The Woman Who Rode the Wind

The inside was even more eerie. Only a few weak overhead electric lights illuminated the central spine that ran all the way from tail fin to front. Maximilian could see the ribs coming out of the spine. They divided the dirigible up into 17 cells from front to back. The covering of the cells was like an elephant’s skin, gray and baggy. Because they had been partially filled with hydrogen, they sucked in and puffed out without making a sound. It was like being inside the belly of a great beast.

  Maximilian moved up the walkway of the central spine toward the far end, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as he went. Then he heard a voice say “Hello.”

  There was no echo. In a place as vast as this, there should have been an echo. But the walls muffled the sound. So there was only one “hello,” and it came from Henri Meurthe. He was sitting in Maximilian’s chair 40 feet away at the end of the airship. Because the dirigible curved up at the back, he was about 10 feet higher than Maximilian, a slight but strategic advantage.

  Maximilian was surprised, but he recovered quickly. “Monsieur Meurthe,” he said, “so happy to entertain you. I would have thought that the guards at the door or here at the dirigible would have announced you.”

  “I came in through one of our famous Paris sewer lines, which conveniently runs under your building,” said Meurthe, “a method suggested by your colleague, Fabian Bouchard.”

  “Really. Thank you for that information. I will have to plug that rathole—and eliminate the rat—tomorrow...”

  “If there is a tomorrow,” Meurthe broke in. “As for your guards, you can see for yourself; they are no longer guarding.”

  Meurthe pointed to the foot of the catwalk. Two of the German soldiers lay there, their throats cut.

  “How the hell did he do that?” Maximilian wondered.

  His fingers tightened into fists as he recognized the classic signs of fear in himself: shortness of breath, trembling, sweat. For the first time since he had come to Paris he was frightened; he felt like the man in that legend who was racing over the ice while it cracked under his feet. And what was that sound? A hissing.

  Then Meurthe spoke: “Your friend Fabian Bouchard has told me everything. How you sabotaged the aeroplane, how you bankrupted Bishop, that little romantic farce you played with my daughter, how LeRond planted the explosive that killed my son...”

  “Your son?” Maximilian tried to keep the surprise from showing in his voice, but failed. He factored that new information into his equation of personalities. It was his best skill, he reminded himself. He realized quickly that it made Meurthe infinitely more dangerous. But what was that hissing?

  “I need a plan,” Maximilian thought. “First, get control of yourself. Keep him talking. Then get close enough to kill him.” He walked up the gangplank, slowly, a step at a time, so as not to alert Meurthe.

  “So why did you come here?” he asked. Step. “Do you plan to punch a few holes in our balloon? They can be easily patched. Step. Kill a few soldiers? They can be easily replaced.”

  Meurthe ignored his questions. “Do you like Wagner? I suppose it’s unpatriotic, but I’ve always admired your German composer. What is that famous piece of his, the one where the world ends in fire?”

  “Gotterdammerung.” Step. Keep him talking. “I am pleased to hear it. It proves that you are not as prejudiced and provincial as most French idiots.” Only 30 feet away now. Humor him.

  Meurthe rose. “I said that you and I would some day fight a duel. Now that time has come."

  "How did an old fool like you ever win a duel?"

  Meurthe laughed. "With the 'Fool's Cut' - life and death staked on a single unexpected thrust. Listen.”

  Maximilian listened. And then he realized what the sound, like an angry snake, really meant. Meurthe had opened the valves to all the hydrogen tanks. It was seeping out, mixing with the oxygen, creating a bomb. Step. Another step.

  “You know,” said Meurthe, “there is not much about you to like, but I have always been impressed by the way you can flip a match with your thumbnail. I’ve tried and tried, but I don’t seem to have the coordination...or my nails are too short. However, if you’ll allow me to take the liberty...” and he pulled out a cigar and match.

  “No, you fool!” shouted Maximilian. Run, he told himself. But his arms and legs were too heavy. He felt as if he were in a dream, where things move too slowly. He saw Meurthe flick the match once and then again with his fingernail. No spark.

