Witi Ihimaera - The Thrill of Falling - Stories

The traditional Grand Chapiteau has now become an arena show so that it can play in cities where the big top can’t go and where more people can be packed in. There’s no ceiling however: the darkness is criss-crossed with wires and aerial equipment of the kind that is usually behind the scenes — and the stunts are more perilous.

I’m able to spend a little time getting Koro and Mum and Dad to their seats. They’re sitting with Odile; Mum is telling her lies already, you know, about what a difficult baby I was and all that kind of stuff.

Koro arrives with hair combed to perfection. The women sitting in the same row are overwhelmed by his handsomeness. Mum growls him. ‘Don’t get any ideas. Our plane goes back in three days and you’re not staying in France any longer.’

I leave them because I must start my conditioning. Things go wrong only when you don’t allow enough time to warm up.

Half an hour later.

Good, the daylight has completely faded and the night has fallen. I’m still stretching, limbering up, conditioning and will continue to do so right up to my appearance. While I’m doing this my dresser and make-up personnel are getting me ready: body paint, spandex, costume. ‘Do not forget to check the rope when you are up on the platform,’ Jean-Luc says. ‘Otherwise — ’

‘I know.’

The sound of the deep bass comes rumbling throughout the arena. I watch the beginning of the show from the wings. Not an empty seat in sight. The audience is silent, expectant. The announcer’s voice projects through the inky space. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, bonjour and welcome. Come with us as we take you back to the ancient islands of the Maohi.’

I am still warming up. ‘More stretches,’ Jean-Luc says, ‘more.’ Suddenly the strobe lights are everywhere, creating a kaleidoscope of colour. To the sound of a thousand drums, faery waka begin to enter. They’re in the form of a flotilla of brightly skimming birds, and aboard are beings of exotic and incredibly beautiful appearance.

The crowd erupts into applause. The beings are the Arioi, wreathed and garlanded, they gyrate and dance on the platforms as they skim across the floor of the arena. ‘Homai te tahi mata’i na matou,’ they sing to the great God ’Oro, ‘’ei ahi na muri. Give us a breeze to encompass us from behind so that we may sail as smoothly as upon a bed. Let our prayers take us safely, O God, even into the harbour of the land to which we are going. Look kindly upon us; have pity upon thy shadows. Forsake us not.’

They are quite a spectacle, in their extravagant costumes with tall headdresses. Some are tumblers, others are acrobats, a few are flame-throwers, and they’re all dancing, back-flipping, tumbling and rolling.

Others fly in on aerial silks, ethereal, spell-binding, weaving the colours of the Pacific Ocean together.

‘But the world is changing for the Maohi,’ the announcer interrupts. ‘As foretold by the ancestors, wizards and goblins and strange apparitions are coming to change their world.’

Down go the strobe lights, and up comes that deep rumbling bass again. The audience watches agape as from out of the starlit sky appear two death-defying Russian swings. And from either side of the arena come acrobats to fly across the night like comets, trailing long tails of fire.

The rumbling sounds grow louder, reverberating through the space and juddering every seat. A huge blazing sun begins to rise above the arena. Shimmering behind it, the shadow of a waka.

‘Your conditioning okay?’ Jean-Luc asks me as he prods and pokes me; he’s as bad as Koro. ‘All right,’ he nods, satisfied, ‘up you go.’

I nod as he presses the button and the winch begins to pull me up to the highest point of the arena.

‘Take your position.’

I hear the roar from the crowd as the dazzling globe rises higher and cantilevers over the audience. It’s almost above them, on top of them. If something should go wrong and it should fall …

It’s horizontal over the arena now, and that menacing ghost image hovers on the other side.

The waka punches through the incendiary sun. The timbers are smouldering and the sails burst into flame as the ship falls through the blazing eye of Rangi. Descending slowly, its sails taut, the waka tips.

The crowd screams as it falls, ready to crush them. Their fear turns to relief as, all of a sudden the waka swings and begins to circle the arena. The gun ports open and from them come volley after volley of cannon fire, broadsides that deafen the audience.

The audience put their hands to their ears. Smoke, red-tinged, obscures the waka but …

There it is! Applause greets it as it settles into the centre of the arena.

It is the Endeavour .

Strobe lights hit the waka again and again. The image it presents is of one of power and domination. Submit to me, oh you who look upon me.

Silence falls. The smoke drifts away.

I’m standing on a platform high above the arena where the audience can’t see me. There’s room for only one person. But I can see the audience far below, the thousands who have come to today’s première.

It’s a strange life up here in the dark. You’re alone but the darkness is filled with expectation. Things can come alive up here. You can daydream. Let your imagination soar.

It is, indeed, a great and splendid darkness.

All these years, my ancestor had been waiting.

Come out, come out, wherever you are . Jean-Luc had helped me to find him. ‘It is not enough to achieve physical perfection. What is the essence, the personality that makes everything you do yours? It must come from your head and heart as well as your physique. From your histoire, too, mon petit! It will give you the grace and originality to triumph, the thing that only you, Tupaea, can do!’

Koro had been unconvinced and I had to show him. I took him to the gym. He watched in the darkness as I coiled and unwrapped myself.

‘To see you wrapped up like that … You looked like the baby in the incubator again with cords in your arms and down your throat. And now …’

The announcer cuts through the silence again.

‘In the southernmost part of the Maohi nation, the people gather to confront the goblin apparitions.’ Three carved Maori war canoes appear on the stage, confronting the shimmering ship. It is such a powerful moment, this first encounter of Maori with the invaders.

I settle my headdress. Among its feathers is the red feather that Koro gave me many years ago; it’s my lucky charm. I wait for the rainbow, the colour of black pearls glowing, through which I will slide down to the great god ship below.

‘But this time,’ the announcer continues, ‘the Maohi people do not need to worry. The God ’Oro has sent his emissary, Tupaea.’

‘Time to go to the rescue,’ Jean-Luc says into my face mike.

‘Count me down,’ I answer.

‘Ten, nine, eight, seven …’

What’s this? Some interference.

‘Six, five, four, three …’

Hello, Little Tu, are you there, over?

‘Two, one, and you’re on. Open your wings, Tupaea.’

They’ve been resting, relaxing. Now they begin to flex, and the wind is rushing up beneath them, and I lift.

The strobe lights hit me. I am the Arikirangi incarnate.

The rainbow bridge begins to glisten. Ancient voices call through the sound system. The audience gasps.

Nobody has ever negotiated the corde lisse from this enormous height before, but the rope and I are in partnership. Here in my own Te Raituitai, I look to my left at my arm outstretched and then to my right to the tips of the fingers.

I grasp the rope and take the first step into the dark air. From below, I know that my entrance is spectacular. All the spotlights catch me as I glitter gold in their glow …