The Avion My Uncle Flew (13 page)

Even if it was the mayor of St. Chamant, I can't tell you how glad I was to see him. I ran to him and gestured and signed to him, trying to explain a German was hiding roundabouts and I wanted protection. We had to go to le village at once. That mayor never did understand me. I was nearly frantic, too. He considered it was—the
pig
I was scared of.

That pig of his must have meant a lot to him, because he took it as an insult that I'd allowed myself to be scared of his pig. He grabbed on to my arm, scowling all the time, pointing to the pig, saying, “Hippolyte est un bon cochon, un
bon
cochon!”

Meanwhile the pig—cochon, in French—had rooted up something. That cochon wriggled its little twisty tail. It turned around. Like a trained dog, it trotted over to the mayor. It had something in his mouth, something round and dark, about half as big as a baseball.

Still hanging on to my arm, the mayor took the thing from the cochon's mouth and thrust it at me. “Truffe,” he said crossly. “Truffe,” he said again, very loudly, the way people do when they think you don't understand them. Then he let go of my arm and hoisted his sack from his shoulders and dropped this truffe into the sack and snapped his fingers at the cochon and again started up the mountain, as if he didn't care what happened to me.

With sinking heart I watched the mayor vanish, leaving me alone, lost, not having any idea of how to get down to le village. Later on I learned about truffes—I discovered they were a kind of fungus that grew on oak roots only in this part of the world. They were immensely valuable, cherished as a delicacy by restaurants and the mayor had made a sizable fortune before the war with his cochons—yes, cochons, trained to root up these truffes for him just the way you might train hunting dogs to track down birds.

But at this time, all this was a mystery to me. It made me more addled than ever. In a few minutes the forest once more was empty. The mayor and that cochon of his had gone—and, it seemed I might have dreamed what had happened. They hadn't been there. Again, I was alone. Somewhere, hiding, watching me, that German was waiting to tackle me.

The fear came, greater than before.

I struck straight through the forest, knowing enough at least to follow the slope of land downwards when I was lost. My leg was causing me more trouble, too. Even with all the time I'd spent strengthening it, my leg wasn't ready for a couple of mountain miles at the speed I was attempting, floundering through brush, panting, sweat in my eyes, the panic surging over me more and more.

It must have been close to three in the afternoon, along toward the time mon oncle would be expecting me to return. I was going more slowly—I couldn't go fast as I wanted on account of the pain shooting through my leg. The forest got gloomier and gloomier. Pretty soon I came upon a little creek, sparkling away, clear as glass.

I fell into the thick grass and drank from the water and rested a minute, feeling dizzy. I was about done for. In a few minutes I found I could open my eyes without having the trees move around in a big dizzy circle. I drank a little more water. I shoved my hands against the moss to push me up. I couldn't wait here. I had to go. I had to reach le village before that German found me.

As I unsteadily heaved myself back on my legs again, I heard yells through the trees. Those yells seemed to nail into me. It was like being frozen suddenly in a cake of ice. I was caught. I knew I was caught. The yells came more plainly; they sounded like, “Va-hoo! Va-hoo!”

Now I decided I was crazy, out of my mind. I staggered a little forward to reach a tree, hoping to hide behind it. If I'd been home I would have known what those yells were from: They would have been yells from live Indians or from somebody playing at Indians. However, I knew as well as anyone one thing France didn't have was live Indians. No German tracking after me was going to lift up such a commotion by shouting those yells.

I waited, getting my breath, feeling for the pistol in my belt, while those yells continued. Something came crackling and shoving through the bush. A second later and I'm hanged if an arrow didn't wobble out from the bushes and plunk against the tree to fall at my feet!

I say it was an arrow. It was the most unlikely looking arrow I ever did see. It was crooked. It didn't have any proper feathers at the tip. The point was a small lump of wet mud. An arrow like that couldn't shoot dust. I felt sorry for whoever made such an arrow. The surprise almost drove from my head the panic I'd had about being tracked by a German. No German ever manufactured such a mean, unhappy arrow as that. I wasn't so scared that I didn't know that much.

As I was watching, the bushes parted. A boy about my age, stockier and heavier possibly, and not quite as tall, came out into the clearing. He saw me. He gaped at me and stopped dead.

