Up on the Rope

 

 

From the moment I was born, I’ve been very fond of the rope. At first it was a tight rope, but over time it grew looser. That didn’t matter, because I was well adapted to it. My toes were like hooks and stuck to the rope so I didn’t have to worry about falling off. And I never got off the rope: I liked being in the air all the time. I would eat my meals, read, listen to music, make little wicker things - coasters, table mats, and baskets - while walking around up there.

When I was little, my parents hired a nice man to watch over me. He was a retired civil servant who ran from one end of the room to the other with a burlap bag stretched between his hands in case I fell. The poor man had his work cut out for him because, being a restless child, I was always dashing from one end of the rope to the other, and he had to chase after me with the sack wide open. The old man would pant, beads of sweat would gather on his brow, and sometimes he would ask me to stay still so he could rest for a while. I wasn’t very talkative, which made his job lonely and tedious. But he can take credit for my knowledge of the arts and sciences. Whenever I would stop somewhere on the rope, he would teach me about the laws of physics or poetic meter. He was a good man and loved me like a son. He would always say he was tired, that he wasn’t cut out for the job, that he was too old, that he was only doing it because his pension was too small to live on. So if he was a little remiss in his work, if he stopped running underfoot from one end of the room to another and took a moment to roll a cigarette or have a glass of wine, I wouldn’t object.

Sometimes I would play tricks on him. I’d move across the rope as always, taking firm, cautious steps. But when I got to the middle, I would pretend to slip. The poor man would scamper to a spot just below me and open the bag all the way so he could catch me. But I wouldn’t fall. In fact, I don’t remember ever having fallen. Anyway, I had my doubts about whether he was fit enough to make it in time if I really had. He walked very fast and was attentive (with one eye, he would follow my steps across the rope), but the speed of my fall might have been quicker than his legs.

Playing a trick on him, one day I feigned a scream when I’d almost reached one end of the rope. Terrified, the old man scurried over, and I dropped a pink mouse I’d hidden in my pocket into his open sack. The mouse fell right into the bag, but the old man had closed his eyes and didn’t discover it until later. He got very upset with me that time and almost quit. I offered a heartfelt apology and pleaded with him to stay down there; his presence, what he would do with the bag, the stories he would tell me during the odd peaceful moments, his crazy running around were all very stimulating. And in reality, I’d already decided not to get down. I let him know this a few days later. He didn’t act surprised or try to dissuade me, and I was grateful for that. He immediately began making arrangements so my life up there wouldn’t be uncomfortable. First, he hoisted up a table so I could eat without making a mess of myself. Then, some articles for my personal hygiene. Using an ingenious system of ropes and pulleys, he supplied me with whatever I needed but didn’t have at hand: a bar of soap, a newspaper, candles (blackouts are common here), the odd book, scissors, a clean shirt. I was already an adolescent and he was very concerned about my education. He set up a chalkboard on the wall and would work out formulas and discuss the geography of Ireland while I sat on the rope. Later, he got a slide projector that was put to use throughout the remainder of my education.

‘If I were younger,’ he would tell me, ‘I would try to live up there too.’

He believed every creature had its place - the earth, the air, the water - and he saw no reason why mine should not be the rope. He even assured me that only a change in instincts could alter something like that, which is why terrestrial beings suffer on airplanes, aerial beings don’t like boats, and seamen get dizzy in cities.

Walking around, I would listen to him with interest. Although I lived in constant danger (any distraction at all - an unanticipated onset of drowsiness, a misstep, a failure of my quick reflexes - could send me plummeting into the abyss), I was also spared other dangers. I would toss banana peels into the garbage - with great accuracy - recite verses from Amado Nervo, and play old Indian melodies on the harmonica; sometimes, from up above, I would oversee the placement of a piece of furniture or fix the electrical wires. Only the prospect of visitors terrified me. I didn’t want to see anyone, and I had ordered the old man to throw out any intruders. Whenever someone would unexpectedly enter the room, I would move to one end of the rope, right next to the ceiling, and try to disappear, become a dark insect. I reckoned that from down below, the visitor wouldn’t see anything but the cord swaying in space, like a cable over the ocean.

‘If I were younger,’ the old man would insist, ‘I’d get up there with you, to rest.’

One day, the man brought his daughter to meet me. He didn’t give me any warning, which upset me. I hid behind the chandelier. It was one of those big chandeliers you find in theaters or in the drawing rooms of aristocratic houses, with a lot of decorative prisms. Sometimes, just to keep myself busy, I would polish the prisms with a cloth moistened in vinegar. From my corner, I saw her enter. She was wearing black high-heeled shoes and took cautious steps. She had on a beige raincoat and her hair was short. I didn’t think the rope spectacle could possibly interest her. Since my early childhood, I had refused to perform tricks or do exercise on the rope. I would just stroll around, and I despised gymnasts and acrobats who entertained the public at the circus or in shows.

She proceeded to the center of the room and looked up. The floorboards creaked a little. The old man sat down in a chair, like an usher after the performance has begun. I let her look for me, knowing I would be difficult to spot. I thought she would get tired of looking for me because she wasn’t used to bending her neck to look up at high things. The old man started reading the paper. It was a way of leaving me alone in the face of danger.

