Gustave did not pay much attention to these details. He started his engine and, in five or six minutes, without hurrying, found himself at the Bordeaux Tube. At exactly 10:25 a.m., he heard the muffled whistling of the approaching train, still some distance away, in the tube. A slight quiver of the metallic framework of the station, a siren-blast, and the train was there! Then the balcony of the arrival hall was suddenly flooded by a hectic crowd, and the elevators slid through their shafts, bringing the passengers down.
Gustave leaned on the barrier meditatively, with one finger applied to his nose, according to his father’s instruction, in order that he might be recognized. The passengers filed past him, perhaps a trifle stunned by the rapidity of the means of transport, which launched them through the immense tube like a projectile, without jolts or jerks.
Among the passengers, he distinguished from afar a tall boy of approximately his own age, who was coming forward very gravely, also holding his index-finger to his nose, looking around.
Oh—he’s black! thought Gustave, surprised. Not difficult to recognize, so there was no need of such complex instructions. An African from the Congo—good. But what language shall we speak?
Gustave had already prepared his first sentence, in a confused mixture of Esperanto, Volapük, Ido, blue language and five or six other so-called universal languages.4
The black youth had seen Gustave; he smiled broadly and put more pressure on his nose as he came forward.
“Toi passir par ici,” Gustave called, waving his arms. “Moi t’attendir, y a bon…as-tu bagages besef?”5
The boy seemed nonplussed and stopped, getting in the way of impatient passengers. Gustave multiplied his gestures and reverted to his improvised Esperanto.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur?” said the black youth, in surprise.
“Good—you speak French. How are you? I’m Gustave Turbille; Papa is your sponsor, you know.”
“So this is Paris, then! Oh, it’s more beautiful than Villeneuve. I’m Alfred Koufra. Papa is a notary in Villeneuve-sur-Oubangui. Almost two days from the Congo to Bordeaux, and the tube has given me a slight headache…the one at Villeneuve is an old model, and runs so slowly…”
“You’ll be getting straight into an aeroclette, my dear chap—we’re going to school right away; we need to be there to meet friends…your luggage? Good, you have the ticket—your bags will be over there, behind us.”
Gustave tapped the black youth on the shoulder; the latter was staring at the landscape, wide-eyed.
“You still seem bewildered,” said Gustave. “Well, this is Paris. You haven’t seen anything like it? So it doesn’t resemble Villeneuve? Over there is the Seine—not as impressive as the Oubangui, perhaps? There are no baobabs here, you know. And now that you’ve had five minutes of contemplation, let’s go.”
“Beautiful!” proffered young Koufra, as they walked on.
“Of course! Come on—to the garage, quickly!”
In the midst of aerial vehicles of every sort—aeroclettes, helicoclettes and others—somewhat tangled up on the terrace, the comings and goings of pilots and passengers, and the mind-numbing tumult of take-offs, Gustave moved entirely at his ease, but the black youth seemed slightly anxious.
“You’ll get used to it! People are still rather rustic in the Congo, it seems? Don’t overplay the innocent newcomer in front of the lads, though… Here’s my little aero; get in behind me and you’ll see how we eat up the countryside!” He pointed to his machine, the very latest model, both elegant and comfortable, perfectly safe, which could hold three people in a light cabin fitted with much-reduced flexible wings.
“And it’s you who…you who drive it…?”
“I’ve known how for a long time! You don’t drive aeros or motoclettes in Villeneuve, then?”
“Rarely…not all alone…”
Gustave shrugged his shoulders. “Child! Perhaps you drive hydros? With your rivers and lakes, the Oubangui, the Congo, the Zambezi…the hydro-sport must be very good there. Do you do that?”
“Not much.”
“Oh, I’ve got an idea! Buckle up—I’m taking off. Are we all right? Smooth, isn’t it, old chap? Don’t you feel as if you’re gliding? It doesn’t skim the clouds, at least, like those cabs—those aeros for hire over on the right. Is that all right? We’re going to set a course over the forest of Saint-Germain, that blue patch on the horizon…the school is beyond it, not far… I told you I had an idea; this is it: Papa is your sponsor in Paris, so your father must be my sponsor in the Congo! Oh, it’s a good idea: in the Easter vacation, I want to go big game hunting in Africa with you! Very chic! I seem to remember that you said your father was…what?”
