The Tin Snail

by Cameron McAllister

  The workshop was my favorite place in the whole world. Stepping inside was like finding you’d strayed into the laboratory of some fiendish wizard. Every surface was festooned with crazy drawings, formulas, designs, doodles and posters—diagrams of every description, yet always of one thing: vehicles. Not always cars either—trains, motorbikes, airplanes, rocket-propelled missiles…anything and everything, so long as it went fast.

  In the center of the room was a series of wooden worktops—not that you could see them. They were covered, sometimes nearly a foot deep, in all the junk of engineering and drawing. Slabs of modeling clay were kept moist with sheets of damp newspaper, some dating back decades; in fact, back as far as the Great War—the last time the German army had invaded France.

  There were also welding lamps, helmets, goggles, pencils, strange measuring calipers, knives, abandoned coffee cups and discarded wine bottles—all the equipment required for fantastical invention.

  Oh, and not forgetting sugar, of course. Secret hoards of the stuff were squirreled away in drawers already bulging with half-eaten pastries and long-forgotten fondants.

  As soon as I arrived each morning, my father would equip me with a pair of greasy overalls to put over my uniform, a leather apron around my waist and a pair of goggles. I would now be ready to get to work on the piles of old scrap metal he kept to one side for me. Old cans, lighter cases, springs, coils, cogs and broken paneling—you name it, it was all here.

  Next came the moment I loved more than all else: firing up the welding torch itself. As the flame hissed into life, it flashed white off the glass of my goggles and I set about working and reworking the metal scraps into fantastical creations—usually some sort of prototype for my own car of the future.

  Most mornings, when Madame Detrice tried to shoo me off to school, I would try to find some way to eke out a few extra minutes—anything to put off going to that medieval torture chamber, as I called it. But even when I sprinted all the way to school, somehow I would always arrive late. Which meant only one thing: a whipping from old Crespin, the headmaster.

  Today, however, was different. Today there would be no school, because in just over one hour the 1938 Paris Motor Show would finally be opening its doors and I would be there to see it.

  Like a World Cup for car designers, the motor show was the most important event in the motoring calendar. The world’s leading industrial tycoons, designers, film stars and journalists would all be converging to marvel at the latest and greatest cars on display. And my father’s new design would have pride of place.

  Since the fateful day nearly a year ago when I had stumbled across the sunken pastry, Papa had worked tirelessly, often late into the night, sculpting and resculpting his new creation. Like the pastry, the car had a totally unique shape, one that I was convinced the newspapers would take to their hearts. Domed at the front, it had a massive bonnet with lizard-like eyes sticking out at the sides, and a roof that curved away to a thin wafer at the back.

  But, of course, its real party trick lay underneath. As well as front-wheel drive, Christian had given the car hydro-pneumatic suspension. I’d watched him testing it in the workshop. At rest, the car sagged down at the back, the rear fenders almost scraping the ground. But when the key was put into the ignition and turned two notches, the car rose on a cushion of air, just like the pastry that had inspired it.

  The new feature meant that the car was much smoother driving over the cobbled streets of Paris, a luxury that was bound to go down well with the elegant ladies my mother lunched with.

  This was the car my father and I were pinning all our hopes on, the design that would make him famous again and solve all our problems.

  My heart racing with anticipation, I tugged open the sliding wooden doors of the workshop and ran across the yard toward the factory, skipping across rail tracks that glinted in the early-morning sun.

  Ahead lay the doors to the main factory floor, where workers had once produced over two hundred cars a day. Not that they were making anything like that quantity anymore.

  Strictly speaking, I wasn’t allowed to go inside. Bristling with huge metal smelting machinery and cars dangling from overhead conveyor belts, it was a perilous place for its army of cloth-capped, sooty-faced workers, let alone for a wide-eyed boy of thirteen.

  Today, however, I threw caution to the wind. As I stole through the door, I was hit by a wall of heat that scalded my cheeks. The noise and smells were overwhelming too—a deafening clanking of metal hammers and drilling mixed with the stench of sweat and molten metal. To think that before long this army would be hard at work building my father’s latest design!

