The Avion My Uncle Flew (16 page)

Mon oncle gave a grimace when he finished translating it. “There you are, mon neveu. There is nothing to do but wait.”

A little shiver passed down through me as if a cold wind had blown up and vanished. I said, “I'd think le village would be worried.”

“It would be worried,” he replied, “if that mayor was not such a pighead and was more interested in protecting his town than in proving you and I are fools.”

There you are. As long as that Nazi remained hidden and didn't cause any trouble, le village would go on thinking I was a muddlehead, and mon oncle was a worse muddlehead for believing me. Of course, I didn't exactly want that Nazi to sneak down on le village at nuit and cause trouble, but—

Anyway, for a time nothing happened. It rained a lot, too. That kept us inside the hotel or the workshop. I didn't have much of an opportunity to practice walking for a week. I helped mon oncle. While I helped I studied over in my head all that had happened to me, from Paris to St. Chamant, and it seemed to me there ought to be a means to prove to le village that up on la montagne somebody who was dangerous, armed with a pistol, was hiding.…

During that time, we rigged up the controls. We covered the wings with linen and varnished the linen until the cloth was tight as a drumhead over the ribs. I hoped mon oncle might find an opportunity to take me across the montagne where he said the Meilhacs lived. But without workmen he was too busy. He was concerned, too, I guess, more than he let on to me, because it was taking longer to build the avion than he'd expected. His money was running short. Often at nuit I'd hear him playing his flute behind the closed door of his room.

A couple of postcards arrived, signed by my father and mother. They were walking through Scotland. If I needed to reach them in an emergency, I was to have mon oncle cable the American Embassy in London; the Embassy knew how to locate them within a day or so. But there wasn't any emergency. I decided the mayor wasn't going to cause the trouble mon oncle had anticipated, either, about the cochon I'd accidentally shot.

Nothing happened. Nobody hummed under my window. The nuits were empty and peaceful. When I wasn't helping mon oncle I learned French from little Philippe Graffoulier in order to write that letter to my mother. From him I learned to say, for example, “it is not.” The French are certainly peculiar. They have two words for our “not,” sticking “ne” or “n'” in front of the verb, and “pas” behind. Very queer. If I was to say, “the airplane is broken” I'd say: “L'avion
est
cassé.” But to say, “the airplane is
not
broken,” I'd have to say: “l'avion
n
'est
pas
cassé.” And, “the airplane is
not
going to fall” would be: “L'avion
ne
va
pas
tomber.” French can be perplexing.

On Wednesday, Suzanne Meilhac bicycled into le village to market for her mother. We had lunch together. We tried to talk to each other and laughed and I had more fun, that noon, than I imagined anybody could have with a girl. By gestures and by words she managed to make me understand that Charles was working from dawn until nuit in the vineyard in an effort to obtain a large enough crop to prevent the mayor from taking their place.

When she mentioned the mayor, she scowled. She drew down her mouth. Almost, for a second, she looked like he did. We both laughed. Madame Graffoulier had fixed a special lunch for Suzanne. Suzanne ate everything before her, as if she was tremendously hungry. When she finished, Madame Graffoulier put more vegetables in Suzanne's basket as a gift; and Suzanne thanked her and her eyes glistened a little as if she was so pleased she was nearly ready to cry.

I tried to tell Suzanne I'd come to see them soon as I could. When she bicycled off I wished my leg was strong enough to have gone with her. After she left le village seemed suddenly lonesome and deserted.

Then, all at once, on a Friday morning, the mayor and his lawyer came into the workshop. They had a long argument with mon oncle. When they finished talking, I saw mon oncle was doing the best he could to contain his temper.

He turned to me to translate. He explained the mayor wanted 2000 francs for his dead cochon. That was nearly a hundred dollars. Mon oncle said even for a trained truffefinding pig it was an outrageous price. Before I could say a word he swung his nose around at the mayor. In a voice like a nail sliding over glass, not at all loud, but with something in it that made you shiver, he answered in French. I didn't understand but I saw that little fat mayor's face slowly become purple.

wanted When mon oncle had finished speaking the mayor bellowed. The mayor roared. He pointed at me. He roared some more. He said “assassin” several times, so I knew he was referring to me. Mon oncle folded his arms. He listened. He cocked his head. Almost—looking at him—you'd take him to be polite and deferential. All he said was, “Bah! Je n'ai pas peur!” which meant: “Bah! I have not fear!”

That knocked the wind out of the mayor who was trying to threaten him. The lawyer tried speaking. The mayor—le maire, as the French call it—got so angry he couldn't wait for the lawyer to finish. He stuck out his hand and grabbed mon oncle's nose—and then
twisted
it, hard!

Mon oncle became perfectly white with rage. He jumped back. Next he jumped at le maire—the mayor—and picked up le maire by the coat and seat of the pants and threw le maire out of the door. Le maire landed in that same mud ditch in which he'd landed before, with a splash which must have been heard as far away as Paris. The lawyer danced around mon oncle, saying, “Monsieur Langres! Monsieur Langres!” Mon oncle simply looked at him. The lawyer ran to the door and into la rue and helped le maire up and the two marched away, le maire shouting back the most awful sounding French threats ever to be heard. I was glad I didn't understand them.

Mon oncle felt at his nose. He caught me eyeing him. He winked at me and tapped his big nose and calmly said, “Have no peur, Jean. My nose remains. It will take more than a Monsieur Capedulocque to detach the nose of a Langres!”

Afterwards, le forgeron tugged at his black beard and spoke to mon oncle with a grave, anxious expression on his face. Mon oncle merely laughed. I asked mon oncle what Monsieur Niort had said.

“He zinks the mayor is so angry my festival will be stopped.”

“Festival?” I asked. “Do you mean you are going to have a festival?”

