The night of the Bendix, Freddy had hung around the Egyptian tent put up by the Ninety-Nines, the national organization of licensed women pilots, and seen Thaden and second-place winner, Laura Ingalls, and Earhart and Cochrane, and dozens of other women pilots go inside to celebrate the victories, but she’d been unable to make herself join them, simple as it would have been. Freddy had found herself caged in by a paralyzing shyness that was far stronger than her desire to meet and congratulate her heroines. Her pilot’s license was in her purse, but she simply couldn’t force herself to walk in and introduce herself, although she knew, logically, that she would have been immediately made welcome. I have nothing to show for myself she told herself miserably and listened to the merriment inside the tent for a few minutes more until she could bear it no longer, and fled.
The Chatterton, thank God, had been won by a man, and she’d put it out of her mind.
“Freddy, you do know that I expect you at my reception today,” Eve said, walking into Freddy’s bedroom, where Freddy sat looking at the walls. Eve felt the concern of a mother who had watched her child become more and more remote each day of the races. She had been confident that Freddy would be excited and thrilled by the aviation events taking place in their own hometown. They had filled the newspapers to a point where even Eve and Paul knew all about them. But no, Freddy spent every minute of every day at the airport and came home lost in her own thoughts, with strangely blurred eyes, which Eve attributed to the long days spent under the sun that beat down on the grandstands.
“Of course, Mother,” Freddy said. “I’ll be there.” A good dose of the leading lights of the French colony would take her mind off herself and how inadequate she felt, she decided. Besides, she was curious to get a look at the famous guest of honor, king of the world’s aerobatic pilots. He was as far out of the range of Freddy’s envy as if he’d been Charles Lindbergh. Or Saint-Exupéry, for that matter.
Michel Detroyat had done France proud and become the undisputed star of the races, with extraordinary exhibitions in his Renault-powered Caudron, a racer that the French army had spent a million dollars to develop. It was the first completely streamlined plane ever built, and in it, Detroyat had won the twenty-thousand-dollar Thompson Trophy Race, the international men’s free-for-all, laughably far ahead of the competition. The superiority of his plane was such that he’d withdrawn from other races “to give someone else a chance to win.”
“Darling, wear your new white linen,” Eve instructed.
“But, Mother—” she tried to object.
“It’s the most appropriate dress you have.” Eve terminated the conversation in a tone of voice that she only used on days when she exercised her official diplomat’s wife’s capacity, and Freddy knew better than to pursue the matter.
Late that afternoon the gardens of the Lancels’ home were filled with hundreds of guests. So many of them had waited in the receiving line to shake Detroyat’s hand that Freddy had only been able to observe him and eavesdrop from her position behind Eve, who stood next to him. Not a handsome man, she thought, with his too-long, too-wide nose and double chin, but his eyes, under straight and unusually heavy black brows, made up for that. He looked as carefree as a happy boy, and visibly was accustomed to being lionized, for he answered the same trivial remarks over and over without losing his animation.
“Yes, Madame, I plan to return next year to defend the trophy, thank you, Madame, I am glad you enjoyed the exhibitions; yes, Monsieur, I find Los Angeles delightful, thank you, Monsieur; yes, Madame, you are right, my father is indeed the commander-in-chief of the French Air Corps, I will give him your regards, thank you, Madame; yes, Monsieur, you have the perfect climate here and I hope to return, thank you, Monsieur; yes, Madame, California is indeed a most beautiful place, thank you, Madame.”
Small talk, thought Freddy, as the line dwindled and the guests fell upon the refreshments, would seem to be the price of fame. Finally, as always happens to every guest of honor, Detroyat found himself standing completely alone, while a horde of strangers, having paid their respects, forgot him in their interest in each other. She stepped forward, almost out of the shrubbery.
