PARADOXICALLY, FLYING IS the handmaiden not only to fear but to optimism. Lifted above earth and oceans; seemingly higher than the stars close to the horizon; piercing through scudding, moonlit clouds; shot forward at great speed; the cabin carefully lighted; perfumed women circulating among their charges who sleep or read beneath pools of light … All this allows fresh starts, new thoughts, and the kind of planning that, once one touches down, assumes a weight and difficulty it does not have at altitude.
As the Airbus raced through thin air aloft, schemes and plans occurred to Jules almost uncontrollably. In the dimly lit cabin, its little spotlights illuminating here and there those who were still awake and working, he imagined thoughts issuing as if from a soap bubble machine and floating about, ephemeral and sparkling. But his speculations, tempted to fly off left and right, hewed to the centerline of necessity.
Disregarding morals in favor of necessities, he would have to abandon a lifetime of caution. For Luc, he would violate the categorical imperative. When things are so arranged, he thought, that observing the law crushes an individual, a family, the truth, then the categorical imperative need not be observed. He had already collided with the laws of the state. What he had in mind was far less a transgression but still illegal. Although in the hospital the first glimmer had appeared, the rest had come to him as he flew.
The plane now maneuvered over Paris grayed in morning light. As it dropped below the clouds, early traffic came into view, its red taillights reflecting off rain-slicked roads. There was a remarkable difference between the struggle below – thousands of cars slowing, skidding, sometimes stopping, all crowded together – and the enormous plane gliding smoothly through the air and aimed at the runway, like a rifle shot.
Despite all the troubles he would find, he was happy to be home. Though not vast, France is a big country, neither elongated like Italy nor broken into an archipelago like Japan, Denmark, or Indonesia. France is solid and centered. In Paris a Frenchman can feel that his world stretches more or less evenly in all directions, uninterrupted by sea or mountains, and yet not with the infinitude of the Russian Steppe or the Australian Outback. The center of gravity is just right, the country, although known as a hexagon, is like a protective sphere that most times allows the French to discover both the art of living and the perfection of art.
They flew low over fields, highways, and factories. The stewardesses strapped themselves into their seats. Now that Jules was an outlaw, he stared at the stewardess, the hôtesse de l’air, who he thought had perhaps expressed a desire – even were it fleeting – for him. And she stared back. Certainly he was too old, but there is a solidity and truth to age, and he was still physically able. Maybe for her he would be a novelty. Or perhaps what was most influential was that, as his inhibitions were overwhelmed by the sight and imagination of her, she felt his intense appreciation. She may have sensed the state he was in, and wanted to be taken to the ground along with him and cleared of everything but essence. Both of them had the same aura that envelops soldiers who fight with neither fear nor regret in a battle they know will be their last: release, abandon, humility, a feel for the earth, the defeat of time. But then, as always, there was Jacqueline, in the separate, inviolable world in which he would join her happily and soon. And that was enough for a constant widower as he wearily deplaned on the grayest of mornings in the city that still held his life.