Читать книгу Gliding Flight - Anne-Gine Goemans - Страница 10

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Hello, Christian!

My name is Gieles. I saw you flying with your geese on an air show. I thought it was a magical spectacle. You were very high in the sky with your flying two-seater motorbike. My father says you were flying with geese barnacles, but I have certainty they were geese lesser white-fronted.

I apologise for my French. I have big problems with your language. I try to do good.

I am for years impassioned by the geese. I have fourteen years old. I have two brown geese, American Tufted Buff. They wear a tuft, very beautiful and very elegant.

Like you I am a goose explorer and I am training my geese for a project. My geese listen moderately average. They are not shy. Indeed, sometimes they are insolent. They resemble the children of Dolly, my neighbour lady. My neighbour lady is above average good-looking.

I do the training with a stick. The stick is not for violence but for obediencing. I always use different stick. When geese know my stick longer, the obediencing disappears. This is not desirable.

Your migrating varieties excel in listening. My compliments, also on behalf of your wife. Your geese regard you and your wife as an adoptive father. My geese regard me, I cry, as a cousin or brother to obtain tricks on. Just like the children of my neighbour lady on whom I babysit.

I live in the Netherlands, next to an airplane path. Geese next to an airplane path gives difficulties, you will observe! I am in great agreement. Fortunately my geese do not fly through the path. That comes, I cry, from my training (I have a small pride in this). Rest assured, my geese do not live in captivity. Captive birds are a scandal that should be terminated. My geese live in liberty on our campground. It is a campground for people who adore airplanes. They collect airplanes as if it was postage stamps.

You ask of course, why does the boy write? I do not write in order to fly in the two-seater motorbike with you, although for me that would really be spectacle. Being the same high height as the geese in the sky, together with the migrating varieties past the cumulus clouds! Unfortunately, your professional tourism is too expensive for me. I am writing you for a very different motive, for the content of our mutual training of the geese.

Gieles hesitated. How could he make contact with this man—this world famous goose specialist, meteorologist, pilot, filmmaker, ornithologist, photographer, writer, vegan and activist—and ask him the most important questions without revealing too much about his incredible scheme? It had to be kept secret. Gieles stood up from his desk and walked to the open attic skylight. Leaning out with his arms on the roof tiles, he gazed over at the runway. Less than sixty metres away was a straight black strip with lights embedded in it, as well as pastures and fields. In two minutes’ time Gieles could be out on that runway, causing chaos. He wouldn’t have to do a thing. Just standing there would be enough to get himself on every TV station in the country. But then his father could kiss his job as an airport bird controller goodbye.

Gieles looked over at the lights of a descending plane. The sky was calm. The only vibration of air that could be seen was around the wings. The roaring of the engines swelled steadily. He walked back to his laptop and filed the letter to the Frenchman Christian Moullec in a special folder. He had come up with just the right name for the folder: Expert Rescue Operation 3032.

In thirteen weeks and four days his mother would be coming home on flight 3032. Ellen had never been away so long before. Last week she had flown to Africa in the wake of a flock of wild geese. Geese migrated to survive. He understood that. But he didn’t understand why his mother had to migrate. She went to places where there was nothing to eat or drink. His mother was migrating backwards, going against the flow. The birds would have thought she was out of her mind.

He went downstairs to the kitchen where Uncle Fred was sitting at the table peeling apples. ‘Hey, Gieles,’ he said cheerfully. Uncle Fred was always in a good mood. ‘I’ve got peels for the geese.’

Gieles poured himself a glass of milk, swallowed it down in one gulp and wiped the moustache from his upper lip. The smoothness there irritated him. Not even a sign of peach fuzz.

His father and Uncle Fred were fraternal twins, but they didn’t look at all alike. Willem Bos hardly had any hair left, while Uncle Fred had way too much with his mass of salt-and-pepper curls. His father held himself as erect as a statue of a powerful statesman. Uncle Fred, on the other hand, had a slight build and a shuffling gait, the result of childhood polio. He rode around on a mobility scooter and walked with a crutch. He refused to use a cane. There was something about the crutch that suggested a temporary condition (not that his leg was ever going to heal).

