To Reach the Clouds by Philippe Petit Page B

awkward dance.
    â€œMore! Harder, harder!”
    My friends follow my orders, keeping their eyes glued to my vibrating silhouette.
    â€œCome on! Jump on the ropes! Hang on them! Take the wood there and bang on them!”
    Timid at first, the group gradually throws itself into the game.
    â€œHarder! Harder!” I shriek. “What the hell are you afraid of? Come on! Try to throw me off the wire, damn it!”
    Jean-Louis shakes his rope violently, and Mark follows, kicking it with his feet. Soon everyone is jumping up and down, hitting the ropes, screaming and laughing, until I plant one end of the pole in the grass and beg for mercy.
    Since I no longer have the use of my legs and arms, I let my body be carried back to the house. The sky has already fallen asleep.
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    At Annie’s suggestion, in the early morning I drive to the village boulangerie and bring back a basket brimming with warm croissants. Then I announce my decision to stop filming the coup.
“Either we do a bank robbery, or we do a film about a bank robbery. We cannot do both,” I say. “I have decided to do a bank robbery.”
    Jean-Louis beams.
    Yves understands. He picks up the camera and, walking backward with his soundman, films their exit from the house and from the coup.
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    But where is the cameraman?
    Someone screams. It’s coming from the big meadow.
    Still chewing on croissants, we run outside to find the unfortunate fellow lying on the ground under the Hundred Meters. “I had to give it a try!” he confesses, grinning through his pain.
    A couple of hours later, he returns from the Nevers hospital sporting a superb cast and thanks us warmly for our unique hospitality. “Wait!” I say. I go into the house and come back with my New York crutches. “Here, it’s a gift, don’t lose them!”
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    I leave everyone else to depart when and how they wish, and Annie to clean and close the old house and hitch a ride back to Paris.
    I’m already in my truck, rushing back to Germany. I munch on candy bars and pee in a jar, determined to drive the thousand kilometers nonstop.
    â€œHi, Francis! Thanks for the money! Bye! See you in New York! Got to go!”
    On the way back to Paris, I force the truck to its limit, stopping only for gas.
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    The phone rings and rings.
    â€œWhat? Tomorrow morning? You’re sure? Oh, that’s very nice, thanks!”

    It’s Jean-Louis, offering to drive Mark and me to the airport. I look at the clock and realize that, thanks to exhaustion, I’ve just slept twenty hours straight. Nothing is ready. I panic. But I agree to have a long lunch with Paul the Australian, who is just in from London. A thin fellow with short hair, he is as focused and steady as he was during the Sydney walk. He takes his time questioning me.
    Patience is rewarded: two hours later, Paul is in.
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    During the flight, I interrupt Mark from the movie to help stick address labels on a giant stack of my promotional brochures. “After WTC, I’ll need those.”
    Half awake, I ruminate for a rare moment about Annie.
    Since long before Vary, she has been angling for an invitation to New York, using tenderness, blackmail, the past, the future, threats, insults, and tears. How disrespectful, how unloving I have been, to evade an answer. But I need absolute detachment, complete freedom. I must be a castaway on the desert island of his dreams, forgotten by all and forced to survive on his wits.
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    As the plane comes in for a landing, I see through the dirty windows my twin towers, waiting for me.

CUSTOMS
    My third arrival in America.
    Mark has just passed through customs unchallenged. Why do I always attract suspicion?
    â€œOpen up!” orders the towering customs agent.
    â€œWhat’s all this?” he exclaims, eyeing my three battered suitcases brimming with equipment and pointing at the long