Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,93
leans into the mike again and says: Are you still there, ma’am?
—I’m here, she says.
—Is he still saluting?
—Well, he’s standing now. The policemen are leaning out. Over the edge.
—The helicopter?
—Nowhere near.
—Any more bunny hops?
—Excuse me?
—Did he do any more bunny hops?
—I didn’t see that. He didn’t do any bunny hops. Who did bunny hops?
—From foot to foot, like?
—He’s a real showman.
Gareth giggles.
—Are you taping me?
—No, no, no, honestly.
—I hear voices in the background.
—We’re in California. We’re cool. Don’t worry. We’re computer guys.
—As long as you’re not taping me.
—Oh, no. You’re cool.
—There are legal issues about that.
—Of course.
—Anyway, I really should …
—Just a moment, I say, leaning all the way across Compton’s shoulder.
Compton pushes me back and asks if the tightrope walker’s looking nervous and the woman takes a long time to answer, like she’s chewing on the whole idea and wondering whether to swallow it.
—Well, he looks rather calm. His body, that is. He looks calm.
—You can’t see his face?
—Not exactly, no.
She’s beginning to fade, like she doesn’t want to talk to us much anymore, evaporating down the line, but I want her just to hang on, I don’t know why, it feels like she’s my aunt or something, like I’ve known her a long time, which is impossible of course, but I don’t care anymore, and I grab the microphone and bend it away from Compton and I say: You work there, ma’am?
Compton throws his head right back to laugh again and Gareth tries tickling my nuts and I mouth the word asshole at him.
—Well, yes, I’m a librarian.
—Really?
—Hawke Brown and Wood. In the research library.
—What’s your name?
—Fifty-ninth floor.
—Your name?
—I really don’t know if I should …
—I’m not trying to be rude.
—No, no.
—I’m Sam. I’m out here in a research lab. Sam Peters. We work on computers. I’m a programmer.
—I see.
—I’m eighteen.
—Congratulations, she laughs.
It’s almost like she can hear me blush on the other end of the phone. Gareth is bent over double with laughter.
—Sable Senatore, she says finally in a voice like soft water.
—Sable?
—That’s right.
—Can I ask …?
—Yes?
—How old’re you?
Silence again.
They’re all cracking up, but there’s a sweet point in her voice, and I don’t want to hang up. I keep trying to imagine her there, under those big towers, looking upwards, opera glasses around her neck, getting ready to go to work in some law firm with wood paneling and pots of coffee.
—It’s eight-thirty in the morning, she says.
—Excuse me?
—Hardly time for a date.
—I’m sorry.
—Well, I’m twenty-nine, Sam. A little old for you.
—Oh.
Sure enough, Gareth starts hobbling around like he’s using a walking stick, and Compton is doing little caveman howls, even Dennis slides up against me and says: Loverboy
Then Compton shoves me sideways from the table and says something about his bet, he’s got to get the bet resolved.
—Where is he? Sable? Where’s the guy now?
—Is this Colin again?
—Compton.
—Well, he’s at the edge of the south tower.
—How long’s the distance between the towers?
—Hard to judge. A couple of hundred … oh, there he goes!
A great big noise all around her and whooshing and cheering and it’s like everything has become undone and is lapsing into babble, and I think of all the thousands off the buses and the trains, seeing it for the first time, and I wish I was there, with her, and I get a wobbly feeling in my knees.
—He lay down? asks Compton.
—No, no, of course not. He’s done.
—He stopped?
—He just walked right in. He saluted again and waved and then walked right in. Very fast. Ran. Kind of.
—He’s done?
—Shit.
—I win! says Gareth.
—Aww, he’s done? You sure? That’s it?
—The police at the edge are taking him in. They have the pole. Oh, listen.
There are huge hoots and a tremendous round of applause from near the phone. Compton looks annoyed and Gareth snaps his fingers like he’s snapping money. I lean in and take the microphone.
—He’s finished? Hello? Can you hear me?
—Sable, I say.
—Well, she says, I really must…
—Before you go.
—Is this Samuel?
—Can I ask you a personal question?
—Well, I guess you already have.
—Can I get your number? I ask.
She laughs, says nothing.
—Are you married?
Another laugh, a regret in it.
—Sorry, I say.
—No.
—Excuse me?
And I don’t know whether she’s said no to giving me her number, or no to being married, or maybe both at once, but then she lets out a little laugh that flutters away.
Compton is digging in his pocket for money. He slides a five-dollar bill across to Gareth.