The Aeronaut

by Bryan Young

  It felt like the lowest I could get, but I still had so much further to fall.

  In the cold gray of night turned morning, warmed by the embers of the cooking fire, I wondered how I’d keep going. Resting against the tree, inertia felt comfortable.

  I’d be grateful if I never had to take another step.

  But that wasn’t possible.

  A pair of lights from a truck grazed across the trees, passing over my head.

  They saw me. They must have seen me.

  How could they have not?

  Standing and running would have been a death sentence, so I kicked dirt over the smoldering remains of the fire and crumbled into a prone position. The box, still tucked into my jacket in a lump, pressed into my gut, an agonizing reminder of what was at stake. Then, inch by painful inch, I crawled through the grass and weeds, around trees and through shrubs.

  Over the scraping of my body against the ground and my labored breathing, I could hear the door of the truck slam shut and the crunching gravel of booted feet on the road.

  They did see me.

  They were looking.

  They knew.

  When I heard shouting in German, I froze. I’d made it another twenty feet away from the road by that time, and I was obscured by a variety of bushes. In the dim light, there was no way he’d be able to see me unless he was on top of me. Whoever he was, he’d have an easier time finding the remains of the fire than me.

  But that would tell them almost as much.

  Pawing at my chest, I wished for the lucky charm that used to dangle there.

  “Ich dachte, er hier war,” the German shouted back to those in the truck.

  “Sie sehen die Dinge!” came a voice from the truck.

  “Ich schwöre, ich sah etwas,” the German replied.

  “Dann werden wir zurück zu gehen und zu berichten, aber lass uns gehen!” the driver said.

  Those in the truck seemed to win whatever argument they were having. The sound of footsteps led back to the truck and the door slammed shut. The engine rumbled back to life and faded away into the distance.

  I felt like I could breathe again.

  As short as time felt already, it was even shorter after that.

  I tried doubling my weary pace for the rest of that day, but I couldn’t stay on the road. I traversed along side it as close as I could under the cover of trees and shrubs. They were going to have to work to find me.

  Finally, in the early evening and staggering like a drunk, I reached the lines at Rheims. At first, excitement hit me. Here I was, so close to where I was supposed to be. I could see the small town I called home miles in the distance from the rise.

  But between me and the town was an entire line of German soldiers, facing the other way, ready to attack. Beyond that there was an equal compliment of poilus ready to shoot anything that wandered in from this side.

  Seeing the smoke rising from the chimney’s of the town, I wondered about the domestic scenes I might find there if I were there.

  There I would sit, at home, drinking wine and trying to write down my story. Sara would be just finishing her shift at the hospital, heading home. She’d arrive home and we’d make love. Then LeBeau and Renault would come calling and we’d drink and laugh…

  …but those days were over.

  Foolishly, my mind in its feral state turned over to what I assumed would be a more likely scenario in my absence.

  LeBeau had fallen for Sara.

  Sara, in her grief for my assumed broken promise, had fallen for LeBeau.

  Maybe me dying would have been doing them a favor.

  It was then that I decided for sure: the first place I’d go when I got into town was LeBeau’s flat. In my fevered state, I just knew that I’d catch them together.

  But I had to get through the combat zone first.

  The line at Rheims was a twisty affair, the viper’s nest of German trenches extending back for a mile. Had I been thinking straight instead of so focused on the jealous dreams of an exhausted and irrational fool, I’d have been writing down–or at least committing to memory–everything I saw on the German side. The numbers of their forces, planes and zeppelins on the field, trench directions, everything.

  But I wasn’t.

  Instead, I simply walked by all of it, heading east and hoping to find a break in the lines. During my briefings they told me of huge swaths of land that were totally undefended and ignored. Neither side could throw enough men at the front to occupy every square inch of disputed territory. If I walked far enough, fast enough, I’d come across some patch of land forgotten by most and I’d be able to sneak across in the night, unnoticed and un-shot.

  The only strength I found was bolstered by the knowledge that I was soon to have my reckoning and all my problems would be solved.

  For hours I walked, consumed in my thoughts. The expanse of the front seemed to go on forever. There seemed to be a palpable buzz in the air, something I could feel from a distance. They were preparing for a battle.

  Mixed with my jealous anger came a fear. Looking back to the sky in the direction I came, fear turned to terror. There in the sky, black dots in the dwindling light of day, was a flotilla of zeppelins and other flying craft.

  They’d found me.

  I sped up as best I could and before I knew it I reached a hill, the road turned in a different direction, and then nothing. The trenches ended abruptly, turning once more into the rolling green hills of the French countryside I fell so in love with while I was falling in love with Sara.

  I walked beyond the edge of what I assumed was safety, then even further beyond that, before I decided to take that hard right turn toward freedom and the protection of the French Army.

  Periodically, I’d look behind me, staring into the dark, wondering if I’d see anything behind me. As far as I could tell, my pursuit by the Germans and their American agent was limited to the pending sky attack, but you could never count them out. Tenacity was one of the few skills they had in spades.

  And arrogance.

  But who was I to talk of arrogance?

