The Avion My Uncle Flew (14 page)

I went after that rabbit with the big pistol. I could see the movement of the bushes. It was like shooting a coyote in chaparral. I lifted the pistol and cocked it, this time. I waited. I aimed low down on the bushes. The next time the bushes rustled—I pulled the trigger.

There was an almighty bang from the pistol. It had a tremendous kick. It nearly knocked itself out of my hand. Suzanne yelped. After her yelp, that rabbit in the bushes made the oddest sound ever to come from a rabbit. It let go with a grunt. After a grunt it squealed. It continued to squeal and it was still squealing, only not as loud, when it staggered out from the bushes and laid down in the clearing and stopped moving. Charles took one look at it. He put his hands to his head, rocking his head back and forth as if he'd become afflicted by a sudden splitting headache. “Ai! Ai!” he groaned.

Suzanne ran into the clearing. She looked down at what I had shot. She had eyes big as saucers. “Ah! Ah!” she exclaimed, absolutely horrified. “C'est le cochon de Monsieur Capedulocque!”

And so it was.

Instead of shooting a rabbit for Charles' and Suzanne's supper I'd gone and let fly at that conceited, trained, truffe-hunting pig belonging to the mayor of St. Chamant. I wanted to sink right down through the earth and never viens up again.

Suzanne gasped, “Oh, j'ai peur. J'ai peur.”

Charles had one more look at the pig and muttered, “Moi, aussi. J'ai peur. J'ai peur.”

I didn't know what that “J'ai peur” meant, but from the way they said it anyone could see they were nearly scared to death. A mayor of a French village is an important object in France, much more important than in our own towns. I wasn't happy, myself. I was scared, too; and if “J'ai peur” meant “I'm scared,” that was what I was, aussi. A lot. Afterwards I learned it almost meant that. Only the French say, “I
have
fear” instead of “I am afraid.” “Je” was “I” and “ai” was “have” and “peur” was “fear”; and when Charles was saying, “J'ai peur,” he was saying, “I've fear.” But right then I didn't take time to do any cyphering of what he was saying.

Charles pulled my arm. “Viens!” he said, and ran across the clearing, Suzanne following. “Viens!” they called. “Viens vite!
Vite
!” You didn't have to hear that “Vite!” more than once to know it meant “quick!” And, je viens vite, too. But not vite enough. Before I reached them Monsieur Capedulocque stepped through the bushes and saw his dead cochon and began to roar at us and groan and tear at his whisper with his hands.

8

LE TROUBLE VIENT

I can understand a man losing his temper because his prize cochon had been shot but I never witnessed a man go on about a cochon as much as that mayor of St. Chamant did. He collared Charles and Suzanne. He shook them. He yelled at them as if they were murderers. I stepped across to explain it was my fault. That didn't help any—because Monsieur Capedulocque didn't understand what I was saying.

I realize now that neither Charles nor Suzanne tried to unload the blame on me, either. Just as easy as anything, they could have told the mayor everything happened because of me, when I didn't know what they were saying. But never once did they point at me as you might think foreign kids would've done.

The mayor was panting and shouting. Charles was active, limber enough to slip away. But the mayor hung on to Suzanne. He shook her some more. I could see her biting her lips to keep from crying out loud. I shoved closer, forgetting my leg. Loudly as I could, I said, “I did it.” That didn't even dent the mayor. He'd shake Suzanne—he'd look at that cochon in the grass—he'd yell—he'd groan and pull at his beard and rage. It was an awful thing to see him carry on as he did.

I figured a dead cochon wasn't nearly as important as the fact a live Nazi was probably hanging around somewhere right now, listening to all the commotion that angry little fat mayor was making. To distract him away from Suzanne, finally, I waved the German pistol at him. I wanted him to see the pistol and to realize what it was. But do you think he understood what I was driving at? Not at all. I'm hung if he didn't gawk at that pistol, as if he hadn't noticed before I was holding it.

