Chalet in the Sky

by Albert Robida

  He went back to the villas, a little more serene.

  “Well, my lads, the ball is now rolling—everything is in hand. Don’t give it another thought, since Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield have promised me an imminent departure. In the meantime, we shall work or relax, and also go on excursions—but not with the Villa, which must remain in its berth while the investigation continues and the prosecution is prepared….”

  X. The Escape of the Evidence.

  The prospect of an early resumption of the interrupted voyage brought a hint of gaiety to the Villa. Andoche and Moderan seemed to find some charm in the spectacle of American life considered from the 300-meter height of the Airstrip. They amused themselves in riding the elevator up and down and running around the aircraft that landed with passengers: Westerners coming from ’Frisco; tanned families from the South; men in sombreros whose faces seemed to be fashioned in brown leather, black and curly-haired families with broad red and white smiles; mixed families of every shade, ladies and gentlemen in yellow ocher, neutral tint, Sienna earth, reddish brown or burnt sepia, forming an entire range of water-colors. The vehicles were no less varied: old aero-coaches and, coming from long distances, flying cars from Louisiana, light and open-topped; Canadian avionettes, veritable flying boxes hermetically sealed and padded for defense against the cold; large aerobuses bringing local wedding-parties for the day; and the host of businessmen’s taxi-planes, some of which only remained on the platform for a few hours, while others, after depositing their passengers, were taken down to garages on the ground; and the dirigibles of the innumerable American or transoceanic lines, which touched down in order to drop passengers off or pick them up.

  There was an incessant movement around the immobile aerovilla, suspended, by virtue of slow-moving justice, in the middle of a whirlwind that carried everything away—people and objects, buildings and smoke—in that vertiginous America.

  They also worked—without enthusiasm, but it was necessary to do something. Monsieur Cabrol tried, at least, but inspiration was lacking. Every day he went to 738th Avenue; Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield were very busy lawyers, overwhelmed by cases. When, by chance, he did not find them at their office, plunged in their files, facing one another in their rocking-chairs, rocking more or less rapidly in proportion to the arduousness of the case under consideration, it was because they were in court in Chicago, Cincinnati or somewhere else.

  Monsieur Cabrol came back from these visits furious one day and discouraged the next. As distractions, they had the visits and interrogations of state attorneys and, from time to time, flights in the Villa Beauséjour to study the working of the machine in order to see whether, by chance, the accused Barlotin might have been taken away and abducted by the engine involuntarily.

  They went in this fashion to Lake Erie, Lake Michigan, and to the former Niagara Falls, which had been eroded and flattened by the waters a long time ago, and was now a tranquil little cascade.

  There was a reconstruction of the crime, with Barlotin removed from prison for a day, strictly guarded on the balcony of the Villa by two policemen. For hours the Villa flew over river-banks that were nothing but an uninterrupted series of rumbling factories, with widely-spaced little pine woods on crags, scarcely visible in an atmosphere darkened by vapors of every hue.

  Barlotin seemed disenchanted. It was here that he had searched for his cheerful oasis of coolness and quiet!

  Six months had already gone by and the promised extra-rapid solution did not materialize. Monsieur Cabrol was depressed. Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield no longer heard anything about the progress of the case and the probability of an imminent denouement. Mrs. Bloomfield no longer promised anything. For one thing, she was too busy and no longer had the time; she was often absent, summoned to Chicago, where she was representing a group of financiers in a very big trial, leaving her husband to look after minor current cases.

  Mr. Bloomfield, alone in his rocking-chair, was not in a good mood and replied evasively to Monsieur Cabrol’s objurgations. One morning, the latter found Bloomfield extremely surly. Mrs. Bloomfield, increasingly busy, had just left for Chicago and, as he had refused to accompany her, she had left instructions for the trifling research and formalities necessitated by her important case.

  “I congratulate you on Mrs. A. Bloomfield’s success,” the distressed Cabrol said to him, “but can’t you…”

  Mr. W. Bloomfield leapt out of his armchair. “Ah! Yes! Wait: Mrs. Bloomfield is defending your thief; I’m representing you, as the civil party. You want to go away with your Villa? Good! You’ll leave this evening.” He picked up his hat and leapt into Monsieur Cabrol’s taxi-plane. “Drop me off at the district court, then go back to the Villa and expect me at about 3 p.m.”

