At Oldway, Paris takes on a new project with the optimistic idea that the occupied mind is never lost

He had always wanted to put the aeroplane hanger in the Balkans, ever since he heard of the danger. Some wartime intrigue would add a thrill to the venture, and even when peace arrived to the area, Paris held out hope that things would go sideways again. As he waited, however, the local workforce petitioned him to stay in Paignton. The men had heard talk of airborne heroes, of wild aerobatics in Russia and record-breaking solo flights in France, and even a pistol battle between flying aces in the Mexican war. They wanted to bring some fame home to their wives. Paris certainly understood the impulse, and so he allowed them to convince him to change his plans.

The local men insisted on framing the steel hangar themselves, promising to save Paris the hassle of an outside contractor. They installed a pair of triple-hinge barn doors that, despite their impressive size, still didn’t have the proper clearance. He had to bring someone in to reframe the door and explain the dimensions again to his local crew. The men were unable to believe how wide he kept insisting the aeroplane would be; each man thought it would be only as wide as the bed in which he lay every night to dream of his future in the air.

Once the proper door was installed and the frame was set, Paris had the first craft delivered, a slim monoplane named Cigare. A group of twenty men began arriving daily from nearby farms, accepting apprentice wages plus tea and lunch to keep everything up.

They all wanted their hands on the little plane. Every morning they took apart the entire engine. They worked in silence, oiling and shining its piston bolts, replacing its hinges though the old ones still shone from the last round. They used teak oil to swab the strips of citron wood rolled over the carriage frame, clearing buildup from its fittings. Once a week an old woodworker would arrive from town to advise them where they might add slips and braces to guard against the cracking influence of ocean air. The others would listen as they worked, polishing the steering column or securing the metal trim over the seating compartment. They took long breaks to admire it with the pride of fortress guards around their single beloved cannon.

Paris was charmed at first. Before too long, however, he came to realize that the men had gotten too attached. They had endless questions about the plane’s origin and materials and the details of its aerodynamic function, but nobody seemed to appreciate the fact that he wanted to actually take the thing out. Though they had arrived with daredevil dreams, they lost their will to test the craft once they came to know the intimacies of its operation. In short, the men had fallen in love.

Their loathing and judgment only grew once Paris hired an instructor, a Swiss who had been involved in Cigare’s creation yet seemed to be refreshingly unromantic about the whole thing. The men were outright hostile to the Swiss and made cruel fun of his punctuality. Paris started taking his lessons in the hangar office, away from the others. They watched him through the windows.