Vango

by Timothee de Fombelle

  Ethel could paint the portraits of several passengers. Eckener was struck by how accurately she could recall them. Each moment was engraved on her memory. She could describe the leather braces of one traveler or the entire hangar where they had stopped off at Kasumigaura, in Japan.

  Ethel ate enough for four. She looked stunning in a dress her mother must have worn to dance the Charleston in America after the war, flicking her heels behind her to the rhythm, first one then the other, until they touched her hands.

  Ethel listened to Eckener telling her about an expedition he’d attempted to the North Pole. The Graf Zeppelin had been able to land on the Arctic Ocean, near Hooker Island. Ethel shivered and then laughingly begged for some tropical destinations instead.

  So he spoke to her about the pyramids and about Jerusalem.

  Ethel had taken off her shoes.

  The people around them were whispering. Perhaps they thought she was old-fashioned, with her 1920s dress. They whispered that she was laughing too much. But neither the women nor the men could take their eyes off her.

  Everybody was craning their neck. And Hugo Eckener was enjoying himself greatly.

  But the only thing on his mind was a name neither of them had mentioned yet. Which proved they were both thinking about him.

  “I was wondering about something,” said Ethel.

  Hugo Eckener put down his glass. The time had come.

  “Do you remember,” she asked, “that boy . . . Vango?”

  Eckener smiled. She had screwed up her eyes as she uttered his name, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether or not she’d gotten it right, even though she’d just shown herself capable of recalling exactly what color socks the lowestranking engineer on board the zeppelin was wearing.

  It didn’t ring true, and this was the third time in a few months that Eckener had experienced such a scene.

  First of all, there had been that Frenchman, claiming to be a canned-goods businessman, who had come to pay him a visit. One Auguste Boulard.

  After talking about canned meat and spinach while heartily recommending them for the provisioning of the Graf Zeppelin, after refereeing the match between dried beans and canned beans, after a poignant depiction of the agony of the fresh bean (flaccid, sad, and bound to turn yellow after three days of travel), he had finally popped the question: “Do you remember that boy . . . Vango? Do you have any news of him?”

  Then there had been the passenger on a crossing to Lakehurst, near New York. A Russian whom he already knew and who had asked him, “Do you remember that boy . . . ?”

  To each of them, Hugo Eckener had replied that he remembered him very well, yes, absolutely, a delightful boy, but he hadn’t had any news of him for five years now.

  “My dear Ethel, might it by any chance be on account of your last question that I have the privilege of dining with you this evening?”

  Embarrassed, she fiddled with her glass.

  “You do know that you’re not the only one looking for him?” Eckener pointed out.

  “You must have had a visit from a short, rather round gentleman with an umbrella,” said Ethel.

  “Yes,” Eckener agreed, “with an umbrella.”

  “And perhaps a Soviet gentleman with glasses, a mustache, and a complexion like a melted candle?”

  “Perhaps,” Eckener acknowledged, “but without the mustache.”

  “The Russian who traveled with us in 1929 in the zeppelin?”

  “That’s the one, yes. Quite so. But without the mustache.”

  It was because of his visitors that the commander had decided not to say anything to his young dining companion. They frightened him. Eckener had known Ethel’s father, a long time ago, in Ohio. In memory of his friend, he had invited the little orphan girl and her brother to embark on a tour of the world in the zeppelin, in August 1929. He had felt in some way responsible for her.

  “Thou shalt not covet the prey of the scorpion.”

  “Is that in the Bible?”

  “It would do well to be!”

  Eckener wasn’t very familiar with the Bible. He distrusted religion and had refused to get married in church.

  “Thou shalt not covet the prey of the scorpion,” he repeated, even more darkly.

  “What does that mean?” Ethel wanted to know.

  “It means that in looking for Vango, you will first encounter those who are after him.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “They’re dangerous.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  Eckener ran his hand through his beard.

  “Where is he?” Ethel asked softly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sure he’s been here.”

  “He visited the shores of this lake, yes. Five or six years ago. But you know that already because you were there.”

  Ethel raised her voice.

  “You shouldn’t be giving me the same answer as you did to the others, Herr Doctor. They want to destroy him, but I . . .”

  She couldn’t finish her sentence. Why was she looking for Vango?

  “You know that he was ordained a priest in Paris,” said Eckener calmly.

  “No!”

  She brought her fist down on the table. Vango was not a priest. He had missed becoming one, admittedly only by three or four minutes. Eckener sensed that nothing was going to stop Ethel. He tilted his chair back.

  Why not reveal the existence of Zefiro’s invisible monastery to her after all? Vango was bound to be there, after the zeppelin had dropped him off near the volcano of Stromboli.

  Only a handful of men on the planet knew the secret of this monastery. And Eckener was one of them. They would all have died rather than reveal it. But Ethel’s determination seemed stronger than anything.

  Yes, he thought, I’ll tell her where he is. She’ll be in less danger if she’s ahead of them all. And she might be able to help him.

  He glanced around him. The neighboring tables were empty, their candles blown out.

