THE AMERICAN

The American has a theory about small men. They are exhibitionists. He has never known a small man to be quiet. Or humble. They are never farmers or dentists. They need to be seen. Every small man he has ever known is loud and gregarious. They become entertainers or jockeys or soldiers. Musicians. Actors. Take up reckless jobs or ones that draw attention to themselves. Occasionally you’ll find one who becomes a surgeon, but only because this heroism causes him to be adored by others. Small men are tense and wiry. They spring when they walk. They notice everything around them. They have opinions and make them known. The American has heard the arguments about such men feeling inferior and overcompensating with theatrics. He thinks this is bullshit. It is, he believes, a simple matter of having more heart than body to contain it. Given the choice he’d go into a foxhole with a small man over a giant any day. He has found them to be indestructible. And, if honest, he would admit that such men are small targets. That’s always a plus in his profession.

“Twenty dollars says you can’t do it.” The American stops and tilts his head back to stare at the cruciform bracing directly above them.

“I was in jail once,” Joseph Späh says. “Some nameless town on the Austrian border. Spent three days in the cell for public intoxication. I didn’t much enjoy it, and if you don’t mind I’d rather not repeat the process. The food’s terrible in jail. So is the company.”

The acrobat barely comes to his shoulder, so it’s impossible not to look down at him. The American drifts back a few steps so it’s not as obvious. Small men don’t tend to appreciate the reminder. “Who’s going to see you?” The American spreads his arms, spins on the empty walkway to illustrate the point.

The keel catwalk is empty in both directions. Passengers and crew are at dinner. It’s the last night of the flight. Everyone is otherwise occupied. They are killing time. Waiting for bed. Because tomorrow they will be flying over New York City, and then things will finally get interesting. Everyone on board this ship is thinking about what they are going to do when they land. The American is thinking about what must happen in the next few precious hours.

“Do you know what would happen if they caught me climbing that? Do you know what they would think?”

“That the infamous Joseph Späh is worth the ticket price.”

This is too much for the acrobat’s ego. Few men can withstand such blatant stroking. “I will tell them that you dared me,” he says. He points a finger but already it’s halfhearted. The idea is planted. “That you paid me.”

“You’d have to be caught first, and that isn’t going to happen. Let me tell you a secret.” The American lowers his voice, makes it conspiratorial. “People don’t look up. Not at the clouds or the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. They don’t look at tree branches or gutters. Want to stay hidden? Start climbing.”

This isn’t entirely true, of course. But it’s what Späh wants to hear. He’s experiencing withdrawal. He needs to perform. The man hasn’t heard applause in at least three days. He hasn’t been able to sit still for hours. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken into song or started tap-dancing on the tables yet.

“If I go to jail, you go to jail.” He slips out of his suit coat and hands it to the American.

“Fear not, I’m good behind bars.” Good at getting what he wants. Good at making sure his throat doesn’t get cut in the middle of the night.

Späh doesn’t stretch or roll up his shirtsleeves. He simply leaps. Had he not witnessed it himself, the American would never have believed that such a short man could get so far off the ground. But he squats, coils, and springs. He is four feet in the air before the American can blink. It’s like watching a monkey or a squirrel or a lemur—one of those creatures with a preternatural sense of balance. He bends, flips, swings up the cruciform bracing, leaping from beam to beam. He doesn’t make it look easy; he makes it look like destiny. As if humans ought to abandon their time as dirt dwellers and take to the sky. As if Späh might actually throw himself off, sprout wings, and fly.

For the first time since meeting the strange little acrobat, the American feels a twinge of jealousy. Späh is halfway up now, just below the axial catwalk, and he slows, lifts his head up to make sure the way up is clear, then continues the ascent. The American assumed that Späh would do the minimum necessary to prove that he could climb the girders. But he has proven he can climb whatever the bloody hell he wants. The American concedes a begrudging respect.

It is 135 feet from the base of the Hindenburg to its highest point. And Joseph Späh climbs all sixteen stories with such ease that he appears bored. And there, at the very top, he leans out at a near ninety-degree angle and waves. Then because he’s a damn showoff he reaches out and lays a hand on one of the hydrogen gas cells. Maybe to say, Here I am and I’ve conquered this bastard. Or, most likely, just because he can. But that single intimate touch gives the American an idea. He feels another piece of his plan snap into place.

Späh comes down just as easily—perhaps more so—and the American steps aside to give him room to land. He takes a bow. “Well?”

“Impressive.”

“I was going for spectacular.”

“Hungry for applause?” He hands Späh his jacket and the plate loaded with dinner scraps, then turns toward the cargo area where Ulla is waiting for her dinner.

“Recognition. There’s a big difference.”

No, the American thinks, there is only the matter of motive. The why behind our actions. He will make sure that Joseph Späh gets recognition for what he has just done. But it won’t be in a way the acrobat likes or will even be aware of. At some point tonight when he relaxes with the other passengers in the lounge or the bar, the American will mention this tremendous feat, that gentle touch on the gas cell, and they will remember these details later. They will repeat them. They just won’t remember how they came by this knowledge.

The art of disinformation lies in placing suspicion elsewhere. Leave a trail of breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Create a distraction. Provide reasonable doubt. Coerce a man into performing an acrobatic feat when he feels safe and unseen, and then make sure others know he is capable of the act. Slowly, subtly, constantly cast suspicion on everyone but yourself. Do this and there will be so many questions, so many possibilities, that no one will ever connect the dots.