Last Message Page 6

  I had to do it. I had to apologize.

  I thought of what it might do, of the silence that would ensue, the nearly lifelong bubble it would burst. My grandfather’s reputation would be shattered. But this was what he wanted. He wanted it all made right. I also thought of his words in his letter. He had warned me that it would be difficult. But in all my excitement about coming here, of accomplishing his tasks and finally proving myself to him, even from beyond the grave, I hadn’t thought enough about just how difficult it would be. It was, as he had said, almost impossible.

  But I really wanted to achieve it. And I really wanted to move on to the next task. Did I have the courage to do as he asked? I thought about Vanessa and what she would think of me if I accomplished nothing on my mission.

  I looked at the two old smiling faces glowing at me.

  Three hours later I left their home, after kissing them both on the cheeks (which was definitely the first time I’d ever done anything like that!) and receiving their hugs and taking in Yvette’s heartfelt tears. All without revealing my grandfather’s secret.

  I felt like a failure.

  But as Monsieur Leblanc drove me back to Arles that night I wondered if I had really failed. Would I have felt even remotely like I’d been successful if I had told those two wonderful old people the truth? That, at least, was what I told myself.

  When I reached the hotel I sat on the bed for a long time, just looking out my little window over Arles, home of Vincent Van Gogh. I kept rationalizing what I had done (or not done, really), and after an hour or so, with the sun beginning to set, I started to convince myself that I had completed the first task.

  “There is no way,” I said out loud, “had he been there with me in their home today, that he would have wanted me to tell them.” I told myself that several times. Then I pulled the big manila envelopes and the little white one out of my suitcase and set them on the bed beside me.

  I really, really wanted to open the next one.

  I had gone there. I had spoken to the Noels. I had actually been in the little house and the barn. I had even seen the painting. I had done all that I could. He would have wanted me to go on to the next task.

  Then I started thinking about the painting. It was still there. The building was about to be demolished.

  In another hour I had made a decision. I got into bed and lay there, wide awake, throughout the night.

  In the morning, I asked the concierge to hail me another cab and told the driver to take me to Bellegarde. But when I was halfway there, far out into the countryside, and could see the slight elevation in the distance where the little farmhouse was, I asked to be let out. The driver gave me a strange look. We were still on a busy highway. But he pulled over and out I got.

  It was a hot day in southern France, and I must have walked several miles along the side of that highway. I had chosen to wear my jacket, despite the heat—it was part of my plan. When I came to the little side road that led to the farmhouse, I paused. But then I kept moving, right up to the overgrown yard and into the barn.

  Though it was silent inside, I could hear the sounds of the long-dead animals that had lived there, of the Nazi planes buzzing overheard, of the Milice racing their vehicle to this house, trying to find my grandfather. And when I listened very carefully, I could hear him breathing through his straw, terrified.

  I could also feel his excitement when he saw that painting, and feel the pain in his heart when he made his decision. I stepped toward it. I could, at least, take it into my hands, brush back the grime and look at it.

  I wiped the cobwebs away, gently pulled the crude homemade frame off the barn boards and took it into my hands. As I brushed more grime away, the yellow, the reds, the blues, began to glow. It was absolutely stunning. How could anyone ever have thought that this masterpiece was junk? It was so beautiful.

  It was also nearly invaluable. During the years since my grandfather had been here, Van Gogh’s paintings had become almost priceless. His work was now among the world’s most valuable—only Picasso’s art rivaled it. I had done some investigating online after I read Grandpa’s letter. I looked down at the word VINCENT now evident on the striking baby-blue vase in his picture.

  How many millions of dollars was I holding in my hands?

  I was completely alone. No one knew about this. No one knew I had it. No one.

  I unzipped my jacket, put the painting inside, zipped it back up and walked out the door.

  The guilt overwhelmed me as I trudged down the road toward the highway, but it didn’t stop me. I began making my argument, out loud.

  “This is an impossible situation. I cannot tell them, but it is ridiculous to leave the painting there. It will be destroyed during the demolition. That wouldn’t be right. Would it really make sense to break their hearts or do a great disservice to art, to history?”

  No.

  I sped up and was now sort of marching.

  “I will keep it, somehow, and not tell anyone. Then ten years from now, I will make up a story about how I got it. Perhaps I purchased it in a flea market or found it…yes, found it in a Dumpster or something. Or I could make another trip to France and say I found it then. And when I sell it, I will give a great deal of what I make to the Noels’ children, to their grandchildren, whose lives will be changed. And I could still keep millions. I could buy Vanessa anything.”

  I reached the highway. Little French cars buzzed past me. It was a long walk back to Arles. I tucked the painting farther down into my jacket and began to move at a brisker pace, almost running.

  “This is the only solution, the best solution. Everyone will benefit.”

  A loud sound came toward me from behind and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I recognized it. I wasn’t sure why. Probably because I had heard exactly that same thing in movies set in France. It was the sound of a French police car. They don’t wail like our sirens, high-pitched and frightening. They are frightening in a different way, blaring one short note then one long, over and over again.

