The Avion My Uncle Flew (5 page)

Along about two or three in the afternoon we reached the hotel. Albert wheeled me into the elevator and up to my room. He pushed the chair into my room and bowed, as he always did. I shut the door after thanking him, although today I didn't feel very thankful.

After laying myself down to rest, I heard voices coming from the next room. I was surprised to hear my father's. Usually he worked all day. I heard another voice, too, muffled through the wall. I thought it was mon oncle who had come to Paris. I got out of bed, using my crutches.

I managed to lump it into the sitting room. I suppose I should have knocked first, but I was too eager to see mon oncle. Anyway, I just pushed the door—went on through. When I looked up, the first thing I saw was the man whom I'd met in the parc. He and my father and mother were sitting in the parlor, talking. I exclaimed, “Monsieur Fischfasse—” saying it the way he pronounced it, “Fish-face!”

I wish you could have seen my father and mother then.

My mother said, “Why, John!” and jumped up.

The tall man smiled weakly. He gave me a look as if he hadn't ever seen me and was embarrassed at having a boy jump out at him and call him “Fish-face.” My father asked, “John, what's gotten into you? Apologize at once to Monsieur Simonis.”

I stared at the man. “But he
is
Monsieur—”

“That will do!” said my father in a big hard voice. “John, do you hear me?”

The man said, “It is nothing, monsieur,” to my father, with a weak-as-milk smile on his face. “This is your son?” he went on.

He knew I was the son. He knew who I was. I never heard of a man acting the way he did. My father said, yes, I was his son, and repeated he didn't know what was the matter with me, and was embarrassed. My mother rushed to me and whispered, “Johnny Littlehorn, you apologize instantly to Monsieur Simonis.”

I said, “But I know he's Monsieur Fish-face—”

My mother bundled me out of the room, with my father standing, his face red, embarrassed clear through.

For the first time in years my mother locked the door on me. I stayed there nearly half an hour, until my father entered and sat down. He said, “John, I simply can't understand how you would do such a thing.”

I tried to tell him I had met the man before.

My father shook his head. “No, that won't do, John. It won't do at all. It's bad enough to have you jump in on us and call a guest ‘Fish-face' before our very eyes, but to have you try to wriggle out of it later and lie—”

When my mother came in she listened to my explanation. She said perhaps I'd seen a man in the parc by that name. That was possible. But she said I couldn't have seen Monsieur Simonis before. He was a dealer in wines who lived in Tulle before the war, escaping into Spain when the Germans came. Excitedly, I said Monsieur Fish-face had done that, too. He'd lived in Spain.

My father said, “Be reasonable, Johnny. Suppose Monsieur Simonis had met you in the park. Why should he tell you his name was something else?”

That stumped me. I couldn't answer that one. It was an absolute, livid mystery to me and I didn't get the answer to it for months afterwards. All it did now was to confuse me. More than ever it convinced my parents I'd been imagining something or out of sheer contrariness had tried to show off in front of their visitor by calling him “Fish-face.”

My father saw I was too stumped to reply. He said, “There you are, Johnny. Monsieur Simonis never saw any of us before. He arrived in Paris today. He is buying vineyards around St. Chamant. He heard from friends of your mother in St. Chamant that we were here. He came here to ask your mother if she and her brother wanted to sell their property. He offered a very low price for it, too, telling her the Germans burnt down the Langres house two years ago.”

I tried once more. “He told me that too. The house is burnt down.”

My father sighed and shook his head.

My mother said, “Johnny, it isn't good for you to imagine things.”

It wasn't any use to attempt to make them believe me, even when I said that they could ask Albert tomorrow when he came for me if he hadn't seen the man.

My mother must have talked with my father about what I'd said at dinner, that night. I didn't feel like eating—I was too much disturbed. They brought in food for me to eat later on, and stayed there, to make sure I'd at least try to stuff it down. I could see they were worried about me, too.

It was such a mess, I didn't half believe what had happened myself any more. I repeated I was sorry if I'd made a mistake. My mother said she was sure it wouldn't happen again. I asked, “Are you going to sell your home?” hoping she would. That would mean I could stay with my parents and not go to St. Chamant.

