The Avion My Uncle Flew (17 page)

The next jour someone had tacked up signs all through le village de St. Chamant. With an air of suppressed excitement, mon oncle translated one of them for me. The government was offering a reward of 10,000 francs to be given to anyone responsible for capturing Nazi soldiers or sympathizers supposed to be hiding in the montagnes of the Cantal. He wagged his head. “Now,” said he, “perhaps that will stir them up here in the village, if the mayor isn't too much of a pighead.”

As we varnished the spars of the avion that morning, I kept thinking about the reward and how wonderful it would be if mon oncle or Charles Meilhac might be able to collect that reward. I asked mon oncle why he didn't go back up to la montagne and sort of scout around? He gave me a quick grin, replying that he had more important things to do than find a Nazi. But that must have started him thinking about it.

After lunch, instead of returning to the workshop mon oncle sniffed the fresh montagne air. He stretched. He looked at me. With a kind of sheepish expression he asked if I'd like to take a ride up the montagne with him? Did I! That was like asking if I wanted to hunt ducks. Well, he ran up to his room. When he returned his coat bulged as if he'd stuck a gun in a shoulder holster hidden under his coat. I didn't say anything. However, the thought of mon oncle meeting with a Nazi didn't, somehow, appear too cheering. I remembered a jour or so ago I'd wished for something to happen. Now I started wishing as hard as possible that nothing would happen today.

He borrowed a bicycle for the afternoon from le forgeron, riding me on the handle-bars. He pedaled by the stone church, whistling, past the cemetery, and out by the big whitewashed tower and house belonging to le maire Capedulocque. Behind the tower and the house, surrounded by a whitewashed wall, were wooden sheds containing ducks and chickens. They clacked and gobbled at us as we went by. A donkey shoved its head over the wall and brayed. Another donkey inside Monsieur Capedulocque's house stuck its head through a window and looked at us. A cow must have been inside, too, because a cow shoved its head out through another window.

I looked back. There in a third window was le maire himself, scowling, watching us pedal up the lane. Mon oncle glanced back. Mon oncle laughed. “Voici!” he said—meaning, “Here it is,” or “There you are.” He wagged his nose. “The donkey, the cow, and the mayor. All fit company. I zink I do not like le maire Capedulocque one little bit, non!” We followed the path we'd taken a couple of weeks ago in the oxcart. As he pedaled higher, the air became more clear. The trees were green as paint. Mon oncle stopped to rest. We picked black figs; they were sweet and juicy.

I thought we were going to la maison de ma mère. The truth is, I became a shade scared. Even though I was with mon oncle, somehow I didn't much relish the thought of going to that high and lonesome meadow where the Nazi might be waiting. After going part way on the bicycle, we started walking. Because of my leg, mon oncle went slowly. Once, we halted in a clearing while mon oncle lit his pipe. He told me something of his plans for his avion as we rested. He said if all went well, even without workmen, he and le forgeron would have the avion ready by the middle of the month, a week or so from now. He planned soon to take it up to the meadow on ma mère's and his land, and set up a big wooden slide for it to glide away from, over le village to the cow field on the other side. I asked if there would be as many as a hundred people at the festival. I looked forward to seeing that festival—or fête, I should say.

“A hundred?” he said. “There would be a thousand, perhaps. Two thousand.” He turned away, his face going a shade darker. “But it has been decided not to have la fête.”

“Not have it?” I cried. He didn't answer right at once. I said, “That mayor won't let le village have it?”

“Bah!” said mon oncle. “It is nothing. Two thousand people would be very confusing. Monsieur Capedulocque has told everyone—tout le monde—in le village that my airplane will not fly and that it would be foolish and a waste of time to march up the montagne to see it. Voilà! We do not have la fête.”

Even though he tried to hide his disappointment and joked about it, I could see it was a stunner for him. He'd counted on people coming to see him voler. It meant a lot to him. It might be a chance to sell the avion. I said, “It all goes back to me finding that German gun and shooting the cochon, doesn't it?”

“Bah!” said mon oncle, again. “It is because the mayor is a pighead.”

I insisted, “If we could only
prove
someone was hiding up there, wouldn't that help things? Wouldn't le village realize its maire was an awful pighead?”

