Recovered from: “Fugitive Memoirs Volume I”
The compartment in the rear was small but almost self-contained. The noise from the jet engines was somewhat louder than in the front of the plane, but I grew used to it quickly and before long it became just more ambient noise, easily ignored as long as there was something else to concentrate on.
A bench-like chair could obviously fold down into a small but probably quite comfortable bed. There was also a little folding table addressed by two big leather seats. A door in the back led to the rear lavatory–much larger than the one in the front.
I wasn’t sure what the seating etiquette was and so I waited to take my place until my Father gestured towards one of the big leather chairs, then he closed the compartment door and we were alone. I felt the weight of it; the pressure and the heat of being by myself with him in so small a space; a space where there was no room to assume the distance from him that had been expected for as long as I could remember. I fought the tension and tried–probably quite unsuccessfully–to exude a confident portrait of tranquility.
Breakfast was already set out on the folding table. The eggs were lukewarm but quite good. I nibbled at the ham and some melon carefully, afraid somehow that if I made a mess of things someone would suddenly emerge from behind an unseen curtain or open a concealed a door panel somewhere and immediately escort me off of the aircraft–our cruising altitude notwithstanding–and back home to ridicule and shame.
I wanted to ask a million questions (particularly about the plane, which I continually inspected as casually as possible but with what must have been a barely concealed, burning interest) but, unlike with Professor Lechner, or Sir Nigel, I had no concept of the right way to start a conversation, or even change the subject when talking to my Father; neither did I want to be–to use Sir Nigel’s parlance–the “daughter of a million questions.” Really, I was even afraid to look at my Father too intently, or otherwise telegraph how eager I was to speak with him more. And so instead I watched out the window closest to me, my eyes drawn to the silent sea of clouds slowly creeping along far below us.
My Father looked as if he was in deep thought as he ate and only when he had almost finished did he engage me in conversation. The weighty subjects we had discussed before did not return, much to my disappointment, but my Father surprised me in another way. To the casual listener perhaps his questions sounded trite–How were my lessons with Professor Lechner? What did I think of the Estate’s portrait archives? What did I think of Leopold? How much of Meditations had I read?–but they revealed a great deal to me.
That my Father knew about my visit to the portrait archives, about my interest in Leopold, or Meditations, took me off guard. How had he known these things? Was he receiving reports from Professor Lechner? Sir Nigel? My Grandfather? All of them? Was he conducting his own inquiries? But aside from the raw tactics with which he was collecting this information was the puzzle of his interest itself.
It was a dramatic revelation to me that my Father was interested in me at all. In fact, aside from seeing him regularly across the table at formal dinners, or sitting silently while he was in his study (when he had little spare attention to devote to me) you could easily have convinced me that my Father was almost unaware of my existence other than, perhaps, as a nuisance of a creature who often found herself underfoot.
“You were born at a very interesting time,” he said after a lull in the conversation. My Father had a knack for reading people’s minds; or at least he was an excellent at reading expressions and emotions and had excellent timing. “Now, nine years later, you are coming into yourself in an even more interesting time, when your Grandfather’s interests are shifting and there is far more for me to do.” I knew immediately that he was talking about the “changing of the guard” that my Grandfather had alluded to. “I have far less time to focus on domestic matters now than I did when Augustin and Bastien were growing up. But you are somehow… older than they were.”
My Father’s expression had become almost nostalgic. It was a long time before he spoke again.
“We shall see how this trip goes. And then… well… and then we shall see.”