The Avion My Uncle Flew (20 page)

Suzanne asked, “L'avion est prêt à voler?”

Mon oncle explained it was prêt, but he planned to wait until early next week before trying it out. He wanted to wait until the wind blew up a storm. The more wind he had, the better he could prove to himself that his design of an avion was absolutely stable. That didn't make sense to me. If I was an inventor I'd want to pick a day still as doom for my first attempt, before risking my neck in a storm. But mon oncle wasn't built along cautious lines, I guess.

As mon oncle hoisted Suzanne up to the avion, to have a better look at it, Charles passed around toward me.

I grabbed at him, pulling him under the wooden runway. Hastily, I whispered, “Tu viens
voir
moi. Nuit,” hoping he'd understand I wanted him to come to
see
me tonight. I added, “Nuit. Nuit. Hôtel. Tu viens? St. Chamant.”

“Moi?” he said, pointing at himself, his mouth gaping in astonishment at the idea he was supposed to come to the hotel in St. Chamant tonight. “Tu
veux
je viens à St. Chamant?” That “tu
veux
,” you remember, means, “you
wish
.”

“Oui!” I said. “Tu viens. Hôtel. Nuit. Le maire. Secret. Très secret!”

It's altogether astonishing how few words you require to explain something when it's an emergency and you have to hurry and you've got somebody like Charles Meilhac who was trying as hard to understand as I was to make him understand.

11

MONSIEUR SIMONIS VOIT CHARLES ET MOI

“Hola!” called mon oncle. “Where are you two?”

Charles et moi—Charles and me—ducked out from under the runway. I said, “Ici. We're ici—here.”

Suzanne bent down, suspiciously gazing at us as if she knew we were talking secrets together. Charles tried to appear unconcerned. He said, “Il fait beau aujourd'hui,” and peered up at le ciel. He stuck his hands behind his back. There wasn't anybody, I guess, as good-hearted as Charles, but whenever he tried to hide anything from Suzanne, just the opposite happened—he always gave himself away by overdoing it.

Fortunately, mon oncle was like a child with a new toy. He was too busy showing us his avion to notice Charles et moi might have conspired privately. He asked us to climb to the top of the runway. “Pousse Jean,” he told Charles—and Charles obeyed; he pousse-d me up—pushed me up. Suzanne didn't say anything. She was too smart to ask us questions. But I could sense her thinking. I could feel my scheme again growing complicated.

As Charles scrambled beside us he nearly tripped on the ax. Le forgeron waved his hands, warning us to be careful. Mon oncle said the ax was sharp, not to touch it. When the time came le forgeron was to use the ax to cut the rope attaching the avion to the top of the runway.

Mon oncle was sitting in the cockpit. In front of him was a wooden post with a small wooden wheel, something like the kind you put on one end of a broomstick to steer a coaster wagon. He explained, to va to the right or to the left, you simply turned the wheel. To descend, you pushed forward. To voler up, you pulled back. That was all there was to it, he said. It was as simple as driving an automobile. You didn't have to concern yourself about the avion falling off to one side or the other as most avions did. His avion balanced itself because of how the wings were constructed.

He had built two rudders, one at each end of the wing. Ordinary avions have ailerons—flaps in the wings which keep the thing from tilting to one side or the other. Mon oncle's avion—l'avion de mon oncle, I suppose I should say—also had flaps. But they were attached to the rudders. They automatically moved when you worked the rudders. The whole purpose of his design was to construct an avion anyone could voler in.

He told us, proud and pleased with it, that you couldn't have an accident in it. For example, you couldn't make it dive so steeply it would smash into la terre—the ground. If you poussed too far farward on the post, why, the avion would merely dive a little and speed up and come level of its own accord.

Another thing, he explained. If his calculations were right, all the trouble and danger of landing that ordinary avions had were ended with his. His avion was designed to descend gently
vers
la terre—
toward
the ground. It practically floated down, no faster than a parachute, was his claim.

It must have been nearly four o'clock in the afternoon before he finished keeping his promise to show Charles and Suzanne his avion. He allowed each one of us, too, to climb into the cockpit for a minute.

