The Avion My Uncle Flew

by Cyrus Fisher

  The following day Albert wheeled me into a little parc. He asked to be excused a few minutes. He said he wanted to buy some tobacco across the street. A tall man happened to walk by me and went on and returned and sat on one of those iron benches the French have in parcs. He was one of the tallest men I’ve ever seen, all bones, with a white face and a beard that was lopsided. I mean, it grew thicker on one side than the other. He had greenish eyes. He watched me with those greenish eyes. They made me uncomfortable. I wished Albert would hurry back.

  He noticed my legs and my crutches. Pretty soon his eyes became soft and round. He hunched over toward me, the dark cloth of his suit wrinkling on him. I wanted to draw back. From the start something about him wasn’t very pleasant although he did his best at first to be easy and friendly. “Bon jour,” he said, in a voice soft as mucilage.

  I said, “I don’t speak French.”

  At that, his eyes opened wider. “Don’t you now?” he said, in English just as good as mine. “I’m surprised at that, my young friend. If I had a son as intelligent as you appear to be, I’d quickly teach him French and take him with me and show him a good time instead of foisting him off with a stupid hotel porter.”

  It never occurred to me to ask him how he knew I was with a hotel porter.

  My first feeling against him changed as he continued talking. He said he had a son who was lame, too. His son was in Marseilles. Telling me about his son more or less broke the ice between us. He said he was here in Paris on business and felt lonesome. He didn’t like the people in Paris. I replied I didn’t either. He smiled, all the sharp yellow teeth showing. Just for a second again I had that odd feeling toward him—but right away it passed. I forgot it as he told me how easy it was to learn French. “Now, take what I said. I said ‘bon jour’ to you. That means ‘good day.’ ‘Bon’ is ‘good’ and ‘jour’ is ‘day.’ You observe how easy it is? Bon jour. You say it.”

  So I said “good day” in French. I said, “Bon jour.”

  “There,” he said, very cheerful. “It is easy?”

  Albert seemed to be taking his time getting tobacco. We must have talked about fifteen minutes. The tall man said his name was Mr. Fishface—that’s right. I didn’t think I’d understood, either. He repeated it, calm and placid. He didn’t appear to realize it was a funny name. He spelled it for me: “Fischfasse,” which was French. I don’t think he knew it was an almighty funny sort of name in our country. I managed not to laugh, though.

  He said his son was coming to Paris in a few weeks. He hoped we could meet. His son was fifteen years old and knew English. Of course, that pleased me. Then—I remembered. I said I didn’t think I’d be here. He lifted his eyebrows.

  “My parents want to shove me off to St. Chamant with my uncle,” I told him.

  “Oh,” said this Mr. Fischfasse. “St. Chamant? You and your uncle will live there?”

  “I expect so. I don’t want to go, though.”

  “Ah,” said he, “no wonder. A dull little place.”

  “You’ve been there?” I asked.

  “No,” said he, “no, I have not been there. But I have friends who have passed through it. I am surprised any parents would send their boy there.”

  “My mother was born there,” I explained. “Her family had a castle there or something. I expect my uncle and I will live in the castle.”

  I don’t know why I stuck that part in about the castle. I shouldn’t have. It was stretching the truth considerably; and later I paid for it. But he had kind of sneered when mentioning the town my mother came from. I didn’t like that. I wanted him to realize my mother’s people and where she lived were important, even if the town wasn’t.

  “You’re going to live—” He broke off. He got up, joint by joint. “I must go now. Perhaps if you are here tomorrow we shall see each other again, Mr. Littlehorn. I will teach you a few more French words and you’ll surprise that good father of yours.” Then, he said, “Bon jour,” and off he went.

  I replied, “Bon jour,” and waited for Albert to arrive and take me back to the hotel.

  That evening, I started to tell my mother and my father I’d run into a Mr. Fischfasse, but they never let me finish. My mother said, “Why, Johnny. You mustn’t call people names like that.”

  I said, “I can’t help it. That’s his name. He looks like a fish, too.”

  My father laughed. “Johnny, don’t let that imagination of yours run away with you.”

  I said, “But I did—”

  My father laughed again. “You’ve been cooped up in bedrooms for so long you’ll be seeing giants and monsters, too, if you don’t be careful.”

