The Poor Mouth_ A Bad Story About the Hard Life - Flann O'Brien [6]
–My God Almighty! I exclaimed.
–Isn’t it good?
–A bloody wire-walker, by cripes!
–I got the stuff from Jem out of the Queen’s. There’s nothing at all to it. If I rigged the wire across this room tomorrow and only a foot from the floor, you’d walk it yourself with very little practice. What’s the difference? What’s the difference if you’re an inch or a mile up? The only trouble is what they call psychological. It’s a new word but I know what it means. The balancing part of it is child’s play, and the trick is to put all idea of height out of your mind. It looks dangerous, of course, but there’s money in that sort of danger. Safe danger.
–What happens if you fall and break your neck?
–Did you ever hear of Blondin? He died in his bed at the age of seventy-three, and fifty years ago he walked on a wire across Niagara Falls, one hundred and sixty feet above the roaring water. And several times—carrying a man on his back, stopping to fry eggs, a great man altogether. And didn’t he appear once in Belfast?
–I think you are going off your head.
–I’m going to make money, for I have … certain schemes, certain very important schemes. Look what I have here. A printing machine. I got it from one of the lads at Westland Row, who stole it from his uncle. It’s simple to operate, though it’s old.
But I could not detach my mind from that wire.
–So you’re to be the Blondin of Dublin?
–Well, why not?
–Niagara is too far away, of course. I suppose you’ll sling a wire over the Liffey?
He started, threw down some metal thing, and turned to me wide-eyed.
–Well, sweet God, he said, you have certainly said something. You have certainly said something. Sling a wire over the Liffey? The Masked Daredevil from Mount Street! There’s a fortune there—a fortune! Lord save us, why didn’t I think of it?
–I was only joking, for goodness’ sake.
–Joking? I hope you’ll keep on joking like that. I’ll see Father Fahrt about this.
–To bless you before you risk your life?
–Balls! I’ll need an organizer, a manager. Father Fahrt knows a lot of those young teachers and I’ll get him to put me on to one of them. They’re a sporty crowd. Do you remember Frank Corkey, N.T.? He was in this house once, a spoilt Jesuit. That man would blow up the walls of Jerusalem for two quid. He’d be the very man.
–And get sacked from his school for helping a young madman to kill himself?
–I’ll get him. You wait and see.
That ended that day’s surprising disputation. I was secretly amused at the idea of the brother getting on to Father Fahrt about organizing a walk across the Liffey on a tight-wire, with Mr Collopy sprawled in his cane armchair a few feet away listening to the appeal. I had heard of earthquakes and the devastation attending them. Here surely would be a terrible upheaval.
But once more I reckoned without the brother. Without saying a word he slipped off one day up to 35, Lower Leeson Street and saw Father Fahrt privately. He said so when he returned that evening, looking slightly daunted.
–The holy friar, he said, won’t hear of it. Asked did I think I was a cornerboy or had I no respect for my family. Public pranks is what he called walking the high wire. Threatened to tell ould Collopy if I didn’t put the idea out of my head. Asked me to promise. I promised, of course. But I’ll find Corkey on my own and we’ll make a damn fine day of it, believe you me. Had I no respect for my family, ah? What family?
–No Jesuit likes being mistaken for a Barnum, I pointed out.
Rather bitterly he said: You’ll hear more about this.
I felt sure I would.
5
IT had become evident to me that one of the brother’s schemes was in operation, for a considerable stream of letters addressed to him began to arrive at the house, and he had become more secretive than ever. I refused to give him the satisfaction of asking him what he had been