The Avion My Uncle Flew (10 page)

Madame Graffoulier accompanied me upstairs to my room. Upstairs it was more like a home. Carpets were on the floors. Through the rear windows opening into the upstairs hallway I could sight down upon a courtyard, where flowers and vegetables were growing. Beyond the courtyard wall was the old stone church. It was having everything reversed from what we have at home: we have a front yard, pretty and attractive. In St. Chamant the front of the houses were bleak. Their gardens and trees and flowers were hidden behind, in little courtyards. Madame Graffoulier showed me into a large corner room with a great bed in it and a chest of drawers and round faded blue rugs scattered over an uneven oak floor. She smiled. She pointed to that bed. “Va, au lit, mon garçon.”

That bed was about the most wonderful thing I'd seen. I was pretty much done for. Even if I didn't know much French, I understood what she meant. I va-ed to that lit and I dropped the crutches and climbed into the lit and pulled up the covers and shut my eyes.

Later, mon oncle and Dr. Guereton came in to look at my leg. Dr. Guereton examined it, tapped it, making little chirping noises like a cricket. He finished and evidently was satisfied I hadn't overstrained it. For dinner that night I had a big bowl of hot goat's milk, more black bread, slices of thick yellow country cheese, and fresh figs. I was more hungry than I'd been for a long time and stuffed myself.

With the rest, my leg felt better, too. I came downstairs for a time and met people who'd filed into the hotel to see mon oncle. I went to bed early, about seven-thirty or eight, and was too sleepy to write any letters. I don't know what time it was when I was awakened. The room was black as pitch. I lay there in bed and had the feeling something was wrong, not knowing why I'd started up from a sound sleep, finding myself sitting in bed, grabbing on to the quilts, my heart pounding.

My room was a corner room, the front windows overlooking the little narrow street, the side window above a kind of narrow alley, with a bleak dark stone house half a dozen yards distant, invisible now in the dense darkness.

Mon oncle had taken another room, off in back of the hotel, under the roof. It was a small, cramped room. I was surprised he wanted to sleep there but he explained after his experience in the army, living mostly out of doors, he
liked
being in a room small enough so he could reach out and touch the walls. Later on, I discovered the real reason he'd taken that room was because it was the cheapest.

As I sat there in my room, all at once I heard something again rattle softly against the side window, exactly as if someone was climbing up the wall to the window. You know how shadows change things in a room at night. I managed to turn my head. Over by the window, where the faint moonlight came through, I saw a white hand reach upwards and grasp the wooden sill. I let out a yell. I let out another and leaped out of the bed and fell.

Next thing I knew both Madame Graffoulier and mon oncle were holding candles over me, and I was in bed. I tried telling mon oncle somebody had attempted to climb into my room. He went to the window. He was patient and kind, explaining I must have been mistaken.

My window was a good fifteen feet above the street. He leaned out, holding the candle, examining the plaster walls. He said there wasn't a mark or sign of any ladder. Anyone attempting to get into my room would require a ladder. He wriggled the big iron handle on the window. The window opened outwards—French style—like a door, instead of going up and in like our windows. In the moonlight, that handle did resemble a hand. He said that must have been the thing that frightened me—and the wind blowing against the window had rattled it.

Well, I was mortified nearly to death. In French he spoke to Madame Graffoulier. Probably he was telling her I'd been sick, and was still nervous and jumpy. She offered through him to bring me up another bowl of hot goat's milk, to help me go back to sleep. But I said I didn't need it. I was sorry I'd awakened them by shouting. I told mon oncle, “For a second I figured Monsieur Simonis had got to St. Chamant and was coming in after me.”

Very gently he assured me, “My dear nephew, you must not let the thought of that Simonis individual any longer disturb you. He has failed in his task, and if my suspicions are true, I zink he will take great care not to be seen by you and me when he reports to the mayor. Perhaps he will not come to St. Chamant, but goes only to Tulle and has the mayor visit him there. Have no fears. If I ever catch him skulking in the village, myself, I will ask him what he wished from you. And in a few days, I zink my friends of the police in Paris will have found Albert and from him learn the truth. You will see. Bonne nuit.”

“Bonne nuit,” I replied.

His common-sense attitude was calming. I shut my eyes, hearing the wind rattle at the window. Pretty soon I fell asleep, and dreamed of Monsieur Simonis trying to climb through hundreds of purple windows, each time falling back and landing on Wyoming spiked cactus plants.…

I spent the next morning in the workshop with mon oncle and Monsieur Niort, le forgeron, where they were beginning to build the avion. St. Chamant was deserted. The men were in the vineyards or fields. I asked mon oncle if there weren't any boys around my age and he asked Monsieur Niort, “Où est Charles Meilhac?”

Le forgeron replied.

Mon oncle asked, “Où est Jules Lemaitre?”

Le forgeron again replied.

With a baffled expression, mon oncle asked, “Où est Pierre Guillaume? Henri Brinz? Guillaume Dufourché? Honoré Yvald?” and le forgeron would shrug and reply in about the same words every time. By now I appreciated mon oncle was naming boys he knew, asking where they were.

Mon oncle told me, “Jean, I do not know what to say. Because so many families of St. Chamant became poor during the war, the blacksmith tells me the five or six boys of your age or older have taken jobs in Tulle and Brive to earn money for the winter. Perhaps later on in the summer they will return.”

I tried not to let him see how discouraged I felt, hearing that. In an attempt to cheer me up, he assured me in a day or so he would take us up to the montagne where the Langres family place was and I could see that. I'd find things to do, too, in St. Chamant as soon as I began to walk more and got more strength.

Le forgeron said something.

Mon oncle turned to me again. “The blacksmith tells me he has forgotten. The factory where Charles Meilhac is working may close soon. Then Charles will be here. Ah, you will like him very much, I zink.”

