The Woman Who Rode the Wind

“No one,” she replied, also in French.

  “No one shouldn’t be out at night unless she’s with someone,” he said authoritatively. “This is not a place where women should be alone unless they are horizontales.”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” she said defensively.

  “And you’re waiting here, by Our Lost Sister?”

  “What do you mean?” She thought he looked vaguely familiar, but she hardly knew anyone in Paris.

  “This statue represents Strasbourg, one of the cities taken by the Germans after we lost the war in 1870. It will stay covered in black until we win it back.”

  “You French hate the Germans, don’t you?”

  The tall man smiled. “We French? Then you are not one of us. I thought not. Your accent is imperfect. To answer your question, not all of us hate the Germans, but it is our national pastime. Many mothers—grandmothers now—take their male children to the graves of those who died in that war—like my father. And there they make them swear that they will never rest until the day of revenge comes. A man who dies young for his country, they say, will know only life’s roses and leave no orphans.”

  He stopped. In that instant, Mary Ann thought she had never seen such a handsome man. He had a tall and slender but muscular body, tanned by the sun and the wind, and the head of a war bird, with a long patrician nose. His blue-gray eyes seemed to look into the distance beyond what others saw. Now she remembered where she had seen him; from the Tower when his balloon shot by, just before it exploded.

  “You’re Alain Chevrier, aren’t you?” she said, searching for something to say. “That means ‘knight’ in French.”

  “No,” he laughed. “Your French is good but not that good. A ‘chevalier’ is a knight. A ‘chevrier’ is a goatherd. And you are obviously American. Are you Marianne Pitman? I was told that you’d be here. Marianne is a lovely name.”

  “It’s Mary Ann,” she took some pleasure in correcting him. “And where I come from it’s pretty ordinary.”

  “Well,” he said, “if I were your escort I would be here by now. Ready to go in?”

  She stared at him. He had on a rough work shirt, blue serge pants and military boots, and would look as out of place among the stylish crowd at the Aéro Club as she would.

  “Should we be dressed like this?” she asked.

  He thought for a second. “Of course they’ll let us in tonight,” he said. “They have to. But generally the Aéro Club is the kind of place where they hire people like us to throw people like us out. So let’s have a little fun with them.”

  He took her arm and led her across the square and down a side street. At the far end was a doorway. Alain leaned his back against the door and tried the knob.

  “It’s locked,” Mary Ann said.

  “No door is ever locked,” said Alain. He looked up and down the alley, raised his leg and kicked backward. The door gave.

  “But you have an invitation?” she protested. “Why do this?”

  “For the same reason that I fly.”

  Inside it was eerily quiet. Above them, they heard the faint sounds of a banquet. “The pigs are at the trough,” said Alain. “I’m not hungry, are you?”

  Mary Ann was starving. She hadn’t eaten all day, but she wasn’t about to admit it now. She followed Alain down the darkened hallways like an acolyte. While the major rooms at the Club were huge and lavish, the back corridors used by the staff were narrow and winding. She felt as though she was in the fun house at an amusement park. She would see a figure coming toward her at the end of the hall and suddenly realize it was her own reflection in a full-length mirror. Doors were concealed behind elaborately painted panels. Gaslights shaped like two-poster candlesticks made Alain duck his head more than once.

  They walked through the gymnasium. It reminded Mary Ann of a cave she had once visited in New Mexico where small corridors opened into huge caverns. They found the swimming pool, the steam room, the boxing ring, even a barber shop with four white porcelain chairs gleaming in the moonlight. Now she understood why Alain had broken in. She had begun to see things from the perspective of a burglar. Everything was more intense: the light, the shadows, the objects on the wall.

  A circular staircase led up to the Aéro Club’s library. Glass shelves filled with books lined two sides, and above the first floor there was a second floor of shelves, bounded by a walkway and a polished wooden railing. One side was filled with Gobelin tapestries, expensive bibelots, figurines by Watteau, Houdon and Fragonard, and Chinese porcelains. On the other were trophies of ballooning contests.

