16

Dimanche 20 Février 1910

Always there are English in our way. Nelson. Wellington. And now this man in this dusty place. Ralfbanks, he calls himself. Like the rosbif the English eat, though there is none in this paddock where a man must sleep in a tent like a Bedouin.

He calls me Oldboy.

He comes when I am busy, his hands black with engine oil.

I say Oldboy, might I borrow your shifting spanner?

I know he does not need a spanner. He has tools of his own. But he must see how I progress with my chicken coop with wheels. His eyes move like flies over the struts and wires and cloth of the Voisin. I tell him nothing.

Any day now I will be up, Oldboy.

Ralfbanks says this and waves his black hand to his part of the paddock, where he has his own machine.

A Wright machine. American.

The Brothers Wright do not deserve to be called the first. The first what? First to fly for twelve seconds. That is all.

M. Bleriot was first to fly over the Channel. The younger Wright flew over sand for just a little time and his name is better known because to be first is all that matters to some.

Mr H. is in a hurry to be first here. But he must wait for me to say all is ready, just as Kukol prepares for him on stage. Kukol and I spoke on the Malwa. Mr H. has the fame and the money and his name outside theatres and on all the crates and the sides of the Voisin. But he must wait for us to give him the signal.

Ralfbanks will not wait. He is young and pushed from behind. I know this. The Wright machine belongs to a schoolmaster. Another Englishman. He does not want the flying record to be won by an American.

Is funny, I think, that they will use an American machine.

This schoolmaster has been here. Adamson. He has moustache like mine and wears his jacket even in this paddock. He talks to Ralfbanks as if he is a pupil. Tells him to move along.

He is his employer. As the Magic Man is mine.

I have some respect for Ralfbanks. He understands I like to be solitary. And he knows his Wright machine. When he starts its engine I cannot hear coughing like I hear from the Voisin. I must clean its valves and hoses.

I am doing this today when Mr H. comes for the first time.

I hear before I see them.

A clattering and thumping. I think first something bad has happened to the Wright engine, so I go to look. There is an automobile close to the paddock with smoke at the back though this could be dust. I can tell it is the Magic Man when he jumps out of the automobile before it has stopped and then shakes my hand with both of his.

The driver, very tall, is angry when he gets out. Angry at Mr H. and a damaged wheel.

Bloodyhell, he says.

Mr H. must see everything. His Voisin. The tent I have rigged for it and myself. Then he must meet Ralfbanks.

The shirt of the driver is wet as he works on his automobile. When I ask if he would like tea he replies with one word.

Bloodyoath.

He tells me his name. Jordan. We find shade and sit with tea, watching Ralfbanks walk Mr H. around and over his machine. He spends more time with the Wright than the Voisin or its mechanic.

Before he goes he tells me to make haste.

We have a serious rival, Brassac!

He leaves before evening. Saying he will come again soon. The automobile, now fixed, leaves smoke on the paddock.

Jordan the driver has left me a box.

Here, he says, after his tea. Try it. If you like, we can do a deal.

So now in this place I have heat and flies and too much wind.

Also an Englishman. And a phonograph.

A Champion.

With music a man is never alone.