Vango (16 page)

Vango, Vango, Vango.

She kept saying his name over and over again to herself in the hope that it would be printed in blue at the bottom of the folded piece of paper between her fingers. Did he remember her?

She opened the telegram and scanned it, and Paul saw her shoulders fall in one movement.

“Is he handsome, at least?” he asked.

She turned around and gave a disarming, disillusioned smile. At last, he let her hold his hands.

“He’s an old gentleman with a face like a Scottish terrier,” she replied. “He’s named Superintendent Boulard. He says he’ll be here tomorrow.”

Paul looked at her. Nothing surprised him anymore. He stared at the bed and then the whole bedroom.

The windows were streaming with rain.

They let a moment or two go by.

Ethel’s dirty clothes were hanging off a leather armchair. Three or four ancestral portraits, with peepholes in their eyes, were secretly spying on them.

“It never changes in here.”

“No,” said Paul. “Mary puts out fresh flowers every day.”

“She even changes the sheets.”

“She says, ‘I’ve tidied the Master and Mistress’s bedroom.’ I don’t know what she finds to tidy!”

They both laughed at the same time.

“Yes,” said Ethel.

“Even though the Master and Mistress haven’t been here for ten years. Nobody comes into this bedroom.”

Then he stared at Ethel and added, “Apart from you, who’s always trying on Father’s clothes.”

Together, they stared at the mirror.

And then they lost any desire to laugh. They could see themselves at four and twelve years old, coming into their parents’ bedroom at daybreak, climbing aboard that big bed like highway bandits. With one eye open a crack, their father would call out to an imaginary coachman to pick up the pace, and then he’d grab his sword to defend his wife, who was hiding under a pillow. The little bandits would roll onto the carpet.

When Mary, the housekeeper, came in to open the curtains, she would witness this crazy family writhing about on the bed and on the floor, looking exhausted, the little girl often planting herself underneath the chest of drawers, wearing her father’s enormous boots.

“They’re mad. My God, they’re mad,” Mary would often say.

But in her bed at night, she prayed for them to stay like that forever.

Ethel and Paul closed their parents’ bedroom door softly behind them. Dinner was ready downstairs. There was a fire in each room. The two of them sat down, side by side, not far from the fireplace, at the head of a vast table that ended somewhere in the mists of Scotland.

There were three people to serve them and two butlers at the doors.

The candlelight from the chandeliers blended with the light from the fire.

“I know who it was you wanted to see in Paris,” said Paul.

She looked down.

In the food on his plate, her brother had drawn a
V
with a knife.

Above the Mediterranean, the same evening

At about ten o’clock, on board the zeppelin, somebody put an armful of rope next to Vango in the darkness. The stowaway was getting ready to jump when he heard Captain Eckener, out of breath, whispering: “They’re looking for you. When I give the signal, you’ll go out onto the roof of the zeppelin. Lower yourself to the ground with the rope. We’ll fly very low. Good luck, Jonah.”

What signal? What ground?
Vango was about to ask. But just then a voice nearby on the ladder called out, “Commander? Are you looking for something?”

A beam of light was trained on the commander’s face. It was an electric lightbulb fixed to a square battery as big as a tin of biscuits. Yet again, the voice belonged to Max Grund.

“You take your evening strolls in very out-of-the-way places. . . .”

Since the incident with Otto the chef, the two men from the Gestapo had called off their search. They planned to start again the following morning by requisitioning ten crew members. Within a few hours, they’d be sure to find their stowaway.

“Can I help you?” asked Grund.

Hugo Eckener was using his hand to shield himself from the light.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do for me.”

“Perhaps you have a problem?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody has dirty little secrets, Commander. Even heroes.”

“I am not a hero,” said Eckener.

“Well, you certainly won’t stay one for long in the eyes of the people. I get the impression that . . .”

Ever since takeoff, Grund had sensed that Captain Eckener was bothered by this business with the stowaway. The policeman had promised himself to make two arrests instead of one, by unmasking Eckener at the same time as his main target.

“Come on, then. Show me what you’ve got to hide, Commander.”

“I’m no hero,” Eckener said again.

His voice was trembling.