  Above them was the world’s largest chandelier, a huge mirror-covered balloon with gaslights underneath serving as the basket. Leather couches and tables were scattered throughout the room, but it was now empty. Mary Ann was impressed in spite of herself. But then, what other club could hand out million-franc prizes?

  “Come over here,” whispered Alain as he pointed to the far wall. Mounted on it was the lid of the stone sarcophagus, the former resting-place of Ramses III of Egypt. Carved on the lid was a picture of the goddess Isis, crouching down with slender veined wings outstretched as if to protect the portraits of every aeronaut and aviator who died in an accident. The rows of illustrations ranging up and down the wall were long and gloomy.

  They were both ancient and modern. A bas-relief showed Greek criminals, daubed with wings and feathers, being thrown from the cliffs off the island of Leucadia. Balloons aflame plunged toward the ground, the aeronauts inside them philosophical or frightened or whatever the artist had chosen to paint them. Beautiful women in bodices and tights twisted in mid-air, straining against gravity. At the end of the hall were pictures of bodies on the ground, as peaceful as if they were sleeping.

  But more frightening were the faces of the dead aeronauts. They were daguerreotypes, highly polished, silver-coated plates with images of glowing delicacy and complex tones of light and shadow. They looked so real that they seemed to speak. They reminded her of spirit photography; pictures conjured out of darkness like phantoms.

  Mary Ann stared at the melancholy portraits. “I almost feel as if I know them,” she said.

  “I do know them,” said Alain. “I grew up knowing every one of them. They are my heroes.” He pointed to a bearded man. “There is Otto Lilienthal, who flew gliders off his own man-made mountain. When he fell and broke his back, his last words were ‘Sacrifices must be made.’

  “And John Wise, with his big prophet’s beard. He believed that there were tides in the sky that could fly you across the oceans. He was right, but he died proving it.

  “Over here is a portrait of Madame Blanchard, the first woman to fly...and to die. She surrounded her balloon with a ring of fireworks called Bengal lights and set them off when she was in the sky over Paris. But the fire got too close to the balloon and it exploded. She made it safely to a roof and then slipped and fell to the street.”

  “And this one?” she asked.

  It was a picture of a man jumping from the basket of a balloon while a woman inside watched, his tense face nerved for the certain death below.

  “That is Thomas Harris,” said Chevrier. “He took his fiancé aloft over England and was foolish enough to pull the wrong valve, releasing most of the gas. When they started to fall, he lightened the balloon and saved her the only way he could. He jumped out.”

  “He died for love?” she asked. They paused for a moment and looked at each other.

  “Come on,” said Alain. “I’m ready to eat.”

  They walked quietly into the banquet hall, their presence masked by a sudden burst of laughter from the other side of the room, and took seats at the back. The dining room ran almost the full length of the building, and its wide windows opened onto the Place de la Concorde. Mirrors on the opposite wall reflected the stars of the night sky and the slow-moving Seine.

  After downing a dozen oysters each, the diners had finished four of the five main courses and were now working on the breast of pigeon. The
pigeons had been killed by some of these same men at the Tir aux Pigeons, a Paris shooting gallery where birds had their wings clipped to make them fly more erratically. This created problems because some of the shot remained in the birds, so the waiters brought small plates and the gentlemen and ladies delicately spat them out. They made a clinking sound, like the ball on a roulette table, when they hit the enameled china.

  Then glasses were tapped for silence. Henri Meurthe rose from his seat at the front of the horseshoe-shaped dining room.

  “My first happy function here tonight is to introduce the President of France, and, I might add, my good friend, Auguste Pouchet,” said Meurthe. “We are honored to have him speak tonight.”

  Alain groaned from the back.

  Heads turned. Pouchet heard the noise, although he couldn’t identify the source.

  “I will keep my presentation brief,” the President said, glaring. “First, we owe Monsieur Meurthe a large debt for bringing about this contest. When he originally told me of the award, he wished to be anonymous. But I convinced him that the donor of such a munificent prize could not remain unknown for long. I am happy we can now call it the Meurthe Prize!” The diners clapped and cheered.