  Meurthe’s failure gave him hope. Perhaps there was time. Maximilian ran up the catwalk, praying, trying not to stumble. Twenty feet. Ten feet.

  Meurthe flicked the match again...and again. Still no spark. Now his face seemed worried.

  Faster.

  Maximilian was only five feet away now. Perhaps even if a flame did start he could smother it.

  Then he saw Meurthe smile. And he knew that Meurthe had been toying with him, that Meurthe could have flicked the match all along, and that he was...

  Holding the match up high, Meurthe flicked it for the last time. It sparked.

  For Maximilian it was a last, wonderful sight—which he did not fully appreciate. Vapor trails of flame went out in 12 different directions and ignited in a pool over their heads like an enormous halo.

  Because the hydrogen and oxygen inside the airship had already mixed, it was a bomb inside a bomb. The core blew the hydrogen in the cells apart. They exploded the hydrogen stored in the tanks around the dirigible, turning them into glowing fireballs. It was as though a monstrous torch had been ignited from underneath the ground.

  “No...” screamed Maximilian. But his last word was cut short.

  * * *

  Strange things happen in an explosion. Windows shattered a mile away and shingles tumbled to the ground like snowflakes. One otherwise respectable woman had her clothes blown off and had to run into a nearby maison de tolérance for some garments. A couple making love in a third floor apartment suddenly found themselves in the middle of a party on the second floor.

  The blast even flattened the green cast-iron sides of the nearby pissotiere. Men in various states of undress came flying out of the collapsing structure.

  At the German workshop, the walls held out for a few seconds longer than the roof. The walls acted like the muzzle of a cannon, sending the debris of the dirigible hurling upwards. Aluminum girders went pinwheeling across the night sky, sinking deep when they landed. One plunged 20 feet into an asphalt road.

  But a huge section of the skin of the balloon remained intact, and was thrust up hundreds of feet by the ignited air. When it reached the cold night sky, it spread out like a giant bat and blocked the moon. Then what remained of the German airship went on its first and final flight, moving like a dark cloud over Paris until it fell.

  As for the building, by morning there was nothing left. The junkyard of Montparnasse was a junkyard again.

  The city had reclaimed its own.

  Chapter Thirty One: Despair on the Seine—Late Night, July 17

  Mary Ann sat on the edge of the river across from the cathedral of Notre-Dame, watching the water, waiting for dawn. The boats below her were huddled together like birds plumped up against the cold. Under the great spans that arched the Seine, the midnight fires of the clochards were burning out. Some still hugged their bottles for the warmth of the liquor in them; occasionally, one would stagger over to the corner of the bridge to relieve himself.

  Mary Ann had gone back to the Bethanie to get her clothes. But she couldn’t bring herself to stay, even for one night. When she went downstairs to her cabin, she stumbled because there was no light. Then she heard a crunch under her foot. She picked up a pair of Bishop’s broken reading glasses and started to cry. No matter who he was, he didn’t deserve to end up that way.

  Now there was nothing to do and nowhere to go. Time drifted. Harding had stayed at the railroad car to talk to the police. He had been gone for hours. She worried that he might have been arrested. She felt like a soul in limbo, uncertain of passage to heav
en or hell. What was the French word for it? Le Cafard. The Despair. She remembered a song from one of the musicals that was playing, a song about suicide:

  The atmosphere’s filthy with sleaze,

  The boulevards fill me with pain.

  I’ve done all the bridges and quays,

  All that’s left to do now is the Seine.

  In the back of her mind a tinny voice kept rasping: “Do the Seine, do the Seine.” It would be so easy to slip into the water...

  A foot nudged her and she looked up. It was Harding. And he was drunk.

  “What happened?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.

  Harding sat down on the wharf. Fell down was more like it.

  “You mean after I got done cleaning up the remains of our former boss? I went over to the Aéro Club to tell them what had happened. Hell, why lie? I went to have a drink. Or two. I figured that you weren’t waiting for me with open arms—unless my name is Chevrier.”

  “It wasn’t like that...” she started to say.