“Who's he?”

“You will see, soon. He is a little older than you, maybe. Six months. His father was killed in the war. They are old friends of the Langres, the Meilhacs. There are now only the mother and the sister, the twin of Charles. When Charles comes home I promise to take you to the Meilhacs'. That is better now, non? I zink soon you have a friend—two friends,” he added. “Suzanne you will like, aussi.”

One thing, also—aussi—I knew I wasn't going to like any girl. And at the moment, I didn't have anything to do. I was tired of watching mon oncle and le forgeron. I lumped back to the door, looked along the deserted street. The montagnes were dark. The sky overhead was all blue and empty. That wind which had rattled my window last night still blew down from the montagnes with a low moaning sound. The pig walked back along the street. It eyed me as if it knew I didn't enjoy being in its village. I called, “Here, pig.” It went right on, proud and haughty, not having any truck with me.

6

LA MAISON DE TA MÈRE

That nuit I wrote my first letters from St. Chamant: one to my mother, one to my father, and a third to Bob Collins, back in Wyoming. I told my father I'd walked all the way from the station and everything was going fine although at present there weren't any boys my age to play with. I asked him if he'd had time to look at any English bicycles with high gears and low gears.

In the letter to my mother, I wrote about le train and the trip down, although I didn't mention seeing Monsieur Simonis on the train. The fact is, now I was away from them, I'd had time to think over how I had been acting in the past. I was ashamed. I wanted them to believe I was growing up and recovering from being so easily scared and I was determined to make my letters to them cheerful if I choked doing it. They had worries of their own. I hoped mon oncle wouldn't write them, either, and inform on me, how I'd been frightened by the wind blowing against a window. I should have asked him not to—and I decided tomorrow to ask him if it wasn't too late.

I ended my letter to my mother with French words I knew, such as: “C'est bon here in your village de St. Chamant … Mon oncle est giving me leçons in French … Le jour est beau although it rains a lot … Où are you now, in London? … Jean va to bed …” and things like that.

To Bob Collins, back home, I wrote a longer letter. I stretched the truth here and there a shade, I'm afraid, because I wanted him to believe I was having a gaudy time of it. I told him probably I'd fly mon oncle's avion. I wouldn't be surprised, from the way I described the avion, too, that he might have obtained an idea a motor was in it.

I went to sleep afterwards, and didn't have any dreams, either. Along about morning, I awoke. The sky was pale and cold. You know how it is when you awaken very early in the morning, and are still half asleep, the bed warm and comfortable. Probably I was almost dreaming. The front windows were open. As I lay there in bed I imagined I heard someone passing by in the street, humming. That was all. I listened; and the tune hummed sounded familiar. I remembered—all at once. It was the same tune Albert used to hum, meaningless and senseless, when he pushed me in my wheel chair.

Once again, the coldness came over me. I forced myself, this time, to go to the window. I looked out into the cold dim light. All I saw were a couple of men of the village going off to the fields, their rakes and hoes over their shoulders. I felt silly. Anyone of them might have hummed that silly old tune. I crept back into bed, wishing I were well, like other boys, not ready to jump out of my skin with fright at nothing.

I had breakfast downstairs in the big front room. Evidently, mon oncle had already eaten and had gone to work on the avion. The two kids ate with me. We had bowls of brownish mush, topped with goat's milk. I wouldn't even have looked at such truck at home. Here, in the montagnes, it must have been the fresh clean air that made a body so hungry. When I was finished, the boy, Philippe, began chattering at me in French. I needed mon oncle to translate, but I couldn't even ask if he'd gone to work on his avion.

Finally, I remembered. I said, “Où est mon oncle?”—that is, “Where is my uncle?”

Madame Graffoulier answered, very slowly, “Ton oncle est avec le forgeron.” I knew every word except that “avec” and it slipped in like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The only thing it could mean was “with.” My oncle was
with
the blacksmith.

I nodded. I said, “Bien!”

The boy pointed to himself. “Philippe,” he said.

I pointed to myself and said, “Jean.”

Philippe took my hand. He asked, “Ton oncle va voler?”

I knew that one too. “Your uncle is going to fly?” he'd said. I nodded and replied, “Oui.”

Next Philippe asked, “Tu vas voir ton oncle?”

That “vas” was understandable; it was the same as “va”—which was “is going.” So “tu vas” was “you are going—” but I was stuck on “voir” until Philippe pretended to look all about the room, saying “voir, voir,” at the same time. It came clear. “Voir” was “to see.” He'd asked, “You are going to see your uncle?”

“Oui,” I said, again.

Philippe asked, “Philippe y va, aussi?”

It wasn't difficult after all. I remembered “aussi” was “also.” And I supposed “y” must mean “there.” So I said, “Oui, Philippe y va aussi.”

Out we went, into the deserted street, Philippe leading me toward the blacksmith shop. As we walked, I pointed down to the street and asked, “Qu'est-ce que c'est que——?”

“Ça?” said Philippe.

That stumped me for a minute. I knew “ça” wasn't the French for “street” because of the way he put a question after it.

I pointed again at the street.

He understood. “Ah,” said Philippe, mighty pleased. “
Ça?
C'est la
rue
.”

“La
rue
?” I asked.
That
was what a street was called in France.

“Oui,” said he. “C'est la rue.”

We walked along la rue until we reached le forgeron's. There was mon oncle talking to Monsieur Niort. “Bon jour, bon jour!” cried mon oncle. He saw Philippe and clapped him on the shoulders. He said something to him in French. Philippe laughed. He pointed to me and explained. Both mon oncle and le forgeron laughed.

Mon oncle said, “Now Philippe teaches you French, aussi?”