The Avion My Uncle Flew (27 page)

That day of the fête passed all too quickly. That night we had a big dinner in the hotel. You know, I'd forgotten all about my leg. I realized my leg was well. It came to me, all of a sudden, as I was sitting at the table on mon oncle's right, hearing everybody talk and laugh and joke, with Charles and Suzanne sitting opposite me.

At the other end of the table, Monsieur Niort was introducing one of the men who'd been in the black limousine. He explained this man was Monsieur Parousse, a manufacturer from Toulouse, who'd read in the newspapers about mon oncle's avion and proposed to establish a small factory here in St. Chamant, if mon oncle was agreeable, where Langres avions would be built. Monsieur Toulouse said something about using rocket motors and producing an inexpensive avion anyone could fly, but I was getting sleepy and didn't hear much of that speech.

I half awakened when mon oncle leaned to me and said anxiously, “Jean!' Jean! They are asking me again to explain how my nephew discovered that the ex-Mayor Capedulocque was—”

He didn't finish.

He didn't finish, because right then my mother and father walked into the hotel.

14

LA LETTRE

I doubt if you can conceive of the surprise and joy with which mon oncle et moi welcomed mon père et ma mère.

Both of them were browned from their walking trip. They'd received mon oncle's cable, asking them to come for la fête. They'd taken an airplane from London early last night, planning to reach Paris by midnight, transfer to another airplane early this morning to reach Tulle by eight o'clock and drive to St. Chamant in time for la fête. A storm had blown up over the channel grounding all airplanes. They weren't able to leave England until late this morning. As a result they lost hours, didn't reach Tulle until this afternoon. They again lost more time trying to locate a taxi to drive them here.

Because the hotel was packed, they took my room. Madame Graffoulier fixed up a place for me in the attic with little Philippe. While mon père et ma mère washed and brushed off the dust from their trip, for a few minutes I had a chance to be alone with them in the room. Of course, right away they both wanted to know about my leg and my arm. I assured them I figured my leg was cured and my arm didn't hurt very much. I rattled off as much as I had time for, about all that had happened.

When I'd completed the story, I told mon père how Charles had misunderstood my French. As a result, I was in an embarrassing position now, everyone—tout le monde—considering I was the one who'd been the first to discover Monsieur Capedulocque was a thief and collaborator. They were asking me to tell how I'd found out. I wanted to know what to do. Worse, I'd been given one fourth of the reward money, too. I showed it to them, in a bag on the dresser—two thousand five hundred francs, about one hundred American dollars.

Mon père simply sat on that bed. He laughed until he was weak. Ma mère said, “Richard! Richard Littlehorn!” a couple of times. But she broke down. She began laughing too. Finally, mon père told me he considered I'd done enough to earn my fourth of the reward money. Even if I'd done it by accident, more or less, the money was mine.

However, as for telling them how I'd worked out a scheme which had been completely misunderstood by Charles—well, I had to handle that myself, he said. He couldn't help me there. He said it was too complex for him. On the one hand, if I admitted the plain truth, it might spoil all Charles' pleasure, after blowing about me, telling people nobody could compare with him and me as detectives. On the other hand, mon père said he didn't think I ought to lie about the facts, either. He couldn't see any way out. No, he said, once again laughing, it was too deep for him entirely.

Mon oncle was knocking, asking how soon my parents would be ready. Mon père said, “One minute, Paul.”

I asked, “How long are we staying here? A week? A month?” I was just beginning to get into the swing of being here and hoped we didn't have to shove too soon.

“A week?” exclaimed ma mère.

Mon père delivered the bad news. We had to leave—
tomorrow noon
. His job in the army was finished. He had made reservations for all of us on a boat departing Tuesday from Cherbourg for home. He'd have to stay at Washington, D.C. a week or so to be mustered out of the army. We'd remain with him. After that, all of us would be bound for Wyoming.…

I don't know how my face looked, but ma mère noticed me; and my expression must have indicated something of my disappointment. “Why, Johnny,” she said. “Aren't you happy we're going home?”

I said, “Sure. I guess so.”