  “When we announced the contest, we did not expect to have such international representation.” Pouchet’s eyes shifted around the room to see if any of the Germans were present, and then went on. “However, we are pleased this noble dream, coming as it does at a time when Paris is recognized as an international leader, will show the fecundity of our resources, the strength of our engineers, artists and workmen, and the genius of the individual Frenchman so brilliantly displayed...”

  Alain began to clap as if the speech was over. The rest, taking his cue, joined in. Mary Ann giggled. As Pouchet attempted to start speaking again, Alain rose from his chair, still clapping. So did the rest of the club members.

  “Bravo!” he shouted.

  Pouchet clenched his fists so hard the tablecloth ripped—and then sat down.

  Meurthe rose again. “Ah, I see we have our own French contestant for the prize, Alain Chevrier, with us tonight. Stand up, Monsieur Chevrier! Don’t be modest. I’m sure that you have something you’d like to say.”

  Alain rose. He had not expected to give a speech. For the first time Mary Ann saw a look of doubt on his face.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” he started, “for allowing me to see these acres of gilt and velvet and tapestries...and for the thrill of going to dinner between two solid walls of flunkies in livery. As Proudhon said, ‘All property is theft,’ and you have shown me not only the thieves, but also their ill-gotten gains.”

  The well-fed and half-drunk audience grumbled, but no one rose to challenge Chevrier.

  “I’m a soldier,” he continued. “I have fought for France. And I will fly for France, but for the people of France, not those who exploit them. I...”

  Meurthe stood and started to clap. So did the others at the head table, and then everyone.

  Alain stared at Meurthe a moment, and then took his seat. The veins in his neck bulged as he tried to hide his anger.

  “We thank Monsieur Chevrier for blessing us with his candid point of view,” said Meurthe with a wry smile. “And now I’m going to bring these speeches to a halt, before you start applauding for me, too.”

  The meal ended with the usual brandy, apricot tarts, petits fours and the traditional French ice cream served with a paper umbrella on top. Alain ignored the food and walked up to Meurthe, who still sat at the head of the horseshoe table. He leaned on the table, rattling the remaining dishes.

  “I did not enjoy what you did to me,” he said.

  Meurthe leaned back in his chair. Alain looked as though he could easily hit Meurthe, but the Aéro Club president seemed relaxed. He stroked his mustaches.

  “Yes,” said Meurthe. “All too often these after-dinner speeches get long-winded and interfere with the serving of the cigars. Would you like one of mine? As the philosopher says, ‘A meal without a good cigar is a one-eyed beauty.’"

  Alain knocked it out of his hand. Mary Ann gasped.

  But Meurthe didn’t react. “Please forgo the histrionics, Monsieur Chevrier,” he said quietly. “You are a soldier. You know perfectly well that in a war, even a class war such as the one you are trying to fight, bullets are fired in both directions. Or, to put it biblically, those who live by applause...”

  “We will see each other again,” Alain broke in. He spun and walked toward the door.

  “Undoubtedly we will,” Meurthe called after him, “if you have the courage to stay in the contest!”

  Mary Ann caught up to Alain when he reached the front doors. Just as they walked out, Harding walked in.

  “You must be Chevrier!” he said. “I saw what you did today. It was brilliant.”

  “And you must be Harding Cooper, the famous writer,” said Alain.

  Mary Ann was taken aback. Harding a famous writer? “You’re late,” she told him.

  “Bishop held me up,” Harding apologized as they walked outside. “He was looking for a boat on the Seine. He doesn’t want to waste any time.”

  Mary Ann saw a bottle in his pocket. “Have you been drinking?” she asked.

  “Drinking, yes, but not drunk. Found a new beverage called ‘eau-de-vie.’”

  “The water of life,” Alain translated. “Clear as water and tastes like ground glass.”

  “I’d liken it more to lye soap myself.” Harding passed the bottle over to Alain. “It’s 120 proof.”

  “Which car do you want to take?” said Alain. “There are three Renaults, two Pannards, a couple of Darraqs and one of those Teuf-Teuf motorcycles.”

  “Did someone say that you could use their car?” asked Mary Ann naively. “They’re private property.”