I straddled that piece of canvas. The wings stretched out on either side of me. For a second or so it was almost as if I were voler-ing. I could look ahead and sight down the wooden runway and see where the meadow dropped off, to the cliff. Beyond was nothing but le ciel—sky—and air and wind. Far, far away was le village, small, the houses no bigger than toy blocks. I had a moment of peur. The wind caught at the wings. I thought someone might accidentally have cut the rope holding the avion and it was starting to slide down the runway. Of course, it was only the wind. But it made me uneasy. I climbed out in a hurry.

Mon oncle jumped down, light and easy, and came to me. He said, “Why do you not ask Charles to stay avec you tonight at the hotel? I zink your father would not mind at all if you use your money to pay for your guest.”

“Oh,” I cried. “That would be wonderful!
Can
he?
Will
he?”

I couldn't have asked for anything better. Immediately, mon oncle explained to Charles. Charles' face lit up. You almost could see his freckles dancing around for pure joy. Probably, he thought this was my secret and what I'd been trying to tell him under the runway when I was saying for him to come to see me tonight at the hotel. I didn't mind if he was a trifle muddled on it. Once I had him at the hotel there was plenty of time before midnight to outline the entire scheme to him—and make him understand, too, French or no-French-not, as you might put it.

Charles said, “Oui, je veux rester avec Jean la nuit!”—nodding his head.

The only one who wasn't content was Suzanne. Of course, being a girl she couldn't come with us. She knew that. But, also, she suspected we were up to something. Probably, most girls right then and there would have blabbed out their suspicions. It's only fair to say, as vexed as Suzanne must have been, she didn't say a word to mon oncle about what she might have figured Charles et moi were up to. No, she just set her lips together. She scowled. She dug the point of her wooden shoe into the ground. She walked away, pretending she was more interested in picking flowers than listening to us.

Mon oncle proposed that Charles let Suzanne go with le forgeron et moi as loin—as far—as the ridge in the oxcart. When we reached the ridge, Monsieur Niort would wait while Charles court-ed to la maison to ask his mother permission to rester la nuit avec moi.

All of us piled into the oxcart, le ciel changing slowly from a clear blue to pink and salmon colors. The clouds floating in le ciel were white, like big lazy sheep drifting through the air. We waved to mon oncle. He called, “Au revoir!” We watched him walk back to the avion and stare up at it, his hands clasped behind his back, no doubt thinking and planning ahead to that jour when a big wind would blow and he was prêt to make the flight.

At the ridge, Monsieur Niort clucked at the ox to stop. The twins jumped out. Charles let me know he believed his mother would grant him permission to come avec moi, particularly since mon oncle had asked him also—aussi, I should say, I guess. With dignity, Suzanne hoisted herself out of the oxcart. She didn't say anything to us at all; she just walked away, all by herself.

I called, “Au revoir, Suzanne.”

She didn't even turn her head.

I can't tell you how sorry I suddenly felt for her, leaving her out. If she'd been a boy, I'd have invited her at once. She acted as if I'd run out on her and played her a mean trick, which was absolutely unreasonable of her to believe. Once more I called, “Suzanne! Au revoir, Suzanne.”

But Charles didn't give a hang about leaving his sister at home. He swung over the oxcart, blue eyes sparkling, his hair red as paint. He told me excitedly, “Je reviens. Je reviens, vite!” That was: “I re-come, quick!” as the French have to say it. He raced by her, not paying any attention to her at all.

What she did was to stick out her foot, tripping him. He fell headlong. Before he could get up and catch her she'd darted ahead on the path, her red hair streaming, running as fast as a deer. I don't know how I happened to think of it at that moment, but I wished Bob Collins had been here. If he could have seen Suzanne then, I'll bet he'd have thought she was prettier even than Jane Sulgave. It never occurred to me before, somehow, that Suzanne Meilhac was awfully good-looking even if she was a girl and had red hair and was so thin.

While we waited, Monsieur Niort filled his pipe and smoked and talked French at me. Sometimes, I longed to be in a place where tout le monde—everyone—spoke nothing but words I understood.

You can't conceive how tiresome it became now and then to be where someone would say, “Eh bien, ça marche, aujourd'hui, hein, mon garçon? L'avion va voler, je crois. Ça m'amuse bien de voir l'avion voler loin, parce que je veux voler moi aussi. Est-ce q'un forgeron comme moi ne peut pas voler, hein?” and stuff like that, not spoken slowly either, but rattled off, faster than a man hammering tacks.