The brothers’ personalities and hobbies were also different. His father was fond of birds and comic books. Uncle Fred liked cooking and literature. The only things they had in common were their height—almost two metres—and taking care of Gieles.

‘Don’t forget the goose poop,’ Uncle Fred said, handing him the peels wrapped in newspaper. ‘We have guests. A married couple.’ He sounded pleased.

Gieles got a shovel and bucket from the barn. The deal he had made with his father was simple and straightforward: he could keep two geese as long as they didn’t fly. The minute they took to the sky, they’d have to go. He was also responsible for caring for the geese, which mainly meant shovelling shit. The geese crapped about once a minute.

Next to the old farm was a pasture, where Uncle Fred ran a campground. He had recently gotten the campground listed in a farm-camping guide, although it didn’t meet any of the criteria. No peace and quiet here. The planes took off and landed at about the same punishing tempo as the geese’s bowel habits. The guide said it was a niche campground, which was absolutely true. It wasn’t popular with families. The plane spotters who camped here were solitary figures by and large. The fact that the campground was not a success didn’t bother Uncle Fred in the least. Nothing bothered him. He looked at the grey film of jet fuel covering the wooden sign that said WELCOME TO THE HOT SPOT and shrugged his shoulders.

The geese came toward him, greeting him with outstretched, swaying necks. Gieles patted the tufts on their heads and set the bucket of peels in the grass. They stuck their heads into the bucket with little enthusiasm, then began pecking at his thighs. The geese preferred the speculaas cookies that they were more or less addicted to. But Gieles only fed them speculaas during their training sessions, knowing that otherwise they wouldn’t listen to him at all.

Parked on the edge of the pasture was a trailer that looked like a spaceship. A woman was standing in front of it. She waved at him and motioned to him to come over. He planted his shovel in the ground like a flag pole and walked up to her with the geese at his heels, begging for food. The woman’s face was full of creases and cracks, like an antique painting, but her eyes were as clear as a girl’s. As if they had been restored somehow.

‘Hello, ma’am,’ he said politely. ‘Everything all right here?’

Gieles enjoyed being excessively polite to old people. There was something sad about them, he thought, because they were going to die soon.

‘Excellent,’ she said kindly. ‘What I wanted to ask you is that my husband and I want to barbecue tonight. Is that all right?’

‘No problem, ma’am. Just as long as you don’t build a campfire. That might confuse the pilots. And don’t fly any kites,’ he joked.

She smiled. ‘Silly boy.’

The door of the spaceship swung open and her husband came out. He was wearing a pair of aviator glasses and a body warmer with pockets stitched onto it. A pair of binoculars dangled from his neck. And the knobby knees and fossilised calves that stuck out from beneath his shorts looked like they were wasting away.

The man began rubbing the rounded curves of the spaceship with a handkerchief. Dispensing with all formalities he got right down to business. He didn’t even give Gieles a chance to say hello. ‘Look at that. Mirror finish, huh?’

Mirror was right. Gieles could see his reflection in the door, and he noticed that his hair was standing straight up. He ran his hand over his head.

‘The origin of the Airstream,’ said the man proudly, tucking his aviator glasses into one of the pockets, ‘lies in the American aerospace industry. The wings are missing, but otherwise …’

A descending Cityhopper drowned him out. They waited patiently until the sound died away.

‘Where was I?’ The man tugged at his white eyebrows. ‘What’s your favourite?’

‘My favourite what, sir?’

‘Plane,’ he said, sitting down in a lawn chair. Gieles didn’t have a favourite. The aviation industry left Gieles completely cold.

‘The Antonov 225, sir,’ he lied. The biggest plane in the world, number one for many spotters.

The man screwed up his face. ‘That Russian hulk? Let me tell you something. I once waited hours for an Antonov, and all for nothing. The Russians can have their Antonov.’

‘And the Boeing 747 400,’ said Gieles to oblige him. ‘They’re awesome too, sir.’ All plane spotters loved the 747 400.

