A high-wire Act In Germany: Excerpt From Max Frisch| Sketchbook 1946–1949

In front of the Römer, the old town hall: a high-wire over ruins, iron pylons, not broken, not rusty, each with a sheaf of cables holding it down on every side; your immediate thought is not of tightrope walkers but of cranes, were it not for the bright pennants, or of the rigging of a sunken ship, sunk not under the sea’s waves but under waves of rubble, bricks gathering grass . . . Spring comes over German cities, ever greener, more rural, more flowering . . . It is all even more fairytale-like in the evenings, though, when the ruins are illuminated by spotlights; the milky light fingering the greenish darkness, occasionally catching a glittering moth, and in the background, beyond the gleaming trapeze, stands the cathedral, a two-dimensional outline, a cut-out, a weightless, pale, red-brick shape, disembodied behind a lattice of crisscrossing spotlights. And above it the moon as well, full, lying in the tightrope walkers’ net; the moon, lantern of lovers, beacon of scoundrels, gem of dilettantes, comforter in foreign climes, gong of memory, but above all the guarantee that the universe is not short of poetry, the universe, night, death, not without poetry, not without soul . . . In its light, the outfits of the artists, floating 30 metres above our earth now, look like real silk.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ says the somewhat tinny and echoey loudspeaker. ‘Artists want the same as you—artists want to live too! In the next act you will see—’

A handstand on top of a shaky flagpole—it’s unbelievable what humans are willing to do for a living. Now there are three and five and seven people hanging from the jaw of a young man, on the wits of a child who, the loudspeaker tells us, turned ten only yesterday . . . Cold, cloudless night, spring, the third evening in a foreign city which is not my destination; when you occasionally think: why am I sitting here right now and not somewhere else in the world, here amid the dark ruins and Gothic atmosphere, which is transformed into a joyous mêlée, part bar, part fairground . . .

‘For our sixth act you will see,’ says the echoing loudspeaker, ‘something no human eye has ever witnessed in the history of the world! We are proud of these young German artists—’

Two lads, each on a glittering bike, place a long white pole from one shoulder to the other; on top of this pole a third and no less glittering bike; it is not enough for this pyramid to ride across the high-wire; to take our remaining breath away, the top man also lets go of his handlebars and rises into a handstand on his saddle while the two underneath keep riding—30 metres above our earth, that is, above bricks and buckled iron, above the remains of a Romanesque gate, above weeds in a rusted bathtub . . .

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ says the loudspeaker, ‘the artists thank you for your generous applause. Please follow our spotlight and kindly direct your gaze to the church of St Nicholas.’

We direct our gaze at it. All of a sudden, a motorbike starts to throb, invisibly at first but then it suddenly rides up towards the illuminated church spire on a rope we cannot see in the darkness, throbs, wheezes and bangs until it can go no further and slowly rolls back down into the ruined nave. The act has gone wrong, the loudspeaker begs for indulgence, the engine conked out. However, the next act is already waiting: over on the cathedral, right up in the Gothic adornments, you can make out two white human figures; a rope, 500 metres long, has been slung from the cathedral down to the banks of the river Main.

Unfortunately, a lady asks me for a light and by the time my lighter finally works, the manic ride has already begun: from a pulley, which trails a faint hissing sound like tearing silk, hangs another trapeze and from the trapeze hang the three artists, upside down with their arms outstretched, three white human crosses hurtling over the missing roofs, tracked continuously by the spotlight, vanishing occasionally behind a black zigzag, then reappearing again; the spectators rise from their benches to keep sight of them for longer. It’s over. The loudspeaker invites us to kindly save our applause until the three artists, who have by now landed beside the Main, come back to the old Römer . . . Meanwhile, a swing tune; meanwhile, the description of the final act:

‘Camilla Mayer, our troupe’s revered and unforgettable founder, was the first to perform this unique exploit. One evening she fell to her death before our eyes, but we swore by her deathbed that we would perform this artistic masterpiece, for which she gave her life, again and again. And it will forever bear her name, the name of our revered and unforgettable Camilla Mayer!’

All the spotlights converge on a previously unnoticed slanted rope, which is attached to the top of St Nicholas’ church and curves gently down to somewhere among the ruins 80 metres away; I estimate the slope at 20 per cent—

The music stops.

‘Camilla Mayer’s Deathwalk!’

It is a very young girl who keeps the oath to the dead woman, not just once but night after night. Slowly she rises out of the reddish ruins, a white pole in her hands; slowly, one foot in front of the other, she rises up into the night. There is no net under the rope; that’s what makes this unique. If she misses her footing and falls: noiselessly, a dull thud in the rubble, virtually inaudible, the dry crack of the pole snapping, nothing more, a faint and incredulous cry from a thousand spectators, some of whom get to their feet, some remain seated, a kindly report in the press, a report with a picture, an outlandish life-long memory for a few individuals, a good death, a solitary death, a distinctive death, better than dying in a camp, better than being shot without any eyewitnesses, better than slowly starving and festering in a guarded mine, a private death, a playful death, a humane death!—but she doesn’t fall . . . She stays on the softly, soundlessly swaying rope; we can see her bare thighs, which are firm and muscular, her skirt like a parachute.

A Degas seen from below. Now and again, an instruction to the spotlights not to dazzle the artist. Eighty metres is a long way! The girl is about halfway up; retreating is no longer any consolation. Deathly silence. At some point a heavy American plane bears three bright lights across the starry sky. Of course the rope becomes ever steeper towards the top, the pledge ever harder to keep. Ten metres left! A spotlight has already fastened onto the tower; once more, the wonderful colour of this sandstone, its rough terracotta against the greenish night. Another artist is already waiting on the ledge to take the white pole from the girl when the time comes.

Six metres! Five metres! Next to me sits a young Black man in uniform, four stripes on his sleeves, representing two years in Europe; people are already getting to their feet in front of us to avoid the melee. Two metres! One metre! Now she’s standing on the ledge where there are usually only birds, she’s holding on to a decoration, her sequins twinkle in the spotlight, she waves to the clapping crowd, the loudspeaker plays a march. It’s cold. The young Black man is still seated. Not clapping. He reaches into his top pocket, takes out a cigarette and lights it . . .

In a few weeks’ time it will be a hundred years since the first German attempt at democracy; the celebrations, which are to be marked with dignity, creep closer and closer, the stonemasons are now working day and night to restore the Paulskirche at least. You can still hear the shovelling at eleven o’clock and the rattle of a pulley raising fresh plaster to the illuminated scaffolding.

Max Frisch, the Swiss novelist and playwright, explored identity, responsibility and moral ambiguity in modern life. He is widely read for works such as Homo Faber and The Fire Raisers.

(Excerpted with permission from Seagull Books)