The Avion My Uncle Flew (28 page)

Suzanne leaned her elbows on the table and told me fiercely, “Va! Va vite, Jean!”

More people drifted in. Fifteen minutes passed. I felt sweat roll down my back. Mon oncle sprang up and cleared everyone out of the room except Suzanne and Charles and Monsieur Niort. “Now you must write,” he said. “Quickly.”

“I can't think of how to start,” I said.

In anguish, mon oncle pulled at his nose; Charles whispered over to him. Mon oncle listened. “Bon,” said mon oncle. He told me, “Charles suggests you write very simply what happened yesterday when I fly. Can you not do that?”

I said, “I get mixed up when I think of myself. That's the trouble.”

Mon oncle and Charles and Suzanne and Monsieur Niort put their heads together and had a discussion while the minutes raced along. Finally mon oncle said, “Ah,
now
we have it. You will not write about yourself! No. You will write about a boy named ‘Jean.' Voici!”

I hadn't thought of doing it that way. I could pretend I was somebody else. I asked what time it was. Mon oncle looked at his big old watch. He sighed. “Nine o'clock.”

I dipped my pen in ink.

I decided it would be all right to simplify some of the details about yesterday because I didn't know enough words to describe everything. At the top of the first page I wrote:

LA FETE

Charles looked at it. “Bon,” he said.

“Sh-h!” said Suzanne fiercely.

“SH-H-H!” said Monsieur Niort.

I dipped my pen again into the ink. I thought a minute. I would start out by saying it's the day of the fête. I would say a boy comes from the house, remembering that little French “de” was tricky, meaning both “from” as well as “of.” I'd say that boy was me—John. I began writing.

I was still writing when Dr. Guereton honked his automobile horn at the entrance into la rue—the street—to warn me he was bringing my parents back. I scribbled the last sentence as the door opened. I wrote “La Fin”—the end—just as ma mère entered.

I sat back. I watched her pick up all the six pages in my handwriting and read them and I saw her smile and she laid the sheets down and bent over and kissed me on the nose and said, “You win the dynamo, Johnny!” and Charles began to whoop like a peau-rouge, and that was like a signal. I guess half le village had gathered around to see us off. They cheered. Mon père said, “We've got exactly three-quarters of an hour to reach Tulle and get our train!”

They threw our bags into Dr. Guereton's green car. Charles flung his arms around my shoulders—épaules—and embraced me. So did Suzanne embrace me. Mon oncle said, “I must stay here because this afternoon I am expecting the men from Tulle to sign the contract for my airplane. But someday you will return, hein? You will come back. You are half Langres, you know, and always one with French blood in him returns!”

We got into the automobile and drove away, waving. I saw Charles and Suzanne and Philippe standing by the door of the hotel, waving. “Au revoir!” they called. I like the way the French say “good-by”—their “au revoir” doesn't actually mean “good-by” at all. “Revoir” means “re-see” and what they say is, “To the re-see …” that is, “until we see you again.” So I called, “Au revoir.”

All at once, I saw mon oncle give a start, as if he'd just remembered something urgently important. He loped after the automobile. He came up even with us. “Oh, Jean,” he panted. “They are still asking me in le village. You have forgotten to tell me. How did you learn Monsieur Capedulocque was a traitor?”

I said, “How did I learn that?” I snapped my fingers just as mon oncle did. I said, “Pouf! It was simple. Am I not half Langres? Is not a Langres capable of learning anything? Even French?”

None of us said much until we were nearly to Tulle. I guess ma mère was as sad as I was about leaving St. Chamant. I kept telling myself I was going to grow up fast and return to St. Chamant as soon as possible, before Suzanne found some other—Before—

Anyway, before everything was changed. And I could write letters to them all. I asked ma mère, “You didn't lose all those French words I wrote out for you, did you? I'd like to keep the papers. I'd like to have them with me to help me remember.”

She laid her hand over mine. “I have them here,” she said. “You won't forget French. You'll learn more.”

“Just the same,” I said, “I'd be obliged if I could keep those French words, myself.”

“Of course, Johnny,” she said. “Do you have the papers, Richard?”

Mon père opened his leather case. Solemnly he handed them over to me and said, “Altogether it was a successful summer for us, wasn't it, Johnny?” I said it was a wonderful summer, the best ever. I looked at what I'd written down, all the French words, reading them again, seeming as clear as crystal to me, and I saw I'd never be baffled by them; I knew them; I'd lived them, just as I've been telling you all along. I saw I'd learn more French at school. In a few years, I'd be back here for a visit. Just looking at what I'd written for ma mère gave me confidence. Leaving wasn't quite as sad, having these papers in my hand.

And right now, back in Wyoming, as I finish this, I've got those six pages next to me. They're a memory and a reminder of France and St. Chamant and all my friends there, and of the little factory mon oncle is running; and when I read them, I can recall as if it was yesterday that day of the festival and how mon oncle took off in his avion, and it might be if you'll look at them, they'll do the same for you. So here they are, the pages about l'avion que mon oncle a fait voler—which means, translated exactly, “the avion that my uncle has made to fly,” and is how a Frenchman would say the title of this book.

Here's what won me the electric lighting dynamo for the English bicycle with the high gear and the low gear and the middle gear I've been pedaling all over our county for the past few months:

La Fête

Par Jean Littlehorn

C'est le jour de la fête. Le garçon vient de la maison. Le garçon est Jean Littlehorn. Jean va dans la rue de St. Chamant. Voici Jean.

Jean voit un garçon. Charles est le garçon. “Bon jour, Charles,” dit Jean Littlehorn.

Charles voit Jean. Charles dit, “Bon jour, Jean.”

Jean dit, “Bon jour. Le jour de la fête de l'avion de mon oncle est joli!”