  Checking over my shoulder again, I saw it. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it seemed like a glint of light in the distance. A reflection of the moon off a mirror? The brief flash of a match or a candle? I couldn’t be sure what it was, but neither did I want to wait around and find out.

  I quickened my pace, half-running through the dark toward friendly territory. I checked over my shoulder every ten or twenty paces, sure each time to find the glint in the distance. There must have been a perfectly logical explanation that I’d been followed out there through the meadow, but the worst case scenario haunted every step I took.

  Could they have found me? Could the American agent have heard about me being spotted and tracked me all the way here? If he had, how could he have done it so quickly? I had been on foot and he had the entire German Army at his disposal, perhaps him finding me wasn’t so unrealistic.

  But no. There had to be a more reasonable explanation. Perhaps it was a passing farmer, crossing the front for a black market run. Or a German soldier who broke ranks to follow a mysterious figure cutting across the landscape where one ought not be doing so.

  Though anything sounded more likely than the spy coming to root me out, it wouldn’t be difficult to believe. I could have been spotted on the road at any point. Perhaps they’d tracked me the entire way.

  If the roles were reversed and I didn’t have more pressing personal issues to deal with, I would have chased him to the ends of the Earth for what was at stake. The box of data cards became that much more encumbering.

  The thoughts about the mission and the cards and the provocateur chasing me through the woods existed in my mind for the briefest of moments. There was a flash of understanding about my situation, and then nothing. My mind set itself back to the most urgent situation at hand, and that was her with LeBeau.

  I couldn’t decide who I’d feel more disappointed or betrayed by if I actually cau
ght them together. And if I was wrong, I wanted to collapse at Sara’s feet and beg her forgiveness for leaving in the first place. But the thoughts of catching them in the act were primary and quickened my pace to the point where I was walking so fast my breathing was winded.

  I was of many minds, split, cracked straight through in four places. Part of my mind was turned to what I would do to them if I caught them. Another part was split about what I’d do if I didn’t catch them. Another piece of my shattered conscious was worried about staying alive long enough to do the horrible things I had planned. And that meant spending the rest of my concern on the mission.

  Turning again to catch a glimpse of my mysterious pursuer, I found they had matched my increased pace. The moonlit glint on their middle disappeared and reappeared in time with their faster stride.

  I had to start thinking about what I would do if I was truly being pursued. If I was being followed, I could bring the chase to LeBeau’s flat, then employ my “friend’s” help in dispatching the agent. And if things had gone how I thought they had, then I could deal with LeBeau in a final sense, satisfying my need for vengeance and blaming it all on the crossfire of the espionage gone wrong.

  The thought of carrying out the plan filled me with almost as much dread as finding out the truth, but it’s what I’d have to do if I wanted to remain sane.

  The closer I got to town, the more sure I was of the American following me.

  It wasn’t just the arrogant stride or relentless pace they kept. There was a sinister suspicion to it. Every time I turned my back to speed myself up, there was the piercing feeling of eyes on me and a hand ready to pull me around by my shoulder at any moment.

  The countryside slowly gave way to the edges of the village, dirt roads turned into poorly laid pavement and cobblestone ones, and thatched country roofs gave way to the more modern. The only constant through that transition was the American behind me, dogging each of my steps.

  But I knew I would be at LeBeau’s soon enough and everything would be set right. I’d lead the German agent there, either I or the German agent would take care of LeBeau, then I’d rally to take care of the German-American once and for all.

  After the immediate situation was taken care of, I’d report in, sounding the alarm for the coming bomb attack. The attack that was almost certainly my fault. To my mind the Germans were sending everything they had available to take back what I’d stolen.

  I’d tell Lorrick and be done with it.

  And then Sara and I would be together once again. Only then would we be able to find some way to move past our betrayals.

  28

  LeBeau’s flat sat on a narrow cobblestone street above a small restaurant that was closed all through the morning, only opening once the owner awoke from his hangover. He doubled as LeBeau’s greasy and dishonest landlord who lived a life as free and drunken as LeBeau himself.

  I couldn’t imagine a man as shabby as LeBeau’s landlord asking him questions about the women he brought back, freeing him of the guilt and shame of his potential actions. No landlord would even take a second glance at the woman’s finger to see if she wore a ring. What would he have thought of Sara’s discarded cog of a wedding band?

  Would he have thought of it at all?

  I did.

  And my stomach lurched.

  LeBeau had mentioned it only once, flattered the first time he saw it. With a smile, he told me, “I see you’re keeping me close to your wife. A wise move…”

  Below LeBeau’s flat, the landlord’s bar teemed with a minimum of life. I’d hoped it would be the raging party of debauchery I imagined LeBeau would be used to, but the place was close to vacant. Through the old, distorted green glass of the windows, bubbled with imperfection, it seemed likely that the landlord was inside drinking by himself.

  No signs of life emanated from LeBeau’s, either.

  Was he out? Could he have been asleep? Would I find Sara there, undressed and lying next to him?

  The thought forced a shudder.

  I could see no one around on either side of the street, but I could feel the American’s eyes on me, burning holes through my jacket, right to the box of cards hidden beneath it. I couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t there, lurking around a corner or staring at me through a window somewhere, crouched beneath a pane or behind an empty vegetable cart.