“Lieutenant Detroyat,” she found herself saying in rapid French, “could you explain if your Caudron’s two-speed, two-pitch Ratier propeller and air-operated retractable landing gear made possible your quick takeoffs?”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I understood what you said, Mademoiselle. The answer is yes.”
“Ah, I thought so. Tell me, how many degrees of variation are there between the takeoff and high-speed positions of the propeller?”
“Twelve degrees, Mademoiselle.”
“I wondered about that. Hmm … twelve degrees. No wonder you won all the time. What would happen if the landing-gear system failed? It is operated by compressed air, is it not?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. Fortunately I have an emergency hand pump.”
“And the tunnel carburetor scoop-ram—does it extend forward all the way to the nose of the Caudron?”
“Perhaps you …” He stopped, unable any longer to keep a straight face. Finally he recovered from his fit of laughter. “Perhaps you would like to inspect the ship, Mademoiselle?”
“I would,” Freddy said. “But may I ask what it is that you find so funny?”
“The only person at this party who asks an intelligent question is a jeune fille. Oh, oh, that tunnel carburetor.…” and he went off into another irrepressible bout of laughter.
“I am a pilot, Monsieur, not a jeune fille,” Freddy said with so much dignity that he stopped laughing and looked at her carefully.
“Yes, I should have known,” he said finally, “I really should.”
“After all, you couldn’t have guessed,” Freddy admitted forgivingly.
“But no. I could have. It’s evident. You have a pilot’s tan.” He pointed to the wide neck and short sleeves of her dress, where the deeply tanned vee of her throat reached down and made a point on the whiteness above her breasts. “Even the arms,” he said, looking at her tan arms, which abruptly became white halfway above her elbow, where she rolled up her flying shirts.
“I tried to point that out to my mother, but she insisted that I wear this.”
“Even pilots have mothers. What do you fly?”
“A Ryan … when I can get my hands on it.”
“Tiens, I know that plane. Tex Rankin and I once competed in two identical Ryans, just for the fun of it, and I almost failed to keep up with him.”
“Have you done the Oregon Sea Serpent that Rankin invented? I’ve just learned it.”
Detroyat looked alarmed. “That is not a maneuver for a young lady pilot, Mademoiselle, in fact it is most unwise. I must counsel you against it.”
“I do … aerobatics,” Freddy said, as modestly as she could, since she was speaking to the world’s champion, but she could not prevent the pride that blazed out of her eyes. “I’m only a student pilot, but …”
“But one who has mastered the Sea Serpent?”
“Yes.”
“I must congratulate you, Mademoiselle,” he said seriously, visibly impressed, without a trace of mockery. “As one pilot to another, I salute you.” He took her hand and was shaking it when Eve came up to him and unceremoniously swept him away.
“Madame de Lancel, who on earth is that unreasonably romantic-looking girl in white linen?” Detroyat asked. “I should like to invite her to inspect my ship.”
“You don’t mean my daughter, Lieutenant?” Eve asked, instantly alert.
“Your daughter? The pilot?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Amazing, isn’t it, for a girl who is only sixteen?”
“Only … sixteen?”
“Only sixteen,” she repeated firmly. “Still a child, Lieutenant.”
“Ah.”
“Come along, Lieutenant, the president of the French Hospital is so anxious to congratulate you.”
; “How delightful,” sighed the gallant officer, “I can scarcely wait.”
The night after the party for Detroyat, Freddy was unable to sleep, her blood rampaging with nervous excitement. “As one pilot to another, I salute you,” he had said. One pilot to another! Not “little lady,” not “kid,” but pilot. Why was it that nobody seemed to think of her as a pilot? To Mac she was the eternal student. He’d seen her take her baby steps and he’d never forget it. Never let her forget it. She’d really like to hit him! To her father, she was daughter, first, last and foremost. Pilot only on sufferance, and he’d rather not think about it, certainly not hear about it from her. Her mother, once the car had been loaned, seemed to have forgotten where she was going in it, and what she was doing when she got there. Neither of them had any notion that she’d been mastering aerobatics, because they made it clear, without words, that they didn’t want or expect progress reports.