  My eyes scanned the factory floor until I spotted Papa huddled in a corner with Christian. For a moment I was struck by just how comical they looked together: Christian so tall and athletic-looking, my father stocky and dark with his broad, flat forehead, like some foraging creature you half expected to crash out of a bush at any moment.

  As I made my way over, I realized that Papa was annoyed, arguing with Christian over something to do with the exhibition.

  “What do you mean we’re in the corner?” he growled. “How will anyone see us if we’re stuck in a broom cupboard?”

  Before he could answer, Christian spotted me and nodded to my father, who spun round and glared at me irritably. “What are you doing in here? You know you should be at school.”

  “At school?” I spluttered. “But surely I’m coming with you to the show—”

  “It’s out of the question,” my father snapped. “Your mother will kill me. You know how she gets if you miss any classes.”

  “Surely Angelo can afford to skip school just this once?” Christian tried to protest.

  But Papa was too preoccupied to hear any arguments. “It’s impossible. Now hurry, before you’re late.” With that, he turned his back on me so that he could carry on poring over the designs for the little display plinth the car was going to sit on.

  For a moment I stood completely still, too winded to move. I burned inside with the sheer injustice of it. Hadn’t it been my discovery of the pastry that had helped inspire the new design? What’s more, I knew that my father despised my school almost as much as I did. It was something he and Maman always rowed about.

  So why was he insisting I go now? Today of all days? I suspected the real reason was nothing to do with my mother or the school. He just didn’t want me to see him humiliated if something went wrong at the show.

  Even if I’d wanted to argue, I knew there was no point. Once Papa had set his mind on something, that was it. He was as stubborn as a mule.

  “Good luck.” I sighed forlornly. “They’re going to love it.” Then I skulked off toward school, not even caring if I was whipped for being late.

  I left the factory and kicked a stone dejectedly along the embankment, not even looking up when I reached the rows of bookstalls that lined the Seine. Usually I was drawn magnetically to these stalls, with their treasure troves of postcards, etchings and paintings. But not today. I turned right and made my way gloomily along the backstreets hidden behind the grand courtyards that housed many of the city’s universities.

  Next I cut right again, across a large open market that bordered a warren of poorer, dirtier streets beyond. Here all life was teeming—greengrocers were crying out the prices of fruit as bicycle delivery carts jostled with omnibuses and horse-drawn wagons stacked impossibly high with crates of vegetables, hay and rope. One of the city’s earliest road-sweeping trucks shuddered past, spraying my boots with filthy water as it churned up the rotting cabbage leaves and straw. Staggering back, I was very nearly trampled under the hooves of a police horse, which earned me a stern rebuke from the officer trying to control the traffic chaos.

  Suddenly I heard a cry high above the other voices. At first I thought it was one of the fruit sellers, but after a few more shouts I realized that someone was calling my name.

  “Angelo!”

  I spun round, peering t
hrough the jostling crowds to see who could be calling me. Then, all at once, I saw the glint of metal handlebars, and a vintage BMW motorbike and sidecar burst through the crowd and pulled up beside me. Sitting astride it was my father.

  “Get in,” he cried. “If we hurry, we can still make it in time.”

  “Make what?” I asked, bewildered. Surely he wasn’t planning on driving me to school.

  “The motor show, of course.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I was stupid,” he interrupted. “Of course you must be there. Here!”

  He threw me the spare helmet, and next thing I knew I was clambering into the sidecar as fast as I could. With a sharp twist of the throttle, the motorbike produced a loud crack like a shotgun, then roared across the square, belching a plume of black smoke in its wake. Grinning from ear to ear, I glanced back in time to see the irate police officer clutch a handkerchief to his face to stop himself from choking.

  Moments later we were sailing over the nearby bridge, tires squealing as we banked left.

  Ahead of us loomed the Grand Palais, where the motor show was already opening its doors.

