To Reach the Clouds (15 page)

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Authors: Philippe Petit

BOOK: To Reach the Clouds
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TUESDAY AUGUST 6, 1974
8:15 A.M.
Infuriated, I run around the apartment and the garden. I come back in the bedroom shouting, “Annie! The pants aren't dry! I told you! I knew they wouldn't be dry!” Annie attempts to remind me that the rendezvous is at noon and the delivery is planned for 1:30 p.m. I'm not listening. I snatch the pants from the clothesline and arrange them to roast in front of the open oven, which I've set to 500 degrees Fahrenheit.
I am relentless. “What about something to eat—anything! And the black turtleneck sweater for the walk! I asked you—There's a hole, look! Do it right now! But make sure you put it back in the bag, in the second pocket, under my slippers! You won't forget to put it back?”
“No, I won't forget to put it back.” Annie weighs each word.
Oblivious to my bad mood, Jean-Louis organizes his photographer's attaché case, checking his cameras with the professional dexterity of a marine assembling his M-16. Jean-François is in the garden conversing with the cats.
 
From now on, without consulting me, time accelerates.
 
11 A.M.
The bell rings. “
Qui c'est?
” I scream into the rusty intercom, forgetting to speak English. It's Jim—so sweet of him to arrive early. The room shines with his conviviality and good mood. He asks everyone, “Can I help?”
 
NOON
JP arrives exactly on time, munching a Granny Smith apple. “The truck is parked right in front!” he booms, leaning on the coffee table to fill out and sign the delivery forms.
 
1 P.M.
Albert arrives an hour late, grim as ever. No comments from anyone. Now we are all waiting for Donald.
Jean-Louis and I have one last quarrel: he wants water for our flasks, I want orange juice. Annie overrules us. She fills the containers with water and discreetly adds some fresh lemon juice and a teaspoon of sugar. She then prepares a gigantic salad.
“We'll lose time eating that!” I mutter, forgetting that I had asked her to feed us.
 
1:20 P.M,
Donald is finally here. No comments.
We all help to load the truck.
The huge empty crate goes first, mounted on a dolly. We fill it with most of the equipment and I nail the lid shut—without the wheels, not even six men could move such a load. Next comes the cylinder with the disassembled balancing pole, almost too heavy for one person. Equally as cumbersome is the cardboard box containing the Tirfor. The walk-cable in its coffin goes next, so heavy it needs a separate dolly.
Jean-Louis and Albert in their suits will enter the north tower with what they are carrying now. Jean-Louis holds the roll of blueprints, which contains the bow in two parts and its single
arrow, and the oversized attaché case I hope will pass as a businessman's. It contains his photographic equipment, quite a few tools, and the loaded 16mm movie camera rented for the occasion. The case is so heavy that it is hard to carry without leaning to one side. Albert will carry an even bigger but lighter case, and he insists upon keeping on his shoulder a little travel pouch. “My personal things,” he says.
We lock the truck. We go back inside the house. We make sure nothing has been forgotten. We put on our I.D.s.
 
“The carrots are cooked!” I remark to myself, aloud.
JP lifts an eyebrow, knowing we French make large use of expressions related to cooking. “The Americans say, ‘The die is cast,'” he comments.
“Well, the carrots are cooked, my friend. If we wait any longer, they'll be mushy!” I quip, as Annie forces a plate onto everyone's lap and orders, “Let's eat!”
 
1:30 P.M.
I see a silent tension setting in, but that's me.
In Germany, Francis Brunn knows that today is the day of the coup, and so does his Russian wife, Sasha.
They talk and talk about it, grabbing from each other's hands the telegram I have sent: WEDNESDAY AUGUST 7. IN THE MORNING. PP. Francis believes I will succeed, or be arrested during the rigging. Sasha is convinced I will succeed, by which she means I'll rig the wire, I'll get on it, and—it's written in her heart—I'll die.
She insists on saving her friend's life.
They argue.
She wins.
 