He clapped his wrinkled hands. ‘That’s what I like to hear! One phenomenal looking plane, especially when it’s frozen. Wingspan?’

Gieles gave him a puzzled look.

‘What’s the wingspan?’ It was obvious from the way the old man asked the question that he already knew the answer. ‘Sixty-four-point-four metres,’ he said, looking at a plane through his binoculars. ‘An Airbus A321. My wife goes for the take-offs, I love the landings. You?’

Gieles couldn’t care less. A landing plane wasn’t even in the same league as a flock of descending geese. Suddenly appearing with all that cackle and flapping of wings. Then sweeping over the land like a wave that finally, slowly, disintegrates.

‘I love geese when they land,’ said Gieles, and he cast a glance at his geese, who were pulling up clumps of grass. ‘The racket they make when they come down. The last metres before they hit the ground. They’re really funny then. As if they can’t remember what they’re supposed to do.’

Gieles spread his arms and pretended to be losing his balance. ‘Once they’ve landed, they strut around like anything. That’s from pride. Sometimes they cover three thousand kilometres! They come all the way from the northernmost tip of Norway, and they all start shrieking together. “We’re back! We’re back!”’

The man and his wife looked at him in amazement.

‘Geese talk to each other all day long,’ Gieles went on. ‘Just like a bunch of women, my father says. And they’re never alone. They always fly together. The whole family.’

‘Goodness,’ said the woman with wide eyes. ‘I didn’t know that. But how do they know which way to go? The sky is so—how shall I put it?—so vast. It’s easy to take a wrong turn.’

Gieles crossed his arms self-confidently. Geese were his speciality.

‘The most important things are the sun and the stars.’ He spoke the words with an air of importance. ‘They’re migration signposts. And the little ones learn from their parents. Chicks straight from the egg don’t know anything at all. When they overwinter for the first time, they fly with their parents to learn the way. Sometimes it’s thousands of kilometres.’

The woman listened attentively to Gieles while her husband spotted the next plane.

‘And the chicks that have no parents? Who do they learn from?’

‘There’s always an aunt to take care of them,’ said Gieles. ‘Or a nice uncle.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she sighed, sitting down in the other lawn chair. ‘How many geese do you have?’

‘Two, ma’am. Just these two.’

‘But they shit for ten,’ said the old man disdainfully. ‘Better to have a dog. They don’t shit nearly as much.’

They watched silently as another plane descended. One of the geese was foraging along the bank of the canal. In the four years he had had them, not once had the geese ever gone into that filthy water. They never even considered it.

‘Very dangerous, geese near a runway.’ The man squeezed the binoculars so hard that his knuckles turned white. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of that emergency landing? On the river in New York?’

Heard of it? Gieles’s eyes lit up like fireflies on a dark night. The emergency landing on the water—a ‘ditch’—had made a huge impression on him.

‘The Miracle of the Hudson, sir,’ Gieles exclaimed. The words rolled off his tongue in such an orderly fashion that it made him sound like a news presenter. ‘On January 15th, 2009, Captain Chesley Burnett Sullenberger of US Airways landed on the Hudson after a flock of Canada geese flew into his engines. He felt as if he had been hit by a gigantic bolt of lightning.’

Gieles mimicked being struck by the lightning, his body jolting, and then continued. ‘Captain Sully—everybody calls him Sully, and that’s what’s printed on the T-shirts and mugs and underpants—Captain Sully saved all hundred fifty-five passengers of flight 1549.’

‘He checked the plane twice for stragglers,’ the man added excitedly—this was a boy he could talk to—‘before evacuating, the last man to leave the sinking ship. Which actually happened, because the landing had torn open the whole bottom of the aircraft.’

‘And then these little boats came sailing out from everywhere to pick up the passengers,’ continued Gieles happily. ‘But I’m sure you know that, sir.’

‘Hey,’ the man roared over the noise of a descending plane. ‘Cut it out with that “sir” stuff! Makes me nervous!’

He waited for the sound to die down. ‘Johan and Judith.’ He pointed to his wife, who stood there staring at Gieles in silent amazement with her restored eyes. ‘Goodness, you sure do know a lot! This boy sure does know a lot, doesn’t he?’

