The Avion My Uncle Flew (21 page)

But just as the blind man was picking up another pan, I saw him turn his head a little. His ears seemed to prick up, too. Of course, it might have been because of the shadows and the dull light, but for a second I could have sworn that the blind man—had
looked
out through his dark glasses straight at that fisherman. The fisherman had closed the door quickly by the time I turned.

Up until now, the blind man had been perfectly good-natured, explaining to us how he fixed the pans. Now, all at once, his voice got harsh. He said we were disturbing him; for us to go away.

It was time for Philippe to go to bed, anyway, and it gave me an excuse to beckon to Charles and pull him upstairs into my bedroom. I locked the door. Because I could hear the fisherman moving around in the room next to mine, I spoke to Charles in a low voice. After lighting a candle I took Philippe's slate and chalk and while Charles sat on the bed, I went at him again about my scheme.

I drew a picture of a chicken house. I pointed and said, “Monsieur Capedulocque,” and it was clear to whom the house belonged.

I drew more pictures. Gradually, Charles began to understand. Finally, I drew a picture of what I imagined a Nazi would be. It was a pretty ferocious picture. The man had spiked moustaches. “Nazi,” I said. I drew montagnes. “Nazi dans montagnes,” I said. I made the Nazi come from the montagnes and go into the chicken house. “Nazi,” I said again. “Le maire. Nazi. Ici.”

“Quoi?” exclaimed Charles suddenly, jumping off the bed.

“Oui,” said I, believing he was understanding.

“Le Maire Capedulocque—Nazi?” insisted Charles, once more, as if he couldn't believe what I'd said.

Of course I replied, “Oui,” just as anyone would, after having gone to all the trouble of explaining such a simple scheme.

Well, from that instant on you never saw such a change come over a person. Charles acted as if the world had fallen upon him. He concentrated on every last word I said. His jaw stuck out. In the candlelight, his eyes had turned a cold blue.

I was pleased, myself, to see he'd finally gotten through his head most of what I wanted but, I'll admit, I was a trifle puzzled to know just what it was that I'd said finally to bring him around in such a hurry, all at once.

The only part of my scheme remaining was for me to explain to him about the note. But do you think Charles would listen? No. He marched up and down the room, whispering fiercely, “Ah, ce Monsieur Capedulocque! Le cochon! Le cochon!” I began to wish I hadn't stirred him up quite so much. Finally, I attempted to construct the note, myself. That didn't go. I simply didn't know enough French. I gave it up.

I'd scatter the German coins as I'd planned and trust le maire would see them and think a Nazi had left them there. It was all I could do. I tiptoed to my bureau drawer, Charles watching every step I took. I got about ten German coins and half a dozen French francs. Charles brought the candle to the bureau and saw the coins in my hand.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?” he whispered.

It was enough to discourage the most patient man in the world. Charles was supposed to know already why I had to take German coins. I showed them to him. I said, “Nazi—Nazi—” and he bent his head down and picked up one and looked at it and in the candlelight his round face became perfectly furious.

“Ah!” he said. “Le maire?”

“Oui,” I replied.

“Ah,” he said. “Le cochon!” and threw the coin to the floor.

That was a preposterous thing for him to do. I didn't understand. I was wondering if he was off on one track and I was off on another. I picked up the coin and stuck it in my pocket. He appeared puzzled. I didn't have any more time for explaining. If he hadn't absorbed all the points, it wouldn't be my fault for not trying; he'd have to come along and do the best he could. I blew out the light and whispered, “Tu viens?”

That roused him right away. Noble and fierce as if this was something he was staking his whole life on, he whispered back, “Oui, je viens. Je suis patriote!”

It was a fine thing for him to be so enthusiastic, but I didn't see why he had to tell me he was a patriot. I concluded he was acting so fierce because it was natural for the French to excite themselves easily.

We went softly into the hall. We listened in the darkness. Madame Graffoulier and the two kids slept on the other side of the courtyard. They wouldn't hear us depart. The room next to mine was dead silent—not a sound came from it. I figured the fisherman was asleep. I headed for the stairs. In the darkness, Charles reached out and touched me—and I gave a little jump. I hadn't appreciated I was so nervous. He whispered, “Un moment, Jean. Je reviens, vite.”

I waited more than a moment in that dark creaky hall for him to re-come, quickly. In about three minutes he glided noiselessly to me, carrying something in his hands. We got down the stairs without arousing anyone. There we halted, peering toward the courtyard. But the blind peddler had packed up his kit and gone to bed long ago.

We passed out into la rue, walking over the cobblestones, keeping close to the maisons. We heard a dog bark. As we crossed to the right, toward the church, moonlight slid down through the trees, shining on Charles. I stopped dead.

I saw he was carrying his bow and arrow.
That
was what he'd gone back into his room to get. For my scheme, he didn't require a bow and arrow. They'd be a nuisance. I searched for some words to tell him to get rid of them. He stepped closer to me, an unholy grin on his freckled face, all white and round in the moonlight. He lifted up his bow, wagged his red head, whispering fiercely, “Voici! Bien, hein?”

It wasn't bien at all. I might have stopped longer to argue with him, if we hadn't heard the sound of footsteps on the cobblestones. We ducked in behind the church in a hurry.

It didn't seem possible anyone would be up at this early hour in the morning. We didn't wait to see who it was. We streaked along the side of the churchyard and hoisted ourselves over the cemetery wall, landing in soft terre—earth—and staying there, not making a noise, scarcely breathing. I wondered if it could be the fisherman arising this early.