“Ah, perhaps today I will find the Nazi,” said mon oncle, attempting to be cheerful. “Who knows? Viens, Jean. We lose time.”

He fooled me. He didn't take me with him to see la maison de ma mère. He swung off the path and we trudged over a hill. I thought all the time we were scouting for that Nazi. I began to be scared. My leg started aching. We crossed the other side of la montagne. We didn't see a sign of the Nazi. But down below on the slopes, I saw a vineyard and a big stone house beyond the vineyard with noble shade trees and flowers in the sunshine. In the vineyard were two figures working. Both of them had red hair.

I let out a whoop. Right away, Charles and Suzanne dropped their hoes. They answered with French whoops. They scampered up the slope. Charles flung arms around me, kissing both cheeks, French style, jabbering away like a washing-machine motor. After him, Suzanne flung
her
arms around me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to do. It was the first time in my life I'd been hugged by a girl. I ducked back. She only kissed one of my cheeks. As it was, probably I went red as a beet.

Mon oncle waited, smiling to himself. It was the finest surprise anybody could ask for. After greeting me, the Meilhac twins piled questions on to mon oncle. I knew they were questioning him about his avion because I heard that word repeated. Mon oncle kept on smiling, enjoying himself, and answering them. Finally, I heard Charles say, “Je veux voir l'avion, s'il vous plaît.”

I asked what he'd said.

Mon oncle replied, “You know what ‘je' is, by now?”

I did: “Je” was “I” in French.

He explained, “‘Je veux' is ‘I wish.' And ‘voir' is ‘to see.' And you know what ‘s'il vous plaît' is. That is ‘please,' or ‘if you please.'”

It was like fitting a puzzle together. All at once it was simple. “Je veux voir l'avion, s'il vous plaît,” fitted together perfectly: “I wish to see the airplane, please.”

Next, mon oncle glanced at his watch. He told me he was leaving me with the Meilhac twins for a couple of hours. He'd pick me up around six o'clock. He waved, said “Au revoir,” and trotted off, covering the ground between the vineyard and the forest about ten times faster alone than when he'd come down with me.

I didn't have time to worry over mon oncle because Charles and Suzanne kept me busy. They showed me the grapevines. In a few more weeks the grapes would be ripe. I said, “Monsieur Capedulocque—” and pointed at the vines.

Suzanne understood. She knew what I was thinking about. She clenched her fist. She frowned. She said, “Monsieur Capedulocque est un cochon!” and explained to Charles. Both of them were worried for fear the mayor would grab their vineyard this fall if the grapes didn't sell for enough.

By and by I tried out my French. I said, “Je veux voir ta maison, s'il vous plaît.” It worked like a charm. They understood at once I'd said “I wish to see your house, please.” Their maison was down toward the bottom of the mountain, set at one end of a long meadow, with trees planted on each side of what must have been years and years ago a broad coach road. Their maison was perfectly enormous. It had two stone towers and a high peaked slate roof. Most of the windows and doors were now locked or boarded. Around the big house still showed traces of long ago gardens, rose bushes grown wild, pear trees untrimmed and shaggy.

Madame Meilhac was short and jolly, with wonderful red hair, very neat and clean. The way she acted you wouldn't suspect she cared about being alone in a vast empty house with two children and no money any more for servants. She appeared to think it was a game, like camping out. Most of the rooms were closed off. I had glimpses of furniture covered with cloth, protected from the dust. In one long hall were rows and rows of pictures of Meilhacs, the last one smaller than the others, of a man in a modern army officer's uniform. Charles simply said, “Mon père.” It was of his father, killed in the war.

All their misfortunes had happened after the death of their father. The Germans had robbed the bank containing the Meilhac money. The Meilhacs had been forced to sell most of their property. Now all they had was this house and the vineyard, with Madame Meilhac trying to keep that. You might have thought they'd be sorrowful. If they were, they never let on. They all were gay and cheerful. You wouldn't ever have guessed they knew they were poor.

They treated me as if I was a visiting noble or duke. They brought out four slices of thick black bread and spread goat butter on it. Madame Meilhac opened a stone crock. She scratched in it with a wooden spoon. She managed to locate a few grains of brown sugar. She gave me most of the sugar, smiling all the while as though she had a hundred barrels more of sugar hidden away.