He had red hair. It was violent red hair. It was the reddest hair ever to exist, I think. He had a freckled face and blue eyes and a wide mouth and the rest of him was covered with one of those ratty old sweaters I've seen Frenchmen wearing, the bottom so long it came almost down to his knees. He had patched baggy trousers and no stockings or socks. In his hand he had what I suppose he thought was a bow. It was no more than a stick with a piece of string tied to the ends. Any boy back home in Wyoming could have constructed in one minute, with his eyes closed, a better bow than that. Any boy at home would rather have been dead than be seen with a bow like that one.

He took a breath. He advanced, pointing to his arrow I was holding. He reeled off a whole flow of words, ending by putting his hand to his mouth and shouting, “Va-hoo, Va-hoo,” like as if he actually thought he was an Indian over here in France and probably expected me to fall over on my back in mortal terror.

While he was jumping around in that silly style, the bushes opened again. This time a girl came out. She had red hair, too, but its color wasn't such a violent red as the boy's. Where his was an orange-red, hers was more a brownish-red. It hung down long, old-fashioned style. Some leaves were caught in it, and a piece of bark, too, from where she'd passed under the trees.

When she noticed me, she stopped quick. She gave her head a shake. She snatched away the leaves, trying hastily to smooth her hair the way girls probably do anywhere in the world the instant they think anyone's looking at them.

Her brother stopped dancing. He aimed his arrow at me. He said, “Peau-rouge,” a couple of times. That was too deep for me.

The sun was sliding down the sky and the light was dimming. I had the sense once more of something waiting and watching me, and I didn't want to be stuck up here with a French boy and a French girl and get caught by a German. After the first surprise of finding them the astonishment wore off and I became more anxious. I started down the montagne. The boy and girl came along with me. I said, impatiently, “Look, I need help,” even though I knew it wouldn't do any good to try to talk to them. I was desperate.

I was afraid I was lost.

“German,” I said. “German!” and pointed.

That didn't catch any fish either.

The boy stopped. He scratched his head perplexed while the girl calmly looked on as if she considered all boys were strange articles and she'd been taught to put up with them and not complain.

Finally the boy pointed to himself. “Charles,” he said. “Charles Meilhac.” He pointed to the girl. “Suzanne Meilhac.” He waited.

It was like having a great illumination break through the forest. I should have realized sooner. This was Charles Meilhac! The boy mon oncle had told me about! He could be a friend. He could be somebody who might help after all. I grabbed him in my excitement and he didn't know what to make of it. I shouted a couple of times, “Jean! Jean Littlehorn!” pointing to myself.

Then Suzanne understood.
She
became excited. “Jean Littlehorn!” she exclaimed. “Tu est le neveu de Paul Langres! Ah!” She snatched at her brother's sleeve and jabbered at him. Charles' freckled face seemed to open. His eyes became blue as the sky. He laughed and danced around me and shouted and was pleased and I guessed he'd heard about me from somebody.

Then I worked back to what I was trying to say. I said, “German—” and realized that didn't make sense to them, so I said, “Nazi!” and that was a word they both understood. “Nazi!” I said again, pointing.

They nodded. Charles solemnly said, “Oui, un Nazi,” and looked ferocious and took hold of his bow and arrow and began stealing around the clearing, as if he were an Indian looking for a Nazi.

Well, I could nearly have cried out of vexation. Yes—they
had
understood when I'd said, “Nazi.” But they had been playing at Indian and now they figured I was playing along with them, playing we were
all
Indians—peaurouges, in French—and we were hunting Nazis!

The sweat sprung from me. I could imagine us all walking square into that grinning Monsieur Simonis before any of us ever had a chance to get to le village for help. The afternoon was waning. It grew darker. I asked at last, “Où est le village de St. Chamant?”

Probably they thought it was time to quit playing and I wanted to go home.

Charles pointed southwards, through the trees. “Là.”

