Free To Reach the Clouds by Philippe Petit Page A

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.
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    It’s 5 a.m.
    â€œJean-Louis, I don’t understand … You’re trying again to change what we agreed on in Vary!”
    â€œIt’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!”
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    I think of the coup. I exhale, “Good-night-Jean-Louis.”

“YOU CAME TO THE RIGHT PLACE!”
    â€œWhere 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?”
    â€œYeah, leave us alone,” I say in French to Jean-Louis, as we lean over a glass counter to examine the walkie-talkies and intercoms.
    â€œAh! 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.
    â€œSure, 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.
    â€œWe invite him to dinner, Philippe?”
    â€œWe invite him to dinner, Jean-Louis?”
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    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.
    â€œYes,” I say, “you came to the right