My mother shook her head. “Half an hour ago, I talked to Paul long-distance. He doesn't want to sell. If he doesn't, I don't either. He hopes to rebuild the Langres house.
I
want him to, too,” she said, lifting her head, proud and trusting. “You and Paul can live in the little hotel in St. Chamant. It will be quite comfortable.”

My father said, “Johnny, your uncle Paul is coming here tomorrow or the next day. I think you'll like him. He plans to try to build an avion he's invented.” My father stopped, as if he was doing his best to interest me and cheer me up. “Do you know what an ‘avion' is, Johnny?”

I didn't care what an avion was.

He said, “‘Avion' is French for ‘airplane.'”

Well, when somebody starts talking about avions—airplanes—it's almighty hard not to be interested even if you have an idea the whole world is coming apart. I said, “My oncle's inventing an
airplane
?”

“That's right. As I've told you I've written him a couple of times about you. Today when we talked to him on the long-distance telephone, he said he'd be here tomorrow, or the next day, maybe, so your mother and I can leave for England.”

I said if I went to England with them I could learn to walk there just as well as being shunted off to a little French town where I didn't know anyone.

My father replied that was the difficulty: In England, my mother and he would live in London. He was going over there as a member of the Allied Aviation Commission. Because of a shortage of trustworthy translators, he had arranged for my mother to be put on as a temporary government employee, to help translate documents. Both of them would be very busy, and have no time for me. It couldn't be helped. This was government work, for our country. They hoped I would understand and realize how important it was.

I couldn't argue against them.

I was stuck. After eating, they left me alone for a time. I kept thinking about the white-faced man in the parc. They came in to tell me “Bonne nuit” and afterwards, in the dark, I still thought of that man. I wondered if I'd see him again if Albert took me to the parc. If I saw him, I'd know for sure whether he was someone else or the same man who'd tried to buy my mother's property in St. Chamant.

All that night, I didn't get much sleep.

A couple of times I thought I heard noises at my door. Perhaps no one ever actually came down the hotel corridor. I don't know. Anyway, both times I thought I heard the noises I lifted straight up in bed. Probably it doesn't make sense, but immediately I imagined Monsieur Simonis or Fischfasse, whatever his name was, was attempting to get in at me. I don't know why. I can't explain that. I simply had the fear. The first time I got to the door and listened and got back to bed, too, despite my leg. I walked. I was so scared and concerned I didn't have time to worry about my leg or how my leg hurt when I used it for walking.

It's a funny thing what you can do when you have to do it. Once I was in bed I lay there and sweated and felt the pain and wondered how I'd ever done it—but the second time that noise came, I didn't stop to wonder. I just did it again.

Halfway back to the bed the second time, I realized what I was doing. I sort of halted. I grit my teeth and deliberately put all the weight of my body on my bum leg. And that leg didn't flop out of joint like it used to at all. No sir, it hurt—but it stuck smack in place and stayed there.

I expected to fall, too. It made me kind of mad, thinking of all the days I'd wasted in bed or had been wheeled around like an invalid. When I did get into bed, I didn't care so much that my leg was hurting. I realized if I hadn't been such a baby and had tried my leg more frequently, my mother wouldn't have asked that hotel porter, Albert, to wheel me around—and I wouldn't have run into Monsieur Fischfasse.

Next morning, my father didn't go to work as early as usual. He stopped in to see me. First, he said, “Bon jour, Jean.”

So I said, “Bon jour, father.”

He said, “You should say, ‘bon jour, mon père.' That means ‘good morning, my father.' ‘Mon père' is French for ‘my father.'”

So I said, “Bon jour, mon père.”

He laughed. He was pleased. He sat down. He said, “C'est un beau jour?” and he was still laughing, because of how I must have looked at him. I don't think he expected me to figure out what he'd said this time. But I fooled him, in a way.

