The Avion My Uncle Flew

by Cyrus Fisher

  Mon oncle waited, smiling to himself. It was the finest surprise anybody could ask for. After greeting me, the Meilhac twins piled questions on to mon oncle. I knew they were questioning him about his avion because I heard that word repeated. Mon oncle kept on smiling, enjoying himself, and answering them. Finally, I heard Charles say, “Je veux voir l’avion, s’il vous plaît.”

  I asked what he’d said.

  Mon oncle replied, “You know what ‘je’ is, by now?”

  I did: “Je” was “I” in French.

  He explained, “‘Je veux’ is ‘I wish.’ And ‘voir’ is ‘to see.’ And you know what ‘s’il vous plaît’ is. That is ‘please,’ or ‘if you please.’”

  It was like fitting a puzzle together. All at once it was simple. “Je veux voir l’avion, s’il vous plaît,” fitted together perfectly: “I wish to see the airplane, please.”

  Next, mon oncle glanced at his watch. He told me he was leaving me with the Meilhac twins for a couple of hours. He’d pick me up around six o’clock. He waved, said “Au revoir,” and trotted off, covering the ground between the vineyard and the forest about ten times faster alone than when he’d come down with me.

  I didn’t have time to worry over mon oncle because Charles and Suzanne kept me busy. They showed me the grapevines. In a few more weeks the grapes would be ripe. I said, “Monsieur Capedulocque—” and pointed at the vines.

  Suzanne understood. She knew what I was thinking about. She clenched her fist. She frowned. She said, “Monsieur Capedulocque est un cochon!” and explained to Charles. Both of them were worried for fear the mayor would grab their vineyard this fall if the grapes didn’t sell for enough.

  By and by I tried out my French. I said, “Je veux voir ta maison, s’il vous plaît.” It worked like a charm. They understood at once I’d said “I wish to see your house, please.” Their maison was down toward the bottom of the mountain, set at one end of a long meadow, with trees planted on each side of what must have been years and years ago a broad coach road. Their maison was perfectly enormous. It had two stone towers and a high peaked slate roof. Most of the windows and doors were now locked or boarded. Around the big house still showed traces of long ago gardens, rose bushes grown wild, pear trees untrimmed and shaggy.

  Madame Meilhac was short and jolly, with wonderful red hair, very neat and clean. The way she acted you wouldn’t suspect she cared about being alone in a vast empty house with two children and no money any more for servants. She appeared to think it was a game, like camping out. Most of the rooms were closed off. I had glimpses of furniture covered with cloth, protected from the dust. In one long hall were rows and rows of pictures of Meilhacs, the last one smaller than the others, of a man in a modern army officer’s uniform. Charles simply said, “Mon père.” It was of his father, killed in the war.

  All their misfortunes had happened after the death of their father. The Germans had robbed the bank containing the Meilhac money. The Meilhacs had been forced to sell most of their property. Now all they had was this house and the vineyard, with Madame Meilhac trying to keep that. You might have thought they’d be sorrowful. If they were, they never let on. They all were gay and cheerful. You wouldn’t ever have guessed they knew they were poor.

  They treated me as if I was a visiting noble or duke. They brought out four slices of thick black bread and spread goat butter on it. Madame Meilhac opened a stone crock. She scratched in it with a wooden spoon. She managed to locate a few grains of brown sugar. She gave me most of the sugar, smiling all the while as though she had a hundred barrels more of sugar hidden away.

  I felt so sorry for them I nearly choked, eating that black bread and butter with brown sugar sprinkled on it. But it was a treat for Charles and Suzanne. They licked the crumbs off their fingers. I let on it was a noble treat for me, too. I’d have rather died than have them believe I didn’t appreciate what they were doing to welcome me and to feed me in their maison.

  After eating, Madame Meilhac and Suzanne cleared the table. They shoved Charles and me outside. He fetched me another bow and arrow he’d made, saying “peaurouge” a couple of times. It was going on toward late afternoon. He signified he was through working in the vines today. He meant to entertain me; I was his guest. He thought I’d enjoy playing Indian. Well, it struck me funny to play Indian thousands of miles away from home. We crawled up to the vineyard. Charles and I shot his arrow at the vines and whooped and did our best to pretend we were wild Indians—but somehow it didn’t go over.

