To Reach the Clouds Read Online Free PDF Page B

lists and schedules.
    Here is the best one:

    PARIS: Jean-Louis/final plans and dates
    GERMANY: Francis/money
    PARIS: build model/find crew/how to pass the cable?
    BLOIS: Omankowsky/rigging problems
    VARY: rehearsing/equipment/preparations
    BACK TO NEW YORK!

    Upon landing, I go see Jean-Louis. With pride, I unpack my photos, the cahier , my information, my perfect knowledge of the towers. It doesn’t produce the effect I expected. Yes, the pictures from the helicopter impress him, yes, he salutes my promenading at length inside both towers, but he still doesn’t find any answers to his essential questions concerning the coup.
    Why won’t Jean-Louis share my enthusiasm?

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    The next day, I go to meet Francis, who is juggling in a circus somewhere in Germany.
    Why do I decide to hitchhike, with no money and no luggage, when my foot is not yet healed and I am the owner of a truck in perfect working order? And why, after only an hour of waiting at the highway entrance, do I give up on signaling the passing cars, and begin to walk toward Germany? Have I gone insane?
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    No. I’m thirsty for freedom, for adventure.
    I walk for miles and miles on French, on German asphalt, in the rain, belting songs, barefoot when my wound wakes up. I sleep in barns. I pick up leftover bread in train station cafeterias. Far away I see the cathedral of Frankfurt. I reach the white-and-green big top of Circus Sarrasani. I lift the canvas.
    Francis is rehearsing the six hoops. He asks, “Why are you here? Why didn’t you call?”
    With machine-gun delivery, I explain, “I-just-came-back-from-New-York-I-rented-a-helicopter-I-sneaked-into-the-towers- hundreds-of-times-I-know-them-by-heart-I-have-thousands-of -photographs-dozens-of friends-to-help-me-I’m-about-to-build-a-model-of the-two-roofs-I’m-going-rehearsing-in-the-country-I-must-buy-equipment-and-airline-tickets-to-bring-the-crew-to- New-York-we-must-rent-an-apartment-and-eat-during-the-entire-preparation …”
    Out of breath, I conclude, “I came … I need money!”
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    Francis backs up, startled. “But, Philippe, why didn’t you call? I can’t give you any money today. Come back next week.”
    â€œI’ll be back!”
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    Back to rue Laplace. With my pictures and sketches as references, I help Phil, the model maker, build a scale wooden replica of the two roofs and the three floors below. The baseboard is so large it occupies the whole width of the broom closet I call home, balancing
between the tiny woodworking bench and the gutted piano I use as a desk. But everything is glued, too late for changes.
    I resign myself to crawling under the model to get to the door or go to bed. I am reminded of Marie-Antoinette, in her cell at the Conciergerie—or was it the Bastille?—waiting to be beheaded: every time she was called for interrogation, she had to come out through a low postern, which forced her to bow to the waiting magistrates. She solved that problem by walking out with her torso upright on acutely bent legs.
    I can’t do that, the model is too low. So I bow to WTC twenty times a day.
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    The next decision concerns cavalettis; how many to use and how far apart to space them. The questions of where to attach them and how to keep them tight will come later.
    To the model, I quickly add a high wire of red sewing thread, and to the wire, two pairs of blue-thread cavalettis. These two ropes ride the walk cable, creating four legs inclined toward the ground; their purpose is to reduce the vibrations on the wire. Because they create an area of steadiness, because they reduce the emptiness by constructing a three-dimensional shape in the void, because they offer an additional object of visual focus, and because the wirewalker feels he can hold on to them in case of trouble, the places where the cavaletti ropes connect with the cable always represent a safe haven. The wise