  I turned around and saw the police car. My heart raced. Then I realized that it couldn’t be coming after me. Then, I was sure that it was!

  I started to run. Not a good move. The cruiser (though that’s a generous word, since French police cars are about the size of American riding mowers) kept coming after me, pulling over to the narrow shoulder and zipping right up behind me. Finally I stopped, foolishly clutching at the painting inside my jacket. How did they know? Were they watching the farmhouse?

  “Bonjour,” said the cop who got out of the car. “Américain?” I thought he looked angry.

  “Oui,” I said, my voice cracking, as I pulled out my passport and handed it over. That’s what Mom and Dad had said to do if I ever got into trouble.

  “Why are you running?” he asked, examining it with a frown. I was glad that he at least spoke English.

  “No—no reason.”

  “No reason?” He looked me up and down. I was certain that he paused at my midsection, where I clutched the painting close to my chest. I wondered if the wise thing was to simply hand it over.

  “Do you realize how serious your crime is?”

  “I…I…” I had totally lost the ability to speak.

  “Not,” he said with a smile, “all that serious.” He handed the passport back.

  “Huh?”

  “You must not walk along the side of a freeway in la France, mon ami. Get in. I shall take you to your residence.”

  “You—”

  “Tell me: are you a fan of Kobe Bryant?”

  “Kobe?”

  “Yes, a fine sportsman. I like. But, you know, I do not think he could ride a bicycle well, which is the most difficult of all the athletics. Lance Armstrong: now there is un Américain sensationnel!”

  He clapped his hand on my shoulder and ushered me into the back of the cruiser, where I sat hunched over, the painting digging into my gut, listening to him and his partner as they went on about American sports heroes. M
y heart never stopped pounding. In less than ten minutes, they had dropped me at the hotel.

  “Monsieur Américain, stay away from such bad crimes while you are here,” the cop said with a grin as they roared off. “Keep your nose washed!”

  I slinked up the stairs to my room, sure that everyone in the hotel knew what I had under my jacket. Once inside my door, I hid the painting at the bottom of my suitcase, under all my clothes. Then I started to pace, back and forth, back and forth, the wooden floor creaking as I moved. I told myself that I had no choice now. I had the painting and I couldn’t risk taking it back. Someone might catch me and then all—my whole life—would be lost. I would rot in a French jail, guilty of robbery. And I would deserve it. What I had just done was typical of me. My hands were shaking. I had done something incredibly stupid and wrong, and now I had to live with it. I imagined someone coming up here and finding the painting. What, in God’s name, had I done?

  But after a while, I started to calm down. I used all the arguments I’d employed while walking away from the farmhouse. I could make this into a positive thing for everyone. I had to believe that. The painting was small and it would sail through airport security in my suitcase. Or would it?

  I sat down and took a deep breath.

  I tried to stay positive. And soon I was thinking about Vanessa again. I could make all this sound awfully good to her. I took out my cell and started emailing her. But then I stopped. What if I wrote her a letter, an old-fashioned letter? She’d find that awfully romantic. There was lots of stationery in the room, fancy stuff with the hotel’s name on it, looking very artistic, with lots of yellow. Very Van Gogh, very French. She would think that was really cool.

  It was hard going. The last time I’d written a letter was for a pen-pal thing when I was a little kid. But I worked hard, tried to find the right words, the ones I imagined a girl would like to hear, and got it done, making sure it was several pages long. I told her that I had found the Noels and the painting and that I was about to reveal its value to them. I made it sound pretty dramatic. I’d figure out a way to tell her the truth later on. I sealed it and wrote her address on the outside of the envelope in my best handwriting. I would ask the concierge for a stamp later.

  I knew I should write to Shirley too. I could almost hear Leon’s squeaky voice telling me that she was the best girl for me. I’d only sent her that one quick text when I arrived. I should ask her how Leon was making out too. I was sure she would be checking on him, and that made me feel good.

  But I never wrote her that email, because when I reached for my cell, I happened to glance down at the open suitcase. Sitting on top of my clothes, dug up from the bottom where they once had been hidden, were the other two manila envelopes and the small white one.

  That was when it occurred to me that in all my excitement I hadn’t even given another thought to the fact that, in essence, I had reached the next level in my assignments. It really seemed to me that no reasonable person could have expected me to have done any more with my first task. Could they?

  I picked up the second envelope and opened it.

  2

  NINE

  THE SECOND ENVELOPE

  Dear Adam,

  Congratulations. You did it! I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are a better man than me.

  I almost stopped reading at that point. I set the letter down, feeling terrible guilt. But soon those arguments rose inside me again, telling me that I had done what I could and that there was no turning back. So I read on.

  As I’ve already mentioned, this second task, believe it or not, is even more difficult than the first. I wouldn’t blame you if you simply read what I have to say here and then joined your Mom and Dad for a nice vacation before heading home. You have done enough.

  But if you choose to go on, here is your next challenge.