I guess Charles didn't like being here any more than I did. We drew close together, picking our way along one of the old brick walks. Le maire's place was opposite the graveyard, on the other side. We stole along through those gravestones, hearing the wind come sighing to us. I'd never realized how spooky a graveyard could be at night. We approached the middle of the cemetery, the old part, where the trees grew more thickly. Their leaves were like a blanket overhead, shutting out most of the pale moonlight. We had to grope our way on the brick walk, feeling for the rusty spiked fence.

For a couple of minutes we must have got lost, wandering around in that cold darkness. Instead of coming out directly opposite le maire's place, we emerged from the graveyard three or four hundred yards north, near the corner of the stone wall. Here it was a little brighter. The leaves weren't so thick. The moon shone down with a flat paleness on three or four old mausoleums, erected next to the wall.

I drew Charles' attention to le maire's place across from the cemetery on the other side of the road. I signified to him, best as I could, that we were to make a rush across the road and crouch under the opposite wall as our next move. He got that part of the plan, too. He nodded. “Oui,” he said in a whisper, his voice more steady than mine was.

Just as we were about to jump for it, we heard those footsteps again. They came down the main rue and turned, right, and clop-clopped past the church, coming closer and closer to this side of the wall surrounding the graveyard. We risked peeking above the wall, to see who it was. The trees shaded us so much that it was perfectly safe as long as we didn't make any noise.

But the minute I raised my head and saw who it was, coming toward us, I nearly fell over backwards. I can't ever express how uncanny a thing it was to see that blind man approach, the moonlight upon him. He clopped-clopped in his wooden shoes along the deserted road, his head up, the black glasses covering his eyes.

He walked on by and went on toward la montagne. It seemed as though the entire nuit stood still, the leaves motionless in the trees, the wind empty. That peddler was blind, but he walked that road with his head up in the moonlight! When he reached the turn beyond Dr. Guereton's vineyard, why,
he
turned, too, although how he knew it was there was a miracle to me.

We waited a long time after the peddler was gone. I guess just seeing him, uncanny and lonely in the solitary road, had dampened our spirits. An owl hooted somewhere behind us. Both of us jerked. Finally, his voice shaky, Charles whispered, “T-tu viens?”

I whispered, “Oui.” We slid over the wall and rushed across the road, diving for the tall grass growing beside the wall enclosing le maire's property.

From somewhere near us, a rooster started crowing. That noise split out through the darkness so loudly I thought the entire village would hear it and wake up and know we were laying low near le maire's place. By and by, the rooster gave up. But another took on, crowing even more loudly. A donkey brayed. After that a dog barked faraway. A dog in le village next barked. A wind blew down from the montagnes with a cold freshness of early morning. I could feel Charles shivering against me, waiting for the next move—and, probably, I was shivering just as hard, or harder, against him.

I reached into my pocket for the German coins. I shoved them at him. Well, he didn't conceive of why he should take a handful of German coins! That was the most bitter shock of all to me. Here I'd thought he understood my scheme perfectly and at the very crucial moment, when he was supposed to take the coins to carry out the scheme, I had to discover he was still ignorant of their purpose.

The wind got colder. Morning was coming closer. Already the stars in the sky weren't quite as bright. I knew if we waited much longer it would be too late and we'd never have this chance again. I could either give up because Charles was obstinate and refused to understand at the last minute what he was supposed to do—or I could change my scheme. Instead of me standing guard, I'd have to take over and sneak across the wall and grab a couple of hens and ducks, scatter money around, and shove for it.

I took a big breath. I whispered, “Tu restes ici, s'il vous plaît,” telling him to rest here, please, expecting him at least to stand guard for me.

I scooted across the wall, landing fortunately on my feet. Right away, there was a soft scratching noise against the wall. I whirled. It was Charles.
He
clambered over it, too, not leaving me for a second. My plan was scattering all to nowhere.
That
wasn't what he was supposed to do at all!

You might have expected me to order him back. Well, I didn't. It's fine to plan things. Once you're in the middle of doing a thing such as I was tonight, I found it a lot more comfortable to have Charles sticking along with me even if my original scheme called for one of us to be guard.

The back yard of the maire's place was covered with gravel. In the space between the maison and stables and chicken and duck sheds, were a cart and a dilapidated buggy and a pile of junk. We snuck as far as the cart when a dog tied near the stables started barking as if it were going crazy.

I'd never counted on a dog giving us away. Soon as it began barking, of course, the donkeys let loose; they brayed. I hope I may never again hear so many animals all going at the same time.

With all that noise, I knew in a minute that le maire was bound to be awakened. My interest evaporated in the scheme I'd constructed. I lost all interest in it fast. All I wanted to do was to get back to the hotel, into bed. I stood, preparing to make a run for it to the wall. But Charles still crouched beside the big cart. I hauled at his arm, trying to let him know my scheme wasn't as perfect as I'd figured.

Do you know, he didn't budge. He stayed where he was. I bent down to whisper at him. He made a sudden move, caught me, shoved me clear down. “Hsst!” he whispered, pointing.

Then I saw what I hadn't noticed before. A light was showing through the cracks of the rear door. Now, I could see a light might be burning in the rear room. The windows were shut tight with shutters. You had to look sharp before realizing the maison wasn't dark. And as I stared, the crack opened wider and wider—the door swung out.

There, framed in the candlelight from the room, stood le maire himself. Late as it was, he was dressed. He wasn't wearing a nightgown. He stepped forward, peering in the darkness toward the sheds. He asked, “Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?” It came very plainly to where we were hiding, as if he were addressing a question to someone behind him, asking what was the matter.

And as I watched, I felt my heart practically turn to stone and stop beating.

A tall thin man came out from the room and stood behind le maire. He was head and shoulders above le maire, with arms like bean poles. I couldn't believe my eyes. My throat tightened.