I wondered if ma mère expected me to speak like that when she saw me. I hoped not. Just when I was getting confidence that I might be able to speak the language—along would come a volley of words such as le forgeron shot at me, innocent and all, not realizing he was pulverizing me with every syllable he let go.

In about fifteen minutes, Charles revient. His mère had given him permission to rester la nuit á l'hotel avec moi. I noticed he was wearing a new coat. The coat appeared stiff and bulky. He had difficulty climbing into the oxcart, holding his stomach as if he had an ache. I tried to ask what the matter was. He gave me a quick nudge, whispering, “Sh-h!” which is one word, at least, meaning the same thing in English it does in French.

I discovered what was wrong with his coat when we got out of the oxcart, halfway down la montagne, for me to walk the rest of the distance to St. Chamant on my own legs. He waited until Monsieur Niort and the cart and ox had vanished around a clump of oak trees. Mysteriously, he pulled me next to an old stone wall, and lifted up his coat—and extracted his bow and arrow. He had on a grin a mile long. “Peau-rouge!” he said, absolutely tickled pink. He considered we were going to play Indian tonight! He thought
that
was our secret.

Well, as we walked to le village, I had to make him realize my secret was deeper than merely playing “peaurouge.” With all the French I could muster I began outlining the scheme.

You can realize it wasn't such an easy thing to do when Charles didn't know a lick of English and probably I didn't know more than three or four hundred words of French. Ordinarily, I'd have been stumped before starting. But this time, I simply couldn't let myself be stumped. And Charles saw I was up to something important. He did all in his power to help me and to grasp whatever I was saying. We made progress, but we reached le village way too soon. I was so intent on what I was doing, I never realized I'd walked all that distance without even a cramp or a pain in my leg until I found myself smack in front of the hotel, little Philippe Graffoulier sitting on the door-step, drawing pictures with chalk on his slate.

I was able to explain without too much trouble to Madame Graffoulier that Charles was going to be my guest tonight—Charles va rester avec moi à l'hôtel, la nuit, something like that.

She understood. She was wonderful to him, too. She treated him as if he were the most important person she had staying in the hotel. She gave him the other corner bedroom, the biggest one in the hotel. Between us was the room that the fisherman occupied. The blind peddler had taken mon oncle's little room in back.

Little Philippe tagged after us, hardly giving us a moment of peace before dinner. I noticed his slate. I signed to him I'd like to borrow it. I decided I might be able to use the slate to draw pictures for Charles when I couldn't explain any other way. Philippe was perfectly agreeable.

We washed. Charles hid his bow and arrow in his room. We came down to dinner. He laid into the potage and vegetables and thick bread and slices of broiled goat's meat as if he hadn't eaten for a week. Come to think of it, the Meilhacs were so poor, probably he hadn't had so much to eat at one time since his father had died and he and Suzanne and Madame Meilhac had returned to St. Chamant.

After he'd stuffed himself, we went out into the courtyard for a little time to enjoy the sunset. The blind man was there, squatting on a stool, heating his soldering iron over a charcoal fire in a brass pan.

“Bon jour, monsieur,” said Charles, pleasantly. The blind man showed us how he mended the pans, feeling for the holes, placing just the right amount of solder in each hole. Philippe sat down beside us and piped up in his squeaky voice, saying when he grew up he was going to mend pans, too. The big black-headed fisherman stuck his head through the door while we were talking. I could see him out of the corner of my eye.

It was growing darker, all the time. Shadows filled the courtyard, too. The fact is, except for that one morning, I'd never had a very good look at the fisherman. He was either going somewhere in a hurry with his rod and tackle, or returning, climbing up the stairs, shutting himself in his room. But as I noticed him now, he had the same bulk and shape of—I couldn't think. Not old Jake, back home. Old Jake was leaner. I didn't know.

Now, a curious thing happened. I think it's worth mentioning. Probably the fisherman assumed all of us in the courtyard were too occupied to pay attention to him. Charles and Philippe were arguing about one of the pans. The blind man had the soldering iron in his hand, the hot iron sizzling.