with her. So she loved me for my fidelity. Then the grown-ups started interfering in our engagement. The grown-ups found another, richer fiancé, and I wept. Yes, I wept. I was useless, but the time had come for me to do my military service. I chose aviation. I was just at the age limit, I had to work miracles. . . . In Morocco, a colonel wanted to take me under his wing. I came back as a commercial pilot and I’ve never left aviation, because I’m faithful. I haven’t forgotten my first fiancée; this is the first time I’ve wanted another one.”
“And your parents?”
“Oh, my mother is a very good woman. I’ll ask her to come to our wedding. She’ll understand.”
“But my family is waiting for me in San Salvador. I was widowed a very short time ago, and we hardly know each other. What’s more, I’m practically engaged to Lucien, a friend of my late husband’s. You, you’re always busy with your flights.”
“No, no, I’m not always flying, I only fly when something goes wrong. I have several pilots who fly into the interior of South America. But if you want, I’ll take you to visit each of the stops on the France–South America line: Paraguay, Patagonia, and farther still. . . . I’ve built airfields, seen little villages, but it’s all starting to function on its own. I’ll stay in Buenos Aires to supervise the lines. I’ll write. I haven’t written anything since
Southern Mail.
Except the forty-page letter I wrote for you. And to say that I admire you, that I love you. Every day I’ll ask you to be my companion for life. I need you. I swear to you, I know you are the woman for me.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” I said. “If I believed I could bring you something fine, something beautiful, I might be able to decide to remarry—but not so quickly. Tonio, are you sure you want a wife for your whole life?”
“Consuelo,” he said, “I want you for all eternity. I’ve thought of everything. Here’s the telegram I sent to my mother. It went out yesterday. I cannot leave you for a single day. Look at the letters I’ve sent you every day—I can’t do anything now but love you. If you love me, I will strive to give you a famous name, a name as celebrated as your husband, Gómez Carrillo’s. You will be far better off giving up a life as a great man’s widow to become the wife of a living man who will protect you with all his strength. To convince you of this, I’ve just written you a letter a hundred pages long. Read it, please, I beg you. It is the storm in my heart, the storm in my life, which comes to you from far, far away. Believe me: before you, I was alone in the world, desperate. That was why I went to live in the desert as an airplane mechanic. I had no woman, no hope, no purpose. Then I was posted here, where I earn a handsome living. I have a bank account. I’ve been saving money for twenty-six years. I live in a little bachelor flat on the passage Geremez, a place where only birds live, and a few people from time to time. I took the flat for a week and stayed on. I will faithfully carry out my duty to those I love. And my life as a pilot—well, you know it has its risks, like all professions. I haven’t even bought myself a winter coat yet, for fear I won’t manage to make it through till winter.”
I think I interested him because, like him, I could do things my own way if I wanted to. The two of us could form a new kind of union; we could be free together.
Crémieux approved of our plans. “You’re going to live an intense life,” he said to Tonio. “Don’t let jealous people get to you, always keep moving ahead.” And he confided to me, “He’s a great fellow: make him write, and people will talk about the two of you.” A few days later, Crémieux left.
At the Brasserie Munich, my big Tonio, in a white suit, pretended he couldn’t sleep and that soon, in just a few days, we would be married. His mother was coming. A pretty house had been rented for us, in
“And your parents?”
“Oh, my mother is a very good woman. I’ll ask her to come to our wedding. She’ll understand.”
“But my family is waiting for me in San Salvador. I was widowed a very short time ago, and we hardly know each other. What’s more, I’m practically engaged to Lucien, a friend of my late husband’s. You, you’re always busy with your flights.”
“No, no, I’m not always flying, I only fly when something goes wrong. I have several pilots who fly into the interior of South America. But if you want, I’ll take you to visit each of the stops on the France–South America line: Paraguay, Patagonia, and farther still. . . . I’ve built airfields, seen little villages, but it’s all starting to function on its own. I’ll stay in Buenos Aires to supervise the lines. I’ll write. I haven’t written anything since
Southern Mail.
Except the forty-page letter I wrote for you. And to say that I admire you, that I love you. Every day I’ll ask you to be my companion for life. I need you. I swear to you, I know you are the woman for me.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” I said. “If I believed I could bring you something fine, something beautiful, I might be able to decide to remarry—but not so quickly. Tonio, are you sure you want a wife for your whole life?”
“Consuelo,” he said, “I want you for all eternity. I’ve thought of everything. Here’s the telegram I sent to my mother. It went out yesterday. I cannot leave you for a single day. Look at the letters I’ve sent you every day—I can’t do anything now but love you. If you love me, I will strive to give you a famous name, a name as celebrated as your husband, Gómez Carrillo’s. You will be far better off giving up a life as a great man’s widow to become the wife of a living man who will protect you with all his strength. To convince you of this, I’ve just written you a letter a hundred pages long. Read it, please, I beg you. It is the storm in my heart, the storm in my life, which comes to you from far, far away. Believe me: before you, I was alone in the world, desperate. That was why I went to live in the desert as an airplane mechanic. I had no woman, no hope, no purpose. Then I was posted here, where I earn a handsome living. I have a bank account. I’ve been saving money for twenty-six years. I live in a little bachelor flat on the passage Geremez, a place where only birds live, and a few people from time to time. I took the flat for a week and stayed on. I will faithfully carry out my duty to those I love. And my life as a pilot—well, you know it has its risks, like all professions. I haven’t even bought myself a winter coat yet, for fear I won’t manage to make it through till winter.”
I think I interested him because, like him, I could do things my own way if I wanted to. The two of us could form a new kind of union; we could be free together.
Crémieux approved of our plans. “You’re going to live an intense life,” he said to Tonio. “Don’t let jealous people get to you, always keep moving ahead.” And he confided to me, “He’s a great fellow: make him write, and people will talk about the two of you.” A few days later, Crémieux left.
At the Brasserie Munich, my big Tonio, in a white suit, pretended he couldn’t sleep and that soon, in just a few days, we would be married. His mother was coming. A pretty house had been rented for us, in
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