The Avion My Uncle Flew (6 page)

Why, I tell you: For a bicycle like that, I guess I would have promised to sprout wings and a halo, to go to church every day in the week, to keep my nails clean, to wash behind my ears, and to do my school lessons without ever being told. Instead, all I had to do was go to a French town with mon oncle, build an avion there, probably fly around in the avion and have a noble time doing it—and walk and learn French. Anybody could do that—was what I then believed, at least.

So I said it.

“It's a bargain,” I said.

“We'll make it you have to be able to walk two miles,” said my father.

I said, “I'll walk twenty miles for—”

“Two miles will be enough, Johnny.”

“And write at least two pages in French,” added my mother.

“It will be easy,” I said.

I was so pleased and excited, all my worries about that white-faced man passed away, as though it had all been a bad dream.

A little later I got to thinking more about the promise I had made to learn French. I put down all the French words I knew so far. When I was finished, I was surprised I knew so many. Here they are:

1.
Montagne

2.
Oncle

3.
Bon

4.
Jour

5.
Est

6.
Beau

7.
C'est

8.
Nuit

9.
Jean

10.
Monsieur

11.
Mon

12.
Père

13.
Parc

14.
Oui

15.
Non

16.
Le (jour)

17.
Bonne (nuit)

18.
Avion

Knowing how to say “it's” was helpful. With that “c'est” I could make sentences. I could say, “C'est mon père;” “C'est mon oncle;” or, I could say, “Le jour est beau;” and, “Le parc est beau;” or I could ask myself silly questions like, “Est mon oncle le parc?” And answer myself, “Non, le parc est le parc.” Maybe it seems foolish, but I found it was fun. It was a start toward getting that dynamo, I figured. I looked at all the words and said them over and I had them down cold and I hadn't even tried to learn them.

4

ONCLE PAUL

I was in bed next morning when that Monsieur Simonis telephoned to ask if my mother had decided to sell the property. By the time I was up, I heard my father and mother talking about it.

Monsieur Simonis had been cross, learning he was refused. My father said he was glad my mother and Paul were keeping the property. It had been owned for generations by members of the Langres family. If Paul succeeded in inventing a successful new avion, perhaps he would receive enough money from it to rebuild the house and settle once more in St. Chamant.

“I hope he does,” said my mother. “I do hope so, very much.”

My father looked at his watch again. He waited until about eleven, but mon oncle Paul didn't arrive. He said probably Paul would catch tomorrow morning's train. He kissed my mother and gave me a pat and went off to work, late.

At one-thirty, Albert appeared on the dot to take me for my ride in the wheel chair. My mother thanked him for attending to me during the past week and said today would be the last time he'd have to give me an outing in Paris. I was leaving tomorrow for the country.

“Oh, by the way,” she said. “Johnny mentioned he encountered a French gentleman in the park. He became rather confused over the name. You don't happen to remember, do you, Albert?”

“I am most sorry, madame.” He smiled sheepishly at me. “I get tobacco. I leave Master Jean, and for one or two minutes I go get tobacco. Iss wrong to do that?”

“Of course not,” said my mother. “Johnny's quite safe at his age in Paris for a minute or so, certainly. You didn't see anyone, then?”

“No, madame,” said Albert, pulling at his cap. “I am most sorry.”

“Never mind. It isn't important.” My mother bundled me up and watched Albert wheel me to the elevator.

Outside, on the sidewalk, Albert asked, “You see somebody in the parc, yess?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking Albert was so dumb it wasn't any good to try to explain to him.

Albert didn't ask any more questions. He pushed me around the opera house, waiting on the corner while all the bicycles and the horses went by. Gasoline was still scarce; there weren't many automobiles around. The streets were lined with shade trees, the leaves out and green and pretty. It was a beautiful jour, the sun shining.

He pushed me up more streets, humming that silly tune to himself. By and by he stopped humming and filled his pipe. I was beginning to enjoy myself, thinking that I'd made a big mistake ever to believe that someone visiting my father could have been the same man whom I'd met in the parc. I started thinking about mon oncle, wondering why he was so set on building an avion and if I'd like him and whether he was big or little, all the questions you ask yourself about somebody you expect to meet.

I didn't notice until too late that Albert had headed the wheel chair down toward that same blessed little parc. I said, “Wait a minute, Albert—” but it was like trying to tell a mule where to go. Albert sucked loudly on his empty pipe. He smiled at me.

He said, “I get a little tobacco, pliss.”

“Look here,” I said, “I don't want to stop here in this parc. I don't care for this parc at all.”

“Yess,” said Albert, still smiling.

But he shoved me into the parc. There under the green trees, was the man whom I'd met—and he was the same man I'd seen with my father and my mother. I couldn't mistake him. Coldness slid all down through my spine. I gave a jerk—and tried to lunge out of the chair. Albert stuck his big hand on my shoulder and held me down, pinned where I was.

Monsieur Simonis—to call him by the name he'd given himself in front of my father—stood up from the bench, long and thin, his green eyes cruel. “Bon jour, Jean,” he said, making his face smile!

We were alone, Albert and him and me, surrounded by the trees, with a little stone fountain over to one side splashing water into the sunshine.

“Well?” he said, coming to me, his teeth showing in his white face.

I didn't reply—I couldn't.

“Well?” he asked again, laying his long stiff fingers on my shoulder. “Perhaps you can help me persuade that foolish mother of yours she should sell her land in St. Chamant.” He reached down with his long fingers and dug his nails into my leg, twisting it.

It happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, I wasn't prepared at all. I opened my mouth to yell. The next instant, he clapped his other hand over my mouth. “This will teach you,” he whispered, “to pay attention to what I am saying. I want no noise out of you, foolish boy.”