  By and by, without saying anything, we simply stopped playing. Both of us were melancholy. I could imagine Charles thinking about his vines, worrying, hoping le maire Capedulocque wouldn’t take them away this fall. It seemed to me le maire must be the greediest man alive, or the meanest. He was after my mother’s and my uncle’s property up higher in the montagnes, even though there weren’t any vineyards there—and he was after the Meilhacs’, down here. You’d think it was more than just grabbing land. It was as though he was determined to rid le village for good of both the Meilhac family and anyone belonging to the Langres family. I couldn’t understand such hatred. In some respects he was worse than Monsieur Simonis had been—meaner, too.

  Once more I got to thinking about le maire, wondering if there wasn’t any way to make le village appreciate what a pighead he was. You know how it is when you moon along, idly, thinking about something, almost dreaming what could happen in your head?

  Well, all at once, it appeared to me I’d stumbled upon a solution. I knew exactly how to wake up the entire village to the danger that Nazi was to them. I had discovered a way to excite them and worry them and send them tramping through those montagnes until there wasn’t an inch left for a man to try to hide himself in!

  10

  L’AVION EST CASSÉ

  It seemed to me much of our grief resulted from that German—or whoever owned the German knapsack and the pistol. I wouldn’t have shot le maire’s cochon or knocked off his hat if I hadn’t found the pistol. If I hadn’t found the pistol and knapsack I wouldn’t have told tout le monde a German was up there. Mon oncle wouldn’t have sent le village chasing into la montagne; le maire wouldn’t have lost his temper at me and mon oncle. Of course le maire was set against mon oncle before that—but by what I’d done I’d given le maire more convincing reasons to say mon oncle and I were muddleheads.

  I figured if the people in the village got worried enough to spend a week or so searching the montagnes they were bound to locate whoever was hiding nearby. My idea was to manufacture the worry for le village. It was a good idea; it was simple. You see, I remembered those ducks and chickens belonging to le maire. Charles and I would wait until it was nuit. We’d hide in the cemetery which was across from la maison de Monsieur Capedulocque. When it was good and dark, we’d sneak across. This was where I’d require Charles. My leg wasn’t yet strong enough to wriggle over le maire’s wall and carry me to the chicken and duck roosts and get back before being seen. I reckoned on staying outside the wall, acting as guard.

  Now, you might wonder how on earth doing all that would arouse le village. I’ll tell you. That was where my plan was bound to succeed because it was so almighty simple. The thing was, we had to convince Monsieur Capedulocque a German had sneaked down from the montagne to rob his chickens and ducks for food. And I’d figured how to convince le maire that the robber was the German—and not local people or tramps. I’d use a few of the German coins from my collection.

  We wouldn’t actually be thieving from le maire because I planned to drop ten or twenty pieces of French money on the ground, too, as well as the German coins. And, I’d have Charles scribble a note in bad French, just as if an ignorant German had spelled it out, warning le maire not to tell anyone the chickens and ducks had been taken, on pain of death—a regular pirate’s warning, in fact.

  The note could say the German was leaving pay for what he’d taken. That would explain why the money’d been left, as if the German hoped by pay
ing for what he’d taken to keep Monsieur Capedulocque from talking. Of course, I expected le maire to disregard the warning; I expected him to shout he’d been robbed by a Nazi, being scared by the fact he now had proof a Nazi was sur la montagne. You can see for yourself how simple that plan was. I think you’d agree a plan as simple as that one ought to have been sure-fire. Certainly it wasn’t my fault if things got more complicated than I expected.

  As if he thought something was wrong with me, as if I had a sunstroke, perhaps, all during this time Charles was eyeing me. Once I was finished working out the plan I was in a fever to get started. I needed Charles. I had to contrive of a means to explain his part in it and manage to get him to stay overnight with me at the hotel.

  Right then, mon oncle appeared near the forest and shouted down at me, “Viens, Jean! Viens!” He waited for me to come. Suzanne came running out and all three of us joined him and, speaking part of the time in French and part of the time in English, he made known to us that he’d searched the ruins from top to bottom, this time. He hadn’t found a thing to indicate anyone might still be living there.