‘Oh! What a beautiful picture,’ she murmured, as she discovered a Turner reproduction on the wall. I had cut it out and stuck it there. If it hadn’t been beyond my reach, I would have yanked it off the wall to prevent her from looking at it. Unfortunately, the room was full of newspaper clippings, photographs, and objects I enjoyed displaying on the shelves. And she seemed bent on taking inventory.

‘Don’t touch that!’ I yelled from my corner as she reached for one of my kaleidoscopes. ‘I only allow the old man to touch it - so he can dust it.’

She withdrew her hand and looked toward the corner where I was.

Then she did something completely unexpected. She nimbly climbed up on a chair, to get closer to me. That bothered me. No one had ever dared to do that, not even the old man when I would ask him for something; he always found a way to get things up to me, using the pulley system.

‘Get down from there!’ I yelled, overcome with rage.

She didn’t budge. She was on a wicker chair, which I was hoping would collapse under her weight. Unfortunately, because I had plaited it myself, it was very sturdy.

‘I would like to see your face,’ she told me, ignoring my order.

I could see hers. It was sort of round and nice, vivacious and carefree. I closed my eyes. I would have preferred her to look like the old man, whose face was weathered by time, anxiety, and uncertainty. When I opened my eyes again, she was still standing on the chair, motionless like a statue.

‘I’ve brought something for you,’ she said, trying to get on my good side. I knew that trick. My parents, my neighbors, even a doctor had tried it many times. Little objects meant to discourage or encourage me or persuade me of something.

‘I don’t need anything,’ I said firmly.

I don’t know why, but I suspected she had a camera in her clothing and that she was planning to take my picture. People do things like that. But it must have been my imagination: the old man wouldn’t have allowed her in with a hidden camera.

All of a sudden, she got down from the chair. She fixed her shoes, straightened her olive-colored skirt, and said to the old man, who was pretending to read, ‘It’s true, he doesn’t need anything.’

‘Just like I told you, little one,’ the old man mumbled.

Then I emerged, not all the way, just enough so that she could see me. I took a few steps across the rope and looked at her.

She raised her head and smiled. I liked her smile. It was similar to the old man’s smile.

‘You know?’ she said in a quiet, humble, almost confessional voice, ‘I’m dying to get up there. It’s what I’ve always wanted.’

I was silent.

‘As a matter of fact, I have too,’ the old man murmured right away. ‘But you know, what with my age, my ailments, the heat, the cold, I can’t stay on my feet for long. I’m not even worried about the bag anymore. He doesn’t need it. Not the bag, not me. He doesn’t need anyone.’

‘I’ve always wanted to go up there,’ she repeated, raising her eyes in wonder. She had this imploring expression that disturbed me.

‘Maybe, if I were younger,’ the old man went on, ‘I would try it. But at my age, almost everything except rushing around in an empty room with a bag in my hands is off limits.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ the girl mumbled, ‘if you would let me try. . .’

‘That’s impossible,’ I said gently. ‘It’s not a matter of selfishness. . . .’

‘Just once. Just this once, I promise,’ she pleaded. ‘It would be like going out on a boat when you’re little, or taking a ride on a hot-air balloon, or visiting the island where the pelicans live. It’s the dream of a lifetime, just once. . . .’

‘I can’t,’ I answered quietly.

‘If you let me, I won’t cause any trouble. I just want to get up there for a moment and then come back down. . . .’

‘You’d want to stay forever,’ I predicted.

‘No, I promise, I wouldn’t. Just once, for a moment.’

‘I also wanted to,’ the old man added, ‘but the legal considerations, my gout, my age. . . . But I still dream of it.’

‘Just once, to try it,’ she suggested.

‘No, it’s impossible,’ I tried to persuade her. ‘There’s no room here. Besides, you’d fall. There’s only room for one person. With two of us, we’d hurt each other.’

‘I’m not afraid of dying,’ she said.

‘It just can’t be,’ I replied. ‘It’s not up to me. It’s a question of physics, of nature. We have to respect those things. But you can get up on a chair and talk with me if you’d like. You can scale a mountain, get on a plane, or ride a cable car. But you can’t get up here, it’s impossible.

Saddened, she lowered her eyes.

‘I told you,’ the old man scolded her. ‘That’s the way it is.’

‘It would have been so wonderful,’ she sighed, resting her head on the old man’s shoulder.

To make her forget her sadness, I danced a few steps on the rope. It was something that normally I would never do, but I felt sad for her.

She went away. I returned to my activities on the rope: I polished the prisms, made a wicker basket to store handkerchiefs in, played the harmonica, read an old newspaper, pasted a few more clippings on the wall, wrote a poem and a letter.

The next day I woke up to find the old man rushing into the bedroom, looking jittery. He was panting and seemed to be running away from something. I could hear a lot of commotion outside.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, frightened.

The old man shut the door firmly and leaned against it.

‘There’s a crowd gathering out there," he said.

Several explanations occurred to me: a sporting victory, a demonstration, an accident, the appearance of an actress. The crowd was growing larger, and I could hear it getting closer and closer. Nervously, I paced along the rope. The old man was still leaning against the door. I heard shouts, exhortations, whistles, pounding.

‘What do they want?’ I asked the old man, who had broken into a sweat.

He pointed at the rope. ‘They all want to get up there,’ he answered, exhausted.