At 7:30 p.m., she picks up the phone. It is 1:30 in the afternoon in New York. She's dialing the cops. Her intention is not to reveal my name nor to explain what she knows is happening; it's just to warn them that something alarming is going to happen at the twin towers, probably on the rooftops, and to urge them to keep watch.
She can't get through.
She tries the numbers for WTC security, for the Port Authority police.
It rings and rings, but she can't reach anyone. Is it the renowned antiquity of the European telephone network, or is it still lunchtime in New York?
She tries again.
Wrong numbers, wrong connections …
 
In the back lot of Circus Sarrasani, a cold fog surrounds the artists' trailers as moonlight reveals the tent's canvas, another night descending. That's always when the giraffe rattles her chains, knowing her dinner is coming soon.
Sasha and Francis should really go to sleep.
They have a matinee tomorrow.
And so do I.
Forgetting to eat, I create exasperation by reciting aloud once more the expected course of events:
Barry is at his desk, ready to answer the telephone.
We drive Jim home. He stays by his phone as well, ready to cover us by impersonating the receptionist of the Fisher Company.
The truck stops a hundred yards before the ramp. Jean-Louis and Annie jump out and take their posts on the sidewalk by the north tower's entrance.
JP drives the truck underneath the towers.
JP, Jean-Francois, Albert, Donald, and I unload.
When we reach the freight elevators serving the south tower, JP chats with the operator. Albert helps if necessary. Donald, Jean-François, and I are delivery boys, saying nothing. Jean-François and I in particular don't say a word from beginning to end of the delivery—and I hide my features as much as I can so no one recognizes me.
 
When we're inside the elevator, JP leaves us; he drives up the ramp and parks the truck in front of Jean-Louis and Annie. Annie rushes to Barry's office and waits.
Meanwhile, inside the freight elevator, Albert starts a conversation with the operator to convince him not to wait for us after we unload at the 82nd floor.
We unload at 82. Jean-François, Donald, and I push the dollies to Barry's office while Albert and the operator go back down by the elevator.
Albert rushes by foot from the basement to the street where the truck is parked. Inside the truck, he takes off his deliveryman clothes and puts on his businessman suit as fast as possible.
Upstairs, Barry escorts me, Jean-François, and Donald to the hiding place, then returns swiftly to his office, where Annie is waiting for him.
In the hiding place, we stay invisible and quiet until 6:30, when the guard in the nearby stairwell changes post. We open the crates and dash upstairs. We wait just beneath the roof, hiding where we can with the equipment until night comes. As soon as it's dark, we go up to the roof.
 
Jean-Louis and Albert are at the truck, waiting for Barry.
Barry goes down as fast as he can, using the elevators; he is led by Annie, who knows where the truck is parked.
Barry escorts Jean-Louis and Albert with their luggage to the other hiding place, on the 82nd floor of the north tower, and then goes back to his office in the south tower and waits there, just in case the phone rings. Meanwhile, JP returns the rental truck and Annie goes home.
Jean-Louis and Albert continue hiding until 6:30, then climb to just beneath the roof. When it's dark, they get on the roof.
We rig all night.
On the ground, Annie, Jim and Loretta, Barry and Linda, JP and Alicia gather at around 6 a.m. by the telephone booths across from the bank. Discreetly, not looking directly up, they watch for my first step. As soon as they see me get on the cable, Jim and Loretta get on the phones: Press first, then friends. In between calls, everyone cries out, gesticulating wildly and pointing at the wire: “Look, there's a wirewalker!”
Later, we all see each other at the apartment.
I do not believe a word of my litany. Nothing is going to happen as planned. All of us are going to get caught!
No one listens to me, anyway.
 
“Let's go!” Jean-Louis orders.
We drive to WTC.
We drop Jean-Louis and Annie. I give Annie an effusive hug with passionate kisses, the kind that do not mean
au revoir
but
adieu.
She is terrified.
“Let's go,” I say to JP.
 
