Witi Ihimaera - The Thrill of Falling - Stories

You must have heard the story, it was in all the newspapers: they were stranded when one of the directors ran off with the takings. Jean-Luc and the other performers managed to get back to Europe but he never forgot his sojourn in New Zealand.

Ah, yes, New Zealand had always been regarded as a place where Baby Austins and planes with propellers went to die. At the end of his career, still a young man, Jean-Luc drifted down to that well at the bottom of the world, married a New Zealand girl and settled in Auckland. He had never been forgotten by circus colleagues who continued to send him their budding aerialists.

Or, as in Sernas’ case, sought him out when they were in trouble.

‘We begin,’ said Jean-Luc.

Sernas gripped the rope, the gym resounded with Ravel’s Boléro , and, to the insinuating and insistent rhythm of a snare-drum, Sernas went into action: he hoisted himself up with a front flip, snapped into a hip wrap knot, and by a series of other manoeuvres he kept climbing.

I’d never seen anything as masculine and beautiful. As Sernas hoisted himself further — sometimes deliberately unwrapping himself so that he fell a few metres, causing me to blanch — Jean-Luc shouted approval and guidance. ‘Yes, Sernas, good! No, Sernas, inhale! Yes, Sernas, excellent body extension! No, Sernas, tighten the solar plexus! Yes, parfait !’

The music mounted, seeming to climb with Sernas, and it was at the height of its passionate and percussive rhapsodic zenith when he reached the top of the rope and then … oh …

He launched himself down into an increasing wider and wider number of revolutions, toe drops, holds and spins.

My heart was in my mouth, the routine was so … spellbinding and breathtaking.

I happened to look at Jean-Luc and saw him give a slight shake of his head. ‘He pushes his technique. Why?’ Even so, Jean-Luc greeted Sernas exuberantly. While Sernas was recovering, they went into a huddle and I knew that Jean-Luc was giving him notes.

‘But what is wrong then, Maître?’ Sernas asked. ‘Why do I feel this great sense of — ’ He couldn’t find the words.

Jean-Luc interrupted him. ‘Two problems only. The first is easily fixed. You must extend the time you take for your warm-ups. After all, ten years have gone by in your career, oui? What you came by naturally as a boy must be worked harder for, now that you are a man. The warm-ups are two-thirds of the iceberg that the audience do not see. But you need the conditioning for the one-third that they do see!’

He chuckled, patting Sernas lightly on the back. Then his face became serious. ‘Regarding the second problem, I am not sure … But go through your routine again and I will try to locate it.’

As he spoke, his eyes gleamed, yes, as if he’d realised how to find it.

The music began again, provocative, demanding. Sernas gripped the rope.

Jean-Luc turned to Thierry. ‘Switch off the lights,’ he said.

Sernas looked at Jean-Luc, shocked. ‘I won’t be able to see what I am doing,’ he said.

‘Sernas,’ Jean-Luc commanded, sharp, peremptory. ‘Pay attention! Carry on.’

While Sernas went into his routine, Jean-Luc moved about purposefully, setting small arc lights — maybe four or five — on the floor of the gym, training them on Sernas. Then I saw that they were not focused on Sernas, but on the rope itself.

During the run-through, it was not Sernas that Jean-Luc was watching but the rope.

What was that? I thought I saw something. The second problem: the rope quivering, as if too much stress was being put on it. And when Sernas reached the top, the quivering was still visible, as if he and the rope were fighting each other.

Sernas descended; Jean-Luc handed him a towel. Sernas looked at the older man and I thought he was about to weep, but Jean-Luc smiled reassuringly at him. ‘I bow to you,’ Jean-Luc began. ‘When you first came to me you had the heart of a cub and now … you have the heart of a lion. You are the greatest exponent of the corde lisse in the world. And now I will tell you what the second problem is … and it is more serious than the first.’

‘This is why I am here, Maître.’

‘You no longer have a partnership with the rope,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘As soon as I switched off the lights and you cried out, “I won’t be able to see what I am doing”, I knew it.’

I looked at Thierry, not daring to breathe.

‘I was watching the rope and I could see the pressure you were putting on it, the way it trembled and shivered, as if it was carrying the weight of two people not one … And, to some extent, it is. The rope supports you, but it also supports the great expectations that you have of your performance. Thus you do your spectacular work but you expand the arabesque a little wider, you hold the lean-out a bit longer, you establish a different centre of gravity for the piston, you reach further in the hang, you delay the transition between the crucifixion and the dive, comprends? You are performing on technique, you are imposing on the good will of the rope. Before you know it, pouf, your timing has gone up in smoke, pouf, your technique goes into the danger zone, pouf, you are micro-managing your performance, pouf pouf pouf! No wonder the rest of your cast are bewildered, because they take their cues from you and, if you are even a few seconds out …’

‘I understand, Mâitre,’ Sernas answered.

‘Good,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘So my remedy is this. Return to Le Cirque du Monde. You will get through the season all right, but … once it is over, come back to me. We must find the heart of your performance, the essence, and offer it to the rope! What is it, Sernas? What is the histoire that the rope can lovingly embrace? The “you” which you can give the rope so that you and it can work in balance and harmony as you fly in the great and splendid darkness that is our world.’

Jean-Luc hugged Sernas. ‘Thierry will take you back to your hotel now. We will have another session tomorrow before you go back to Europe. Sleep well.’

I waited until Thierry and Sernas had left the gym.

‘Still here, Tupaea?’ Jean-Luc asked. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

But …

Can you see, now, why I did what I did?

I told Koro, Mum and Dad that I was quitting university. Of course they were all upset, especially Koro and Mum. ‘But you’ve only just started your studies,’ Koro said.

Mum turned to Dad. ‘This is what happens when you take care of your child when he’s coughing his lungs out. When he grows up, he throws it all away.’ Then she turned to me. ‘Oh, well, it’s your life.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I answered, holding my ground.

And Koro angrily asked, ‘How will you become a lawyer? How will you fulfil the dreams of your ancestor? You’re ruining your career.’

‘There are other ways,’ I said.

‘Like what, mokopuna?’ He was losing his temper.

I wasn’t sure yet. Oh, and don’t think that I couldn’t have made it in law: my grades were pretty good. Was I making the right decision?

‘I won’t have it, Little Tu!’ Koro shouted. He began to bang his walking stick on the floor in a temper. ‘I will not let you leave university.’ I looked at him tenderly. Oh, he’d never been afraid to resort to melodrama, using emotional blackmail. I knew his tricks inside out.

‘All my life you’ve taken it for granted that I would become what you wanted me to be,’ I said, as I kissed him on the forehead. ‘I only wish I could do that for you, but I can’t any longer.’

‘Don’t speak to your grandfather like that,’ Mum exclaimed.

‘You have to let me go now, Koro,’ I continued. ‘Trust me, and let me be who I want. Not what Mum wants. Not what you want. But what I want.’