His little eyes widened. His white beard sort of flared out. He let go of Suzanne. He stumbled back, waving his hands at me, shouting at me. Once more, I tried to persuade him to take the pistol and see for himself what it was. He let out another yell. He grabbed a knife in his belt and brandished it at me.

Automatic pistols are different from revolvers. Once an automatic pistol shoots, it cocks itself—and it's ready to fire again. So, when I happened to grab more tightly on to the pistol, I must have accidentally pulled the trigger.

The pistol went off a second time with a tremendous bang. It knocked itself out of my hand. The bullet slammed through the mayor's hat, lifting his hat right off his pink bald head.

For nearly a whole minute afterwards, there wasn't a sound in the clearing except the echo of that shot. The pistol fell at my feet. I was so pulverized by what had happened I didn't budge. The mayor opened his mouth; his face turned scarlet. He didn't say a word. He felt himself all over. He touched his head. He found his hat was gone. He looked around. He picked up his hat and he eyed the hole in his hat made by the bullet. He pointed his finger at me. “Assassin!” he shouted. “Tu es un assassin!”

The mayor rushed at me. He slammed me to the ground. Charles promptly tackled him. Suzanne tried to bite him. He grabbed all of us. He sputtered. He pointed down the montagne. “Descendez!” he ordered, drawing himself up like a judge speaking to three criminals. “Charles, Suzanne et Jean! Descendez la montagne! Vite!”

We must have taken about half an hour. We descended right down through the forest and across the vineyards on the lower slope until we came into la rue entering le village de St. Chamant.

By now, all three of us, Charles, Suzanne et moi, were pretty much scared. My leg hurt. I can't tell you how much it hurt. I don't believe it had hurt that much since Monsieur Simonis had dug his fingers into it. I'd never have made it to le village de St. Chamant if Charles hadn't helped on one side and Suzanne on the other.

We came into le village, the mayor walking behind us, puffing and roaring, letting everyone know what had happened, waving his hat, pointing to the hole in it. Before we reached the workshop mon oncle heard the noise. He ran to us. I'd fallen down a lot. I was scratched. Probably I was pretty much of a sight to behold. He took one look at me. He gave a jump. Although I was nearly as big as he was he picked me up. The mayor rushed at mon oncle, again shouting I was an assassin.

Mon oncle swung around. He took one hand from me. He gave the mayor such a shove that the mayor fell backwards and rolled into the ditch. He got to his knees, all covered with mud. If that man had been angry on top of the montagne, it didn't compare with what he was now. He was so out of temper he didn't even have time to take himself from the mud. He shook his fist at mon oncle. He started swearing and cursing and shouting and shoving at the people who tried to help him.

Mon oncle carried me to the hotel where Madame Graffoulier met him. They loaded me on the bed upstairs. I began explaining. Charles and Suzanne came right in, too.

Charles kept saying, “S'il vous plaît,” apologizing for interrupting. Mon oncle said, “S'il vous plaît” meant, “If you please—” and Charles was asking please let him give his version.

Mon oncle listened to Charles. I gathered Charles was taking on the blame. According to mon oncle Charles claimed it was his fault because
he
asked me to shoot the rabbit.

I said that wasn't anywhere near the exact truth. I said, “S'il vous plaît,” to Charles and explained
I'd
wanted to shoot the rabbit.

Mon oncle's face sort of lightened. “You didn't try to scare the mayor by shooting at his hat?”

“Oh, no!” I said.

Mon oncle couldn't help it. He broke into laughter. He said he wished he'd been there. He told me, “Bien fait! Bien fait!” and laughed some more and said “Bien fait!” was French for, “Well done!” and by and by became more serious and admitted he shouldn't have laughed. He wrinkled his forehead.

“Ah, oui. I zink perhaps this is more serious than you understand, Jean.” He paused. From downstairs we could hear the sound of men's voices. Every now and then we heard a louder roaring noise. That was the mayor.