  But he interrupted. “Wasn’t even a doorman there. Club’s lost the old cachet. Everyone was sitting at the bar getting sloshed and feeling guilty, trying not to look at each other. I felt right at home. Then I went to that room—the one with pictures of the dead aviators. They’ve got a new one on the wall. You know who it is, don’t you?”

  She nodded, and he heard her sob. He wrenched her shoulders around to face him. “Take some advice. Not for me or for us, because there is no us. Just for yourself: Forget about him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? The great Chevrier. The noble Chevrier. The courageous and now deceased Chevrier. The one true flame you keep kindled in your heart. You still think that he loved you, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know if he loved me,” she said, staring at the water. “I guess I’ll never know. But he gave me something I never had. I’m not afraid of life anymore.”

  “So you’re not afraid?” said Harding. He made it sound like a joke. “Well, maybe you should be.” He pulled a bottle out of his coat pocket. “Before I left the Aéro Club, I snagged some of their best cognac. All property is theft, right? Isn’t that what The Great Man said? Have a drink?”

  She shook her head.

  “Just as well. Almost gone anyway.” He drained the bottle and threw it into the water with a splash.

  A dog started to bark at the noise. They heard a voice shout, “Arrête!” Tais-toi!” and then the sound of a smack. The dog yelped once and was silent.

  “Have you ever noticed how people train a dog to warn them when he hears something?” mused Harding. “Then when he barks, they hit him. Hell, it’s getting so you can’t even be an honest dog anymore.”

  He hesitated for a second. “And that’s what Alain was when you get right down to it. He was an honest dog who barked too much. So they shut him up.”

  It took a moment for his words to register, but when they did it was as if an earthquake had rumbled under her and left her reeling. She grabbed his arm. “What do you mean, ‘they?’” she demanded.

  “The same thing that they did to you. You don’t think flipping the plane was an accident. The bolts on the runway were turned up. Meurthe saw that before I did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What was the point? Ever since we came here, we’ve been in one of those moving pictures where all the action is speeded up and we’re three scenes behind. The villain has already tied Little Nell to the railroad tracks, and we’re still figuring out how she’s going to pay the rent. It’s time to go home to America where we belong. I just can’t figure out how.”

  “Meurthe will help if we need it. He told me that he would.”

  “Henri Meurthe is dead,” said Harding flatly. “When I last saw him, he was going off to get revenge for what happened to you and Alain. Then I heard that the German building blew up.”

  “Oh, my God! That was the explosion we saw.”

  “Took half of Montparnasse with it,” said Harding. “That’s all right, nothing in Montparnasse but students, rats and low-life artists like me. But Meurthe died too. I saw it in his face. He didn’t want to live any more.

  “So there goes our last friend and our last chance of getting home,” he finished. “As my old football coach used to say every time that we’d go out and lose: ‘Cheer up, boys, ‘cause there ain’t no hope.’”

  He started to get up, steadying himself with both hands as he rose. She didn’t want to look at him. A few hours ago he had been her friend, her rescuer, her almost-lover, and Paris had been theirs. Now death was once again everywhere around her, and hands were reaching up to pull her into the grave: Bishop’s, Meurthe’s, yes, even Alain’s. And Harding? Harding had found his own kind of death—in a bottle.

  Harding finished the long climb to his feet. “There’s nothing more that I can do here, for you or anyone else. The fairy tale has ended. As for me, I’m going to see if there’s another drink in this town.” He started to sing: “Oh...You can tell a man who boozes by the company he chooses...”

  She looked at him levelly. “And The Pig got up and slowly walked away,” she finished.

  She was sorry the moment she said it, knew that she shouldn’t have said it, knew that she had hurt this beautiful and damaged man beyond any hope of making it up, knew that she had lost him.

  But she couldn’t take it back. She saw the look on Harding’s face. Then she saw his back as it vanished into the remains of the night. He was gone. And now, for the first time since she had met Harding, she knew that she was absolutely alone.