  I took in a breath and confidently walked across the street and to the door that would bring me to LeBeau’s. Pulling the handle, I stepped into the narrow stairway that led up to a small landing, taking the steps one at a time. Each step up was a struggle. I worked to remain silent, stepping on the edges of the stairs and moving slowly.

  I didn’t want to give myself away. I wanted to see things exactly as they were. Her simple presence here at this time of night would be enough to confirm them. Catching them...

  ...a lump caught in my chest at the thought...

  Reaching the top of the stairs, I stopped to listen for signs of treachery, both beyond the door and behind me. Looking down to the entrance at the bottom of the stairs, all seemed still and quiet. No sound, no turning of the knob, no shuffle of footsteps on the cobblestone outside.

  I cocked my head, facing my ear to LeBeau’s solid door. To equal parts of relief and disappointment, I made out no signs of scandal or adultery. In fact, the only sound I could hear was the pressure of the room in my ear like a conch relaying the sound of the ocean.

  Faintly beyond that was the low piano scratching off a shellacked record, muffled through many walls, that came from the landlord’s establishment below.

  I tested the door handle and found it unlocked.

  The door swung open easily, revealing a darkened sanctum, musty from the old furniture, but silent.

  I took a step inside, closed the door lightly behind me, and crept toward the bedroom.

  In the black of night, LeBeau’s apartment didn’t look like much of anything. I’d only been there once or twice before to drink with LeBeau at his invitation and hadn’t been impressed by it. It had the faux elegance of age, like everything seemed to in France, furnished by the landlord almost entirely by second-rate hand-me-downs from the last hundred years.

  The whole flat reeked of old wood oil and tobacco smoke. The stink was worn deep and old, from long before the place was even a twinkle in LeBeau’s eye.

  Fumbling my way through in the dark was a slow process.

  Inching closer to the bedroom, I paused every step to listen for signs of foul play. It afforded me the opportunity to adjust my eyes to the dark, but would that be a curse of its own, given what I was expecting to see?

  The pressured sound of the sea built up in the silence of the room. I never quite realized how loud and deep the quiet was. Thunderous in its own way.

  The bedroom was just off the main room, but it seemed to take an eternity to get there. I had an image in my head of throwing the door open and seeing them there together, scrambling to cover themselves after their quiet lovemaking in the dark.

  Better to pull the bandage off quickly than let the pain linger. I whooshed open the door to the bedroom like a cop catching a jewel thief with his hands in a safe.

  The only thing I saw was a bed.

  Neatly made and empty.

  I never took LeBeau for fastidious, but his room was shockingly immaculate. Decorated in the same antique furniture, his bedroom looked more like something out of a woodcut illustration in a book than the flat of a bachelor and adulterer. The only thing that seemed to say “LeBeau” was the nightstand covered over with neat rows of empty liquor bottles.

  Inhaling deeply, I caught what I assumed to be the scent of what could have been her perfume. It was sweet, slightly overpowering the oil and cigarettes that permeated the rest of the apartment.

  I took in one more deep inhalation and, while I couldn’t pick up that specific scent again, the heavy air filled my lungs with hatred and fear, weighing me down like lead in a balloon. I couldn’t see Sara allowing such a horr
ible thing to happen in our own bed, where else would they have consummated their treachery but LeBeau’s?

  With the knowledge that no one was in the flat, my tension eased some and I could move around with impunity. I’d been so concerned about finding my wife here in LeBeau’s arms, I’d almost forgotten about the danger that lurked outside.

  Moving to the window in the parlor, I parted a spare inch of the musty curtains, just enough to look down at the street below.

  And there he was.

  Standing beneath a streetlamp and a cloud of cigarette smoke was the enemy American. He’d popped his collar up over his neck and puffed a smoke, the spot of cherry light illuminated his grim features. The red outlines drew a face angry and determined.

  He watched the door I’d entered like an owl guarding a barn, ready to swoop in on the mouse. But I had no intention of being the mouse. He could guard that door all night if he wanted, as far as he was concerned, I’d be holed up in the building indefinitely.

  I separated the curtain at the seam a bare inch, just enough to let some light through. Then I turned to start a candle, whose flickering would create an uneven light that would imply life and movement for the next couple of hours. Confident the American wouldn’t make his move until LeBeau arrived, staggering home in the night, drunk with wine and lust for my wife, I could buy myself some time to find out what was happening.

  But only if I could sneak out unseen.

  Unless I’d missed my guess, the American would assume LeBeau was my contact and I’d be turning the cards over to him. If LeBeau arrived to receive them, then that would be the American’s last chance to take possession of them. The longer it took LeBeau to arrive home, the longer I’d have to solve my problems and set my mind at ease. Knowing how much a drunken night owl my old friend was, his usual habits would buy me plenty of time.

  And perhaps it would distract the American long enough for him to make a mistake.

  Satisfied I could escape unnoticed and leave the American watching LeBeau’s door, I climbed out the back window and down a storm pipe to street level. It was difficult work, with only half the use of one of my arms, since I kept a hand on the box of cards.