She placed a hand on her husband’s liver-spotted arm. ‘Johan knows everything about airplanes and crashes. He’s been collecting plane crashes in scrapbooks since 1972. With all the details. And if he can find photos he pastes them in, too. Other spotters call him a crash freak. Isn’t that right, Johan?’

‘Hmm.’ A Boeing was hanging heavily in the air a few kilometres away.

‘They’re very lovely scrapbooks,’ she declared. ‘It’s not the death and sensationalism that Johan is interested in, but the chain of events.’

‘I was sure I could do it,’ said Gieles in English.

‘Excuse me?’ said the woman.

‘That’s what Captain Sully said. After his act of heroism.’ Gieles tried to imitate his voice by relaxing his vocal cords. ‘I was sure I could do it.’

The man followed the plane until the tail disappeared behind a row of birches. Then he said, rather severely, ‘So you know damn well how dangerous geese are for aviation.’

‘My geese can’t fly,’ Gieles lied. ‘They’ve lost the knack.’

‘Look,’ said the woman, delighted. ‘Kenya Airways. What cheerful colours. It looks just like the tail of a tropical parrot. I adore parrots. They make me think of fireworks.’

‘Next time we come here,’ said Johan, ‘I’ll bring my scrapbooks along. Then I’ll show you that even a couple of geese in the engine can do a lot of damage. A whole lot of damage.’

‘What a wonderful place to live,’ his wife interrupted, inhaling deeply. ‘Right near the airplanes, yet out in the country.’

‘Tremendously beautiful spot,’ nodded Johan in approval. ‘That’s all I can say.’

She turned halfway around in her chair and pointed to a little wooded area further up on the other side of the road.

‘I wonder who planted those trees there. Such young trees right out in the polder … It’s like a fairy tale.’

‘Environmentalists,’ said Gieles.

‘What a terribly nice gesture.’

‘Why?’ asked Johan suspiciously, putting his aviator glasses back on.

‘They didn’t want a runway to be built here. So they bought a piece of land from our neighbour and planted trees on it. But the court said the trees had to go, so they moved the trees over there.’ He pointed to the woods. ‘My mother calls it “the woods in exile.”’

For Gieles, the summer with the environmentalists was the best he’d ever had. Suddenly there they were. They came chugging along in a smelly diesel bus, and Gieles couldn’t see how the bus could hold so many people and so much stuff. He watched as they unloaded their tents, generators, duffle bags, sleeping bags, kerosene lamps and pans. In one afternoon, Gieles’s boring view of the polder turned into a non-stop circus performance. Dozens of dome tents were pitched around a trailer that was painted in rainbow colours. The environmentalists tied hammocks to wooden poles and their children hung paper streamers in the branches. It looked gorgeous, thought Gieles, who didn’t dare go out to size up the situation until the end of the afternoon. His friend Tony went first.

The activists were very nice. They gave them lemonade and cookies and asked them all kinds of questions: how often Tony and Gieles played in the woods, what they thought of the airport, whether they were often sick or found themselves coughing a lot. Gieles chuckled when the environmentalists talked about the importance of ‘their woods,’ when what they meant was the scrawny little clump of trees in the middle of a wasteland. Everywhere there were piles of grey sand with bulldozers and dump trucks driving through them. It was one big sandbox, where men in orange overalls walked around with notebooks. The construction of the new runway was in full swing. Now it was a matter of waiting for the court ruling.

Every day, new people came to visit the encampment. According to Uncle Fred they were celebrities, which must have been true because there were photographers and journalists there as well. The celebrities shouted that they were opposed to the runway. But once the runway was built, you never heard them say another word about it. They never came back. Now the celebrities were flying over the roofs of the houses of Gieles and his neighbours.

Gieles’s house was on television countless times that summer. Reporters kept asking Uncle Fred what he thought of the idea of airplanes landing in his backyard.