There was the sound of broken glass under his feet.

Max Grund lowered the light. There was a broken bottle. Wine was leaking onto the floor and soaking Eckener’s shoes as he held another bottle by the neck. He seemed to be having some difficulty standing upright. The stench of alcohol was overpowering.

Grund looked disgusted.

“The old heroes are the best. . . .”

“I’m not —”

“So that’s your dirty little secret,” Max Grund said, cutting him short. “Fortunately, there’s a new Germany coming whose idols are not old drunkards who hide away to hit the booze!”

He shone his light over the wine store. Vango was just behind, invisible. Grund spat on the floor and turned around.

He went back down the ladder, annoyed that he hadn’t captured his prey but satisfied with his discovery. Eckener’s file was growing heavier by the day.

“I am not a hero,” repeated the commander, staggering along behind him.

Hugo Eckener had just paid the price of Vango’s freedom with his own honor.

Two hours later, the stowaway was still there, waiting for the mysterious signal. He’d wound the rope around himself. The zeppelin was silent.

Vango hadn’t left his hiding place. Not even the engines were making a sound. The hydrogen balloons were gently pushing at the airship’s canvas, making the seams creak and groan. It must have been midnight.

Down below, after spending quite some time alone, Eckener had returned to the seating area, where a few passengers were still up despite the late hour. Captain Lehmann was standing next to him.

“Commander, we’ve lost a considerable amount of time by not flying over France. So I don’t understand this new detour.”

“I’ve told you, Captain. We’re making this detour to thank Dr. Andersen for saving our chef’s life.”

“I’m sorry,” said Andersen. “I wouldn’t want to . . .”

Dr. Andersen was the old gentleman with the goatee whose eyes didn’t miss a trick.

“You’ve always dreamed of seeing Stromboli, so now you’re going to set eyes on the volcano for yourself!”

“I . . .”

“Doctor, haven’t you always dreamed of seeing Stromboli?”

“Of course, Commander, but . . .”

“You heard that, Captain — he’s always dreamed of it.”

As a matter of fact, Dr. Andersen had dreamed of and was curious about everything imaginable: one life just wasn’t enough to satisfy all his interests. If someone had suggested setting off that very night to find out whether the North and South Poles were in fact flat, he would have risen to the challenge.

Captain Lehmann simply didn’t understand his boss anymore.

At ten o’clock that evening, just as the airship should have steered full west, level with Sardinia, Hugo Eckener had decided to hold his southward course in order to get close to the volcano of Stromboli. This kind of whim was so uncharacteristic of Eckener that Lehmann wondered what was going on. He had found the commander, just before, washing the soles of his shoes. And there was still a concerning whiff of wine about his person, even after his trip to the crew’s bathroom.

“We’re going to arrive in Brazil eight hours late!” the captain had implored.

“Lehmann, I’m just asking you to obey.”

The zeppelin had been holding this new course for some time when one of the pilots walked into the saloon.

“Stromboli, Commander.”

The passengers who were still awake were authorized to go up onto the bridge to witness this phenomenon.

They called it the lighthouse of the Mediterranean. For millennia, it had lit up once or twice an hour. The reddish glow of Stromboli, more than a thousand meters high, could be seen from far away at nighttime.

Four years earlier, a gigantic eruption had proved fatal, but Stromboli had now resumed its innocent rhythm. It was a volcano island in the middle of the sea, with a few brave fishermen’s houses on its slopes.

“It’s magnificent,” said Dr. Andersen when the orange glow dissipated.

“If you’d like,” answered Eckener.

“I’m sorry?”

“If you’d like, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Do what, Commander?”

“The doctor wishes to get closer to the volcano,” Eckener told the pilot.

Andersen appeared to be choking.

Captain Lehmann came over.

“Commander, it’s time to steer to the starboard side.”

“Not yet,” said Eckener.

“We shouldn’t get too close to the volcano, with the amount of explosive gas we’ve got on board.”

“I know better than you what we’ve got on board. Go to bed, Captain.”

Twenty minutes later, Eckener gave the order for the engines to cut out.

He had the balloon’s horn sound three times.

Vango sprang to his feet.