  Never before had Mr. W. Bloomfield demonstrated such activity; he told the driver to hurry; he kneaded his briefcase nervously, rolled official documents into a ball and threw them overboard. At the Courthouse, Monsieur Cabrol would have liked to follow him to ensure that the fever of goodwill did not cool down, but Mr. Bloomfield stopped him, saying: ‘Impossible! Many formalities to take care of, people to see, clerk of the court to hustle, papers to obtain, legalizations…over there, then, at 3 p.m.”

  Cabrol returned to the Airstrip at top speed. He was very excited. So then…but no, it wasn’t possible, it was a false dawn; tomorrow, he would find the Bloomfields in their office, swaying with their files in their rocking-chairs. He and his nephews were the Latudes29 of the Airstrip, in for 35 years of captivity, like the prisoner of the old Bastille, where the view had debtless been more agreeable than the one over these volcanic heaps of factories.

  Andoche and Moderan saw that their uncle was preoccupied but dared not ask him any questions. It was necessary to force down the pills of his lunch; he was not hungry. While serving the lunch, Melanie began to complain; Bablyas and Phanor were getting bored on the Airstrip, and finding their life very monotonous. And the horrible dust that covered everything!

  Suddenly, a bell rang on the Tele. Monsieur Cabrol leapt up. It was Mr. Bloomfield, brandishing a piece of paper.

  “It’s done. Here’s the order, with all the signatures and stamps. I’m on my way to the Airstrip.”

  Monsieur Cabrol did not say anything else, but he ran to the balustrade, binoculars in hand, searching the horizon feverishly. Andoche and Moderan, followed by Melanie, were soon by his side, searching the sky like him, while wondering what they were looking for.

  Five minutes, ten minutes, went by. Monsieur Cabrol wiped the lenses of the binoculars, quivering with impatience.

  Suddenly, he said; “Ah! Over there! Yes! Yes…that must be him. Aren’t they slow in this country? Finally!”

  A taxiplane was heading straight for the Airstrip. It was indeed Mr. W. Bloomfield, whom Cabrol seized by the arm as soon as he was on the platform, and rapidly took up to the Villa’s drawing-room.

  “Here’s the paper!” said W. Bloomfield. “Aerovilla Beauséjour is no longer necessary as an item of evidence; the seizure is lifted; you can leave. The trial of Arthur Jean Baptiste Édouard Barlotin will follow its course; it will be permissible for you to come back, if you wish, to witness the arguments and hear the sentence.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” said Cabrol. “We can really go, then?”

  “Whenever you wish.”

  Everything was soon settled: the garage expenses at the Airstrip and the fees of Mr. W. Bloomfield and Mrs. Arabella Bloomfield; handshakes and thanks. Mr. W. Bloomfield took charge of a small provision of pills to comfort the treacherous pilot in his prison, and took off again in his taxi-plane.

  Free! Free at last!

  “Lock up Phanor and Babylas, Melanie—we’re leaving right away.”

  “For good, Uncle?” asked Andoche and Moderan, who dared not believe their ears.

  “For good, and immediately. Don’t jump for joy.”

  “I’ve other things to do, Monsieur,” said Melanie, coming down rapidly from her room. “I have to bring bac
k…”

  “Nothing at all—we’re escaping, as you can see. Is everything in order? Good. I’ll set the course. You two, Andoche and Moderan, keep an eye on everything; look out to port and starboard; it’s a matter of not breaking anything of our neighbors’, or our own…no damage here, above all!”

  Phanor had undoubtedly understood; he jumped on to the balcony yapping with joyful fury, and Babylas, locked in Melanie’s room as a precaution, answered him with plaintive miaows.

  “Silence, now.”

  Already, the Aerovilla Beauséjour was moving off. Monsieur Cabrol maneuvered carefully; the attendants, put in a good mood by generous tips, had cleared the way. The Aerovilla rose a few feet into the air, left the platform with a majestic slowness, and described an ascending spiral around the Airstrip.

  “Everything’s in order,” said Monsieur Cabrol. “Due South now, flying over the coast!”

