Strange that not a single avant-garde composer thought of the idea. Not even John Cage? Even though his name was perfect for the part. We’re performing a concerto for coughs in a crystal cage. I think back to a trip to La Reunion when Mary and I took the boys to see an active volcano. It felt like I was back there: the sulfur fumes, the suffocating heat, Jerry and David coughing and sputtering. The World Trade Center was an erupting volcano. Back in Windows on the World (107th floor), I can think of only one solution: block the ventilation shafts with our jackets, close the fire doors, seal the doorways with wet towels, upend the tables against the ventilation grilles and wait for the rescue services. In the restaurant, the Risk Water Group are huddled in the northwest corner (there’s less smoke). Some cling to the columns and stick their heads out the windows. There’s room to squeeze in three, maybe four people if we hoist ourselves up. Standing on the table, I lift Jerry and David in turn so they can get a breath of fresh air. In the vast room and in front of the bar smoke creeps across the floor like groundwater.
Customers are beginning to realize they’re trapped. The receptionist and the head chef are barraged with questions. What’s the evacuation procedure? Haven’t you got a plan of the building? They almost have to resort to violence in order to make it clear that they’re just as much in the shit as we are. The chubby Puerto Rican waitress is called Lourdes; she helps me hoist the children toward the windows.
“Don’t worry,” she says, “they’ll come and get us. I was here in February ‘93 when the bomb went off. Hear the police ‘copters?”
“But how are they gonna get us out of here? It’s too dangerous, they can’t come near the building.”
“Well, in ‘93 they airlifted a lot of people from the roof.”
“Dammit, you’re right! Gimme a hug!”
I put my arms round her and then collect the boys.
“Lourdes, come with me. It was a mistake trying to go downstairs earlier, we should have gone up! Come on, kids, back to the game: everyone up on the roof.”
And here we are again, the four of us heading for the smoke-filled stairway. Revived from the fresh air, Jerry and David play Beetlejuice with their napkins. But the black security guard stops us going back into the stairwell.
“It’s impossible, the whole place is on fire.”
“Is there some other way up to the roof?”
“Anthony,” says Lourdes, “remember ‘93? We’ve got to get to the roof. They’re gonna come and airlift us off the roof, they might be waiting for us already.”
Anthony thinks. His arm has second-degree burns, but he thinks. His shirt is in tatters, but he thinks. And I now know what he’s thinking: it’s fucked, but I can’t let them down.
“Okay, follow me.”
We fall in behind him, weaving through the maze of kitchens and offices in the highest restaurant in the world. He avoids the blocked stairwells, squeezes through corridors crammed with cases of French wine and gets us to climb up a steel ladder. Jerry and David are having a ball. With white napkins over their faces they look like highwaymen, or like a couple of Ukrainian peasant women. We arrive on the 108th floor. We’re not the only ones with the idea. Soon there are about twenty of us trying to get to the roof. Frantically, I dial 911 to alert the rescue services. Jerry asks why I keep punching today’s date into my cellphone: 911, 911, 911. Nine Eleven.
“It’s a coincidence, honey. Just a coincidence.”
“What’s a coindesense?” asks David.
“It’s when things happen all at the same time that seem like they’re connected and you think it’s on purpose but it’s not on purpose, that’s what coincidence means, huh, Dad?”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s just chance, but gullible people think it’s an omen. Like, for instance, some people might think that the fact that today’s date is the same as the emergency services number is like a secret message. That someone’s trying to tell us something. But that’s just bullshit, it’s obviously a coincidence.”
“Is bullshit a bad word?” asks David.
“Yeah,” says Jerry.
“You shouldn’t say bullshit, Dad, it’s not nice.”