“A notary.”
“A notary—that won’t do. Look, there’s no need to tell the other boys that he’s a notary. Naturally, he’s a little…colored…too, your father? Well, let me handle it. At school, I’ll say that you’re the son of a powerful African monarch that my father met out there while building his power stations at the Zambezi falls; that will set you up at school. It’s agreed, then?”
II. The Return.
Sensational Introduction to the Schoolfriends.
As they drew nearer to the school, Gustave moderated his helicoclette’s speed in order to show off the countryside to his young friend from the Congo, who was still slightly stunned by the journey.
“Do you see all that greenery to the right? That’s the forest of Saint-German. Over there…Chambourcy School takes up all of that large area between the forest and the Seine. We’ll make a circuit around it before going in, in order that you can get a look at it. Not bad, our school—first rate, you know!”
“Good teachers?” asked Alfred Koufra.
“And how! All renowned for 50 or 60 years…”
“Oh!” said Koufra, surprised. “They’re very old, then?”
“And a golf course! Excellent—the best of all of those I’ve played in school and college competitions. Don’t forget—you’re the son of an African monarch. That will set you up, I tell you.”
“Yes, yes…”
“Here are the school buildings, the Headmaster’s house, the open-air auditoria, the study-arbors, the halls for rainy days, the garages…the football-ground directly beneath us, the velodrome for the little boys…the broad path over there is the peripatetics’ walkway…6
“Further away, that inlet of the Seine is our yachting harbor; the boats, yachts, canoes and kayaks aren’t here yet; you’ll see them in a few days! Those other buildings over there on the left are my sister Colette’s school at Villennes… It’s not bad, is it, our landscape? Now you know, let’s make a suitable entrance…but don’t forget—a king’s son!”
By means of a clever descending maneuver, Gustave Turbille gained entry to the school. With the graceful motion of a bird allowing itself to glide, his helicoclette settled gently to the ground, alongside other aerial vehicles of various forms, which had also brought pupils.
Joyful shouts welcomed him; meeting again after the scattering of the vacation, everyone had a great deal to say to one another; handshakes were exchanged, along with claps on the shoulder and bursts of laughter.
“Not everyone arrives by aero,” Gustave said to his companion, “some come by road on motocyclettes…it’s a little outdated, the motocyclette, good for distant colonies or old codgers, but it lacks chic here. Ah! Here’s some friends from the third form. Hello, Béguinot, are you well? Hello, Lavigne! Hello, Mathis!”
The arriving boys were forming up in little groups in front of the vast entrance to the grounds; boys were seeking one another out, loudly giving one another their news. With every passing minute, more aeroclettes appeared in the sky. Their occupants were recognized from afar and they were greeted with waving arms.
A few blasts of a siren behind the trees were heard.
“The school bell!” said Gustave. “Bah! We have time…come on, my dear Koufra, I’ll introduce you to my friends in the third form… My f
riend Pignerol, day boy, a brilliant student, an especially good swimmer…comes from Orléans every morning by aeroclette and goes back at 5 p.m…”
“The long way round if the weather’s fine,” said Pignerol.
“Other good friends: Rodolphe Boulard, our heavyweight boxing champion, and Marcel Labrouscade, our poetry champion—good old Labrouscade, the most celebrated littérateur in Chambourcy, who will one day deign to take an armchair in the Académie…”
Koufra bowed deeply.
“Tony Lubin, also a half-boarder, the valiant, elegant and distinguished tennis champion of Chambourcy…comes from Châlons-sur-Marne every day in his aero…”
“Not today,” said Tony Lubin. “Hired machine—I crashed my aero in the mountains a fortnight ago. Can you imagine…”
“Hey!” said Gustave. “I didn’t notice—you’re arm’s in a cast?”