“You guess so?” said mon père, as if he was amused. “I thought you weren't going to like it here?”

I said, “I've changed my mind. I've got friends here.”

“You've friends home, too,” said ma mère.

“Tu viens, Yvonne?” called mon oncle from outside in the hallway.

They got up to go to the door. “We'll have a talk later on,” said mon père. “Your mother wants to go up the mountain to see what's left of her home tomorrow morning, and I'd like to go with her. How far is it?”

“About two and a half miles.”

“Could you walk it with me?” he asked, a curious expression on his face, half smiling. “Despite that broken arm of yours, do you think we might walk it together?”

I said, “Sure, I can walk it,” without thinking. Of course I could. I wasn't worried any more about my leg.

We got downstairs once more, and there was more speech-making, my mother greeting old friends she hadn't seen for more than a quarter of a century. They cleared the floor. Mon oncle played his flute. Monsieur Niort sent for his accordion. I danced a couple of times with Suzanne, despite my broken arm. Doctor Guereton told ma mère that it would help my arm, too, although for the life of me I don't see how dancing can help a broken arm any.

Afterwards, along about eleven o'clock, way past Charles' and Suzanne's and my bedtime, all of us, my parents, oncle Paul, Madame Meilhac, Monsieur Niort, everyone we knew, sat in front of the fire, still talking. By and by mon oncle glanced at me and something seemed to strike him.

“Ah,” he exclaimed. “The bicycle!”

In French, immediately, he explained to the village people present how I was engaged to win a bicycle with a high gear and a low gear and a middle gear and with a real electric dynamo from my folks.

Mon père said calmly, “Johnny and I are to walk up to the Langres house tomorrow. If he does that, I shall consider he has won my part of the bargain.”

Mon oncle snapped his fingers. “Pouf! That will be simple for him! Is he not Langres—” And he corrected himself. “At least, half Langres? Assuredly, he will do that. But the electric dynamo, Yvonne?” he said to ma mère.

My mother—ma mère, I mean—gave me the merest glance. I couldn't tell whether she was laughing or not. She spoke seriously. She said she expected me to keep my bargain with her if I was to receive the electric lighting dynamo. And I hadn't written her a letter in French. She was sorry.

Mon oncle protested. He said we hadn't expected them to be here so soon. He translated back into French for the benefit of the others present. Charles appealed to ma mère. Suzanne said, “Oh, Madame Littlehorn, Jean vous écrira bientôt!”

Ma mère shook her head. She said it was a bargain. She asked me if I didn't agree. Well, much as I hated losing that dynamo, I had to support her. I hadn't written the letter. Fact is, I was pretty certain I'd never be able to construct a whole letter in French. That was beyond me. Ma mère said when we reached Wyoming I could take up French at high school and perhaps in a year or so learn enough to write her the letter. Then she'd give me the dynamo which she already had ordered.

I jumped up, “You've
bought
it?”

She nodded, eyes sparkling.

I looked at mon père. “You've bought the bicycle—”

“With all three gears,” he said, cheerfully. “Only you won't get it, young man, if you don't keep up with me tomorrow morning!”

Immediately, mon oncle translated our conversation to the others. Charles clapped his hands. “Bravo!” he said, pleased that I would have at least the bicycle, because he was just as confident as I was that I could walk those two miles. But Suzanne leaned forward a little, away from the fire. Her face became solemn. She spoke to mon oncle rapidly. He listened. He said, “Ah, oui.” He nodded. He snapped his fingers. Ma mère understood French, as well as anyone there—and I caught her smiling.

Mon oncle suddenly told me, “Jean, in Paris I have made you a promise. I have said you will come here and not only walk but write a letter to your mother in French. Is that right?”

I said, “Yes,” not comprehending why all the French people were beginning to smile, as if they had a secret.

“Eh, bien,” said he, now very serious. “Very well. It is simple. Are you not half Langres? You will write the letter tomorrow morning
after
walking to the montagne. Dr. Guereton will wait at the halfway point in his automobile. As soon as you have proved to your father you can walk, you will rush back here to the hotel,
and you will write that letter before noon!
Voici!”