  And my father and mother got to talking, again, about shunting me away from them. I didn’t care to hear any more about it. I dragged off to my bedroom. Here, I tried playing with my coins. When my mother came in to put out the lights, I asked, “Did you live in a castle in St. Chamant?”

  She halfway smiled. “It wasn’t a castle, Johnny. But it was a very wonderful house. I haven’t seen it for years. Paul hasn’t either since the Germans attacked France. I hope they haven’t hurt our house too much. I shall want you to see it. Good night.”

  I tried my French on her. “Bon jour,” I said.

  This time she smiled all the way around. “Why, Johnny. Bon jour. But when it’s night, you don’t say ‘bon jour.’ You say ‘good night’ or ‘bonne nuit.’”

  I tried that on my father a little later. He understood it and grinned and replied, “Bonne nuit, Jean.”

  I asked, “What’s that last word?”

  He said, “Jean?”

  I said, “Yes sir. That one.”

  He answered, “That’s you. ‘Jean’ is your name in French. ‘Jean’ is ‘John.’”

  Well, that did it.

  I didn’t mind trying a couple of words in the lingo but when I heard the French had gone and changed my own name to Jean it was too much. I was through talking French. I was finished. I said, “Father, can’t we go home now?” I said, “Please.”

  He stopped smiling. His face got the same tired gray look it had before we started saying “Bonne nuit” to each other. He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “The government has made me an officer in the army and I have a duty and I can’t run from that duty, can I? If I’m ordered to report to London on the Allied Aviation Committee it’s my duty to go and not complain. I’m sorry.” He shook his head and said, “I’m very sorry, Johnny.” He turned off the light and shut the door. He’d sounded sorry, too. I won’t ever forget how sorry he’d sounded. It was as though I’d done something to make him sorry.

  I couldn’t go right to sleep. I thought about the French changing my name into “Jean” and how queer names were and about Mr. Fischfasse and all at once I remembered he’d known my name. He’d called me “Mr. Littlehorn.” I couldn’t understand that. He hadn’t ever seen me before. I hadn’t told him my name, either. I couldn’t get over it. I was bothered. I went to sleep and had dreams about him, only he was like something made out of dry wood in my dreams, about a mile high, his white face stuck on top of the sticks, like a dead fish.

  3

  THE BARGAIN

  When it was time, the next day, for Albert to wheel me outside I told him I didn’t want to go back to the parc. I didn’t explain the true reason; I merely said to Albert to push me through some other part of Paris because I was tired of seeing the same old streets. He nodded and replied, “Yess,” and shoved along, humming to himself.

  The fact was, I had a notion Mr. Fischfasse might be waiting in the parc and I didn’t want to see him again. I can’t explain exactly why. Maybe it was because of the dreams I’d had last night, seeing that fishlike white head of his miles up in the air on sticks, grinning down at me, as if it held a secret against me and was waiting for me to get in trouble.

  Despite being bundled in the blanket, I shivered a little. Albert wheeled me around the big opera house. He trundled me along through another street. I got to
thinking I’d imagined everything, and was wondering why I’d been scared—feeling secure, of course, not expecting to run into Mr. Fischfasse again.

  Well, Albert either didn’t understand my directions or was just dumb. He ran smack into that parc again, this time from another direction. I didn’t want to kick up a row about it. It wasn’t important enough. Albert let go of the handle to the chair. He said if I didn’t mind, he’d leave me here a minute and buy himself more tobacco.

  I did mind. I was telling him I was tired and he could buy himself tobacco in the hotel but he merely smiled, pleased and cheerful, as if he hadn’t heard me, and thought I’d given him permission to go.

  I called, “Albert—”

  But he nodded. “I be back in vun minute,” and away he trotted, his fat legs moving faster than I realized they could go. I sunk down into the chair, wanting him to get back. When I looked up, Mr. Fischfasse was sauntering toward me through the trees.

  I tried not to notice him, hoping he’d go on.

  He didn’t. He halted. “Ah, bon jour, Jean,” he said to me.

  “Bon jour, Mr. Fischfasse,” I said, knowing how to answer that. Next I asked, “How’d you know my name?”

  He looked perplexed. “But you told it to me yesterday.”

  I probably blinked at that. I never remembered telling him, but I must have done it after all. It explained everything.

  His greenish eyes lit up again. He smiled. He sat down on the bench, taking his time about doing it, as if he might break some of those sticks inside his dark suit.

