Rooftoppers

by Katherine Rundell

  Matteo said, “You need your toes, up here. You shouldn’t ever wear shoes.”

  “But don’t you—”

  “People think toes are useless. That’s because people are stupid.”

  “But don’t your feet get—”

  His face took on an aggravating headmaster look. “You thought toes were only good for collecting dirt, non?”

  “Not exactly, but—”

  “But nothing. Toes are life-and-death. You need toes for balance. I’ve broken every toe at least twice. Look.” Matteo held up a foot.

  It was black. The base of his foot was calloused over. Not one inch of soft skin was visible. He tapped the bottom. “You hear? It’s like tin. You could play music on my feet.”

  Sophie said, “But don’t they get cold in winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Sophie waited for him to say more. He didn’t. She said, “But couldn’t you wear shoes, when you’re just on your own rooftop? I could give you mine, if you like. I’ve got two pairs.”

  “Non, merci.”

  “They’re not girly.” Sophie held up the shoes hanging round her waist. “They’re like these ones: boys’ boots. They were a present from Charles. What size are your feet?”

  “You can’t wear shoes up here. You never know when you might need to run.”

  “But what about when it snows?”

  “In winter, to stay warm, I wrap my ankles and calves with goose fat and bandages, and feathers between the layers. So it’s almost like having shoes, but it leaves your toes free.”

  “Oh. Does that work?”

  “No. But, almost.”

  “Why goose fat?”

  He shrugged. “Fat keeps you warm. Goose fat is best, but you can use pigeon, if you have to. Sparrows don’t have enough fat on them. Squirrel meat’s too dry. You need something greasy.” Without her permission Sophie’s face formed an Ugh. He saw, and scowled. “I never said it was nice, but it helps. Let’s go. Are you ready?”

  Sophie checked that the laces round her waist were tightly knotted. Then, “Matteo?” she said. “Where did you learn all this?”

  “Accidentally, mostly. Practice.” Matteo lifted his shirt. A purplish scar ran from his belly button to his rib cage. “Trial and error.”

  “My God! How did you do that?”

  “Falling. On a weather vane. And this one”—he showed her a bruise, still a fresh green, on his shoulder—“was when I fell onto a chimney pot.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged. “We bleed more often than most people. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Oh.” Then she said, “Matteo?”

  “Quoi?”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  The look on his face was so different, so suddenly, that Sophie stepped back. “Me,” he said. “I said ‘me.’ ”

  Matteo took off again. This time, when he reached the gaps between rooftops, he jumped without waiting for her or looking back. Sophie had to stop to gather her courage before each one; they would have been nothing on the ground, but up high they took all the nerve she had. Soon she was a roof’s length behind.

  “Can we slow down, please? Just a little?”

  “Non,” said Matteo. He pushed his hair from his eyes in order to glare at her, and sped up.

  After half an hour, Matteo did slow. When he turned to face her, he seemed to have regained his temper. He said, “This is the last gap. It’s the next building.”

  By now Sophie felt like an old hand. “Do we jump?” She pushed back her hair and crouched.

  “Non! Arrête! Sophie! Stop!”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You can’t jump onto that roof. It’s a . . . I don’t know the word—a crumbler?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The parapet is too old to jump onto. The tiles snap off.”

  “Oh. Goodness.” Sophie stared at the gap. It wasn’t very wide, it was true, but it was a long drop to the ground.

  “I know! It’s so good. It’s why I chose to live here. It means nobody can follow, unless they know. If you were to jump without knowing, you’d die, I think.”

  “Do you realize that’s not very reassuring?”

  It was dark, but she thought Matteo smiled. “I don’t bother too much about reassuring.”

  Sophie realized she’d been holding her breath. She gulped in air. It was surprising what a difference oxygen made to bravery. “How do you get across?” she asked.

  “It’s easy. You step.”

  Jumping was one thing. It was a rush and a gasp and it lit up your insides. Slowly stepping across nothingness was quite another. She tried to imagine it. “I can’t. I’ll have to jump it,” she said. Terror rose up in Sophie’s throat. It tasted green. “That’s too wide to step.”