It was wrong of me, I know, but I didn't let on I understood, because I wanted their company all the way to le village. Finally he took my arm and showed all his white teeth in the friendliest smile imaginable, as if he'd forgotten ten minutes ago he was an Indian trying to hunt a play-Nazi. He indicated he'd go along with me to St. Chamant. Nothing could have pleased me more. His sister followed after us. He stopped. He motioned her back and ordered, “Suzanne, reste là!” Well, that order was clear enough to be luminous.

She answered back, “Non, je viens avec Jean et toi.” She was saying to Charles, “No, I come with John and you.” “Toi” wasn't anything more than “you,” and “moi” was me.

“Viens,” Charles told me, and marched off.

I did as he told me: I came.

Suzanne repeated, “Je viens avec toi et Jean,” and came along, too, just as she said she was going to do. That “viens” was easy as falling off a log, nothing to it—“come”—“I come with you and Jean” was what she'd said.

When we happened to enter another montagne clearing, Charles suddenly halted and pulled me back. I thought it was the German, sure enough. “Sh-h,” he whispered. He motioned to Suzanne and said, “Viens,” and waited until she'd done as he told her to do, and had to come to us. She sat down quietly between us. “Tu vois?” he asked, meaning, “You see?” and pointed through the bushes in front of us toward the clearing.

On the other side of the clearing was a fat rabbit. It was bigger and rounder than our own rabbits. At the same time it wasn't as big as our jack-rabbits. Charles whispered, “Nazi,” to me, smacking his lips as if he was confusing Nazis and Indians and cannibals in his mind. He rubbed his stomach hungrily. He said, “Très bon. Très bon.” He crept forward, fixing his arrow. He meant to get that rabbit.

Now, with everything else pressing in my mind I wouldn't have thought another second about that furry rabbit if I hadn't happened to glance at Suzanne. She was regarding that rabbit as intently as if she hadn't eaten for weeks and was seeing a whole Sunday dinner before her.

The hollows under her cheeks showed. She stretched out her skinny arms without realizing what she was doing, wanting to grab that rabbit. I sighted at Charles. He was going forward with the same intentness. It might be, for my benefit, he was pretending he was an Indian shooting—but it was more than that to him. That rabbit meant food.

I'd heard how the French had starved during the war and how poor they were now, with very little food. But this was the first time I actually had it brought up smack to me how important food was to these people. Charles took another step, getting closer, the rabbit staying where it was, wriggling its ears. I found I was becoming just as interested and intent on what Charles was doing as Suzanne was. I
wanted
him to get that rabbit.

Of course, I should have realized he never had a chance—and so should he and Suzanne. He lifted his little bow and shot the arrow. It wobbled across the clearing. Before it was halfway across, the rabbit took notice of it and without any great hurry ducked into the bushes. The arrow hit against a tree, over six feet to the left of where the rabbit had been. The arrow broke. Suzanne made a sad little cry. “Oh, Charles,” she said. That was all. She clenched her fists tightly together and twisted her head away so nobody could see her face.

Charles stood. He threw down his bow. It wasn't ever a good one, anyway, but he must have cherished that bow and thought a lot of it—and it showed how crushed he was for him to throw it away. He made an effort to smile. He went to his sister, giving her a clumsy sort of half punch and half pat. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, with a queer embarrassed look at me. Charles shrugged his shoulders. “Eh bien,” he said. I didn't know what that meant; I didn't have to. He'd lost a good supper.

He nodded at me. “Viens,” he said wearily.

Even as he spoke, that blasted rabbit again poked its head from the bushes. It wriggled its ears. It ducked back in. All three of us considered each other. I think, for a minute, I was just as sorry and disappointed as Charles and Suzanne were. That rabbit acted like it was taunting us. We saw another group of bushes move, off by the tree, as the rabbit passed under them.

I don't know what came into me. I don't want anyone to tease me and say I was showing off in front of Suzanne, because I wasn't—at least, not this time.

I was sorry for both of them. On an impulse I pulled out that big German pistol from under my jacket. Charles' eyes opened. “Oh!” he gasped.

Suzanne stepped back. “Un gangster!” she exclaimed. Maybe I ought to tell you that because of our American movies Frenchmen have the idea America is filled with gangsters and Indians and cowboys and movie stars and nobody else and the word for “gangster” in French is precisely what we have. Any other time I might have laughed.