids to coast down.
Charles’ eyes goggled. “L’avion ne va pas tomber?” he asked.
Mon oncle said, no, it wouldn’t tomber—fall. It would voler dans le ciel—the sky. He was absolutely confident. I wished I could feel as confident as he did, now the time was almost prêt for him to try it out.
The thing that made me angry, however, was that because of le maire there wouldn’t be a crowd invited or any famous people. Mon oncle might go and risk his neck and voler all over the place. No one would ever know about it or buy mon oncle’s invention of a stable av
ion. I simply had to manage some means of grabbing Charles off to one side this afternoon and informing him everything depended upon him helping me tonight.
Suzanne asked, “L’avion est prêt à voler?”
Mon oncle explained it was prêt, but he planned to wait until early next week before trying it out. He wanted to wait until the wind blew up a storm. The more wind he had, the better he could prove to himself that his design of an avion was absolutely stable. That didn’t make sense to me. If I was an inventor I’d want to pick a day still as doom for my first attempt, before risking my neck in a storm. But mon oncle wasn’t built along cautious lines, I guess.
As mon oncle hoisted Suzanne up to the avion, to have a better look at it, Charles passed around toward me.
I grabbed at him, pulling him under the wooden runway. Hastily, I whispered, “Tu viens voir moi. Nuit,” hoping he’d understand I wanted him to come to see me tonight. I added, “Nuit. Nuit. Hôtel. Tu viens? St. Chamant.”
“Moi?” he said, pointing at himself, his mouth gaping in astonishment at the idea he was supposed to come to the hotel in St. Chamant tonight. “Tu veux je viens à St. Chamant?” That “tu veux,” you remember, means, “you wish.”
“Oui!” I said. “Tu viens. Hôtel. Nuit. Le maire. Secret. Très secret!”
It’s altogether astonishing how few words you require to explain something when it’s an emergency and you have to hurry and you’ve got somebody like Charles Meilhac who was trying as hard to understand as I was to make him understand.
11
MONSIEUR SIMONIS VOIT CHARLES ET MOI
