Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,92

long has he been up there?

—Roughly forty-three minutes, she says.

—Roughly?

—I got out of the subway at seven-fifty

—Oh, okay.

—And he’d just begun.

—Okay. Gotcha.

He tries to cover both mikes at once, but instead draws back and circles his finger at his temple like he’s caught a crazy fish.

—Thanks for helping us.

—No problem, she says. Oh.

—You there? Hello.

—There he goes again. He’s walking across again.

—How many times is that?

—That’s his sixth or seventh time across. He’s awfully fast this time. Awfully awfully fast.

—He’s, like, running?

A big round of applause goes up in the background and Compton leans back from the mike, swivels the chair sideways a little.

—These things look like goddamn lollipops, he says.

He turns back to the microphone and pretends to lick it.

—Sounds crazy there, ma’am. Are there many people?

—This corner alone, well, there must be six, seven hundred people or more.

—How long d’you think he’ll stay up there?

—My word.

—What’s that?

—Well, I’m late.

—Just hang on there a minute more there, can you?

—I mean, I can’t stand here talking all the time …

—And the cops?

—There are some policemen leaning out over the edge. I think they’re trying to coax him back in. Mmm, she says.

—What? Hello!

No answer.

—What is it? says Compton.

—Excuse me, she says.

—What’s going on?

—Well, there’s a couple of helicopters. They’re getting very close.

—How close?

—I hope they don’t blow him off.

—How close are they?

—Seventy yards or so. A hundred yards, at most. Well, they’re backing off right now. Oh, my.

—What is it?

—Well, the police helicopter backed off.

—Yes.

—Goodness.

—What is it?

—Right now, this very moment, he’s actually waving. He’s bending over with the pole resting on his knee. His thigh, actually. His right thigh.

—Seriously?

—And he’s fluttering his arm.

—How do you know?

—I think it’s called saluting.

—It’s what?

—A sort of showboating. He bends down on the wire and he balances himself and he takes one hand off the pole and he, well, yes, he’s saluting us.

—How do you know?

—Oops-a-daisy, she says.

—What? You okay? Lady?

—No, no, I’m fine.

—Are you still there? Hello!

—Excuse me?

—How can you see him so clearly?

—Glasses.

—Huh?

—I’m watching him through glasses. It’s hard to balance glasses and the phone at once. One second, please.

—She’s glassing him, says Dennis.

—You’ve got binoculars? asks Compton. Hello. Hello. You’ve got binocs?

—Well, yes, opera glasses.

—Getouttahere, says Gareth.

—I went to see Marakova last night. At the ABT. I forgot them. The glasses, I mean. She’s wonderful by the way. With Baryshnikov.

—Hello? Hello?

—In my handbag, I left them there all night. Fortuitous, really.

—Fortuitous? says Gareth. This chick’s a hoot.

—Shut the hell up, says Compton, covering my mike. Can you see his face, ma’am?

—One moment, please.

—Where’s the helicopter?

—Oh, it’s way away.

—Is he still saluting?

—Just a moment, please.

It sounds as if she’s holding the phone away from herself for a moment, and we hear some high cheers and a few gasps of delight, and suddenly I want nothing more than for her to come back to us, forget about the tightrope man, I want our opera-glasses woman and the rich sound of her voice and the funny way she says fortuitous. I’d say she’s old, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not like a sexy thing, I don’t like her like that. It’s not like I’m getting off on her or anything. I’ve never had a girlfriend, it’s no big deal, I don’t think that way, I just like her voice. Besides, it was me who found her.

I figure she’s about thirty-five or more, even, with a long neck and a pencil skirt, but, who knows, she could be forty or forty-five, older, even, with her hair sprayed into place and a set of wooden dentures in her purse. Then again, she’s probably beautiful.

Dennis is over in the corner, shaking his head and smiling. Comp-ton’s doing the finger-circling thing and Gareth is cracking up. All I want to do is push them out of my chair and stop them using my stuff—I got a right to my own stuff.

—Ask her why she’s there, I whisper.

—The Kid speaks again!

—You okay, Kid?

—Just ask her.

—Don’t be a drip, says Compton.

He leans backwards and laughs, covering my mike with both hands, starts bouncing back and forth in my chair. His legs are kicking up and down and the pizza boxes are scattering at his feet.

—Excuse me? says the lady. There’s noise on the line.

—Ask her how old she is. Go on.

—Shut up, Kid.

—Shut up you, your goddamn self, Compton.

Compton smacks my forehead with the heel of his hand.

—Listen to the Kid!

—C’mon, just ask her.

—The beloved American right to the pursuit of horniness.

Gareth starts laughing his ass off and Compton