  “Non, not for you. Your legs are like drainpipes.”

  “They’re not.”

  “That was a compliment! You were born for rooftops. And anyway, legs stretch wider than you think.”

  “I just don’t know if I can.”

  “You said you were good at heights.”

  “I am!” How dare he, Sophie thought. “We’ve come miles! And I’m covered in blood and soot, and I didn’t stop once.”

  “So? It doesn’t count if you don’t get to the end.” He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  Sophie leapt away. “Don’t you dare push me!” Matteo was unpredictable. It occurred to her for the first time that rooftops and unpredictable people are a dangerous mix.

  “I wasn’t going to!” he hissed. “And keep your voice down.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.” She peered over the edge again. “Okay. Tell me what we do. I’m not saying I’ll do it, though.”

  “Okay. First, you close your eyes,” said Matteo.

  “Matteo. We’re on a rooftop.”

  “Close your eyes. If you keep them open, you’ll look down, and if you look down, you’ll fall.”

  “Oh.” Sophie closed them. “Ah.”

  “I’m going to lead you to the edge. Are your eyes closed?”

  “Yes.” In fact, Sophie was peering down under her lashes. She could see her bare feet approaching the edge.

  “No, they’re not. Close them properly. It will be easier, I promise you. Et maintenant—I hold the back of your nightdress, so you can’t fall—and you take a step.”

  “How big?”

  “About the length of a pig.”

  The length of a pig, thought Sophie. She was going to die because she had never looked properly at a pig.

  “You’ll be fine. You’re safe.” Matteo sounded unusually serious. “Keep your eyes shut.”

  Sophie extended one leg into the gap. “They’re shut,” she said, and this time it was true. Gripping on to his arm, she stuck her leg out into nothing. It waved around, and still it met nothing. Sophie shot her leg back and stepped away from the edge.

  “That’s wider than a pig, Matteo!”

  “The length of a pig. Pigs are quite long. Shake out your leg. I’ve got you. Try again. Farther! Yes!” Sophie was almost doing the splits when her foot connected with the far edge.

  “Now what?” She tried not to sound panicky, but her weight had shifted too far forward to pull back, and she felt she might twist forward into nothing any second. And if anyone was walking in the tiny alley beneath, they would be able to see her underwear up her nightdress. This is why everybody should wear trousers, she thought. This.

  “Now you let go of me,” Matteo said. “And—”

  “What? No! Don’t you—”

  “Just for a second—” Matteo had already detached himself. “And I step . . .” There was the lightest of thumps. A squirrel would have made more noise.

  “And you give me your hand.”

  Sophie did so, and blushed. It was slippery with sweat.

  “And I pull you over.” His tug was startlingly strong, and she was dragged, shoulders and arms and knees all together, acros
s the gap.

  “And now,” said Matteo, “you stand up. And you wipe your hands.” He grinned. “You could water plants with your palms. Come on. We’re almost there.”

  “You said this was the last one! You said this was it!”

  “Oui. I lied.”

  17

  MATTEO STRAIGHTENED THE bag on his back, and beckoned her along the rooftop. “When the moon comes out, you’ll be able to see.” He pointed, and puffed out his chest. “There—that rooftop there—that’s where I live.”

  “It’s very nice,” Sophie said politely. Her eyes were shut, but it was what you were supposed to say when people show you their homes.

  “Very nice? That’s all?”

  “Sorry.” Sophie had been gathering together her breath and her courage. She opened her eyes, and then opened them again, wider. “You live there?”

  It was beautiful. It was the same dizzying height as the building they were sitting on, but it was built of sandstone, and in the moonlight it glowed yellow. Statues of warriors and women were carved into the walls. It looked like there would be chandeliers inside, and men with power at their fingertips. At the top, a French flag flew from a polished silver pole.

  “It’s the law court,” said Matteo. “It’s the most important building in Paris.”

  “You sound like an estate agent.”

  “It’s true!” He looked furious. “It’s the most beautiful building in Europe. It says so in the guidebooks.”