We slow down at the entrance to the ramp.
In the back, I can feel the truck shifting from the horizontal of the street to the slant of the ramp. I'm the most fulfilled child on the planet.
The coup has started.
 
JP drives down the ramp, waves our fake delivery slips at the guard booth, and is directed to the south tower loading dock. He makes a U-turn at the platform and brings the back of the truck into perfect alignment with it. We unload the equipment on our
dollies and push them to the bank of freight elevators, passing within fifteen feet of the bustling police station.
So far, everything is going according to plan.
 
At the elevator, dozens of men in overalls are maneuvering overloaded dollies. They hurry, they bump into each other and shout orders, they fight to fit inside whatever freight cab is next: it's a mob scene.
JP and Albert, papers in hand, go inquire what's going on. While Jean-François and Donald stay with the equipment, I retreat into a corner, looking at my shoes or scratching my forehead to hide my face.
What's going on? Today is moving day in the south tower! Several major moving companies have reserved the few freight elevators to deliver and install furniture for new tenants. The bad news is, there's no room for unscheduled puny deliveries like ours. “Come back another time!” roars the busy foreman.
A sorrowful JP is about to tell us to turn around and head back to the truck when I plant myself swiftly in front of my “boss” and give him my murderous-Roman-emperor look. I whisper, teeth clenched, my tone galvanic: “No, we stay! We wait!”
I roll the equipment out of the way of the frantic movers and arrange it in the smallest and neatest pile for the foreman to see. Jean-Francois, the sweetest of delivery boys, is helping most efficiently. Donald is faking it. We sit on the floor. I rest my elbows on my knees and hold my face in my hands as if I have a headache, peeking through my webbed fingers.
It takes a while for JP and Albert to catch the foreman taking a short break. I watch the three of them getting into a lively discussion. Ah, if only I had two hundred dollars in cash on me! The group is too far, I can't hear what is being said, but JP's body language is exemplary: calm, detached, but mildly insistent—he keeps pointing in the direction of the equipment, shrugging his shoulders. The man shakes his head repeatedly, but in the end he throws his arms in the air before hurrying back to his responsibilities.
My accomplices come back grinning, with the message, “Sure, wait all day if you feel like it, but don't count on it!” I congratulate them and instruct them to leave the foreman alone from now on, to tackle the elevator operators instead, without the foreman noticing. It's a delicate task: the operators work nonstop, and the foreman is everywhere.
I order Jean-François and Donald to sit by my side and disappear like me into invisibility. Head down, I keep watch, while telepathically urging the pile of equipment to reduce its volume. It doesn't.
JP is good. It's taken him two hours, but he's gotten friendly with one of the elevator guys.
Then a loud ring pierces our eardrums, a full thirty seconds. It's the end-of-the-day bell singing 4 p.m. “Everybody out!” shouts the foreman.
First miracle: the foreman walks up to us, considers our depressed forms and our insignificant load of goods, points to the elevators, and tells us with a sigh of mercy, “Okay, guys, but make it snappy!”
He grabs our papers and asks where we're headed. He points to an elevator: “Take that one.” He gives our papers to the operator and orders: “Hey Jack, do me a favor, I swear it's your last trip: eighty-two.”
We rush our dollies inside. The cabin is shaking. The operator shoves our papers between his teeth to free his hands. He grips the handle: “Let's go!” On the plywood wall above his head, I notice a partly erased pencil scribbling: 0-104.
 
Second miracle: not only does the operator happen to be JP's new friend, but he hasn't heard his foreman's order clearly.
“What floor?” he inquires.
Without thinking, I pounce on the extraordinary opportunity. Despite each parcel being clearly labeled “82nd floor,” despite a bold “82nd” dangling three inches from the guy's eyes on the papers he's holding in his mouth, despite my intention not to utter a word or show my face during the delivery, I step on JP's
feet and cough heavily to cover his loud “eighty-two.” I look the operator right in the eyes and say without hesitation, “One-oh-four!”
 
