Read To Reach the Clouds Online

Authors: Philippe Petit

To Reach the Clouds (9 page)

Dear Jean-Louis:
The coup is back on!
We have a new home. The interview was a success. I got all the information and all the photographs I was missing. I found out why we were arrested—we weren't wearing helmets. I found all the equipment (except the Tirfor). Paul the Australian is arriving tomorrow, Annie is joining me soon …
Now you can come to New York.
Let's do it!
Philippe
Jean-Louis receives the letter exactly ten days after the arrest. He reads between the lines that I could not have reorganized anything so quickly, especially considering that I spent most of that time regaining my lost enthusiasm. But he thinks if he comes he'll be able to impose a serious plan and push the coup to victory. If he waits for impeccable organization, he'll never see New York!
He asks for two weeks' leave and his boss replies, “No way! One week, and not an hour more!”
When Jean-Louis lands, I'm at JFK to greet him.
 
It's May 25; the coup is set for the twenty-seventh.
No. Having barely said hello to Mark and Paul, we argue all afternoon, then change it to the thirtieth.
 
My friend accuses me. He says my “colossal preparations” are impractical and unintelligent.
I'm discouraged and furious.
He's furious and discouraged, to see the coup so close to success and yet so sure to fail. He can tell I haven't figured out how to enter the towers and get to a hiding place, that I don't have all the equipment. He's convinced there's not enough time.
“Why can't you stop kidding yourself and face reality!” he reproaches.
I spend the evening defending myself from his accusations.
We fall asleep arguing.
 
In the morning, we pretend to forget our differences.
I pull out the yellow pages and ask Mark and Paul to round up a Tirfor, the crucial cable-tensioning device, also known as a T-35 or a come-along, which does not wrap the cable onto a winch but passes it through the machine, as if inside two giant hands were pulling. Paul remembers that we used one for the illegal walk in Sydney, but here no one seems to know what we're talking about.
Meanwhile, Jean-Louis and I, smelling equipment in the air, argue over rigging details. Soon Mark and Paul try to assert their own vision of the coup, but I no longer translate. Gradually, two groups form and confront each other: the French against the Australians.
Evening, then night, fail to diffuse the quarrel between Jean-Louis and me, and the tired Australians end up falling asleep in front of the TV.
 
It's 5 a.m.
“Jean-Louis, I don't understand … You're trying again to change what we agreed on in Vary!”
“It's not that you don't understand! It's that you don't want to understand! So here it is. You do it my way, or I stop right here!”
 
I think of the coup. I exhale, “Good-night-Jean-Louis.”
“Where do you guys come from? C'mon, tell me, don't be shy!”
I hate these tourist-trap electronics stores in the vicinity of Times Square, where an overzealous salesman must become your best friend before he rips you off. But they've got a big selection, and you can open the boxes.
The solid, bearded young sales clerk follows us through the shop, repeating in his crass American accent, “Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, leave us alone,” I say in French to Jean-Louis, as we lean over a glass counter to examine the walkie-talkies and intercoms.
“Ah! Communications! You came to the right place!” loudly exclaims our persistent friend, clapping his hands proudly. “I've got exactly what you need!”
I growl to Jean-Louis in French, “This guy is starting to get on my nerves!”
We return to comparing intercoms, but the salesman cuts in again. “You don't want an antiquated intercom; you want the best walkie-talkie in town—here!” In my limited, heavily accented English, I ask firmly to be left alone.
“Sure, man! Don't get upset! Call me when you need me, I'll be right here!” He moves twelve inches down the counter and buries his face in a thick radio catalog.
Finally feeling free to talk, Jean-Louis and I converse in rapid French, reviewing our options. A walkie-talkie or any other cordless device is definitely out because of the police and radio hackers. What we need is a lightweight, long-range intercom with a 200-foot cord and an adjustable ring in case a guard shows up. We discuss the difficulties of stringing the cord across in the dark. It's hard for us to choose, but I discourage Jean-Louis from asking the salesman for help, adding in loud French, “Don't you see he's the American cliché? He doesn't know anything, doesn't give a damn; all he wants is to get rid of his stuff at the highest price.”
Almost in answer, the young man leans over and starts pouring
advice over us. But underneath his crudeness—which must come with the job—our salesman actually reminds me of Jean-Louis: he is down-to-earth, confident, persuasive, and smart, and he has the same sly grin at the corner of his mouth. He knows what he is talking about, and in no time, we buy the right items.
As he escorts us to the door, the salesman whispers in perfect French, using Parisian slang: “I couldn't help overhearing what you guys were talking about. If it's a bank robbery you're working on, you better be more discreet; there're a lot of us Frenchmen here in Manhattan!” And in an even lower voice, he adds, “It's okay with me, I've got nothing against bank robbers!”
Stunned, Jean-Louis and I exchange a grin.
“We invite him to dinner, Philippe?”
“We invite him to dinner, Jean-Louis?”
 