“Yes,” said Tony Lubin, gloriously. “A landing accident in the mountains, near the Vosges! My dear chap, I nearly impaled myself in a fir-tree—a huge devil of a fir-tree that reached for me malevolently with its pointed branches…oh, the brigand! I only just avoided it; I only got a few grazes…and I think even those have healed!”
Tony Lubin withdrew his arm from the sling and swung it gently. “Yes, it’s OK!”
Gustave burst out laughing. “A mere bruise, such as we all get,” he said. “You wanted to arrive with your arm in a sling as a tease!”
“Word of honor!” said Tony Lubin, “A squall, a gust of wind, and I only escaped being impaled thanks to my presence of mind and skill…”
“Exceptional, of course,” said Gustave.
“And my aero remained hanging in the tree! The family was furious, you know—an 8000-franc machine. But as you’ll see next week, its successor is the very latest thing, with all of this year’s improvements. What about you—good holiday?”
“Sea bathing in Constantinople, like every year.”
“Me,” said Béguinot, “Cap Nord in August, stayed with my aunt in Pithiviers in September…that was even colder. Cap Nord, old chaps, cruising the fjords, quite wonderful!”
“I know! I was taken there when I was small. Now, I only dream about hunting—hunting big game!”
“Big game? Brrr! Where’s that? Lower down the Seine, for giant ferocious hares and monstrous wild boar?”
“No, my friend, no—better than that, I assure you…and on that note, I’ll continue the introductions. My good friends, a new boy for the third form, my good friend Koufra, who comes from a little further away than Pithiviers, and can’t go home every evening. Papa is his sponsor in Paris; we came together: my good friend Koufra, from the Oubangui, eldest son and future successor of a Congo monarch!”
Gustave leaned toward Béguinot and whispered something in his ear, of which Alfred Koufra only heard a part: “An African potentate, my dear chap, a fine fellow—I’ll say no more…Papa told me about him. You know—you’ve read the tales of the great explorers…well, it’s still the same out there, old chap! Then again, it’s very curious; one day…”
“My boys,” Gustave continued, aloud, “my friend Koufra is a good lad…but I must say that my holiday on the beaches of the Bosphorus and the casinos of the Archipelago were dull—Papa’s idea; he wanted me to brush up on my Greek history! I had hoped for something else, in the home of Koufra’s father, but—just between us, he was busy; a revolt to put down…shhh!—it’s been put off until the next vacation. Koufra and I are flying off to his father’s, and then it’s off into the bush, after big game!”
An admiring circle had formed around Koufra, who was slightly embarrassed. Gustave Turbille’s introduction had been a success.
The siren continued its appeals. The pupils condescended to pass through the school gates while still chatting, very slowly. Late-comers were still landing, leaving their aeroclettes to the mechanics.
“Come on, gentlemen!” said an earnest individual in a black frock-coat standing by the gate. “May I remind you that you’re 20 minutes late!”
A hum in the sky, slight at first but quickly amplified, caused young Koufra to raise his head. A cigar-shaped airship, nimbler and more elegant in its movements than the vulgar transporters of the minor lines, was advancing rapidly in the direction of the school.
“It’s our omnibus,” said Gustave. “Every morning, it goes to Paris to pick up the day boys who don’t come alone—first the little ones, then the others. There are some who don’t have their flying permits, you know, or have even had them taken away because of some excessive awkwardness…”
The dirigible touched down. On its envelope, between two large rosettes in the school colors, pink and green, were the words:
Chambourcy: First Class Open Air School
The passengers disembarked, welcomed by other pupils in a rather noisy fashion, in spite of the appeals for calm uttered by the earnest individual at the entrance.
“Come on, come on, gentlemen—the vacation is over. The school year has begun, let’s be serious!”
“Who’s that?” asked Koufra of his friend Gustave.
“Monsieur Virgile Radoux, the third’s form-master. We’re on very good terms—I’ll recommend you to him. It will be all right—you’ll see! He’s a bit old-fashioned, but it’s good to see the old-timers—an outmoded and superannuated generation, with very curious ideas, sometimes funny, but quite interesting. We call that doing psychological archeology. Don’t look at me with those astonished eyes; what I’ve just told you is profound, but it’s suggested by experience—experience that you can’t have acquired in your distant land, naturally… Bah! Just three months of school and you’ll have caught me up!”
