drink beer, to play dice or poker. I was a quick study at poker; from time to time, timidly, I would ask what the names of the other pilots were. At the end of the first evening, I risked one small request for information about my husband. I learned to be guarded and to act tough around the pilots. I had been alone in Toulouse for a week while my husband was in the skies. I was living in his room and waiting for news of him.
“Ah,
oui,
Saint-Ex, they had him take a ‘taxi’ all the way to Dakar. He’ll replace a pilot there.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because the pilot was killed. Look, Madame de Saint-Ex, that’s three times now that I’ve taken three spades from you.”
“Really, is that what you heard?” My heart felt as if it were skipping rope in my chest, it was pounding so madly. Where was my angel?
The next day when I awoke, my husband at last appeared in our room, but only in order to empty out all the drawers. We were leaving for Casablanca, with a stop in Spain. We always lived at this bohemian pace, in a perpetual state of urgency.
“Maybe you’d like to have a swim in Almería,” he said; “it’s summer down there.”
“Yes, Tonio darling,” I said. “I’d love to.”
“Uh-oh, look—the suitcase is full. You can’t bring all these things. Choose two dresses, that’s enough. Your nightgowns are of no use; it’s too hot in Morocco.”
A few hours later, we were in Alicante. We went to the beach. He swam very quickly and I wanted to catch up, but the scar from my appendix operation kept me from showing off my talents as a water nymph. It still hurt.
W E WERE HERE TODAY , gone tomorrow. At times I felt like a fugitive. He didn’t know what his destiny was, and neither did I, but I certainly had no regrets about his not taking the job with Renault.
In the middle of the night he would hold me very tenderly, as if I were a small, beloved animal. One night, begging my forgiveness, he said, “I don’t yet know how to be your husband. Please forgive me. I get all tangled up in your ribbons. I’m still surprised to have a little girl like you beside me.” I was half asleep, and he lifted me up in his strong arms.
“Ninety pounds,” he said. “I weigh three times more. My cherished little dwarf, tomorrow you’ll arrive in a beautiful country. You will love it, if you really love me. A friend has already rented a nice apartment for us in the palace of Glaoui. You’ll often be alone—you’ll have time to enjoy yourself, take walks, maybe even think of me.”
I slept very little that night. I imagined the palace of Glaoui surrounded by desert sands. I was already following him to his destiny.
A T LAST the much-talked-of palace was revealed to me. The stairway was made of marble, the rooms were very large, and the furniture was almost nonexistent, in keeping with Arab sobriety. There were huge carpets on the floor and walls, large copper trays used as tables in all the rooms, divans, blue and white tiles, and very low beds.
The wives of the other pilots took me to the marketplace and instructed me in the ways of the provincial city of Casa, where the sun is eternal. The Roi de la Bière café, at cocktail hour, reunited us with the other pilots. Poker . . . Pernod . . . eggs in aspic . . . racy stories. I heard such a collection of them that I could put together an anthology. But life gave us much more than other people’s stories.
I spent my time reading at a bookstore owned by Madame Allard, dreaming about my life, strolling around the Arab city. A pilot named Guerrero came in one day while I was chatting with the bookseller. “Bonsoir, Madame de Saint-Ex,” he said. “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening? Here, this is from your husband; he bought you some fresh spiny lobsters in Port-Etienne and asked me to bring them to you.”
“Yes, Guerrero,” I said. “Come over to my place, and we’ll cook; Madame Allard will come, too.”
“I’m flying the
“Ah,
oui,
Saint-Ex, they had him take a ‘taxi’ all the way to Dakar. He’ll replace a pilot there.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because the pilot was killed. Look, Madame de Saint-Ex, that’s three times now that I’ve taken three spades from you.”
“Really, is that what you heard?” My heart felt as if it were skipping rope in my chest, it was pounding so madly. Where was my angel?
The next day when I awoke, my husband at last appeared in our room, but only in order to empty out all the drawers. We were leaving for Casablanca, with a stop in Spain. We always lived at this bohemian pace, in a perpetual state of urgency.
“Maybe you’d like to have a swim in Almería,” he said; “it’s summer down there.”
“Yes, Tonio darling,” I said. “I’d love to.”
“Uh-oh, look—the suitcase is full. You can’t bring all these things. Choose two dresses, that’s enough. Your nightgowns are of no use; it’s too hot in Morocco.”
A few hours later, we were in Alicante. We went to the beach. He swam very quickly and I wanted to catch up, but the scar from my appendix operation kept me from showing off my talents as a water nymph. It still hurt.
W E WERE HERE TODAY , gone tomorrow. At times I felt like a fugitive. He didn’t know what his destiny was, and neither did I, but I certainly had no regrets about his not taking the job with Renault.
In the middle of the night he would hold me very tenderly, as if I were a small, beloved animal. One night, begging my forgiveness, he said, “I don’t yet know how to be your husband. Please forgive me. I get all tangled up in your ribbons. I’m still surprised to have a little girl like you beside me.” I was half asleep, and he lifted me up in his strong arms.
“Ninety pounds,” he said. “I weigh three times more. My cherished little dwarf, tomorrow you’ll arrive in a beautiful country. You will love it, if you really love me. A friend has already rented a nice apartment for us in the palace of Glaoui. You’ll often be alone—you’ll have time to enjoy yourself, take walks, maybe even think of me.”
I slept very little that night. I imagined the palace of Glaoui surrounded by desert sands. I was already following him to his destiny.
A T LAST the much-talked-of palace was revealed to me. The stairway was made of marble, the rooms were very large, and the furniture was almost nonexistent, in keeping with Arab sobriety. There were huge carpets on the floor and walls, large copper trays used as tables in all the rooms, divans, blue and white tiles, and very low beds.
The wives of the other pilots took me to the marketplace and instructed me in the ways of the provincial city of Casa, where the sun is eternal. The Roi de la Bière café, at cocktail hour, reunited us with the other pilots. Poker . . . Pernod . . . eggs in aspic . . . racy stories. I heard such a collection of them that I could put together an anthology. But life gave us much more than other people’s stories.
I spent my time reading at a bookstore owned by Madame Allard, dreaming about my life, strolling around the Arab city. A pilot named Guerrero came in one day while I was chatting with the bookseller. “Bonsoir, Madame de Saint-Ex,” he said. “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening? Here, this is from your husband; he bought you some fresh spiny lobsters in Port-Etienne and asked me to bring them to you.”
“Yes, Guerrero,” I said. “Come over to my place, and we’ll cook; Madame Allard will come, too.”
“I’m flying the
Similar Books