By evening, good old Jean-Pierre—a certified expat Parisian, who insists upon being called JP—has joined the WTC Association and is congratulating himself on having accepted our invitation to break bread.
“Yes,” I say, “you came to the right place!”
“When do I start?” our new friend asks.
“Now,” I reply. “Go call the store and leave a message: you're sick. You and I are driving to Boston tomorrow to get a cablepuller.”
JP and I drive to Boston, stopping only for gas and to call the warehouse manager—the man we've befriended by phone during our many morning calls from New York—to announce our imminent arrival and to ensure that he stays open for us.
The drive is longer than we thought, and the directions more complex.
We call again. By the time we reach Boston, which we have crossed twice by mistake, it is half an hour past the warehouse's
closing time and we still have not located our destination on the map. One last call puts us back on track and assures us the man is still waiting.
 
The sun is low when JP parks the car near a row of loading docks. All the metal shutters are down. Above the factory, a few windows are lit, but the warehouse is closed. In front of the warehouse stands a man in blue overalls, a wooden crate at his feet.
JP makes the introductions. I rip open the crate.
I make sure the machine is a come-along—a Tirfor, or Griphoist as it is called in America. After trying for weeks to locate one, I've become an expert on the subject. I check its 3.5-ton pulling capacity, the extra security pins hidden inside the handle, and the fire-tapered tip of the specially manufactured cable that comes with it.
Then I thank the man profusely and load the machine into the backseat of the car while JP slips him a few bucks.
“Fabulous! A free Tirfor!” I exclaim. But JP persuades me to stop at the office. The door is open, the receptionist and secretaries long gone. There is light upstairs; I hear a voice. We climb. A door labeled PRESIDENT is ajar, and we enter.
“I'll call you back,” says the president, startled as he turns his expensive leather desk chair toward the intruders. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in?”
“Philippe Petit. By the door.”
“What do you want?”
“To buy a Griphoist, a T-35.”
“The factory is closed!”
“But we've come all the way from New York City …”
“What company are you?”
“I'm me! I'm no company!”
“We don't sell retail. You need to go through a dealer.”
“But listen, I am a high wire artist! I have a very, very big show soon! And I absolutely need … Look!” Beneath the eyes of the important man, I flip through the photographs and clippings in the thick album with which I always travel.
The man looks at the book, at my face, and gradually his aggression lessens as he grows intrigued. “What makes you think I can provide a T-35 just like that, huh? I usually need a week's warning. I'm not even sure we have any in the warehouse.”
“Well, I'm sure!” I say.
The president laughs. “Oh, you're in charge! I thought I was running things here.”
“I'm sure … because I just loaded one in our car!” I confess, trying hard not to look triumphant.
“What?!” exclaims our host, annoyance once again invading his features.
JP jumps in and explains our ordeal in locating the machine, our endless telephone conversations, our long drive, our rush to arrive on time. He manages to omit any mention of why and how the machine ended up inside our car.
By now, I'm ready for the kill. Before the president can come to his senses, I start doing magic tricks as a preamble to the deal I have in mind. Flipping more pictures from the album for my captive audience, I propose, “Give us the come-along for free, and I'll invite you to the giant event I'm preparing!”
The president declines, but to JP's astonishment, he agrees to sell us the machine at cost and wishes us the best.
 
The sky is getting dark as JP points the speeding car vigilantly toward Manhattan, while I, leaning back over the front seat, keep caressing the rough metal casing of my new come-along, asleep in the rear.
250 feet of galvanized steel wire-rope,
inch in diameter, 6 x 19 construction (made up of 6 strands, each containing 19 wires), is definitely too heavy for one person to carry.
 
Jean-Louis rolls the coil of cable down the stairs to the street and
proceeds to lay it out at full length on the asphalt, not straight down the middle of the road, but not too close to the parked cars, either, in order to clean it as instructed.
He holds the coil vertically between his knees, using one hand to untie each of the numerous bits of twine securing the package, and the other to gently pay out the greasy, cumbersome cable, a loop at a time. I've warned him that if he lets go of the coil, the wire will spring out in all directions, injuring him and making a giant mess that will take hours to untangle.
On the sidewalk, passersby are intrigued.
Jean-Louis leaves the cable laid from one end of the block to the other and goes to fetch a bucket of gasoline, a bag of rags, and a handful of white towels. Oblivious to the small crowd of neighbors who have gathered, he gets down on his knees and proceeds to clean the cable. Vehicles slow down to avoid hitting him. Someone calls the police.
 
A patrol car drives up the block very slowly, creeping alongside the entire length of the cable, and stops near the end, where Jean-Louis is on his knees.
The window rolls down. The two cops watch.
Jean-Louis keeps working.
One of the officers, a very big man, gets out of the car, adjusting his cap. “Hey, you! What the hell is going on here?”
Without pausing in his work, Jean-Louis replies in his broken, heavily accented English, “Oh, nossing! Me … friend wirewalker, he … big show tomorrow, me … clean cable!”
“Uh-huh. Well, guess what?” snarls the cop. “Me … police. Me … come back half hour. You … still here, you … big trouble! Got that?”
Still focusing on his task, Jean-Louis silently nods.
The door slams. The police leave. The neighbors go home.

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