  Ethel was waiting. Eckener folded his napkin with great care. He was weighing his responsibilities here. The danger for his friend Zefiro. And the fact that he also wanted to protect this girl.

  “You see, Ethel . . .”

  Someone was walking toward Hugo Eckener.

  “Sir,” he said, leaning over the commander.

  It was a waiter.

  “Later,” growled Eckener.

  “But sir . . .”

  “I said later.”

  “It’s Frau Eckener for you,” the waiter dared to add.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! My wife! Where’s the telephone?”

  “She’s not on the telephone, Commander.”

  “Where is she?’

  “Right . . . right behind you.”

  Johanna Eckener had hung back in the shadows and was watching Hugo with an amused expression on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Forgive me, young lady. I have a very urgent message for my husband.”

  Eckener was completely paralyzed.

  “Good evening, Hugo.”

  He couldn’t even open his mouth.

  “Tell me, is this your university friend Moritz, the one you’d lost touch with, a psychologist . . . and bald?”

  Ethel was wide-eyed.

  Hugo Eckener, who was unaccustomed to this kind of scene, was on the verge of agreeing that yes, Moritz had indeed changed a great deal. To tell the truth, he hadn’t recognized him at first either . . . but he returned to his senses just in time: “Johanna . . .”

  She was deliberately not saying anything, to make him flounder.

  “Johanna, I don’t know why . . .”

  The reality was, he knew perfectly well why he had lied.

  Because he hadn’t been out for a romantic dinner with his wife in a restaurant for seven or eight years, because he knew this was something that she dreamed of doing, because he spent his life between his balloon and his crew, and because he hadn’t wanted to tell her that he
was going to dine with a young lady who’d only had to write him three lines for him to rush to reserve the best candlelit table in the finest restaurant.

  “I promise you that . . .”

  Johanna smiled wanly. She knew how obsessively loyal he was and didn’t believe him capable of anything more than this dinner. But this dinner was crime enough.

  She had always believed that she’d grown more mature over time, but she had to admit she was jealous. Not of Ethel, but of this moment, of the stars, of the peonies between them, of the white melted wax on the tablecloth.

  “I’m sorry, I know this is nothing to do with you,” she said to Ethel, her voice breaking a bit. “This is between me and my husband. And I hope you’ll forgive me for making you witness it.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” said Ethel, standing up. “I didn’t know that . . .”

  “Please don’t get up. It will only take a moment.”

  Johanna turned to Eckener and spoke in a hushed voice.

  “Hugo, I just came to tell you that someone appeared at the house. He needs to see you urgently and discreetly.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She hesitated, glancing at Ethel.

  “You can talk in front of her.”

  “He mentioned Violette. . . .”

  The word struck Eckener like an electric charge.

  “Where is he?”

  “I told him to wait in front of the beach hut opposite the island.”

  “And what am I supposed to do about this crew?”

  He indicated the three or four shadows waiting on a bench, ready to start tailing them again at the slightest sign of movement. They blended in about as well as ducks in a tearoom.

  “I’ll take care of them,” said Ethel.

  “Me too,” agreed Johanna.

  Eckener looked skeptical.

  “Get your car,” Johanna ordered. “Young lady, are you coming with me?”

  “Gladly.”

  And Johanna took Ethel’s arm.

  Eckener wondered what they were scheming. But knowing their characters, he decided it was better simply to trust them.

  The three of them made a show of leaving the restaurant together, waving at the headwaiter on their way out. Eckener requested that the bill for the dinner be sent to him the next day.

  There were still a few cars in the courtyard. Eckener got into his vehicle, and his wife slid next to Ethel in the little Railton that was parked by the wall. They exchanged a few words. Two other cars were already revving up and getting ready to follow.

  “You go in front!” Ethel called out to Eckener above the din of backfiring.

  The commander waved from his black sedan.

  To exit the courtyard, they had to negotiate a narrow passage between two enormous flowering rhododendron bushes that only one car could get through at a time.

  So Eckener went first. Ethel and Frau Eckener followed.

  “Wait. . . .”

  In the middle of the narrow passage, Johanna Eckener made Ethel stop the car.

  “Oh! Will you take a look at that!”

  She got out and went to pick one of the biggest purple flowers on the bush. Ethel switched off the engine and joined her. They started talking about gardening, fertilizers, and cuttings. Behind them, engines were revving, but the cars were unable to move.

  Horns tooted and there were loud words.

  “It’s so pretty,” said Ethel, stroking the petals as if she’d never seen anything like them before.

  The lights from Dr. Eckener’s car were already far away.

  Doors banged furiously behind the two women.

  “Did you know that the rhododendron layers perfectly?” Johanna inquired of Ethel.

  “No!”

  The Scottish heiress looked completely taken aback, as if someone had just announced that the sun had disappeared for good.

  “Yes!”

  A man came up behind them.

  “And what about mallow plant?” Ethel was impatient to know.

  “Ah! Mallows! Don’t even mention them to me. Mine aren’t doing very well this spring. . . .”

  “Are you going to get your car out of here?” bellowed a man who was spitting with anger.