  But he had done something a person not as smart as he was mightn’t have thought of. He scraped away the loose dirt on the floor of the cellar. When the Germans set fire to la maison they’d exploded it, too, with hand-grenades and bombs, and the explosion had half filled the cellar with dirt. Well, he scraped along the walls and had discovered where somebody had made a fire at one time, and cooked food there. To mon oncle, that was additional proof someone had been living in the cellar when I’d happened on that knapsack. He didn’t believe, though, anyone in le village would consider it as very important proof.

  It was growing late. There wasn’t anything now to do but go home. I had mon oncle assure Charles and Suzanne I’d try to get back up here in a few days; and with his help I thanked them and asked them to thank their mother for giving me the treat with the bread and sugar. They walked as far as the top of the montagne. There they waved and called, “Au revoir, reviens vite!” which means, “Good-by, re-come quickly.” We’d say “return” but the French say “reviens,” probably because nobody ever taught them any differently.

  Mon oncle waited until I’d climbed to the handle-bars of his bicycle. We coasted down the path, a long glorious swoop of ride. Now mon oncle had searched la maison I was more than ever convinced the German had simply retired to the forest and was hiding out there. What was required was to have the entire village go through that forest and get him before he could do any harm. I was determined to figure out some way to go back to the Meilhacs’ tomorrow and draw Charles off to one side and get him to go partners with me in a hurry on my scheme. The scheme itself was simple as onions, but I was plagued by the way trifles kept coming in and complicating it before I was even ready to start.

  At the hotel I asked mon oncle if I couldn’t return to see Charles tomorrow. I said I believed I could walk it this time, if I went slowly. The practice would do me good, too.

  “I should like you to help me tomorrow,” he said slowly.

  I couldn’t very well refuse.

  He must have noticed, however, I was mighty eager to see Charles again. He explained, “I have not told you, but in a day or so I will move the airplane to the meadow. I shall finish it there. You will see Charles often.”

  Then he again hesitated. Finally he said he’d decided to leave the hotel and remain sur la montagne avec his avion. Le forgeron would help him erect a shelter for both the avion and himself. He got embarrassed. You know how proud he was. The fact was, as I finally got through my head, he was running out of money. To save expenses, he proposed to camp sur la montagne the rest of the time until he’d tried his avion. He asked, “You will not be afraid to stay here in the hotel alone, Jean?”

  I wasn’t afraid, but the idea of camping sur la montagne seemed gaudy and wonderful. I asked why couldn’t I be with him.

  He hesitated once more. He made excuses: He said I required a good bed and a roof over me when it rained. When I still protested, the real reason came out. In le village it was safe at nuit. While he wasn’t worried about himself, he didn’t care to expose me up there in case a German was somewhere around. He became firm. He said he was sorry; it was best for me to remain here at nuit. Le forgeron would take me up each day and bring me back at nuit.…

  At dinner I saw Madame Graffoulier had two more people in her hotel. She’d set two tables. A traveling salesman from Tulle was staying several days. A fat, good-natured, black-haired fellow had taken a room, saying he was on a vacation from Toulouse and had come here to fish. She introduced me to both of them, calling me “le garçon Americain—” which meant “the American boy—” although the French do it backwards, “the boy American,” like that. Those French people never do work out an easy way to say things.

  I didn’t get much sleep that night. I was still figuring about my plan, checking it up and down to make sure it would work. The more I thought about it, the more I liked it. It began raining during the nuit. When I awakened, it was pouring. I couldn’t go to the Meilhacs’ in the rain, even if mon oncle hadn’t needed me. While we had breakfast, mail arrived, with letters from mon père, ma mère, and one from Bob Collins, back home. Mon oncle also received a letter from ma mère, as well as a whole flock more which resembled bills to me. He said we might as well stay in the hotel and read our mail before going to work. That suited me.

