Daniel Torday - The Last Flight of Poxl West

But I could not say any of that now. When Françoise returned with our tea I said, “You do what you do. It’s the only way I’ve ever known you. What can I say? When I’m with you, I’m happy.”

Françoise handed me my tea. She did not look me in the eyes, but sipped at her tea while I sipped at mine.

“I think I knew that,” she said. She sighed, and we were both quiet.

And then she started in on her story.

Françoise explained that her father was a colonialist who had gone to the Congo, a Dutch protectorate at the time, to oversee an investment, and had returned with her mother, who was herself the daughter of a colonialist. Her mother, Françoise’s grandmother, was Congolese, though from my time growing up in Leitmeritz, I’d never encountered anyone with such a background, and I did not know until she told me that Françoise was one-quarter African. She was taupe. Freckled. There was a touch of albinism in her tan skin, which to the eye of one who knows such things might have been a distinguishing feature of her background. To a young Czechoslovak who for the first time was seeing a Dutch woman in Rotterdam, she was simply bronzed.

As Françoise told me this I sat up on a sofa in her apartment, giving her full attention, attempting not to slouch. Françoise was sitting across from me, her legs tucked under her on a straight-backed chair. When I think of her now I think of the way she was that night: The lightness of her freckles was very light then, the brownness of her cocoa nipples very deep. Her eyes were wide, trained on me as she spoke. She was so young and so unblemished in those days, days when she seemed the most worldly woman I’d ever met.

When Françoise’s parents returned to Rotterdam they found the house her father had grown up in destroyed by fire. Her father’s investments in the Congo had come to nothing. He sank into a deep depression. Her mother was unable to find a respectable job. The fire and penury led Françoise’s mother to work in a brothel near their home. She sometimes brought home more money in a night than Françoise’s father earned in a week, if he was seeking work at all.

“By fourteen, I began to work the ships in the harbor myself,” Françoise said, “where sailors had comfortable accommodations belowdecks.

“I was good at my work. Being good meant many things. Different things. Some men liked to have me simply for how young I was. Some liked to give me things — mandolins, records, bottles of French and Spanish wine. But I had one immediate need myself in my endeavor, and that was that I not get pregnant. And somehow I was lucky even in that realm: I never had even a scare. It appeared I was barren.”

Françoise put her head down again on her pillow. She turned to me and expressed a truth I was coming to learn: Sometimes even the most steadfast facts of our lives can be undone by time and chance.

“Then when I was sixteen,” she said, “I noticed one day my menstruation had stopped. Years of work each day the same, each day a different challenge but the same results. Here I was now. Suddenly pregnant.” Her mother told her she must not keep the baby. Her father had recovered himself during that period, and had made plans to return to the Congo, where he would be embroiled in a business transaction that could keep them from returning to Rotterdam even to visit for years. Her father was lucky to have found work again. Françoise would not be able to join them if she was with child.

At that moment in her telling me all of this, a new tear appeared in the outside corner of Françoise’s eye like the tear that comes upon first waking. It rolled down her cheek and into her ear. Now her face was all hot and wet. It was the first show of defeated sadness I’d ever observed in her. Being full of wine herself, her energy started to flag. She came over to the sofa where I sat and buried her nose in my neck. We lay down together on the long sofa.

“Isn’t it silly?” she said. I had my arms wrapped around her now. “The choices we make.”

And then, before finishing her story, she closed her eyes. “It’s hard even to think of it now,” Françoise said. She stopped speaking. Her breathing grew slow and heavy. Minutes passed with us lying that way. I did not have the heart to wake her. While I waited, too lit by the story to sleep myself, I was plunged into the memory of my last moments with my own parents: The week before my father told me I was to leave for Rotterdam, the three of us had traveled to Prague together. My father had just made a major upgrade to his Tiger Moth biplane, and he wanted to take us each up in it. But when we arrived, my mother refused to join us, no matter how my father implored her. She was afraid of flying, she said, though she’d been up before, and she didn’t want to go.

“Take Poxl,” she said, her hand distractedly playing with the amber of her earring. “He likes to fly with you. I’ll take the car to town for the afternoon.”

There was some loose skin around my father’s eyes that twitched when he was most agitated. It twitched then without abandon. It wasn’t until this moment, lying alongside Françoise, that it struck me this might have been a sign my father knew of my mother’s indiscretions.

We took to the sky that afternoon while my mother was in town. A second throttle sat in my rear seat. After flying me faster and more recklessly than my fastidious father ever had before, he shouted back to me, “Take over, Poxl.”

For the first time after all those flights watching the back of my father’s helmeted head, first in his Be-50 and then in this Tiger Moth, I took that plane upward. The slightest nudge of the throttle sent us down at an angle that seemed to me to cause mortal danger. I straightened us and then my stomach made quickly for my feet. But soon I had us horizontal. A kind of ease overcame me in my seat. Thin fog passed through us like the skin of vacated bodies, and when I looked far enough across our leeward side, I saw that these were the wisps of clouds we were inside of. Wind forced us up and I pushed in, sent us down. I’d been flying I don’t know how long before, for the very last time, my father’s invisible hand retook control of the throttle from me, and he again maintained control of us in the sky.

“Ace flying, my boy,” my father said. By the time we returned to the hangar, my mother was again with us. A new pair of larger amber earrings were in her ears.

“Do you like them?” she said. She did not look at my father. I told her I did, sure. “I met up with Grandma Traute,” she said. “We shopped down in Wenceslas Var.”

She and my father didn’t speak again until we arrived in Leitmeritz. I nodded off on the ride and in my head I was back up in the clouds — my body had maintained that altitude, and the clouds that passed through us or we through them were all around us again, and I was untethered. When I came back from my reverie, Radobyl was to our northeast up in the distance, and we were driving past the fortress walls of Terezin, which then held none of the meaning it later would, just the remnants of another, more belligerent time in the town to our south, walls I’d seen a thousand times before.

Presently Françoise woke again and broke me from my memory. She sat up, so that we were next to each other on the sofa.

“There is one more part of this story I’ve been telling you,” Françoise said. “Where was I? Right. Of course I did not go with my parents on their new junket in the Congo. I was going to keep the baby. My mother was furious at my decision, and she and my father left me.

“I might have been in real trouble had it not been that around that time I had just begun seeing the Brauns. At first I worked for only Frau Braun, but she began to take me home to her husband as well. They were paying for it, but they were gentle and generous with me, nonetheless, and I came to trust them both. I don’t think I sought them out for the sake of the baby at first — honestly, I didn’t know what I’d do. But Frau Braun had wanted me, and here was this wealthy couple who had no children of their own. I began to see that it was providence, their having come back into my life.