  The joyous afternoon! After the gentle progress and precautions of the departure, the Villa put on speed. They floated in the blue above the sea, the horizons appeared distinctly, the heavy vapors of the industrial regions having gradually been left behind, disappearing in the distance. To the right, the Allegheny mountains designed a vague blue line; then came the forests and greenery of Carolina30 and Louisiana.

  Soon the sea took on violet tints, which turned to red, seemingly wishing to catch fire, like an immense brazier, the Pacific Ocean that was divinable down below, the glare of which the eyes could not support.

  “The Mexican coast!” said Monsieur Cabrol. “We’ll look for a nice tranquil little spot to land. We’d be able to find a garage for the night in a town, but I like the countryside better.”

  “So do we!”

  Half an hour later, as the darkness was becoming total, Andoche pointed out an area on the verdant bank of a river, in the depths of a wooded valley somewhat reminiscent of those of the Caucasian Archipelago, that was easy of access. There was nothing there but a group of small houses, hardly a village. Further away, they could make out a little white and pink town, huddled around a church with a bell-tower, whose bells were ringing as if to welcome the voyagers from above.

  Monsieur Cabrol opted for the village, and the Villa Beauséjour descended slowly to touch down in a sufficiently flat and bush-free field.

  The entire population was there: people of a general Indian type, a few displaying to varying degrees a mixture of Spanish blood.

  Andoche looked at them sadly. He had expected Guatemalan, Indian or Mexican costumes, decorated with feathered head-dresses, necklaces and ear-rings, but he found the universal costume of Europe, America and Asia, the sole and unique fashion of Paris, London or Peking, for men as for women, with only a few small modifications imposed by the climate, such as lighter fabrics.

  These Guatemalans seemed to be good people; they would have liked to assist with the maneuvers, but there was no need for their help; the Villa Beauséjour had gently stabilized on the ground by itself. They pushed one another, groups of señors and señoritas, with the children in front, and moved around under the balcony, welcoming their guests with a hum of admiring guttural voices in which the syllables of a terrible Aztec Spanish buzzed and overlapped.

  Only one person took hold of the ladder to climb aboard, doubtless for some formality. Monsieur Cabrol greeted him and tried to seize something within the flux of words that rolled over the balcony and made the walls of the house vibrate as they echoed therefrom. The tone was benevolent though, and the gestures welcoming.

  “Good, good” said Monsieur Cabrol. “I get it; it’s the local policeman who is wishing us good evening on behalf of the Mayor and the population. Very good!”

  He took a card from his wallet and the vessel’s papers, which the policeman signed with a flourish of the pen. The functionary made a tour of the balcony with an admiring expression, then bowed with a refined politeness, offered a few more friendly interjections, and took his leave.

  “It’s very nice here. I can only see three or four factory chimneys, over there in the distance; that doesn’t spoil the landscape. They’re doubtless simple culinary factories, where the local produce is processed and a few alimentary pills produced. Come on! We’re installed; it’s time for dinner.”

  Everyone having admired the sunset sufficiently, night fell and the indigenes returned to their homes.

  “To the table, on the balcony, and quickly—it’s no longer light.”

  “Bah! Just to swallow two or three pills!” said Andoche.

  “Pat attention! You mustn’t take the wrong pill by mistake, in the dark. Let’s see—are you very hungry? Very well—this evening, by reason of the fatigue caused by the excitement, we’ll offer ourselves a stimulating, even Pantagruelesque meal—a Belshazzar’s feast!”

  “Bravo! Bravo!”

  “Here’s to joy! Melanie, here’s the menu. Four pills each: a hors-d’oeuvre variety pill no. 1; a truffled turkey pill; a banana fritter pill; a Chasselas de Fontainebleau pill.31 Drinks: Burgundy, one pill each; a carafe of agua fresca…and let’s celebrate our escape joyfully!”

  They had no more worries, they were no longer in a hurry. Sprawling limply in their armchairs, they drew out the meal; they took three quarters of an hour to consume the truffled turkey, the banana fritters and the warming Burgundy. It was absolutely dark when they got up from the table. No light was shining in the Guatemalan village; the people were probably sleeping in the open, beneath the fan-palms sprouting in the gardens.

  “Serious business tomorrow!”