  One letter was from mon père, and two from ma mère. Mon père had written from some little out-of-the-way spot in Northern Scotland where ma mère and he had stayed on a Sunday during their walking trip. He told me he’d stopped in Edinburgh, a big Scottish city, to look at a new stock of bicycles in a shop there. He’d found a new bicycle, one of the first to be made after the war, which not only had a high gear and a low gear—but a middle gear as well. This special middle gear was for riding in town. He said he’d arranged with the dealer to hold it for him.

  As soon as he saw me, and witnessed whether or not I was able to walk the two miles without tiring or limping, he’d cable to Scotland and have the dealer put the bicycle on a boat to be shipped to Wyoming. It would be waiting for me when we arrived.

  In ma mère’s first letter she wrote more about the scenery, as most mothers probably would do. She added a couple of things, though, that were exciting. First, mon père’s work had been about completed in England. There’d be a chance he could leave the army and return with us to Wyoming. Secondly, she’d put in her order for the electric lighting dynamo and was ready to have it shipped along with the bicycle as soon as I could write her that letter in French!

  Her second one was written pretty hastily, evidently just after she’d mailed the first one. She wrote:

  Your uncle Paul’s letter just arrived telling us a German may be hiding in the mountains. I am very much concerned. Your father says he doubts if any German soldier will bother you, but if there is the slightest trouble, please have Paul cable the American Embassy in London at once so they can reach us. We expect to return to London next week—we’re taking a week longer than planned because your father received an extra week’s leave. Then, as soon as your father turns over his job to Colonel Burton, we plan to cross to France and come to St. Chamant for you. Please take care of yourself.…

  I’d almost forgotten the letter mon oncle had written to ma mère. I considered by now she must have received the letters I’d written to her and would know everything here was swimming along peacefully—too peacefully for me, but I hadn’t told her that. I noticed mon oncle had finished his letters. He got out of the chair and said to come along as soon as I was ready.

  I opened Bob Collins’ letter. It contained all the news from back home. He was working on the range, right along with the other hands. Old Jake had been made foreman of the combined ranches. Dr. Medley had asked Bob to be sure and inquire of me if my leg were improving. Everybody sent their best. Bob had received the letter I’d written from Paris and the one from St. Chamant. He
thanked me for sending him those French coins. And he admitted he was envious of the chance I was going to have to fly a real airplane.

  For a minute, I stopped reading that part of his letter, feeling my cheeks grow hot. I remembered I’d written him when I first arrived, boasting about the fine time I was having here and I’d indicated, too, not exactly lying, though, that I expected to pilot mon oncle’s avion. Well, he’d believed me. More than that, in his letter he told me he’d passed the news on to everyone in town. The editor of our newspaper, Mr. Sulgave, had printed a piece about me, and wanted me to send him a photograph of me in the machine. Whew! I didn’t know what to do about that.

  There wasn’t much more to Bob’s letter except to say he’d gone to his first dance, taking Jane Sulgave with him. I never expected the time would come when Bob Collins would go to a dance with a girl! Me and Bob had decided never to go with girls. No sir, we’d sworn a pact to keep clear of girls and grow up and buy ourselves a ranch—and, there it was. Right down in his own handwriting. He’d taken Jane to a dance. He’d danced with her. I could recognize he was changing on me while I was away. It wasn’t right. For the first time in weeks, I started feeling homesick.

  I folded the letters, the rain beating outside. As I looked up I noticed that the fat jolly black-haired man had taken a chair by the window. He was watching me. Soon as I looked at him, he swung around, back to me, untangling an old fishing line, as if he hadn’t been aware I was even in the room. Probably if he’d said something, I wouldn’t have marked anything at all. But because he acted as if I’d caught him looking at me when he hadn’t wanted to be noticed, I paid more attention to him than before.

  It almost seemed to me, now I considered him, that I might have seen him some place. Of course, that couldn’t have been, though, because I’d never been in Toulouse. If I hadn’t spent so much time reading my letters I might have asked him if he’d ever been in the United States. However, I was in a hurry. I slammed out, going through the rain, entering the workshop. Here, mon oncle and le forgeron were making preparations to move the avion as soon as the rain stopped. I put my plan about the Nazi in the back of my head until I could see Charles, and worked right along with the two men on the avion.