My Name was François

On that cold winter morning the very soil had frozen. Zero degrees outside. Thin plates of ice coated the Seine. Apartment windows frosted over resembling cataract-infected eyes. In the early light, myself and my assistant made our way to the Eiffel tower. Intended as a temporary exhibition - we Parisians - fell in hatred with the monstrosity. Nevertheless, it would be the site of my infamy.

The typical hubbub of the great metropolis felt eerily silent that morning. There was no lilac dawn or growing amber light - only a deep dark gloom that gave way to pale light and frost. Vapours lifted and spiralled off every surface: from chimneys to mouths. Along the empty street we shuffled to our automobile. I huffed and puffed along the deserted boulevards. My lungs burned from the intense cold and my mind raced with the task at hand. February, often the cruellest month, would bear witness to my moment of joy.

My name was François.

The press had gathered for my demonstration; Pathé cameramen too. What I was about to reveal to the world would aid both aviation safety and a revolutionary technology. The 20th century - the dawning of a magic era - would witness many attempts at apotheosis - when man is transfigured into a god. It was not an even keel we sought; no, we did not seek this. Mastery of our world and the possibilities of creation were the ultimate goal!

Some people called me crazy for what I was about to do. “I’ll show you!” I replied, coldly, holding an aloof air for added mystery.

Transporting the gear was difficult. The suit required and responded to air flow and a certain amount of aerodynamics. I admit, freely, I was not a physicist. Nor a scientist. I was a man with a dream - a destiny to fulfil. In truth and life, I was a tailor. Born in Austria and making a living in Paris.

I wish I could portray a sense of foreboding regarding the subsequent events. No. There was no such feeling. I ate well that morning. Croissants and coffee. I did not meet my end on an empty stomach. My assistant, Pierre, had been preparing the suit as I talked to a member of the press.

“I have every confidence the demonstration shall lead to great business for me. If things go wrong - which they won’t - nobody shall say “this man failed.”

“Monsieur Reichelt, you could be killed.”
“Not today, my friend.”

My confidence in the task at hand began to swell my pride more than usual. I had tested the suit at lower levels and it worked beautifully. The day was calm. Cold, yes. One hundred and ninety-six feet. A long way down. I shall fall gracefully to the earth - like a feather.

The ascent began with Pierre already on the first balcony preparing the suit. Each moment passed and was savoured. The gathered press wished me luck and the men from Pathe cranked their cameras. The police said nothing.

And so I reached the top. Where it would all begin. Getting into the suit, I admit, was cumbersome. Pierre repeatedly asked if I was good to go and reminded me I could always change my mind. The damned fool! This fine suit; dreamed, designed and crafted by the hands of an artist - my own - would show them all. World fame beckoned.

Climbing onto the stool was difficult. Up top, the magnificent view took hold and my legs became hesitant. I enjoyed the fine city before me. I gazed upon the white marvel that is the Sacre Coeur on Montmartre and felt the cool hand of fate edging me forward. A journalist asked me if everything was okay. I ignored him. The world began to take on an insouciance that caused my hands to shake. What if I failed? No! The very thought demeans my effort and guile. Underneath the suit - nobody saw my trembling frame. Once again, I peered down at the frost covered ground.

Several police officers and cameramen looked back. Waiting for the divine moment. Pathé wished to capture my experiment on many cameras. The intent, I was informed, was to make an international sensation of me. These recorded moments of my life would be shown in halls around the world. From Paris to San Francisco; from Sydney to Shanghai!

Pierre asked me if I was doubting the whole endeavour. To look an idiot in front of the world was too much to bear. The suit would guide me to the ground. Men would shake my hand and say “well done, you genius!” Military officials would offer me contracts. Fame beckoned. A leap of faith was all it needed.

After prolonged hesitation, I made the jump with the courage of a lion. The suit failed me utterly. The downward force simply streamlined the material and did not conflate it. Within seconds the shock forced my heart to seize up. There are no words to describe the terror; the shame; the sadness. I fell like a bag of bricks; like a deadweight. Heaven have mercy. My intentions were honourable. I died an honourable man. Yes.

My name was François.