I wriggled, expecting Albert to lay in on him and help me—to shout—to do something. But I caught a glimpse of Albert, grinning away, puffing at that empty pipe of his, seeming to enjoy what was happening.

Monsieur Simonis removed his hand. I slumped back, catching my breath.

Monsieur Simonis ordered harshly, “Listen carefully, silly boy. I have informed myself all about you. You are an only child and your parents are in the habit of spoiling you. Is that not true?”

Even if it was true, it wasn't pleasant hearing him say that. And in addition to what he said, he had a manner, an attitude, that went way and beyond his words toward filling me with absolute horror of him. I don't think I can ever explain. I can see now, too, how clever he was. He never said anything which could be reported against him. If I told anyone it sounded merely as if he'd stopped me and out of the kindness of his heart had said St. Chamant wasn't a very good place to go to and my parents should know that fact. You see, it wasn't so much
what
he said, but the
way
he said it which conveyed an altogether different meaning to me and let me know he was determined I wasn't to live in St. Chamant. He was sinister and cruel and he allowed me to see he was. He went on, his eyes as green as a cat's. He said, “I suggest—do you understand? I
suggest
that St. Chamant would be a very inhospitable place for a boy of your age. Your parents are making a very great mistake to—” He didn't finish. Albert whistled a warning. Just like a big skinny cat, too, Monsieur Simonis whirled about and sprang through the trees, vanishing.

A big fat Frenchman and a little yellow-haired girl, about five, walked by. The little girl saw me. She ran over to me and said, “Bon jour.”

Even though I recognized by now that Albert was in cahoots with Monsieur Simonis, I cried, “Help, help!” to the big Frenchman, my voice probably weak and frightened. The little girl's father asked Albert, “Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?” and if it annoys you to see that string of French words put together which you can't understand, how do you think I felt when he said all of that?

I knew I was lost. It was the first time in my life I'd needed a Frenchman to understand what I was telling him—and here he was, big enough to help me, and he wasn't any more use to me than if he was deaf!

Albert chuckled. He replied. I don't know what he said, but whatever it was, it was a lie because the big fat Frenchman laughed. He tipped his hat and said, “Bon jour, mon garçon.” The little girl laughed; and
she
said, “Bon jour,” too. Away they both went.

I heard Albert make a gritty sound in his mouth, as if he were shoving his teeth together. He said, “For that, I vill twist your leg hard—” and he came at me. I grabbed at my crutches and jumped. I landed on the gravel path. I scurried up, trying to run with the crutches. I didn't succeed very well. I was panting and half crying, thinking he was right behind me when I ran into somebody.

I fell down. I was picked up, put on my feet. “Ah, now. What is this?” said a lively voice. I looked up. The man who had taken hold of me was gazing at me, cheerful and gay. He was about twenty or twenty-one, I imagine, dressed in baggy old French clothes. He had black curly hair and black eyes and a nose sticking so far out of his face you could hang your hat on it. He wasn't much bigger than I was, either, although he gazed at me, his head flung back, as if he considered he was at least six feet tall.

I'd seen photographs of him—and, once you'd seen a photograph of him from one side, showing the length of that nose, you'd never forget him. I exclaimed, “Oncle Paul!”

“Voici!” said he, his eyes sparkling. “Jean!”

Next thing, he kissed me on one side of the cheek and on the other. Afterwards I learned that was a method all French had when they greeted friends or relatives of theirs, men or women, it didn't make any difference. I wriggled away, remembering about Albert and Monsieur Simonis. All my fear came back. I can see now how I must have confused mon oncle Paul, shouting the men were after me.

When I got quieted down, I saw nobody was in the parc except oncle Paul and me. That Albert had decamped, too. He must have seen mon oncle pick me up and run to keep another and safer appointment. Mon oncle wheeled me to the hotel, explaining his train had been late. He'd arrived just a few minutes ago at the hotel. My mother had told him I'd probably be in the parc and he had gone to surprise me and fetch me back to the hotel.

Back in the hotel I repeated everything that had taken place while my mother and my father and mon oncle Paul listened. Just as I've explained to you, Monsieur Simonis was too clever for me. It was exactly as if he expected me to report on him and had figured out a method to beat me, no matter.

My mother and my father were simply confused. I think they considered I still was set against going to St. Chamant and had worked up a big tale about a mysterious man to persuade them not to send me. It didn't help when I urged them to telephone down to the hotel manager and ask him to send Albert up to them, so they might question Albert. My father did telephone down.

The hotel manager was sorry. Albert had left a note explaining his sudden departure. Albert's sister in Rheims, a city north of Paris, had telegraphed Albert's mother was sick. So Albert had departed. My father hung up and shook his head and said, “This beats me. Johnny, are you
certain
you saw that fellow Simonis?” He asked my mother, “Should I send for a doctor?”

I didn't want a doctor.

From the other side of the room, mon oncle winked at me, as if he understood how dense grown-ups could be. He folded his brown hands around his knees. He said, “Voilà, perhaps I can explain this mystery.”

“I certainly wish you could, Paul,” said my mother.

According to mon oncle Paul the mayor of St. Chamant was a man named Monsieur Capedulocque. While most of the men, older boys too, of the village had gone away during the war and hidden in the montagnes when the Germans came, this mayor had remained. Mon oncle Paul said no one had ever proved Monsieur Capedulocque had actually worked with the Germans. No. The mayor had kept free from that suspicion. But he had taken over the vineyards and sold pigs and goats and made a lot of money. Now he was the wealthiest man in St. Chamant, with almost everyone else owing him money.