I protested. I said ma mère was here. I couldn't write her a letter when she was here. I guess ma mère was as eager to see me win the electric lighting dynamo as anyone. In her pleasant way, she suggested we make a trifle of a change in the bargain. Instead of writing her a letter, she'd be satisfied if I wrote her six pages in French about any subject I might choose.

“Six pages!” I exclaimed. That was impossible.

Mon oncle said, “Pouf! It is simple. You will write about la fête and mon avion. That is easy. It is decided. I have made a promise.” And so it was decided.

That night in the attic, I couldn't do much sleeping. I thought about the letter I'd have to write tomorrow morning, between the time I returned from the montagne and when my parents got back. And I thought about the weeks I'd spent here and about Charles and Suzanne Meilhac; and about little Philippe who'd helped me most of all with what French I did know; and about the doctor; and Madame Graffoulier, who'd made such wonderful soup; and about le forgeron—no—now—le Maire Niort, with his black beard—and—oh—all the village—everyone. I'd have to leave them. I might not ever see them again. It might be at least years before I could return. I felt a great sadness come upon me, that tomorrow I'd have to go. I heard the roosters crowing early in the morning before I finally fell asleep.…

It didn't seem more than a minute had passed before Philippe awakened me. The morning light streamed through a little opening at the far end of the attic. I got dressed as best I could with my arm. When I went downstairs I found ma mère already had packed for me. Dr. Guereton was there for one more look at the arm. He peered over his spectacles at it and under his spectacles. He said, “Ça va, ça va,” and I guess that meant my arm was improving.

I was surprised to find Charles et Suzanne waiting to have a last breakfast with me. They'd walked from their maison early in the morning. With the money in the bank, Madame Meilhac was able to employ men in the Meilhac vineyards. No longer did the twins have to labor there from morning until nuit and fear that Monsieur Capedulocque would turn them out this fall. None of us spoke very much. As the time drew nearer for us to say “good-by—au revoir” to each other, a silence fell upon us.

We finished breakfast by six-thirty. Mon père was waiting. Ma mère had gone on ahead with Madame Meilhac in the doctor's car. The twins, mon oncle, mon père et moi, all five of us set out, the air fresh and cool. My arm bothered me a little because it was in the sling, and couldn't move as my other arm did when I walked—but except for that one thing, I had no trouble. It was as if all the kinks had gone forever from my leg.

The fact is, I was more concerned by the letter than walking to la maison de ma mère. I tried to remember French words. They evaporated out of my head. Before I knew it we were in the meadow, with the women greeting us. Mon père looked at his watch. It was a few minutes before eight in the morning. We'd taken a little less than an hour and a half. He came to me and stuck out his big hand, looking down at me from his height, his face brown and lean and smiling, the scar showing red and twisted when he grinned.

“Okay, Johnny,” he said. “You get the bicycle. Now your mother and I will remain up here until eleven. We'll ride down in Dr. Guereton's automobile, he has promised to come back for us after delivering you at the hotel. That will give you about three hours and a quarter to write your French. Good luck!”

Mon oncle was impatiently waiting. “Vite!” he said, “Vite, Jean!” knowing the sooner I reached the hotel, the more time I'd have to win.

Ma mère was watching. “Bonne chance!” she called at me. And then she said to mon oncle, “And no assistance, Paul, you understand. That wouldn't be fair.”

Mon oncle shrugged. “No assistance, then,” he said glumly.

If I walked up to the maison, I practically flew down to the place where Dr. Guereton was waiting for us in his automobile. Charles took one side, and mon oncle took the other side of me. Taking care not to hurt my arm, they rushed me down that slope so fast I still have to catch my breath whenever I think of it. We reached the hotel at twelve minutes after eight. Suzanne jumped out of the car and ran into the hotel and had pen and paper ready for me the second I entered.

I sat down at the table.

I thought.

I thought for ten minutes and I couldn't think of a single solitary word to put down.

“Ah! Ah!” exclaimed mon oncle.

Monsieur Niort appeared and sat down by the fire.

Little Philippe walked in and whispered to mon oncle, “Ça ne marche pas?”