  I stopped in my tracks and stared, openmouthed. Spread out before me was a truly wondrous sight. High above, the glass of the enormous vaulted ceiling sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight. Below, as far as the eye could see, the exhibition hall was bursting with every type of car, from the most experimental three-wheeled contraption to vehicles that looked more like luxury ocean liners. All our major rivals were here, showing off their latest projects, some so futuristic they looked like they’d been torn out of the pages of a science fiction comic.

  My father gasped. “Come on,” he said. “We need to hurry.”

  As we made our way across, I gaped at the lavish displays the other car companies had mounted. At one, a group of dancing girls dressed as cinema usherettes handed out free bonbons and souvenirs.

  In the middle of the hall, center stage, stood the display for one of my father’s biggest German rivals. A small, wiry man in a tight woolen suit, clutching a leather briefcase, was busy fussing around the stand. I recognized him from a newspaper article Papa had once shown me. I didn’t know his name, but I knew he was the enemy—or at least my father’s rival, his direct counterpart in Germany.

  Suddenly there was a commotion as a group of senior executives ushered someone important into the hall. I craned forward on tiptoe, but all I glimpsed was a long black raincoat and a broad felt hat.

  “Porsche,” my father muttered darkly in my ear. I had often heard him mention the name. Dr. Ferdinand Porsche was one of the most highly revered engineers in the world.

  “Who’s that with him?” I asked. Several powerful-looking men in somber suits and trilby hats cleared the crowds in Porsche’s path.

  “Nazis,” Papa told me, spitting the word out with contempt. I felt a shiver run down my neck. For years now, all the newspapers had been talking about was how the Nazis were building up a huge army ready to invade the rest of Europe.

  Somehow no one wanted to believe that another war was possible. For people like my father’s boss, Bertrand, the memory of the last time the German army had swept over France’s border was all too fresh.

  “Come on.” My father grabbed my arm and led me across to the other side of the hall.

  Once we’d weaved our way through the glitz of the other displays, past the usherettes handing out free sweets, and even a performing bear, we finally arrived at ours.

  It’s true that compared to some of the other stands, it was a humble affair. Yet my breath was completely taken away. There in front of me was the car I had helped to create all those months ago. The car that had started out as a lopsided pastry.

  I stepped toward it, spellbound. It was unique, all right—in fact, it was without doubt the finest, shiniest, most perfect piece of craftsmanship I had ever seen. I let my fingers trail over the soft lines of its bodywork, its gleaming chrome fenders and headlamps, to its bulging windscreen and the black canvas hood that sloped away to a thin wedge at the back. If I hadn’t been close to tears of astonishment, I would have laughed out loud at just how similar to a sunken pie it looked.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

  “You may think that,” my father remarked with a sniff, “but will any of this lot?” He peered across the hall at the crowds of visitors and journalists now swarming around the other displays. “Will they even notice it?” He sighed gloomily.

  Suddenly a figure pushed through the crowd and grabbed my father’s arm.

  “Where have you been?” Christian asked hoarsely.

  “I had to make a small detour,” Papa explained, “but I’m here now. Not that there was much point.”

  “Don’t worry,” Christian assured him with a mysterious glint in his eye. “I’ve arranged something to help show the car off in…how shall I put it? A better light.” With that, a young woman draped in a large gray overcoat came forward. “This is Béatrice,” he announced proudly.

  The young woman smiled and held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she purred coyly.

  But it was as though my father hadn’t even seen her. “The display is a disaster,” he grumbled.

  “Stop worrying,” Christian urged him. “I have a secret weapon.” He turned and nodded toward the girl. “Béatrice is a dancer.”

  On cue, she opened her overcoat, and my mouth fell slack like a goldfish’s. She was wearing nothing but a sequined swimming costume covered in shiny tassels.

  My father stared at her blankly, then turned to Christian, who was grinning like a puppy. “I’m getting some coffee,” he grunted before stalking off in fury.