  During the war, Corsica had seventeen American airbases on it. In fact, they used to call it the “USS Corsica.” But not all of us who flew reconnaissance missions from that Mediterranean island were from overseas. French fliers, who had bravely fought the Nazis for as long as possible, had formed a Free French Air Force and many were stationed near us.

  The problem was, the Americans didn’t like them very much. The Yanks had their way of doing things and, more importantly, they resented that many French had collapsed at the beginning of the war and worked with the Nazis. The Americans didn’t respect their flying abilities either. So the two sides kept their distance and sometimes were even hostile to each other.

  But not me. Maybe it was because I was Canadian, I don’t know. But I thank God today that I wasn’t bitter toward them because my attitude allowed me to befriend the most extraordinary man I ever met. He is at the heart of your second task.

  You will recall that I often read to you from a novel entitled The Little Prince when you were a child. It was always my favorite, and your cousins may have mentioned that I read it to them too. You probably forget the story now, but it is one of the greatest ever written, the tale of a pilot who crashes in a desert and meets a strange little person who appears out of nowhere and changes his life. Le Petit Prince, as it’s known in French, is one of the bestselling novels of all time; the Harry Potter books took a long time to catch up. But there is something that I never told you about that novel. I wanted to keep it a secret, which fits the book’s air of mystery. I knew the incredible man who wrote it.

  I met him in Corsica. His name was Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, or as his friends knew him, “St. Ex.” He was a legend in France, even before he wrote the book. You wouldn’t have thought that if you’d met him. He was a big man, very tall and a bit chubby, who walked with a lazy, loping gait and had a little turned-up Mickey Mouse nose and sleepy black eyes with lids that seemed always about to close.

  But he had a giant spirit and a giant heart. He was an adventurer, a hero, a matchless storyteller, with a charisma that women, children and even the odd grown man, like me, could not resist. I feel deeply honored to have even spoken with him.

  He was one of France’s earliest aviators, taking to the air in the days when that meant taking your life into your hands. And when the French decided that they wanted to fly mail from Europe to Africa and South America, across deserts and oceans and jungles, only the greatest swashbuckling fliers were used. He was one of them. That first airmail service made its pilots into national heroes, who flew by sight and often crashed in desolate places. Everyone in France was astonished at their feats. The very name of their company—Aéropostale—became a symbol of courage and adventure.

  “Aéropostale?” I looked down at my shirt. “So that’s what that’s all about.”

  The great “St. Ex” was their biggest star. He would land his plane anywhere, in any conditions, to find and rescue his comrades. But he was different from the rest. He not only accomplished these feats, he could retell them too. Speaking in desert tents or Parisian restaurants, he could rivet audiences, his magnetic presence lighting up his surroundings.

  Then he began writing, his stories set in the skies. Within a few years he was one of France’s greatest authors.

  But he couldn’t stop flying, and the danger increased. As he headed toward his forties, many of his fellow pilots had been killed. His own accidents, some particularly gruesome and spectacular, began to take their toll on his body and mind.

  And then the war came. He immediately volunteered to fight and was in the first plane to spot the Nazi panzer divisions thundering toward Paris in the evil blitz that started World War II. When he described it in print, it was poetry.

  After Hitler overran a divided France, Saint-Exupéry was devastated. A romantic who was angered by the brutality of war, he was fed up with the bloodthirstiness on all sides. He wanted to side with humanity. He fled to New York City. He was soon criticized as a traitor who was staying out of the battle.

  And so he came back, to fight the Nazis the only way he knew how.

  But he was well past his
prime, battered and bruised by his horrific accidents and ill-equipped to fly new-fangled planes with complex instruments. His friends feared that he was giving his life away for France and freedom.

  He soon found his way to Corsica.

  But while living in the United States, he’d written The Little Prince, a children’s story often read by adults, about imagination, friendship and the human spirit, about what was possible in a time of hatred. It appeared in print just as he landed in the Mediterranean, just as I came there too.

  I soon heard stories about him from French pilots, tales that were by turns thrilling, sad and hilarious. The great man had been grounded more than once by the powerful American air command. They couldn’t believe that his request to report had even been allowed. He was ten years too old, broken, so large that he had to be shoehorned into cockpits, almost incapable of operating the smoking-fast Lockheed P-38 Lightning planes that were the pride of the US Air Force. Americans guarded these expensive flying weapons as if they were gold, and “Major X” (as they called him) often crashed them. He seemed to the Yanks like someone from outer space: he would forget to wear his oxygen mask at 30,000 feet, write while flying, read while flying, take photographs of parts of France he loved instead of what he was supposed to be spying on, knew little English so he couldn’t understand the men in the control towers (Americans who didn’t know a word of French) and often let his wheels down only seconds before landing, bringing ambulances hurtling to the airstrips. He once circled the airfield for nearly an hour after a dangerous mission while he finished reading a gripping mystery novel.

  But the French loved him. He gave them hope and courage, a walking monument who could describe life and what was truly important in it like no one had done before.