“One-oh-four? But there's nothing up there! It's all empty!”
“We know, but we're bringing stuff for the electrified fence on the roof and some pieces for the antenna,” I say, showing the balancing-pole package and trying to minimize my French accent. I pray that the man is ignorant that the antenna is being erected on the other tower.
“Whatever. Watch your hands!” warns the operator mechanically, hurling the cage upward with the most delightful squeaking I've ever heard.
The plan no longer exists. I've just saved Donald, Jean-Francois, and myself an exhausting expedition I always knew was doomed to fail.
At my feet, suffocating beneath thin wooden boards, 200 kilos of 22-millimeter cable lies coiled in slumber, a wild steel snake waiting to be set free. Above my head, the tiny square of light indicating the end of the shaft grows larger. Inside my skull, the thousand elements of a new plan bite one another in the face, like mad dogs. The floors pass by, the elevator accelerates, the noise is deafening.
Without moving my lips, I whisper to JP and Albert my improvised plan: as soon as we arrive at 104, while I direct the unloading, they'll convince the operator to abandon Donald, Jean-François, and me and take them back down.
“You think it'll work?” murmurs JP.
“We've got no choice, make it work!” I snap.
“One-oh-four!” yells the lift man.
JP and Albert are brilliant. They start a friendly chat with the man.
“Look, our guys have to bring all this stuff to storage. They've got to get their slips stamped. It's gonna take a while. Your shift is over and we've got another load downstairs to rush to Queens.”
“Why don't we leave them here? They know their way down—it's not the first time they've been here.”
The operator glances at his watch and shrugs. “Whatever. Watch your hands!” The elevator plunges into darkness.
 
Jean-François and I tear open the boxes and pry open the crates as fast as we can while Donald watches. Wearing our gloves and helmets, we rush silently up the six flights. Actually we rush one step at a time, resting—with time we don't have—every ten steps. The equipment is unbearably heavy.
A half hour later, I arrive with my troops on the 110th floor, just under the roof. I have hate in my heart for Donald, who is slow and complaining and shows signs of giving up.
I hear distant banging, nearby conversations, and the dying sound of power tools being switched off. It's quitting time, but the floor is not yet deserted. Workers seem to be coming our way. I scan the floor for the little staircase leading to the roof, but recent work has rendered the place foreign to me.
I start to panic. Ah! Here it is.
We drop our equipment against the stairwell. No time to hide it—I hear people coming down from the roof. I spy an immense green tarp in the middle of the floor. We run to it. No time to think. I lift the thick canvas; it's dark in there. I literally throw Jean-Francois under it. He screams. I throw myself in. I scream.
 
Third miracle: We've landed on a narrow I-beam overlooking three floors of emptiness—some kind of service elevator under construction that eluded my scouting.
“Donald! Quick! Get in!” But Donald needs more room, needs more time, needs more light; he asks if it's safe to step on this, to hold on to that …
Without premeditation, I take the step I've known was coming. “Donald, wait! I'm just thinking, we don't need three people up there, two is plenty. There's something more important for you to do. See the tarp behind me? Overlap the two ends so no opening is visible, then run tell the others we're already under the roof with all the equipment.”
Who is more relieved, he or I?
I know rigging alone with Jean-François will be a task of Herculean proportions, but at least friendship, perseverance, and joy will float in the air.
 
Here we sit on an eight-inch-wide beam, facing each other, our feet in each other's crotches, our hands grasping the beam's thin edge behind us to keep our balance. Not an easy position to hold, no room to move, not much air to breathe, only darkness to watch. The tarp rests on our heads and bodies, so the slightest movement could betray us.
By now, it must be 4:30.
Our goal? To stay still and silent until night comes. We are trapped.
 
Do I know how many more miracles are in store for us?
Oh, I know. Many.

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