The signal.

The passengers came out of their cabins in dressing gowns. The crew members emerged from their dormitories. They all ran into one another in the corridors and wondered what was going on.

Commander Eckener’s good mood quickly put them at ease. Transformed into a circus ringmaster, he clapped his hands and called out, “Everyone over to the port-side windows. Roll up! The show is about to begin!”

Lady Drummond-Hay hadn’t been able to find her silk slippers. So she was barefoot, curled up in an armchair in front of the bay window.

“Port side! The show is about to begin!”

Everybody was peering into the darkness, which was unrelieved by any sign of a glimmer. The businessman was humming circus music.

Next to him, Dr. Andersen was feeling extremely embarrassed about being the cause of all this upheaval.

“But I didn’t ask for any of this,” he kept saying, wide-eyed behind his spectacles.

Otto the chef, with bruises on his face, was walking around with a basket of warm brioches, which he was offering to the passengers. If he’d been dying in the trenches of 1916, Otto would still have made pastries and strudels.

When he came close to Lady Drummond-Hay, he wanted to avoid catching her eye. So he looked down as he held out the basket. His eyes fell on her two dainty bare feet, and when he sensed his heart racing, he realized he wasn’t over her yet.

“You’re going to enjoy this,” said Eckener, passing Max Grund, who hadn’t removed his black raincoat since the airship had taken off.

Grund didn’t respond. He was in a bad mood. He’d slept very little because the stench in his room was so appalling.

Captain Lehmann was feeling moderately reassured. Eckener had finally stopped the balloon at a reasonable distance from the volcano. There was no immediate danger.

Now, with the engines and lights switched off, the zeppelin was perfectly silent. Everyone was waiting for the big event. A few minutes went by in total darkness, only partially spoiled by the fat singer’s bad jokes.

When the volcano finally lit up again, and a huge “Oooooh!” went up from everyone in the balloon, it might also have been possible to discern, standing on top of the zeppelin, with the starry sky above him, the figure of Vango emblazoned in red.

Glowing swallows flew like sparks around him.

The air was mild.

Vango had just realized where he was.

He fixed the end of the rope to a snap hook on the dorsal spine of the airship and proceeded to lower himself down the length of the balloon canvas by letting out the rope.

Down below, in the seating area, the chief helmsman came to see Eckener.

“The balloon is losing height. There’s ground below us. We need to start up the engines, Commander.”

“Let’s take our time — there’s no hurry.”

“We’re less than a hundred meters from the ground.”

“Let us descend to twenty-five meters,” ordered Eckener. “At twenty-five meters, you can fire up the engines again.”

“That’s too tight a margin,” Lehmann pointed out.

“You’re the one who’s being uptight tonight, Captain.”

As he said this, Eckener tottered a bit.

The captain made as if to help him, but Eckener righted himself.

“Sorry. Just a bit of fatigue. Forgive me, Captain. I was rude to you.”

In reality, he had just seen Vango’s shadow passing vertically in front of the window.

Vango had commenced his descent on the right-hand side. Nobody else had noticed him.

A minute later, the sounder announced that they were at twenty-six meters. The throbbing of the engines kicked in again. The seating-area lights were switched back on. Champagne was poured. The horn was blasted. The balloon was heading toward Gibraltar, on its way to South America.

Vango rolled onto solid ground, his body tucked in a ball. A few kilometers away, across the sea to the southwest, a woman had come out of her house with a lantern. She was wrapped in a cape. She thought she’d heard a ship’s horn. Later, she could just make out a light shining among the stars above the horizon.

At the end of the path, Mazzetta watched Mademoiselle going back inside the house. The nurse had been living alone for at least five years, ever since the little one had left.

An east wind pushed the zeppelin along at top speed. The next day, at teatime, it crossed the equator. The day after that, while the passengers were sipping their morning hot chocolate, the Brazilian coast was in view. They passed Pernambuco not a minute late and continued as far as Rio de Janeiro. The passengers were driven to their hotel, the Copacabana Palace, set back from the city center, on the beach. Barely had he gotten through the revolving door than Max Grund rushed over to a telephone. He had reception call Berlin.