Charles dit, “Où est ton oncle Paul?”

Jean dit, “Mon oncle Paul est sur la montagne. Tout le monde va à la montagne.”

Jean et Charles marchent vers la montagne. Jean voit la fille. La fille est Suzanne Meilhac. Jean dit à Suzanne Meilhac, “Bon jour, Suzanne.”

La fille dit, “Bon jour, Jean. Bon jour, mon frère.” Charles est le frère de Suzanne Meilhac.

Charles voit Suzanne. “Bon jour, Suzanne,” dit Charles.

Jean demande, “Suzanne, tu veux voir l'avion de mon oncle Paul?”

“Oui,” dit Suzanne. “Certainement, je veux voir l'avion de ton oncle Paul.”

Charles remarque, “Suzanne, tu viens avec Jean et moi?”

Suzanne dit, “Oui, je veux! Je viens avec Jean et toi!”

“Bien!” dit Jean.

Aussi, Charles dit, “Bien!”

Suzanne et Jean et Charles montent sur la montagne.

Tout le monde est sur la montagne. Le forgeron, Monsieur Niort, est ici. Le forgeron est aussi le maire de St. Chamant. Monsieur Capedulocque n'est pas le maire. Monsieur Capedulocque est le traître de St. Chamant. Le docteur est ici. Le docteur est Monsieur Guereton. Philippe Graffoulier est ici; sa mère, Madame Graffoulier est ici. Et Madame Meilhac est ici. Tout le monde est ici et tout le monde est content.

Jean voit oncle Paul. Jean voit l'avion. Ah! L'avion est grand. L'avion est prêt à voler. Oncle Paul dit, “Bon jour, Jean. Bon jour, Suzanne. Bon jour, Charles.”

Suzanne et Charles et Jean disent, “Bon jour.”

“Es-tu prêt, oncle Paul?” demande Jean.

“Oui,” répond oncle Paul. “Je suis prêt. Je veux voler loin.”

“Très loin?” demande Jean.

“Oui. Très, très loin,” répond oncle Paul.

Suzanne dit, “L'avion n'est pas cassé?”

Oncle Paul dit, “Oh, non. L'avion est réparé. L'avion est prêt à partir.”

Charles dit, “Bon. S'il vous plaît, Monsieur Langres, ne volez pas loin.”

Oncle Paul demande à Charles, “As-tu peur?”

Charles répond, “Non, je n'ai pas peur.”

Mais, vite, Suzanne dit, “J'ai peur, Monsieur Langres.”

Oncle Paul dit, gravement, “La peur n'est pas bonne, Suzanne. L'avion est complètement réparé.”

Le maire, Monsieur Niort arrive. Monsieur Niort demande, “Prêt, Paul?”

“Oui,” réplique oncle Paul.

Le Maire Niort crie à tout le monde, “L'AVION EST PRET! L'AVION VA VOLER TRES LOIN!”

Tout le monde regarde l'avion et l'oncle Paul. Tout le monde est content. L'avion va voler. L'avion va voler très loin.…

Oncle Paul entre dans l'avion. Oncle Paul crie, “Au revoir, au revoir!”

Monsieur Niort, le maire de St. Chamant, pousse l'avion.

Tout le monde crie, “Bonne chance, Monsieur Langres! Bonne chance!”

Ah! L'avion va. L'avion vole!

L'avion laisse la montagne. L'avion vole dans le ciel. L'avion vole beaucoup de minutes. L'avion vole très loin.

Suzanne a peur. Suzanne dit, “J'ai peur. L'avion ne va pas tomber?”

“Non,” dit Jean. “L'avion ne va pas tomber.”

L'avion descend.…

L'avion de Monsieur Langres descend vers la terre.…

Suzanne et Jean et Charles descendent la montagne. Tout le monde descend la montagne. Tout le monde court de St. Chamant. Tout le monde va à l'avion.

Voici l'avion!

Voici oncle Paul!

L'avion n'est pas cassé. Oncle Paul n'est pas cassé. Jean court à son oncle Paul. Jean embrasse oncle Paul.

Monsieur Niort dit, “Bien fait, Paul!”

Dr. Guereton dit, “Bien fait, Monsieur Langres! Je suis content!”

Tout le monde est content. Le Docteur Guereton et le Maire Niort portent l'avion sur les épaules. Tout le monde va à St. Chamant.

Oncle Paul dit à Jean, son neveu, “Je suis très content.”

“Bien!” dit Jean. “Moi aussi. Je suis content!”

“Bien!” dit Charles.

“Très bien!” dit Suzanne.

Ah, tout est beau le jour de la fête de l'avion de l'oncle de Jean Littlehorn.

L
A
F
IN

About the Author

Cyrus Fisher was the pen name of Darwin L. Teilhet (1904–1964), the grandson of a French immigrant who came to America from Saint-Chamant, in the Corrèze region of France, after the Great French Wine Blight of 1860. Born in Wyanet, Illinois, Teilhet made several trips to his family's ancestral land as a boy, and as a teenager he even worked as a juggler in a French circus.

Teilhet was born one year after the Wright brothers' first successful flight. In those early decades of air travel, the marvel of human flight captivated the world and became the obsession of many. Having learned to fly while he was still in high school, Teilhet retuned to Saint-Chamant in 1924 to build a huge glider. The day the twenty-one-year-old successfully flew the glider was declared a legal holiday by the town's mayor.

Teilhet is also the author of many detective novels for adults, the majority of which he wrote in conjunction with his wife, Hildegarde. He passed away in Palo Alto, California.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1946 by Darwin L. Teilhet

Copyright renewed © 1974 by Hildegarde T. Teilhet

Illustrations © Richard Floethe

Cover design by Jesse Hayes

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1213-3

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com