  For a few moments it was quiet, as if nature itself was willing to observe a suitable period of mourning. A horizontale, traveling home from her night’s work, stopped at the cathedral across the river. She paused to put on her spectacles, then genuflected in front of the church and blessed herself, seeking mercy from the old stone.

  Mary Ann felt a chill start at the base of her spine and work its way up until her shoulders were shaking. Was she looking at her own future?

  “Come on,” said the tinny voice from the musical. “Do the Seine. Do the Seine.” It’s Le Cafard, she thought. The Despair.

  But then the birds began to stir in the back courtyard of Notre-Dame, and the cacophony of morningsong began. Streetlights winked out avenue by avenue as someone shut off the gas. The sky was barely as gray as an old man’s head, but the ever-frugal French were already turning off the lights.

  And now she saw the sun, coming from the east, reach the skyline. It paused to bless the high clouds, then touch the flared Gothic peak of the church. It moved on to the huge square towers where Quasimodo had rung his famous bells, and edged down the gray slate roof to where bronze saints, clad in green, marched in lockstep toward the sky. It reached the gargoyles and brought them to life, snarling. And then, stone by stone, it illuminated the great shrine until it passed through the flying arches at its feet.

  “Yes, you’re alone,” she said to herself, answering Le Cafard. “But you’ve been alone before. You were alone on the mountaintop after your father died. And you survived. You strapped on those wings. You even learned to fly.”

  Then she saw the pigeons, waking long before the lazy roosters, pop from their holes in front of the church and set forth—fluttering—to scavenge another meal. It was as clear a sign as she could ever hope for. Morning had come.

  And with it, a plan.

  Chapter Thirty Two: Paris—July 18

  It was mid afternoon before she had the courage to do it, and even then it was a long walk up the slopes to Saint-Cloud. She kept thinking as she took each step up those winding stair-streets: Was she crazy?

  She remembered the first time she had come up here and had seen Alain riding on top of his magnificent blue airship, the master of the world. Look what had happened to him. Just as Harding had said; they had destroyed him. And here she was, a nobody, setting out to do something that no one had ever done before.


  The doors at both ends of the hangar were wide open, and there was a feeling of hollowness inside. She walked in, trying to look inconspicuous. She was wearing trousers again, and with her hair tucked under a snap-brim cap, she hoped that no one would recognize her, or even notice her.

  As she walked through the hangar, she realized why it felt so empty. Alain’s big airship was gone, lost at the bottom of the Seine. And Alain, who could have filled up the room just by being there, was gone with it. There was almost complete silence in the place. No soldiers or workmen were around, except for a small group playing boule in one corner. She could hear the metal balls clanking on the concrete. As she walked by quickly, Mary Ann recognized the sergeant and corporal who had been with Major Vitary yesterday. They didn’t look up.

  At the far end of the workshop was Alain’s small dirigible with the bicycle frame, the one that he had lovingly called “The Bitch.” It looked like a dog waiting at the doorstep for its master. She walked over and patted its side. “He’s not coming home,” she whispered, as if it could understand. “But I’m here.”

  She had watched Alain fly that day over the Seine, and it was burned into her memory: the day that he gone up into the sky with her, for her, treating her as an equal, explaining each step to her. She remembered every word he had said to her that day. First you had to fully inflate the balloon with hydrogen. The tanks were right next to it. She looked around. No one was paying any attention. She added hydrogen until the skin was tight.

  Check the gas and oil. Full. The rest of it seemed to be in good shape, too. Now unhook the ropes. Then jump aboard and pedal to start the motor. They would hear her then. But if she moved quickly enough, they wouldn’t have time to stop her. The whirling propeller would keep them back. That was the plan. There was only one way to find out.

  “Halt!”

  She froze.

  “Halt!” the unseen voice ordered. “Not another move.”

  She turned. It was Major Vitary, coming straight at her, his right arm outstretched, holding one of those big nine-shot French revolvers. She could see the large hole at the end of the muzzle, the loaded chambers, and then beyond that his face, the waxy ends of his mustache and his narrow black eyes. She felt as if her legs were going to give way and send her crashing to the cement floor.