  “How do we get there?” The gap between their building and Matteo’s home was too wide to jump. No tree could possibly reach as high.

  “If I were alone, I’d go round the back, up the oak, and then the drainpipe.” Matteo took off his backpack. “But the jump from the tree to the pipe takes practice. See.” He rolled back his sleeve. A scar ran from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. “The painful kind of practice.” He opened his pack. “I brought this instead.”

  “Rope?” Sophie looked at the thick coil in Matteo’s hand. It was a good length. Rope is heavy; Matteo must have been stronger than he looked. “What’s the hook on the end for?”

  “You’ll see in a second.”

  “Are we going to climb? Is that what the rope’s for?” Sophie tried not to the let the fear in her chest become audible. Matteo, she thought grudgingly, must have been born with a larger than usual portion of courage.

  “I said, you’ll see.” Matteo walked to the very edge of the building and curled his toes over the edge. Sophie’s stomach gave a swoop of protest, but he seemed as cool as if he were standing on the edge of the curb. “Stand back,” he said. He whirled the rope above his head, spat over the edge of the roof, and let the rope fly. It hooked onto the bracket holding up the drainpipe on the other side.

  Matteo gave it a tug. His face had the same listening expression that Charles had around music.

  “That’ll be fine,” he said. He pulled it taut and tied the end in his hand to a hooked nail in the wall. He spat on the knot for luck.

  “Now we walk,” he said.

  Sophie stared at him. “You’re joking.”

  “You said you wanted to see where I live. This is how you get there. It’s easy!”

  “It’s string! A piece of string between the sky and the sidewalk. String, Matteo.”

  “Rope.”

  From here, Sophie thought, it definitely looked like string. It looked impossible.

  Matteo’s face, in the dark, was exasperated. “If you want, you could try to jump from the tree to the pipe, but that would be stupid. This is safer.”

  “A tightrope.” It was almost invisible from where Sophie stood, just a sliver of gray in the darkness. “A tightrope is your safer option.”

  Matteo looked at her coldly. “If you don’t do it, I won’t help you. Cowards don’t deserve help.”

  “Don’t call me a coward. I’m not a coward.”

  “Oui, je sais.”

  “What?”

  Matteo shrugged, half-apologetic. “I don’t necessarily think you’re a coward.”

  “Then don’t say it, ever again.”

  “Look, this is easy. I’ll show you.”

  Matteo spat again, and blew his nose with his thumb. He stepped onto the rope. For one second he hesitated, swaying, and then he paced, foot over foot, until he was right in the middle of the rope. His arms were stretched out. Like wings, Sophie thought. His upper body moved in time with the breeze, and he looked like he was balancing on thin air. The wind ruffled his clothes and flipped his hair on end.

  It was the most unexpected thing in the world, she thought. It took the breath out of her.

  Very slowly, he turned—Sophie’s throat tightened in terror, but the boy gave not a single wobble—and he walked back to her. “Coming?” he said. He held out one hand.

  The thing that amazed Sophie was that she didn’t even have to consider. Perhaps because it was so beautiful. Perhaps because sometimes everybody needs to be stupidly and recklessly brave.

  “Yes,” Sophie said. “I’m coming.”

  She walked to the edge of the roof. That was easy. She curled her toes on the parapet and looked down. That was not so easy. Her hands were hot. Hold steady, she thought.

  “Slowly,” said Matteo. “You start slowly. Can you put one foot on the rope?”

  Sophie felt it, sharp and springy, beneath her bare foot. “Oh, my heart, Matteo!” There was a whirlwind in her chest.

  “Give me both your hands. I do the balancing for both of us, oui?”

  “Oui,” said Sophie. “Yes.”

  “Other foot.”

  Sophie’s right foot left dry land. She stepped out over the air. “Oh,” she breathed. “I think you must be mad. We must both be mad. Oh, God.”

  “Good,” said Matteo. She wobbled, and he steadied her. “Mad is good. Don’t look down.”

  “But then how do I know where to put my feet?” Sophie’s voice came out higher than usual.