  “Look!” said Moderan, who had just gone over to the other side of the house. Look this way—one Moon, two Moons, ten Moons…50 Moons!”

  It was, indeed, a matter of Moons; the darkness on the other side was scattered with large gleams that looked almost exactly like constellations of Moons—but they were not Moons, for they were various in shape, and also in hue, varying from bright red to dark red, some of them fiery, extended in scarlet-tinted vapors or emitting incandescent jets.

  “Volcanoes of course!” said Monsieur Cabrol. All the land over there, the plateaux of the ancient isthmus of Panama, was turned upside-down and torn apart by the formidable earthquake that twisted and broke the isthmus into several fragments a few centuries ago, and opened three or four wide breaches through which the waters of the two oceans flowed into one another. All of the ground—the entire bedrock, in fact—is pierced by holes, through which fire, lava, hot mud and boiling water flow from the depths, and it’s all those various volcanoes that you’re mistaking for Moons. We shall see all that, my boys; it’s on our route. We’ll pass over it, high enough, at least, not to set our hair on fire.”

  “O! Yes—high; very high!”

  “Just as long as that seething Earth doesn’t play any dirty tricks on us tonight!”

  “Bah! We can sleep easy; those mountains only tremble five or six times a year, on average. Let’s hope the annual quota has been used up.”

  The night was quite calm; at least, the inhabitants of the Villa Beauséjour did not perceive any shocks, and awoke hale and hearty at dawn the following morning. The sunrise was very pretty, behind a myriad of little clouds that rose into the sky like a advance guard of little herald angels. What was about to appear in the soft and tender blue behind those clouds? It was His Majesty the Sun, who was coming from the lands beyond the Atlantic, beginning to launch his rays toward the zenith, to graze and decorate the crests of the waves.

  Moderan was not fully awake, and rubbed his eyes at first. No more airstrip, no more of those huge carcasses of iron cutting out squares and triangles from Heaven and Earth alike, no atmosphere swirling turbulently with yellow or black vapors. They were no longer back there, tied down to the Airstrip, impounded in New York. He jumped for joy.

  People from the village were working here and there in the fields; the Angelus was sounding in the bell-tower of the distant church. No more volcanoes either! They had melted into the profound blue of the Occidental mountains.
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  A group of Guatemalan youths, male and female, clad in long robes deeply cleft at the neck and decorated with bizarre embroidery, was circling the Villa, holding hands, wide-eyed with admiration.

  “I vote for a short stay here, before continuing,” said Andoche.

  “We’ll stay for a few days,” said Monsieur Cabrol. We ought to alternate our sensations, the sweet and pleasant with the severe! So, a week of utter peace in this pleasant landscape; then, after the idyll, we’ll go on to something rougher, for the next thing on our program now is Astra, the great island that fell from the sky 30 years ago, as you know, having given the world a famous scare. I’ll tell you all about that, with authentic details, one of these days, since I was a young man when the terrible event occurred, and lived through those days of terror and anguish. There was quite a stir, in fact.”

  “Tell us the story now, Uncle.”

  “No, no, we ought to save that for the departure—you’ll want to fly to Astra straight away.”

  “Let’s remain in the idyll for a while.”

  XI. Astra’s Fall

  A bell from the Tele cut short Andoche’s demands.

  “All right! All right! I’m coming. Who’s this, so early?”

  It was Monsieur des Ormettes arriving by wireless; he appeared on the screen, a trifle excited.

  “Well, well, where are you, then? You’ve left the New York Airstrip? The case had ended sooner than you thought? What sentence did Barlotin receive?”

  “The case hasn’t yet got to court. He hasn’t been sentenced; we’re the ones who’ve escaped.”

  “Really!”

  “Yes, with the complicity of Mr. William Bloomfield. The case isn’t over. Mrs. Arabella let it drag on. Our case was a mere trifle for the dear lady, such a busy lawyer! She was caught up in something more important, a big trial in which to appear before the Chicago bench. Her husband William Bloomfield, annoyed at being preferred to her for that, left behind to clear up trifling matters, cut through the formalities somewhat and had the seizure order on the evidential Villa lifted…and we took off immediately, much regretted by the garage but well content to fly away at top speed.”