Evidently, he had at last hauled himself out of the mud and followed us to the hotel. A couple of times Madame Graffoulier stuck her angular head in through the door and spoke to mon oncle and pulled her head back into the hall, again, shutting the door.

Mon oncle continued, “You must tell me the truth, Jean.”

I said, “I am. Monsieur Simonis is hiding up in the ruins.”

He became patient and calm. He said, “Jean, I zink that experience you had in Paris has upset you. Monsieur Simonis is not in these hills. You are imagining things. You must not imagine things, s'il vous plaît. This is serious.”

I said, “I wasn't imagining anything. Maybe it isn't Monsieur Simonis, but it
is
a German.”

“You did see a knapsack? A German knapsack?” said mon oncle.

“Oui,” I answered. “It was right behind the door. Why doesn't somebody look for him? Why doesn't somebody go up there? They'll see the knapsack.”

“And that pistol
was
a German pistol? Not some old French pistol you happened to find in the mountains?”

“It was a German pistol,” I said. “It's up in the clearing now, where I dropped it.”

Mon oncle asked Charles some questions.

Charles ceased looking quite as glum. He nodded. He said, “Dans la montagne, oui, Monsieur Langres. Oui.” He was backing me up about where I'd dropped the pistol.

“Very well,” said mon oncle at last. “I'll arrange to have the men from the village search the mountain. But once more,” he said, now as solemn as a preacher, “I must tell you that you have to tell me the truth. This cannot be a prank of yours, Jean, to hide the fact you may have picked up a French pistol accidentally dropped by French soldiers last winter when they were searching the mountains for Nazis. The mayor of St. Chamant is not only angry at you for killing his pig, but he is very angry at Charles and Suzanne for what happened. He blames all three of you, right or wrong.”

I said, “It wasn't any prank. I
am
telling the truth. Cross my heart and hope to die!”

“I hope you are,” said he, still solemn. “Because Charles' and Suzanne's mother owes money to the mayor. If he wished, he could take their vineyard away from them this fall if they cannot sell enough grapes to pay him as well as keep themselves from starving through next year. I will arrange with the mayor to send armed men to the mountain. If you have not told the truth, it will be even more difficult for all of us. The mayor has never liked the Langres or the Meilhac families. We were much more important families before the war than he was. Now I am afraid
he
has become rich and would like to see us come crawling to him.”

“You find that knapsack,” I said, “and you'll see a German has been there. The bread is fresh.
That
ought to be proof.”

“It
will
be proof,” said mon oncle.

Charles and Suzanne gathered around and spoke to me, friendly and cheerful. Mon oncle took a minute longer to explain they were telling me they wanted to see me again and were sorry they had to go now and that they were glad the cochon was dead because it was a bad cochon and proud and conceited and rooted all around the vineyards, destroying many of the vines. The villagers had been afraid to do anything because it was owned by the mayor. I told them I'd get up now and go with them and mon oncle. I started to get off the bed.

“Non,” said mon oncle, beginning to smile. “Have you forgotten you have a lame leg, mon neveu?”

“By jiminy!” I said, “I got down this far, didn't I? I'll go back up with you if you'll help me. I'll show you where I left the pistol and where I found the knapsack. And you tell Charles and Suzanne I can pay for the cochon. We can't let that mayor take their vineyard, can we?”

Mon oncle had a way of inspiring everyone with his own cheerfulness. He spoke rapidly to Suzanne and Charles. He stuck his big nose over me, and said, “You are not angry, then, because I left you on the mountain?”

I'd forgotten all about the trick he'd played on me.…

And here I was. I had descended la montagne on my own legs, even if you count the lift I received from Charles and Suzanne, and the shoves the mayor had given me with his kicks.

I didn't have to reply to mon oncle's last question. He saw the answer in my face. The only person I was angry at was the mayor.