I remembered from yesterday when that white-faced man had said, “Le jour est beau, non?” My father had said practically the same words except for that “c'est” thing. I knew already that “est” was our “is.” Somehow, after walking last night, I must have felt better. Anyway, I made a guess. I decided “c'est” might be something like “it is”—and I replied, “Oui, mon père. Le jour est beau,” and waited to see if I'd answered as I should have. It was like a game.

He said, “Johnny, you
are
picking up a little French, aren't you? That's fine, Johnny.” He was as pleased as could be. I asked about that “c'est.” I'd been nearly right. It meant “it is”—actually, it meant “it's,” so I had guessed almost on the dot when my father had told me, “It's a beautiful day.”

He became more serious. “Johnny, I don't want you to think we're running out on you. You know we're not, don't you? All last night I worried. I'm sorry about yesterday when I lost my temper because I thought you were insulting Monsieur Simonis. I'm willing to accept your word you did think he was someone else.”

It made me feel weak and funny inside to hear my father talk that way, as if he'd done something wrong. Yesterday, I'd thought my father and my mother were shunting me off from them. Now when I looked up at him and saw how thin and tired his face was, with the scar red and ugly, all at once I knew I didn't ever have to worry that they were trying to get rid of me. All along they'd known I was
able
to walk—if only I put my mind to it. I'd had to be scared nearly to death before finding that out. I guess I felt a lump in my throat. I'd planned to blame them and tell them I knew they didn't like me anymore and kick up a row for being left behind.…

You see, I'm aiming to put everything down here, just as it happened, even if it makes me appear a pretty low sort of person, as I guess I must have been.

But I didn't do what I planned. I looked up and told my father, “If oncle Paul'll let me help build his avion, maybe I'll have lots more fun than going to England.”

Well, his face cleared. He smiled. He said, “Johnny, you watch me fix that for you.”

I said, “Would you like to watch me do something?”

He said, “You bet, Johnny.”

I threw off my covers and I walked clear to the door and almost got all the way back. I wasn't scared like I'd been last night so I could feel the pain more this morning. When the pain came I wasn't used to having so much of it. I had to stop. My father grabbed me. Even if I was going on thirteen, too big to be hugged by my father—he
did
hug me. I'm not ashamed to write it down here. He carried me back to my bed and called my mother. To hear him, you'd have thought I'd done the most wonderful thing in the world.

“Johnny,” he said, all of a sudden, “here I've been worrying all night because I was afraid you'd be angry at your mother and me. You've surprised me. You have, and I'm proud of you, too. I'll make a bargain with you. What do you want most to have?”

I didn't have to do any thinking to answer that. I said, “A bicycle with a high gear and a low gear like the one Bob Collins has.”

“I'll tell you what I'll do,” said my father. “You go down to St. Chamant with your uncle Paul, without complaining. If in the three months you're there you can learn to use your leg again and walk—you don't have to run—just walk, Johnny, I'll
buy
you a bicycle. I'll get one from England. With gears on it.”

Mother was smiling. She said, “Bob's bicycle hasn't any lights, has it? I'll tell you what
I'll
do, Johnny. If you can learn to walk again in three months you ought to be able to learn enough French to write me a letter. Remember, I was born in France. I love France. Nothing would please me more, next to having you walk again, than having you stop being so stubborn about the French. If you can learn enough French in three months to write me a letter, not very long, I'll promise to buy you one of those electric lights—” She hesitated. She appealed to father. “Oh, Richard,
you
know the lights I mean. Not the ones with a flashlight battery, but real lights, just like the automobiles have.”

“A dynamo,” said my father, grinning. “They have bicycles in England and France with electric dynamos to run the lights. That's what you mean.”

“Yes,” said my mother, smiling again. “That is exactly what I mean. What do you say, Johnny?”

What could anybody say, being offered the chance to get a bicycle with a high gear and a low gear and electric lights from a real electric dynamo? Nobody back in Wyoming had ever seen such a scrumptious thing. I could just shut my eyes and imagine myself wheeling out such a bicycle on a dark night and simply flicking the switch and putting it in gear and riding over to Bob Collins' or into town, having everyone gaping at me, wondering what in nation I was on.