The jaunty little man was wearing a rumpled single-breasted dark blue woolen suit, starched white shirt with black string tie, and the whole apparition was topped with a black beret, cocked rakishly on his silvery hair as if to say, “Allo! I am Pierre Aumont Mengedot, the famous French balloonist!” He looked the part, especially as he twirled his freshly waxed mustache. He walked this evening with purpose in his stride, and he headed directly down the Eucalyptus-lined path in Balboa Park that leads to the San Diego Aerospace Museum.
That venerable institution, perhaps the finest of its size in the world, depends heavily for subsistence on the generosity of wealthy patrons who donate and bequeath adequate sums to their beloved museum. Tonight was the most important of all in gathering and entertaining those special patrons who would fill the coffers. Tonight was the $100-a-plate banquet. It was a black-tie event with famous astronauts and aces to speak and entertain. The fillets of tenderloin beef were flown in from Omaha, Nebraska. A mixed ensemble of strings and woodwinds from the San Diego Symphony would furnish the dinner music. With purpose, Monsieur Mengedot walked toward the crowded entrance.
“May I see your invitation, sir?” asked Col. Earlington, politely blocking entrance to the great hall.
“I have no invitation. I am going to entertain the gathering this evening.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Tonight is special. You must have an invitation. But, you say you are part of the entertainment?”
“Oui. I am Monsieur Pierre Aumont Mengedot, the famous French balloonist!”
The Colonel understood immediately. The way this fellow had said Man-geh- doh and bal-loon seemed authentically French. “Go right on in, sir, and I’ll check your name off the special listing of dignitaries when I see it.”
Into the great hall strode Monsieur Mengedot. The ensemble was warming up, bows stroking and bouncing, strings being adjusted, lips wetting and rewetting the reeds, the first violinist meticulously folding the cloth where she would rest her chin. Pierre Mengedot loved good music, and he was looking forward to tonight’s program. He would show them the magic and beauty of ballooning as only he could show them.
“May I assist you in finding your place, sir?” It was McTavish, the master-of- ceremonies for this evening’s program, and he had noticed a somewhat bewildered expression on this guest.
“Merci, monsieur, I am one of the entertainers this evening, and I do not know where I’m supposed to sit.”
“Let’s see,” said McTavish, fingering through his list, “What is your name, sir?”
“I am Monsieur Pierre Aumont Mengedot, French balloonist.”
At that moment, there was a disturbance in the crowd as a messenger rushed up to McTavish.
“Mr. McTavish?” asked the messenger.
“I’m McTavish.”
“Sir, John Long, the astronaut, was just on the telephone to say that he expects to be at least an hour late. His plane has been temporarily grounded at LAX.”
“Zounds!” McTavish exploded. “Long is the first speaker! What do I do now?” And then he lowered his eyes to the level of the eyes of Monsieur Mengedot. “Tell me again, sir. What is your name and what is your specialty?”
“I am Monsieur Pierre Aumont Mengedot, the famous French balloonist!”
“Wonderful! Have you been a balloonist for a long time?”
“For nearly fifty years in France, monsieur.”
“Helium or hot-air?”
“Both, monsieur, but my expertise is primarily with the hot air.”
“Fifty years!” exclaimed McTavish. “There must have been some close calls with tragedy, particularly in the early days.”
Mengedot rolled his eyes upward as he remembered the license fiasco in Paris during the festival on Bastille Day, “Some were plus sauvage, monsieur!”
“It is fortunate you are here, sir! Would you be willing to talk for ten minutes or so about your experiences in ballooning over the past fifty years?”
“Oui, monsieur, I would be honored!” He clicked his heels.
“Then the seating arrangement is no problem at all. Harry!” McTavish called to his assistant.
“Yes, Mr. McTavish!”
“Seat Monsieur Mengedot at the head table in John Long’s place. Monsieur Mengedot will be saying a few words about his fifty years on the frontier of hot-air ballooning in France!”
“Yes, Mr. McTavish!”
“Oh, Monsieur McTavish! One thing, s’il vous plait,” requested Mengedot. “I had not planned a lecture. I have not had time to prepare formal words for a speech.”
“Be strictly informal. Straight off the cuff. Someone with your experience will be a pleasure for everyone! Harry, get me some background on French ballooning for my intro for Mengedot. Please make it snappy. We’re ready to be seated for dinner.”
“Yes, Mr. McTavish,” said Harry, and he ushered Monsieur Mengedot to the guest- of-honor seat of Astronaut John Long.
Dinner was a very pleasant affair. The steaks were broiled to perfection by the caterer, the baked potatoes were moist and rich, slathered with a mixture of melted butter, sour cream and minced chives. Tender asparagus spears were served on the side with a dollop of hollandaise sauce. Monsieur Mengedot ate heartily, and at one point during the feast, he turned to his dinner partner on his left, and proclaimed, “It is always amazing, I’m sure, to a foreigner, how generous you Americans are! I would never have dreamed I’d be dinning so lavishly in such distinguished company this evening! Never in a hundred years!”
Sometime later, after the fresh peach cobbler drizzled with peach liqueur, Mr. McTavish struck his water goblet three times sharply with his fork. Gradually the conversation quieted, and McTavish welcomed everyone to the gala evening that would mean so much to the museum they all cherished. There were a few well-chosen words about the newest additions to the museum, some high praise for the volunteers who had worked so hard on the restoration of the Nieuport 11 that now hung in the foyer, and then he mentioned that the featured speaker for the evening, Astronaut John Long, had been unavoidably detained at Los Angeles International Airport. Then he looked to his left and said that a knight in shining armor with French fleurs-de-lis on his shield had consented to speak in the place of John Long. There followed a brief, but amazingly knowing biographical sketch of Monsieur Mengedot, telling of fifty years of pioneering on the cusp of French ballooning history. There was a brief survey of French hot air ballooning, beginning with the Montgolfier brothers in 1783 and concluding with some remarks about the accomplishments of the Piccards prior to their abandonment of high altitude flight to pursue deep-ocean exploration. Then McTavish turned to Monsieur Mengedot. “Without further ado, I present to you Monsieur Pierre Aumont Mengedot, who will captivate us for a few minutes with his adventures.”
There was a robust welcoming applause as Mengedot took his place at the podium. Several old timers nodded to each other in agreement that the French had, indeed, been pioneers in lighter-than-air flight, and everyone settled back in his chair to hear what this strange little man had to say.
“I am so very honored, monsieurs et madames, to stand before this august gathering. My remarks this evening will attempt to address the beauty and magic of hot-air ballooning.” He pulled up both coat sleeves. “Now!” shouted Mengedot, “Watch closely!”
His hands were like a surgeon’s! He whipped several flimsy red wisps from his coat
pocket, placing them separately between the fingers of his left hand. Before anyone
could tell what was happening, he had puffed into each of the wisps and created four
elongated rubber balloons. He then worked them, stretching, truncating, twisting and
tying. Within less than seven seconds he cried, “Voilà! A puppy dog,
monsieurs et madames!”
* Roughly: My friends, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!