‘You can’t stop it,’ he declared. And actually it wasn’t even his backyard. Uncle Fred had been bought out. His own house was located right on the future runway; it had to go. That’s why he moved in with the family of his twin brother. It had been a practical decision, too. When Ellen was flying, Fred could take care of Gieles and do the housework.

Gieles knew that Uncle Fred never answered the journalists’ questions. Uncle Fred was never for or against anything. He never identified with any particular side, as if the matter didn’t concern him. He took everything in stride. Be a river, not a mountain: that was his motto. The river was friendly to the activists. He brought them homemade fennel soup and sausage rolls, and let them take showers at the farm. When the guy ropes of the sprawling encampment got all tangled up, he offered them the pasture as an additional place to pitch their tents. That’s what inspired him to start a spotters’ campground.

The river was friendly to the activists’ enemies, too. When the military police appeared in the farmyard to go over some questions of public safety, he gave them a bag of cherries. And when the airport people came over to talk about sound insulation, he served them coffee and apple pie.

Gieles fervently hoped that the environmentalists would never go away. And he wasn’t the only one. All the neighbourhood children spent more time in the woods that summer than they did at home. They played hide-and-seek and danced wildly to the music from Rinky Dink, an environmentally-friendly sound installation driven by bicycle power. A man with a braided red beard taught Gieles how to make a tent with bamboo sticks. He painted wooden leaves that were suspended from the branches of a metal tree. Sometimes Gieles ate with them from big pans of beans that had been cooked to death. They ate at long tables, and often the discussions became so heated that Gieles thought they were going to start fighting. He heard words he hadn’t heard before, such as ‘free state,’ ‘mafia,’ ‘court order,’ ‘occupation.’ And he learned how to curse for the first time. ‘Prick’ and ‘asshole’ were already familiar to him, but ‘twat,’ ‘cunt,’ ‘motherfucker’ and ‘cocksucker’ were new. His friend Tony couldn’t get enough of the curse words.

When his mother came back from abroad she would go take a look at the camp, sometimes still in her uniform. The environmentalists were nice to Ellen. No one paid any attention to her stewardess outfit. Gieles even suspected that the men of the camp were flirting with her.

In the evening, Gieles would stare at the encampment through his attic window as long as he could keep his eyes open. Some of the activists sat around the campfire, others lay entwined in hammocks. Someone played the guitar. Flashlights blinked on and off in the dome tents and made the woods look magical. One man hauled a bucket of dishwashing water out of the canal he’d just pissed into. Once Gieles saw a bare bottom sticking out of a hammock. Whether there was one person or two in the hammock was impossible for him to tell.

On the day the woods were cleared by court order, the environmentalists got ready to resist to the bitter end. They promised a raging battle, a guerrilla war. Gieles was on the environmentalists’ side, of course. He and Tony made a slingshot out of wood and a rubber band.

But the battle never materialised. When two policemen closed off the road so the camp could no longer receive supplies, the tents were taken down in silence. The only reminder of the environmentalists was the metal tree with its wooden leaves, but even that disappeared within a couple of days. The airport had won.

Since the runway’s completion, the short distance between it and the farm had been drawing Gieles like a magnet. The first time he and Tony had tried to bridge the few forbidden metres was with a blowpipe and paper. They shot spitballs at the runway from his attic window until the ink from the paper made them nauseous. This led to a game with a slingshot and a whole series of variations that became increasingly less innocent.

The shootings ended for good when a homemade paint bomb exploded against the flank of a Cityhopper. The idea for a paint bomb had come from a squatter who lived next-door to Tony and his family. The house had stood empty since the opening of the runway. No one wanted to live there any more, except the squatter. He was the one who taught Tony and Gieles how to make the bombs, a procedure that involved dipping balloons in candle wax at least forty times. That, said the squatter, would produce a bomb that could smash a double-glazed window. Gieles and Tony didn’t want to smash any double-glazed windows, so they only dipped the balloons twenty times. The very first shot was a direct hit. For a moment the pilot was under the impression that a big bird had crashed against the cockpit, but there was something suspicious about the blue colour. From the attic window Tony and Gieles could see the flashing lights of the military police. Terrified, Gieles grabbed one of the balloons and squeezed it so hard that the paint squirted all over his bedroom. There was no point in denying that they were the culprits.