  For the briefest of seconds, Christian’s smile faltered; then he turned back to Béatrice, oozing confidence again. “He loves it,” he assured her. “Why don’t you get started?”

  Béatrice began to strip off her overcoat and pin on a large, tawdry headdress. Unsure where to look, I let my eyes stray across the hall to where Papa was now having a heated conversation with Bertrand.

  I worshipped “Uncle” Bertrand. When my father first arrived in Paris hoping to make his fortune, Bertrand had seen his drawings and given him a job on the spot. I remember asking years later what had made him take on a penniless artist with so little formal training. Bertrand looked at me with soft, twinkling eyes and shrugged. “I saw something in your father more important than qualifications.” He smiled. “I saw passion. And with passion, anything is possible.”

  Over the years Bertrand grew to be much more than just my father’s boss—he became my unofficial godfather, a stand-in for the grandfathers back in Italy whom I never saw.

  But as I watched his eyes scouring the hall, taking in the grandeur of all the other displays, I could see that Bertrand was worried. Over at the German stand, the crowds were pressing and shoving like bees round honey. At ours there still wasn’t a soul.

  I sighed heavily and wandered over.

  As soon as he saw me, Bertrand’s eyes lit up and he pulled me into a huge bear hug. “My dear boy.” He beamed, hiding any trace of his worried expression. “So you’ve bunked off school, have you? Only right that our top designer should be here.”

  “Except everyone’s over at the German stand,” I complained.

  “Can you blame them?” came a rich, gravelly voice from behind me.

  I spun round to find Ferdinand Porsche himself approaching, flanked by his Nazi heavies. A gaunt hand shot out from under his cape.

  “Bertrand,” he croaked with a cold smile. “I’d almost forgotten you were going to be here.”

  I could see Bertrand’s jaw tighten with dislike as he made no effort to shake the hand. Just behind him, my father was hurrying back with his coffee, clearly disturbed to see us talking to the enemy.

  “As I was explaining to my young friend here,” Bertrand answered Porsche coolly, “I prefer to let craftsmanship speak for itself.”

  “Then it had better speak a little more
loudly,” the German engineer said with a smirk. “Because at the moment I’m not hearing anything.”

  I could see Papa’s face darken with anger as he overheard the slight, but before he could say anything, the wiry little man with the briefcase and spectacles appeared at Porsche’s side.

  “Herr Porsche,” he whispered, shuffling nervously. “We’re ready for you to make your speech.”

  Porsche grunted, then threw a look toward my father. “It’s Fabrizzi, isn’t it?”

  “What if it is?” Papa snarled.

  “Your last car was most unusual. If you ever need a job, be sure to give my assistant a call.”

  With that he swept off to deliver his speech. His assistant gave us an awkward half smile, nodding like a bird pecking at the ground for a worm, then scurried after his boss.

  “Arrogant monkey!” my father hissed furiously.

  “You should be flattered,” Bertrand told him. “Someone as powerful as him admiring your work!”

  “I’d sooner have this lot admiring it.” Papa scowled, glaring at the crowds that were surging toward the German stand to listen to Porsche’s speech.

  “They will,” Bertrand soothed.

  “When?” my father snapped impatiently.

  “Some things aren’t meant to be,” Bertrand assured him. “The rest aren’t meant to be yet.”

  A few moments later I found myself back at our stand. Despite Béatrice’s preparations for her dance routine, the entire hall was now listening, rapt, to Porsche’s speech.

  I sighed heavily. If only there was something I could do to attract more attention to our car. If people could just see what it was capable of—especially its futuristic suspension—surely the crowds would flock round.

  There was nothing for it. I would have to take matters into my own hands. As stealthily as I could, I clambered up onto the stand and reached for the car’s glinting door handle. To my surprise, it clicked open without protest. My pulse quickening, I glanced around furtively. Across the hall my father was still deep in discussion with Bertrand, while Christian was trying to persuade a photographer to come over and take Béatrice’s picture.