  “No, for me,” said Johanna, “mallows are a real problem.”

  “Clear this passage!”

  “And that’s despite the fact that I put manure on them to help get them going again. . . .”

  She was still talking about her flowers, but the man was looking at her feet.

  “Let us through!” another man roared as he rushed toward them.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The women appeared to have only just noticed the two men.

  “Are you in a bit of a rush?” simpered Ethel.

  She looked thoughtful and pointed at one of the men.

  “Oh, my goodness, aren’t you the same man I saw dragging your heels by the shores of the lake all evening?”

  She spoke German with a singsong accent.

  “Remove your car,” said the man, “or I will crush it.”

  “Your romantic moonlit walk with your little friends was so touching. I wanted to throw you rose petals.”

  “Come on,” said Johanna Eckener, tugging Ethel’s arm. “The gentleman is right. Our car is in the way.”

  Ethel allowed herself to be led away. Their mission was accomplished. Sometimes it’s good to know when to stop.

  Hugo Eckener parked his car on the side of the road, by the lake. It was almost completely dark now. The beach was deserted. He couldn’t find anyone in front of the hut. It was a white chalet, Atlantic beach–style, on low stilts. He waited for several minutes on the steps. He lit a cigar. A breeze rose up.

  Eventually, Eckener strolled toward the lapping shore of the lake. He stopped.

  He had just noticed something.

  The commander removed his pants, his jacket, and the rest of his clothes. He was down to a long white pair of boxer shorts. He waded into the lake.

  A man was waiting for him in the lake, with the water up to his shoulders.

  “Are you alone?” asked Eckener. He still had his cigar in his mouth.

  “No,” the other man replied, “I’m with the invisible man.”

  Eckener had no trouble recognizing Esquirol, the renowned Paris doctor.

  The commander was a quarter of a century older than the medic, but their affection for each other was like that of boarding school friends or soldiers in a regiment. They regretted seeing each other so rarely and only on grave occasions.

  Suddenly, Eckener felt the cigar being ripped out of his hand.

  “Dammit!”

  The glowing red ember flew above them before being extinguished in the water four or five meters away.

  “Who’s there?”

  Caught by surprise, Eckener had nearly lost his footing. Esquirol hadn’t made a single move during all of this.

  “I warned you I’m with the invisible man!”

  No sooner had the doctor said this than a quiet chuckle was audible in the gloom, and Hugo Eckener felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hello, Doctor Eckener.”

  It was Joseph Jacques Puppet, a small man impossible to detect in the darkness. Against his black skin he wore a one-piece knitted swimming costume of the same color, which was the latest male fashion from the beaches of Monte Carlo.

  He had been born in Grand-Bassam, Ivory Coast, in West Africa. He had nearly died at Verdun during the war, and then in the boxing rings at the Velodrome and Holborn Stadium, where he was a featherweight by the name of J. J. Puppet. He had stopped boxing just before the venues had been demolished, and now he was Joseph, the barber of Monaco, whose scissors were sought after from one end of the Côte d’Azur to the other.

  Eckener was delighted to see his friends again but guessed that the situation had to be an alarming one. They had come to a dangerous country, despite instructions to meet as little as possible and ne
ver with witnesses. So this had to be a serious business.

  They swam out into the lake.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” said Eckener.

  “We need Zefiro,” replied Esquirol, scanning the gloom around them.

  “Why?”

  “Because of Viktor.”

  “Viktor?”

  “The Paris police think they’ve found Voloy Viktor. They want Zefiro, so that he can be identified.”

  Eckener was floating on his back.

  He felt relieved. For a moment, he’d thought they were going to talk to him about Vango again.

  “How did they find Viktor?” he asked after a pause.

  “By chance, at passport control on the Spanish border.”

  “Impossible,” gulped Eckener.

  How could anyone believe that one of the most dangerous and elusive men in Europe would allow himself to be caught like that?

  “They’re almost certain it’s him. But if someone can’t formally identify him, they’ll have to let him go. There’s plenty of pressure being put on them from on high.”

  “And you want to risk Zefiro’s life for this kind of game?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s already taken enough risks. Leave him in peace.”

  “We need him one last time. It’ll all be over after that, but he’s the only one who can identify Viktor. We’ve got to ask him. Tell us where he is.”

  None of them moved; they were floating on their backs in silence.

  “Look, it’s 1935,” said Joseph Puppet, who had spoken very little up until this point. “The war has only been over for seventeen years, and it could break out again from one day to the next. You know what’s happening in the world at the moment, Dr. Eckener. You’re well positioned to be aware of all this.”

  “I won’t reveal where Zefiro’s monastery is.”

  They fell quiet. A car drove past on the road. They waited for the sound of the engine to fade into the distance, and then Eckener reiterated, “I won’t tell you anything.”

  “Always the same, Eckener,” murmured Esquirol.

  “Meaning?”

  “Stop it, Esquirol!” Joseph intervened.

  “Meaning,” Esquirol went on, “that you’ve never done anything to change things.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” gulped Eckener with a lump in his throat.