Frédéric Beigbeder - Windows on the World

Pardon me, Chloë For having led you Onto this devastated land

To the 2,749

Lightning Rods:

“A novelist who does not write realistic novels understands nothing of the world in which we live.”

Tom Wolfe

“The function of the artist is to plunge into the depths of hell.”

Marilyn Manson

Cover Page

Title Page

Epigraph

Author’s Note

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise for Windows on the World:

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

“And thou, thy Emblem, waving over all!

Delicate beauty! a word to thee, (it may be salutary;)

Remember, thou hast not always been, as here today, so comfortably ensovereign’d;

In other scenes than these have I observ’d thee, flag;

Not quite so trim and whole, and freshly blooming, in folds of stainless silk;

But I have seen thee, bunting, to tatters torn, upon thy splinter’d staff.

Or clutch’d to some young color-bearer’s breast, with desperate hands,

Savagely struggled for, for life or death – fought over long,

‘Mid cannon’s thunder-crash, and many a curse, and groan and yell and rifle-volleys cracking sharp,

And moving masses, as wild demons surging – and lives as nothing risk’d,

For thy mere remnant, grimed with dirt and smoke, and sopp’d in blood;

For sake of that, my beauty – and that thou might’st dally, as now, secure up there,

Many a good man have I seen go under.”

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, September 7, 1871

“KILL THE ROCKEFELLERS!”

Kurt Cobain, Diaries, 2002

You know how it ends: everybody dies. Death, of course, comes to most people one day or another. The novelty of this story is that everyone dies at the same time in the same place. Does death forge bonds between people? It would not appear so: they do not speak to each other. They brood, like all those who got up too early and are munching their breakfast in a lavish cafeteria. From time to time, some take photos of the view, the most beautiful view in the world. Behind the square buildings, the sea is round; the slipstreams of the boats carve out geometric shapes. Even seagulls do not come this high. The customers in Windows on the World are strangers to one other for the most part. When, inadvertently, their eyes meet, they clear their throats and bury their noses in their newspapers PDQ. Early September, early morning, everyone is in a bad mood: the holidays are over, all that’s left is wait it out until Thanksgiving. The sky is blue, but no one is enjoying it.

In Windows on the World a moment from now, a large Puerto Rican woman will start to scream. A suited executive’s mouth will fall open. “Oh my God!” Office workers will be stunned into silence. A redhead will scream, “Holy shit!” A waitress will keep pouring tea until the cup overflows. Some seconds are longer than others. As though someone has pressed “Pause” on a DVD player. In a moment, time will become elastic. All of these people will finally come to know one another. In a moment, they will all be horsemen of the Apocalypse, all united in the End of the World.

That morning, we were at the top of the world, and I was the center of the universe.

It’s half past eight. Okay—it’s a bit early to drag your kids up a skyscraper. But the kids really wanted to have breakfast here and I just can’t say no to them: I feel guilty about splitting up with their mother. The advantage of getting here early is you don’t have to queue. Since the 1993 bombing, security controls on the ground floor have been tripled, you need special badges to work here and the security guards who search your bags don’t fuck around. Even the buckle on Jerry’s Harry Potter belt set off the metal detector. In the high-tech atrium, fountains gurgle discreetly. Breakfast is by reservation only: I gave my name at the Windows on the World desk when we arrived. “Good morning, my name is Carthew Yorston.” Immediately you get a sense of the place: red carpet, tasseled velvet rope, private elevator. In this vast airport lounge (350 square feet under glass), the reservation desk stands like a First Class check-in. It was a brilliant idea to show up early. The queues for the telescopes are shorter (pop a quarter in and you can stare at the secretaries arriving for work in the neighboring buildings: cellphones glued to their ears, dressed in pale gray figure-hugging pantsuits, coiffured hair, expensive sneakers, pumps stuffed into their fake Prada handbags). This is the first time I’ve been to the top of the World Trade Center: my sons both loved the Skylobbies—the high-speed elevators which ascend the first seventy-eight floors in forty-three seconds. They’re so fast you can feel your heart leap in your chest. They didn’t want to leave the Skylobby. Finally, after four round trips, I was annoyed.

“Okay, now, that’s enough! These lifts are for people going to work, it’s not marked Space Mountain!”

One of the restaurant hostesses, identifiable by her lapel badge, escorted us to the other elevator which whisks you to the 107th floor. We have a busy schedule today: breakfast at Windows on the World, then a walk in Battery Park where we’ll catch the Staten Island ferry to have a look at the Statue of Liberty, later a visit to Pier 17, a bit of shopping at South Street Seaport, some photos of the Brooklyn Bridge, a tour of the fish market just for the smell of it, and finally a medium-rare hamburger at the Bridge Cafe. The boys love big juicy hamburgers smothered in ketchup. And large Cokes full of crushed ice—as long as they’re not Diet. Kids think of nothing but food, parents of nothing but fucking. On that score things are pretty good, thanks: shortly after my divorce, I met Candace who works at Elite New York. You know the type…She makes J-Lo look like a bag lady. Every night she comes to the Algonquin and climbs all over me, moaning (she prefers Philippe Starck’s Royalton which is just down the block) (it’s because she’s never read Dorothy Parker) (remember to give her a copy of the Collected Dorothy Parker, that’ll put her off relationships).