To Reach the Clouds by Philippe Petit

gets.
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    I make everyone sit around the model, and for the first time I present the coup in its full scope, primarily addressing Jean-Louis.
    I quickly grow irritated, at first by the constant joking interruptions from the group, and then by the dawning realization that my presentation is in fact a lengthy expose of the coup’s
unsolved problems. I raise my voice, I speak faster to conceal the weaknesses of the project, but I can tell from Jean-Louis’s silence that he feels betrayed. The operation I have portrayed as almost ready to go is still a bag of loose ends. And just as I am on the verge of engaging him in a productive exchange, the movie crew enters, camera rolling.
    Instantly, Jean-Louis pulls back, frowning. I pick a fight with Yves—the contract again—that continues far into the evening and sets Jean-Louis sulking by the fireplace. When he finally explodes—“It’s the film or the coup!”—I shift my wrath to him, and we argue bitterly about ways to sneak into WTC until Annie, who has further enraged me by taking sides with Jean-Louis, throws me out of the living room at 3 a.m.
    Everyone goes to sleep without saying good night.
    How could I have noticed that, in a dark corner by the chimney, Mark was following every aspect of the technical discussion and analyzing the options?
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    We breakfast quietly and without joy, but Yves films us.
    Suddenly Mark breaks the silence. He has an idea about where to anchor the cavalettis, which he shows me on the model: “You see, if you put this here … and this here … then you …” Still in a foul mood, I begin to tear apart his idea, until the genius of what he suggests dawns on me. Everyone crowds around as Mark once again proudly demonstrates his discovery.
    Feverishly, I clear the model of all its threads. I glue a new red wire from tower to tower, not on the midpoint of the lower ledge of the building as before, but this time at the corner of the upper edge. Perpendicular to the wire and at even intervals, I lay two blue cavaletti ropes, fixing each intersection with a drop of glue. Then I tie their four extremities, not to the rooftops but to the ledge 11 feet, 3 inches below, where it is so frightening to stand.
    Seen from above, the geometry looks asymmetrical, but in profile it’s the best configuration, allowing the cavaletti ropes
to slant down slightly from the wire, a compromise between Papa Rudy’s horizontal solution and Mark’s vertical one.
    Everyone applauds and shouts congratulations; Jean-Louis and I wrestle Mark to the floor.
    Yves misses shooting the scene, of course.
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    The weather continues to mimic the group’s mood: the sun is shining. We all rush out to the big meadow.
    On the tall grass, with wooden stakes and yellow polypropylene ropes, I set the exact perimeters of the two towers facing each other corner to corner, 138 feet apart. Everyone helps.
    â€œOkay, everybody, behind Jean-Louis!” I order, as my friend prepares his bow and arrow.
    Jean-Louis picks up a plank he has brought along. Two nails are already half driven into it, three feet apart, and he proceeds to wrap a very long piece of twine around and around the nails, keeping it tight. When he has only a foot of twine left, he swiftly knots a series of clove-hitches at both ends. Then he pulls out the nails, releasing a perfectly made traditional bowstring.
    I am impressed. “Where did you learn that?”
    Without missing a beat, and without pausing as he hooks the string to the bow, forcing it into a majestic curve, Jean-Louis whispers, “Yes, well, some people do their homework!” Then he takes aim from the “north tower” and hits the center of the “south tower”: a bull’s-eye. (He boasts that he’s been practicing for days, aiming at old ladies in the castle gardens at St.-Germain-en-Laye.)
    By happy accident, Yves gets it