Rolling his eyes admiringly, Koufra made a gesture of protest full of modesty.
“Leave it to me! When we’re chasing rhinoceroses in your country, I’ll be a novice and you can crush me with your scorn! How many rhinoceroses have you killed?”
Koufra was about to reply that he had never seen any large animals in the already-industrialized vicinity of Villeneuve-sur-Oubangui, but Gustave had already changed the subject. “He’s a poet, you know!”
“Who is?”
“Monsieur Virgile Radoux, our form-master; that explains which he seems a bit grumpy sometimes, between two rhymes that don’t quite seem to work, but a good fellow all the same. I’ll introduce you to him.”
Monsieur Virgile Radoux, the form-master, is a tall, thin man; his face is framed by a short, yellowing beard, his tilted-back hat reveals a premature baldness, and he is incessantly replacing on his nose a pince-nez that persists in falling off again. He comes forward, chatting to a few older boys, veteran sixth-formers and prospective science students at the École Polytechnique.
“Monsieur, here’s a new boy…”
“Ah! Very good!” the form-master replied. “Let’s see—I’ll wager that you’re the pupil from the Congo we’ve been expecting! I’ve guessed it, haven’t I? I’m a physiognomist…”
“Dead right, Monsieur,” Gustave replied. “This is him, Alfred Koufra of the Oubangui; he’s come a long way, from Central Africa.”
“Well, Koufra, you’re going into the third form. Do you have your scholarly record?”
“Villeneuve College,” said Koufra, timidly, handing a little book to the form-master.
“Let’s see,” said Monsieur Radoux, leafing rapidly through the booklet. “French language, good. French composition, good. English…Math, adequate. Physics and Chemistry, adequate. Geometry, almost adequate. Latin, good. Greek, good. Latin composition, good… The comments now: Intelligent student, but still unserious… Much too frivolous… Little talent for Mathematics… Sometimes inattentive… Well-intentioned, but too easily-distracted… Progress in Classics… Insufficient progress… Serious progress… Almost satisfactory term… Hope for more sustained attention next year… Good! I know you now, Koufra—you’re good at Classics…”
“If you like, Monsieur. Papa puts great store in Latin; he makes me work on
it at home. Papa writes very good Latin verses, Monsieur…ouch!”
Gustave Turbille had given him a violent dig with his elbow. While the form-master was studying the notes, Gustave had been giving his friends some further information about the newcomer.
“Young Koufra is really someone, old chaps. His father is a king in the Oubangui, the most absolute monarch there is, a potentate in the old African mode, but broadly open to modern ideas…”
What Koufra had confided to the form-master troubled Gustave slightly—an African king who wrote Latin verses!—but he quickly collected himself. “Open to European ideas, you see,” he said, “even our old superstitions!”
They arrived at the school buildings.
“Back in custody!” said Gustave. “Now, the inaugural lunch, and soon back to class! A consolatory glass of champagne, before tomorrow’s abundance! Then you’ll have the Minister of Public Education’s speech…”
“What, he’s here!”
“Of course! You’ll see! To welcome us and solemnize the start of term.”
III. In which Turbille reveals himself as an innovator
and an enemy of old routines.
In the refectory, which was rather noisy when the time for champagne arrived, a stern voice suddenly demanded silence.
“It’s the Minister,” Gustave whispered.
Koufra looked around, searching behind the other tables. There was no one there but the pupils, Monsieur Radoux and the other form-masters.
“The Minister’s here? Where? He’s put himself out for us?”
“It’s his custom at the start of the school year—but don’t look for him under the table,” said Gustave, laughing with his neighbors. “The Minister is in front of you…”
On a small table amid the larger ones, elevated above the crockery and baskets of bread, was the horn of a large phonograph; that was what had spoken.
Chalet in the Sky Page 2