I felt so sorry for them I nearly choked, eating that black bread and butter with brown sugar sprinkled on it. But it was a treat for Charles and Suzanne. They licked the crumbs off their fingers. I let on it was a noble treat for me, too. I'd have rather died than have them believe I didn't appreciate what they were doing to welcome me and to feed me in their maison.

After eating, Madame Meilhac and Suzanne cleared the table. They shoved Charles and me outside. He fetched me another bow and arrow he'd made, saying “peaurouge” a couple of times. It was going on toward late afternoon. He signified he was through working in the vines today. He meant to entertain me; I was his guest. He thought I'd enjoy playing Indian. Well, it struck me funny to play Indian thousands of miles away from home. We crawled up to the vineyard. Charles and I shot his arrow at the vines and whooped and did our best to pretend we were wild Indians—but somehow it didn't go over.

By and by, without saying anything, we simply stopped playing. Both of us were melancholy. I could imagine Charles thinking about his vines, worrying, hoping le maire Capedulocque wouldn't take them away this fall. It seemed to me le maire must be the greediest man alive, or the meanest. He was after my mother's and my uncle's property up higher in the montagnes, even though there weren't any vineyards there—and he was after the Meilhacs', down here. You'd think it was more than just grabbing land. It was as though he was determined to rid le village for good of both the Meilhac family and anyone belonging to the Langres family. I couldn't understand such hatred. In some respects he was worse than Monsieur Simonis had been—meaner, too.

Once more I got to thinking about le maire, wondering if there wasn't any way to make le village appreciate what a pighead he was. You know how it is when you moon along, idly, thinking about something, almost dreaming what could happen in your head?

Well, all at once, it appeared to me I'd stumbled upon a solution. I knew exactly how to wake up the entire village to the danger that Nazi was to them. I had discovered a way to excite them and worry them and send them tramping through those montagnes until there wasn't an inch left for a man to try to hide himself in!

10

L'AVION EST CASSÉ

It seemed to me much of our grief resulted from that German—or whoever owned the German knapsack and the pistol. I wouldn't have shot le maire's cochon or knocked off his hat if I hadn't found the pistol. If I hadn't found the pistol and knapsack I wouldn't have told tout le monde a German was up there. Mon oncle wouldn't have sent le village chasing into la montagne; le maire wouldn't have lost his temper at me and mon oncle. Of course le maire was set against mon oncle before that—but by what I'd done I'd given le maire more convincing reasons to say mon oncle and I were muddleheads.

I figured if the people in the village got worried enough to spend a week or so searching the montagnes they were bound to locate whoever was hiding nearby. My idea was to manufacture the worry for le village. It was a good idea; it was simple. You see, I remembered those ducks and chickens belonging to le maire. Charles and I would wait until it was nuit. We'd hide in the cemetery which was across from la maison de Monsieur Capedulocque. When it was good and dark, we'd sneak across. This was where I'd require Charles. My leg wasn't yet strong enough to wriggle over le maire's wall and carry me to the chicken and duck roosts and get back before being seen. I reckoned on staying outside the wall, acting as guard.

Now, you might wonder how on earth doing all that would arouse le village. I'll tell you. That was where my plan was bound to succeed because it was so almighty simple. The thing was, we had to convince Monsieur Capedulocque a German had sneaked down from the montagne to rob his chickens and ducks for food. And I'd figured how to convince le maire that the robber was the German—and not local people or tramps. I'd use a few of the German coins from my collection.

We wouldn't actually be thieving from le maire because I planned to drop ten or twenty pieces of French money on the ground, too, as well as the German coins. And, I'd have Charles scribble a note in bad French, just as if an ignorant German had spelled it out, warning le maire not to tell anyone the chickens and ducks had been taken, on pain of death—a regular pirate's warning, in fact.

The note could say the German was leaving pay for what he'd taken. That would explain why the money'd been left, as if the German hoped by paying for what he'd taken to keep Monsieur Capedulocque from talking. Of course, I expected le maire to disregard the warning; I expected him to shout he'd been robbed by a Nazi, being scared by the fact he now had proof a Nazi
was
sur la montagne. You can see for yourself how simple that plan was. I think you'd agree a plan as simple as that one ought to have been sure-fire. Certainly it wasn't my fault if things got more complicated than I expected.