And, to be fair, if she truly thought of herself as a pilot, why wouldn’t she have marched right on into the Ninety Nines’ tent and joined the only other women in the country who shared her passion? She was one of them, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she?
Damn it to hell, she had been selling herself short, accepting the evaluations and dismissals of the only people she cared about, not allowing herself to realize, except for a brief minute or two, how far she had come. Pilot. And a damn good one!
Was it because she was not yet old enough? Seventeen in just a few months—surely that was old enough to believe, if only inside yourself, in what you were?
Look at Delphine, not even a year and a half older, fragile, always-to-be-protected Delphine, who didn’t know a spark plug from a potato, who could only navigate her way from one manicure to another, busy starring in a French movie without so much as an if-you-please. First, hysterical phone calls from Grandmother and then a letter from Delphine herself, who had been mysteriously unreachable by phone, a letter that had taken many days to arrive, containing the serenely happy announcement that she had signed a contract with Gaumont. She had begun work on the picture before they’d even received her letter. Somehow, everybody had decided that it was all Bruno’s fault, but nobody could think of what to do about it, how to stop it.
So Delphine was launched off into the great world, while she, Freddy, was automatically turning down an offer to do some stunt flying that she knew she could handle, because the same parents who had stood by in frantic but futile alarm while Delphine turned herself into a movie actress had decreed that she was to remain a student. Well, to hell with that noise! It wasn’t going to happen, not to this particular pilot.
Swede Castelli’s office in the I. W. Davidson Studio was as untidy as Freddy had expected, but larger than she had thought it would be. As well as a desk, he had a big conference table, its surface littered with model airplanes; maps hung on all the available wall space, photographs of planes from the Great War were piled on the floor in the corners, and snapshots of Swede Castelli himself, from his stunting days, were propped up here and there.
“Nice,” said Freddy truthfully, stretching out in the chair opposite the desk. “I like it here.” She sat with her jodhpured legs square on the floor. She had worn her almost-knee-high riding boots today, although, for the sake of comfort, she never flew in them, but she knew the Prussian effect they made. She’d tucked an old black turtleneck sweater into her jodhpurs and cinched them with the biggest leather belt she owned. From the neck down, she thought with satisfaction, you couldn’t tell her from Baron von Richthofen.
“Is your job offer still good?” she asked directly.
“You bet it is. But what about that date with Beowulf? What about your parents, little lady?”
“Let me worry about them,” Freddy said. “And my name’s Freddy, not ‘little lady.’ ”
“This isn’t some sort of prank?” he asked skeptically.
“Swede, I don’t play pranks. I’m a pilot. You’ve seen how good I am. I’ve watched Mac plan a hundred stunts, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you can mount a camera on my ship one hell of a lot closer than you could on any guy’s, since I don’t get five-o’clock shadow. Put me in any wig and I’ll look more like Alice Faye or Constance Bennett than anyone in the business. True or not?”
“True. Totally true. But Mac … you told me he’d object if you took a stunt double job. I don’t want to cause any trouble, we work together all the time, and he’s just about the best pal I’ve ever had.”
“I’ve thought it over. Swede, Mac taught me to fly and he’s like a mother hen with me.”
“Yeah, Freddy, I kind of noticed.”
“Does that mean that I have to live my life to make him happy? How many mother hens want the chicks to leave the nest? None of them, right? But do chicks stay in the nest forever? You know they don’t. It’s a law of nature. Now it’s my time to get out, and Mac’ll just have to understand that. I need this job. I really need it, and I’ll give it everything I’ve got, I promise you.”
“A rich girl like you? Ah, come on. What do you need this job for?”
“I worked the early-morning shift at the Van der Kamp bakery all summer to pay for my flying time. Now I have to have a plane of my own. Have to, Swede, not just want to.” Freddy leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and looked him in the eye with clear, untroubled power. She had grown up overnight.