Gieles emptied his glass of cola, and when the woman offered him another syrup waffle he accepted it. Her husband had fallen asleep. His chin was hanging loosely over his body warmer. The binoculars rested on his lanky legs. Gieles thanked her and went back to cleaning up the goose shit.

His father had called the environmentalists a bunch of boneheads. Leaving without resistance: that, according to him, made you a bonehead. But for Gieles the environmentalists were heroes, and since that summer he had felt a deep longing to be a hero himself. He had done the occasional heroic thing, but that didn’t make him a hero. Two years before he had rescued a German shepherd from the canal. The dog hadn’t been able to scramble up onto the bank himself. Gieles pulled him out by his collar and the dog ran away. No one had seen his act of heroism, so it didn’t count.

The Frenchman Christian Moullec was a hero. In his flying two-seater motorbike he saved lesser white-fronted geese by showing them the way to their winter quarters.

His mother was a hero. At the risk of her own life she travelled from one dried out place to another (for reasons that were incomprehensible to him) to teach poor Africans to cook on solar-powered stoves.

Captain Sully was the biggest hero of them all. Without a doubt. I was sure I could do it. Americans adored him. They drank coffee from I ♥ SULLY mugs. They wore T-shirts with THANK YOU CAPTAIN SULLY, SULLY IS MY HOMEBOY, OLD PILOTS NEVER DIE on them. His name was on pillows, mouse pads, bumper stickers, calendars and dog shirts. Women wore panties bearing the words TRUE HERO FLT 1549. He was sexier than Johnny Depp, greater than Jesus. Jesus could walk on water, but Captain Chesley Sullenberger could land on water and bring a hundred fifty-five people to safety.

Another hero of immense proportions: Jan-Ove Waldner. The best table tennis player ever. Also called the Mozart of table tennis. Gieles had no idea why, but it sounded good.

His father was a kind of hero. He drove birds from the runways to keep the passengers safe. Gieles suspected him of driving the birds away to save them from the airplane engines. Obstinate birds were shot, but not by Willem Bos. He never shot. Except at pigeons. His father despised pigeons.

Gieles went to the barn, shovel and bucket in hand. In just a few more months he’d be a hero himself. He would personally see to it that his mother never wanted to go back to Africa again. Everyone would be hugely impressed.

In the barn he picked up the bamboo stick and the tin of speculaas. When he shook the tin the geese came running. He gave them a couple of cookies and put the tin in his backpack. Then he prodded their feathery backsides with the stick.

Strutting with pride, their tufts held jauntily in the air, the geese crossed the road. When they got to the environmentalists’ woods they began to graze in the grass. Gieles looked up at the camera that was mounted to a lamppost.

The airport tolerated the geese because his father had told them they were flightless farm chickens that had never flown a metre in their lives. His father had authority.

If only they knew.

Idiots.

They passed a derelict house whose garden was overrun by wild blackberry bushes that were creeping up the outer walls. Gieles noticed that part of one bush was growing in through a broken window, as if the house were being devoured. Behind the uninhabited ruin was a grassy path leading to the shed. He pushed open the corrugated metal door. The shed was empty, except for a couple of aluminium boats and a disassembled tractor. The geese waddled in, their tails wagging. They were eager to get started.

‘Stay,’ he said to the geese, articulating distinctly. He held up his hands as if he were pronouncing a blessing.

‘Stay.’

Slowly Gieles started walking backward, repeating the command. The geese stayed where they were but became restless. They wiggled up and down and began cheeping. At a distance of less than twenty metres Gieles again called out ‘stay!’, but this time they took a running start and flapped up to him awkwardly, flopping down at his feet and cackling with wild abandon.

‘Damn!’ said Gieles in frustration. ‘You guys are supposed to wait till I give the sign! With my stick!’ They pecked at his pants’ leg. Gieles pushed the geese away. ‘First listen. Then cookies.’

He began walking backward once more. ‘Sit! Stay!’