Read Online Flying in the Heart of the Lafayette Escadrille by James van Pelt - Free Book Online
Authors: James van Pelt
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out to take a nap on.
“And you said when he touched you in the dream you liked it? I’d say that was a good sign. It’s obvious the dream has sexual overtones, and you welcomed them.”
“The sun was hot. I was burning up, and his hand was cool. Do we have to talk about it? The movie has started.”
Black and white maps appeared on the screen with a voice over. Lines traced a path through Europe to Casablanca. The narrator said of refugees without visas in Casablanca that their fate was to “wait and wait and wait.” She thought about Nathaniel Shirley. What if he was a ghost in this house, caught in his sixteenth year, and like the refugees, looking for a way to escape?
An Englishman wearing a monocle said, “We hear very little, and we understand even less.” Meadoe nodded. That made sense. She hadn’t seen Casablanca before, and it struck her as funny. The music seemed overstated, and the acting stilted. A plane flying in one scene was clearly a model, and the Germans were stereotypical. She wondered how Japanese were portrayed in other films from that era.
Then a woman walked into the cafe. Ingrid Bergman. The prefect of police said to her, “I was informed you were the most beautiful woman ever to visit Casablanca. That was a gross understatement.” Meadoe leaned forward. It was true. She was beautiful. A fragility in the face. Flawless skin. A half smile that changed her appearance from somber to knowing. The pictures on Nathaniel’s wall didn’t do her justice.
Joan picked up her wine glass and sipped from it. Somewhere in the film Meadoe stopped thinking of it as stilted. Her own wine warmed on the table. At the end she cried so hard that Joan put her arm around her until Meadoe giggled at the ridiculousness of it.
“It’s all right,” said Joan. “There must be something in the story that speaks strongly to you. That’s why movies are such a powerful medium. They help us live the tales we can’t tell ourselves.”
An hour after Joan left, Meadoe didn’t feel tired at all. Normally she was in bed by 9:00 before work, but her mind raced with a million thoughts. With the curtains up, the house seemed homier, more enclosed and safer. She picked up a book, reread the same page twice without understanding a word; put it down. She looked into all the rooms for the tenth time, and then decided a shower might relax her. Afterwards, wearing a robe, she poured herself another glass of wine and started the video again.
She noticed details she missed the first time. The young woman who sought Bogart’s help was in the opening crowd scene hopefully looking at the plane overhead. Every time an Italian military officer appeared in the film, everyone ignored him. Senor Ugotti said to Bogart, “I have lots of friends in Casablanca, but just because you despise me, you’re the only one I trust,” which made Meadoe smile. There were jokes in the first half of the film she hadn’t got earlier. She poured more wine, feeling a pleasant torpor steal over her and closed her eyes. One of the books about ghosts said spirits were doomed to replay the circumstances of their deaths over and over. Is it like video, Meadoe wondered, or can it be changed? Bogie never gets the girl.
In the film, Sam sang “As Time Goes By.” Meadoe drifted. The tune went on and on. “And you must remember this, a kiss is but a kiss, a sigh is but a sigh.” She felt she wasn’t on her living room couch anymore, but in a theater watching Casablanca on a movie screen, back row. Silhouettes of heads filled the seats in front of her, the woman’s hair curled and styled. A curl of her own hair blocked her vision. But my hair is straight! she thought. She shook her head to move it. Buttered popcorn smells. After shave. Plush underneath her hands.
Bogart stared down a glass of whiskey. “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he said.
Slowly, Meadoe realized someone’s hand was on top her left one, the fingers clasped around
“And you said when he touched you in the dream you liked it? I’d say that was a good sign. It’s obvious the dream has sexual overtones, and you welcomed them.”
“The sun was hot. I was burning up, and his hand was cool. Do we have to talk about it? The movie has started.”
Black and white maps appeared on the screen with a voice over. Lines traced a path through Europe to Casablanca. The narrator said of refugees without visas in Casablanca that their fate was to “wait and wait and wait.” She thought about Nathaniel Shirley. What if he was a ghost in this house, caught in his sixteenth year, and like the refugees, looking for a way to escape?
An Englishman wearing a monocle said, “We hear very little, and we understand even less.” Meadoe nodded. That made sense. She hadn’t seen Casablanca before, and it struck her as funny. The music seemed overstated, and the acting stilted. A plane flying in one scene was clearly a model, and the Germans were stereotypical. She wondered how Japanese were portrayed in other films from that era.
Then a woman walked into the cafe. Ingrid Bergman. The prefect of police said to her, “I was informed you were the most beautiful woman ever to visit Casablanca. That was a gross understatement.” Meadoe leaned forward. It was true. She was beautiful. A fragility in the face. Flawless skin. A half smile that changed her appearance from somber to knowing. The pictures on Nathaniel’s wall didn’t do her justice.
Joan picked up her wine glass and sipped from it. Somewhere in the film Meadoe stopped thinking of it as stilted. Her own wine warmed on the table. At the end she cried so hard that Joan put her arm around her until Meadoe giggled at the ridiculousness of it.
“It’s all right,” said Joan. “There must be something in the story that speaks strongly to you. That’s why movies are such a powerful medium. They help us live the tales we can’t tell ourselves.”
An hour after Joan left, Meadoe didn’t feel tired at all. Normally she was in bed by 9:00 before work, but her mind raced with a million thoughts. With the curtains up, the house seemed homier, more enclosed and safer. She picked up a book, reread the same page twice without understanding a word; put it down. She looked into all the rooms for the tenth time, and then decided a shower might relax her. Afterwards, wearing a robe, she poured herself another glass of wine and started the video again.
She noticed details she missed the first time. The young woman who sought Bogart’s help was in the opening crowd scene hopefully looking at the plane overhead. Every time an Italian military officer appeared in the film, everyone ignored him. Senor Ugotti said to Bogart, “I have lots of friends in Casablanca, but just because you despise me, you’re the only one I trust,” which made Meadoe smile. There were jokes in the first half of the film she hadn’t got earlier. She poured more wine, feeling a pleasant torpor steal over her and closed her eyes. One of the books about ghosts said spirits were doomed to replay the circumstances of their deaths over and over. Is it like video, Meadoe wondered, or can it be changed? Bogie never gets the girl.
In the film, Sam sang “As Time Goes By.” Meadoe drifted. The tune went on and on. “And you must remember this, a kiss is but a kiss, a sigh is but a sigh.” She felt she wasn’t on her living room couch anymore, but in a theater watching Casablanca on a movie screen, back row. Silhouettes of heads filled the seats in front of her, the woman’s hair curled and styled. A curl of her own hair blocked her vision. But my hair is straight! she thought. She shook her head to move it. Buttered popcorn smells. After shave. Plush underneath her hands.
Bogart stared down a glass of whiskey. “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he said.
Slowly, Meadoe realized someone’s hand was on top her left one, the fingers clasped around
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