  “You hold on to me, hold on to my shoulders. I’ll go backward. I’m doing all the balancing, okay? You just don’t look down. Can you feel the rope with your feet?”

  “Yes,” said Sophie. She dug her thumbs into his skin. “Yes.”

  “Now,” said Matteo. “Left foot. Right. Grip with your toes. Left. Stop. Do not look down. Look up. At the top of my head. Can you feel the balance?”

  Sophie’s feet tickled against the prickle of the rope. “I think so. Yes. Maybe.”

  “Bien,” he said. He felt frighteningly thin and light. She thought his collarbone must be hollow, like a bird’s. “Keep breathing. Step.” Halfway along, he slowed and stopped.

  “Why are you stopping?” said Sophie. She tried to keep the rasp of fear out of her voice. “I think I’d rather we kept moving.”

  “So you can look. See, Sophie! Don’t look down—look across. There is all of Paris!”

  Sophie looked, and gasped. Below her feet, Paris stretched out toward the river. Paris was darker than London: It was a city lit in blinks and flickers. And it was Fabergé-egg beautiful, she thought. It was magic carpet stuff.

  “See? Best city in the world,” said Matteo. “You will never feel as much like a king as up here.”

  It was better than being a king. Kings, thought Sophie, would have bruised fingers from a thousand daily handshakes. This was like being a warrior, a sprite, a bird.

  Far away, by the river, she thought she could see the Hotel Bost, and her own skylight.

  “I wonder if I’ve left my candle burning,” she said. “I think I can see it.”

  Matteo ignored that. His face was whiter than usual, and his eyes brighter. He seemed to be listening to the rope. He said, “Shall we feed the birds?”

  “Yes.” Then a gust of wind tugged at her nightdress, and Sophie changed her mind. “Or, no. No, actually, I think I’d rather keep going,” she said. “Please!”

  “Ach, non! To feed the birds while you are in the sky! This is a thing even a king cannot do.”

  �
��But it’s past midnight. The birds—” The rope gave a wobble, and a globule of something bitter rose up in Sophie’s throat. “The birds will be asleep.”

  “They’re just dozing. They’ll wake if I call them. Just two minutes more, Sophie! I have hold of you. You can’t fall if I have hold.”

  “Quickly, then, okay?”

  “You have to let go of me with one hand. I have grain, in my pocket; I’ll put it in your palm. Yes? I have the balance, Sophie. You just keep your legs straight. No, don’t look down.”

  Sophie tried to take the grain from his hand without looking down at it. She failed. The whole world swooped. She could feel half of the grain slithering through her sweaty fingers. Her knees gave a spasm, and the rope shuddered. “Matteo! Help me.”

  Matteo had never looked more calm. He said, “Steady.” He tightened his grip on her, and shifted their balance. “Are you panicking?”

  “No,” lied Sophie.

  “If you start to fall, I’ll stop you. You understand, oui? Yes? I have never fallen from a tightrope. At least, not far. Not very far, anyway. Breathe, please.”

  “I am! Stop telling me to breathe!” The rope dug into the soles of her feet. “I am breathing!”

  Matteo said, “Just one more minute. Unlock your knees. Good. I’m going to call the birds.”

  “Matteo, I think I want to get off.” Sophie tried not to think of fifty-foot drops. She was not successful. “Please, let’s just get to the other end.”

  “Non. Just one minute.” Matteo whistled: a scale of three notes, rising. It was sharp and clean and it rang out through the silent dark for miles. It cut through Sophie’s panic. It sounded like rain coming.

  He said, “Can you whistle?”

  “Yes.” There was a wind, and the rope swayed under her. Sophie shut her eyes.

  “Copy me, then.”

  Sophie gripped the rope with her toes. She whistled. It was like playing the cello; it made the rest of the world recede.

  “That’s good.” He sounded surprised. “C’est très bien. You didn’t tell me you could do that.”

  “Thank you.” She whistled again. It calmed her breath. She tried to make her throat vibrate, like the nightingales did.

  “Open your eyes.” Matteo was grinning. She hadn’t ever seen him smile like that. “Look up!” he said.