“I had you figured for a rich girl.”
“Rich means that I have money. Wrong. My parents are comfortable, but they don’t give me a penny for flying. The car’s a loan, if you were wondering. Look, Swede, if you don’t want me, I know someone else will. They’re making flying pictures at every lot in Hollywood. I came to you first because I know you, but if you have doubts, just say the word and I’m on my way.”
“You’ve got the job, Freddy. Hell, you had it yesterday.”
She laughed in glee. “Will I do Alice Faye or Constance Bennett?”
“Both of them, and Nancy Kelly too. I’m going to use you as much as possible.”
“The money?” Freddy asked, standing up, her hands on her hips.
“The money?”
“You said it was good, but you haven’t told me how good.”
“Fifty bucks a day, same as I pay Mac. You’ll be working five, maybe six days a week once we start shooting.”
“Extra for special stunts?”
“Freddy, I have the feeling that you know the stunt scale as well as I do. Extra, just like everyone else gets. A hundred for flying upside down, although that’s not in the script, up to a thousand-two for a spin to the earth with smoke pots, and a thousand-five for a blow-up in the air with a bail-out—those you can count on. They’re in the script. No crashes on the ground. I wouldn’t let you do them anyway, no woman ever has. Tradition. As far as buying a plane—by the time this flick is finished, you can treat yourself to a fleet of them.”
“Shee—it,” said Freddy slowly.
“It’s not exactly shit,” Swede Castelli said, offended. “It’s damn good money.”
“I meant shit, as in ‘shit, why did I wait so long?’ ”
They weren’t going to like it whenever she chose to tell them, Freddy reflected, but maybe intelligent timing would give her an edge. The pleasantest minute of the day was before dinner, while her parents shared the better part of a bottle of champagne together in the living room. To open a mere split of champagne, her father maintained, was inconceivable unless three things were true: first, that you were alone; second, that it was lunchtime; and third, that you had not been born in the province of the noble wine. As was the custom, he had been given a few drops of champagne on his tongue as soon as he’d been born, and his mother had finished the rest of the glass, delighted that her new son, like all babies in Champagne, had immediately stopped screaming.
Nor would she mention the money, Freddy decided. If she was hired to work on merely a reasonable number of pictures every year, she’d be making more than her father. A
nd of course she’d promise always to live at home, except when she had to be away on location.
“Well, darling, you look … exceptionally well tonight,” said Eve, as her daughter joined them. She didn’t believe in telling her daughters how beautiful they were, but it was hard, just now, not to use that word for Freddy. The child had evidently recovered from whatever malaise had seized her during the Air Races; that strangely anguished expression was gone, and the graceful, periwinkle blue dress she had put on was reflected in the unlimited blue of her eyes, under the upward-lifting brows, so like Eve’s own.
There was something strangely compelling in her purposeful, energetic pose, although she stood perfectly still, leaning on the mantel and looking at them with a smile Eve didn’t recognize, a smile that hovered around her prominent, beautifully formed mouth, almost escaping at the corners of her lips. It was an inner smile, scarcely suppressed, unmistakable, lighting her whole face with a kind of triumphant joy that was in clear contradiction to the gravity with which she was looking at them.
“What’s the good news?” Eve couldn’t resist asking. Freddy had always been so transparent. It was one of her most endearing qualities. “Not Lieutenant Detroyat, I trust.”
“Hardly. Although I did like him. No, it’s much better than that. I’ve got a job.”
“Freddy, please be serious. You’ve been working all summer. You can’t work at another job while you’re in college, you must realize that.”
“Your mother’s right,” Paul said. “We’ve discussed that problem and we’ve decided to finance your flying lessons on the weekends so long as you keep your grades up. We can’t have you doing two things at once, and we can understand that you won’t want to give up flying altogether.”
Judith Krantz Page 33