They'd promised him a festival—une fête, in French—on the jour his avion flew. Le village planned to invite hundreds of people from all the towns and cities nearby and mon oncle counted on it, because he expected several rich manufacturers might be attracted, too, to see him voler. He told me, “Le village has made a promise. The mayor cannot back down on the promise.”

He began whistling, as if he'd enjoyed throwing the mayor out of the workshop. By and by le forgeron started chuckling, as if he was remembering the way the mayor had landed in the mud. Pretty soon both were laughing like two kids. In the afternoon the sun came out, bright and hot. Mon oncle told me I'd spent too much time indoors. He packed me off for the afternoon.

As an experiment I decided to see if I could walk to the lower cow field, below le village, and back. The cow field was about a mile away. I started fine. But three-quarters of the distance, my leg gave out on me. It began hurting. I reached the meadow, but I was limping. Here it was, well into the middle of the summer, and I couldn't even go half the distance I had to go to meet the condition set by my father. I flung myself down into the grass and wondered if ever I'd be able to walk like other boys.

Le jour was beau. It was beautiful. It was fun loafing under one of the trees, the birds chirping. My leg had stopped hurting. Everything was peaceful. I could hear the faraway buzzing murmur of old Monsieur Argeau's sawmill, east of St. Chamant. I remembered how scared I'd been the first week or so after arriving, imagining I'd seen Monsieur Simonis, imagining he'd tried to climb into my window, and thinking I'd heard Albert humming. All that was gone. It was like a bad dream. After that jaunt of mine up the montagne side with mon oncle, where I'd found the German pistol and shot the cochon—after that, except for le maire causing trouble, everything else had become peaceful and easy. I almost wished everything wasn't quite so peaceful. If that Nazi whom I
knew
was up there would only scurry down here a nuit or so, things would start popping. Le village wouldn't take so much stock in what le maire—the mayor—said every time. They'd have more belief in mon oncle.…

Upon returning, I learned from Madame Graffoulier that Suzanne Meilhac had been in town, marketing. She'd asked for me. When I saw mon oncle I asked if we might go to the Meilhac place one of these days. He said it was something he'd been planning to do. He hadn't realized so many jours had passed since I'd last seen Charles. He promised to take time out before next week.

At evening, as the men folks trooped back into le village, I noticed they didn't shout as good-naturedly to mon oncle as they used to. They walked by, avoiding him in the shop, scowling to themselves, whispering. Little Philippe spent about half an hour to make me comprehend what the trouble was. According to what he'd heard from his aunt, le maire had passed word around that mon oncle and I were attempting to cheat him out of the money due him for the dead cochon. You know how stories spread. He was doing his best to blacken the Langres name, never mentioning of course the huge price he'd demanded for his dead cochon.

Just before dinner, when I was upstairs in my room, le maire and his lawyer again waylaid mon oncle, asking him for the money. Afterwards, mon oncle informed me angrily they planned to lay a complaint against him and me and try to stick us in jail, because he'd refused to pay the price.

By now, I didn't care how much le maire asked. All I wanted was to pay him. I dug out my purse in a hurry. I hadn't used any of the money mon père had given me. I gave it all to mon oncle and his lean face flushed. He said le maire was robbing us. But, he supposed, there wasn't anything to do except pay. He walked out of the hotel and a little later returned, glum, his pride hurt. He'd paid a hundred dollars. I had two hundred left. I hadn't used any of it yet to pay Madame Graffoulier my bill and I wondered when she was going to hand me my account.

Perhaps Madame Graffoulier realized how mon oncle felt. Anyway, she had prepared an especially good dinner for us: potato potage, potato pancakes, fresh lentils in cheese, black bread, real cow butter, and the first meat we'd had for five or six jours.

I don't believe I've ever tasted meat as good as the meat Madame Graffoulier served to us that night. Maybe I ought to explain: In France, and particularly in the part of France where I was staying, which was about the poorest and most backward section of all France, meat was something rare. Even before the war, I've learned, they didn't have meat very often. Chicken and ducks, yes; but fowl wasn't held to be meat. What we had was regular steer meat, served in long thin slices, covered with garlic sauce. That meat melted in your mouth. I noticed there were tiny black granules in it, a little larger than grains of pepper. At first, I took them to be dirt. I didn't say anything, mainly because the meat was so good I didn't care if Madame Graffoulier had dropped a peck of dirt in it by accident.

But the granules weren't dirt. I happened to taste one. It was like biting into a very solid bit of mushroom. No—not a mushroom. I don't know that I can explain. If you can imagine a tiny chunk of gelatin, about ten times firmer than gelatin should be made, not having any particular taste at first but leaving in your mouth after you've swallowed it a very rich taste of meat—why then, that's what I had. I must have paused, after swallowing that black granule. I'll admit I was surprised. The taste remained. It stayed. It filled my mouth. It became the most extraordinary and wonderful taste, fragrant and appetizing. It was as though that small particle had magically enlarged, becoming a whole mouthful of the finest steak ever cooked. I blinked.

For the first time in hours mon oncle's face relaxed. He ceased looking as grim as he'd been looking. He asked, “Don't you know what
that
is?”

I shook my head.

“Truffe!” he said. “Madame Graffoulier has cooked
truffes
in this meat. It is very good, I zink. Non? You see now why the mayor is so angry when you have killed his trained cochon.”

Good? That nuit when I wrote to ma mère I told her it was one of the best meals I'd had since leaving Wyoming. In my letter to mon père I wrote him I was improving and now could walk about a mile without limping too much and hoped in a year or so if he and my mother—ma mère—ever again went on another walking trip, that I might be strong enough to join them. I said I hoped they were enjoying their trip. I was writing to them steadily, nearly every nuit, even if I knew there'd be a delay in forwarding my letters to them from London.