  I don’t mean he really had sticks inside his clothes. However, he was so tall and skinny and stiff, it was as though his arms and legs were made of sticks nailed together.

  I thought maybe he’d been sick or perhaps during the war he hadn’t had much to eat. But right away, I learned I was wrong on that guess. Confiding and friendly, he told me how he and his family had been forced to run away when the Germans came and he had gone to Spain to live. He and his family had returned to France only a few months ago. He said Spain was better than France. People ate better in Spain. I’d read newspapers. In the newspapers the facts were different. People were starving in Spain. I wondered what he meant. He didn’t explain.

  He leaned over. In his soft way he said, “You mustn’t call me ‘Mister Fischfasse.’ You must say ‘Monsieur Fischfasse.’ Monsieur is French for mister.”

  So I repeated, “Bon jour, Monsieur Fischfasse,” wanting Albert to come quick.

  He said that was fine. Then he said, “Le jour est beau?”

  I didn’t get any of that at all. At least, at first I didn’t think I did. I must have looked puzzled because he started laughing. He had a queer laugh. It was soft and short and the only way to describe it is to say it was like the way some of the coyotes laugh, even though some people might tell you coyotes don’t know how to laugh. I’ve heard coyotes laugh; and when they laugh it’s because they’ve worked out some plan to fool people and are tickled by it. If you hear that laugh you’ll find you’ve got shivers running down your spine. Well, hearing Mr. Fischfasse’s soft short laugh somehow put shivers down my spine.

  I forgot right away his laugh had bothered me because he reached across and laid those long dry fingers of his on my arm and said gently, “Le jour est beau, non?” repeating his question.

  Well, I got a couple of words out of it. I got “jour” and I got the “non.” “Jour” was “day”—and I guessed the “non” was our English “no.” I told him that was all I understood.

  He explained he’d been asking me a question in French. Nobody had to tell me it was in French. I knew that much! He said “le jour” meant “the day” and probably I ought to have known that. And “est” was “is;” and “beau” was the word the French had for “beautiful.” So he was asking: “The day is beautiful, no?” Simple. In other words: “Isn’t the day beautiful?”

  I asked, “What do I say?”

  He said, “You can reply ‘oui.’ That means ‘yes.’”

  The fact is, le jour was beau. It was a beautiful day, all right, but I wished Albert didn’t have to take so long to get tobacco. I didn’t enjoy being with Monsieur Fischfasse, even though he was laying himself out to be agreeable.

  He didn’t try any more French on me. He asked if I’d heard any more about being sent to St. Chamant, explaining he’d received a letter from his son this morning and wanted to write him telling about me. I replied it looked as if I was stuck unless I could persuade my mother and my father to take me with them to London.

  He said, “You must try to persuade them, Jean. Yes, indeed.” His face twisted suddenly and looked mean. “I do not think you would like St. Chamant. I do not think so, at all.”

  I asked, “What’s wrong with St. Chamant?” looking around, hoping to see Albert.

  “The people are most disagreeable there.”

  That didn’t make sense to me. He couldn’t know whether or not the people were disagreeable, having never been there himself. Inasmuch as my mother had come from St. Chamant I didn’t appreciate the fact he was so much against it and I said, “I might like it. My mother was from there, you know. Her family has a big house there, like a castle. If I went there my uncle and I would stay in it.”

  “But the house no longer is there. The Germans have burned it.”

  “How do you know?” I asked, puzzled.

  “You are a very stupid boy,” he said in a sudden rage. He jumped off the seat and came toward me—and stopped.

  He whirled around and walked away before Albert arrived. It happened all at once. I was tremendously glad to see Albert. I told him I didn’t want to come to this parc again. “Yess,” he said, amiable as ever, puffing on his pipe. I tried to drive that fact into his head. I’d been pretty much scared for about a second. He said, “Yess,” again, smiling, puffing on the pipe, not paying much attention.

  He didn’t take me back to the hotel as soon as I expected, either.

  He wheeled me around the streets for nearly an hour more, although I asked him to get on back to the hotel. I was dead tired. After that experience with Monsieur Fischfasse, I wanted—I might as well admit it—I wanted to be with my father and my mother. I didn’t feel secure anymore when I was away from them. I kept seeing that white face looming at me.

  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.”