  “All property is theft.” Alain turned the crank on the Pannard. It roared to life. “We’ll have them back before those fat bastards inside finish their bombes glacés.”

  They were off before she could protest again. Harding in the open car, Chevrier weaving in and out on the motorcycle with Mary Ann in the sidecar. They bored through the late night streets of the city, their goose horns blaring.

  In the Place Vendôme, courtesans and late night partygoers called to them from the sidewalk. In residential areas, people, angry at their noise, threw bottles and curses from upper-story windows. Neither Harding nor Alain cared. They waved back happily at everyone.

  Then came the attack on the omnibus on the Rue de Rivoli. They formed an impromptu skirmish line and made ready to charge the big, lumbering horse-drawn double-decker. When Mary Ann climbed in with Harding, Alain unhooked the sidecar.

  Their car swerved around the bus. The passengers on “l’impériale,” the open upper deck, looked down and laughed. Then Alain rode his motorcycle up the back steps of the bus, lifted his front wheel and rolled on board, screaming a strange curdling whoop. She could see him ride up the aisle, bounce down the front steps and take off again, the conductor behind him shaking his fist.

  They passed through Les Halles, where huge iron beams held up the glass ceilings that covered the city’s market. The daytime crowds were gone, leaving only broken crates, yesterday’s smells and a few “bijoutiers” selling the refuse tossed out from fancy restaurants and banquets like the one they had just left.

  Now they were in an area of winding streets that seemed to change names constantly. Occasionally they would pass through a lighted square, dodge a monument or statue at the center, and then swerve into another narrow alley.

  “Where are you headed?” Harding called out.

  “We’ll see the sunrise from the hills of Montmartre,” shouted Alain, still leading the way.

  At each turn he swung either left or right, with Harding trying to follow. The motorcycle had no headlight and no one thought to ignite the acetylene torches mounted on the front of the car. They played a game of shadow tag.

  Finally Alain made a wrong turn. He plowed
over a picket fence, its splintering stakes running up and down the musical scale as he uprooted them. He clipped a chestnut tree and sent a shower of pink blossoms raining down on himself. The motorcycle, out of control, ran into the wooden front steps of a frame house.

  Lights went on inside. A pretty woman in a nightgown and cloth cap rushed out on the porch carrying an oil lamp.

  “What is it with you automobilistes!” she screamed. “I will call the gendarmes and have you arrested. Out all hours of the day and night, driving recklessly. I swear you will kill my children!”

  Alain picked himself up from beside the motorcycle, whipped off his cap, and bowed. “Madame,” he said, “I will gladly give you more.”

  * * *

  They abandoned the motorcycle where it lay, saluting the woman’s porch and the wounded chestnut tree. Alain jumped onto the back of Harding’s two-seater and they roared away before the woman could make good on her threat to call the police.

  Soon they were lost in Montmartre. Harding flagged down the driver of a milk truck.

  “Which way to the top?” he yelled.

  “Pardon, Monsieur?”

  “To the top, to the top,” cried Harding, pointing up.

  “Ah,” said the milkman, showing a toothless grin. “C’est à gauche, à gauche au moulin verte.” He pointed to the left and made the sign of a windmill.

  They took off in a cloud of fumes. Two turns later they were lost again.

  “There’s too many windmills up here,” Harding complained.

  “Yes,” said Alain, “but it’s not Montmartre’s fault. It’s so high above the city it’s easy to catch the wind.”

  “Did he mean this windmill?” Harding asked as they flew by another. “This one’s green.”

  “No, I think he meant the last one,” said Alain. “They all look alike in the dark.”

  “Let’s try the next one,” shouted Harding over the roar of the engine. “Here it is...”

  Suddenly they saw only space. Then they felt a bumping under their wheels. They had turned onto one of the streets in Montmartre so steep that the residents had built wooden steps into the hill. They went straight down the board steps, bouncing all the way. Harding was suddenly very sober, trying to keep his foot from sliding off the brake, the wheel shaking in his hand. Mary Ann threw her arms around him, surprising them both.