Alfonzo the Magnificent bowed to the audience. He put his hands into the bowel of chalk and clapped them together. The band stopped playing and the drum-roll began. All the spotlights were fixed on Alfonzo as he began to climb the ladder up to the platform thirty feet in the air.

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Waiting for him at the top of the ladder was his beautiful assistant, Clara, dressed in a pink bodysuit and wearing a crown of white ostrich feathers. When he stepped onto the platform, she handed him the balancing pole. The drum-roll ceased, and a hush fell over the crowd. The air was hot and humid at the top of the circus tent, and Alfonzo gave Clara the signal to wipe his brow with a lace handkerchief. She then dangled the handkerchief in mid-air, at the end of her long, outstretched fingers and let it drop slowly to the ground. There was no safety net to catch the flimsy, white square as it floated down to the ring below, and people shifted nervously in their seats, craning to get a better look at the little man in the black tuxedo perched like a penguin in the sky.

The circus master tapped the end of his microphone and circled the ring, flicking the electrical cord like a whip. “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, Alfonzo the Magnificent, tightrope walker extraordinaire, will perform a death-defying feat. There is no safety net to catch him if he falls, so I urge the audience to remain quiet throughout, and please refrain from taking any pictures as the flash might distract our performer. Good luck, Alfonzo. Now on with the show!”

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Alfonzo looked straight ahead. He slid a slippered foot onto the wire and adjusted the pole in his hands. He slid his other foot out and steadied himself. He slowly raised his left foot and circled it around his right, then slid it forward. He heard a man cough in the darkness below him but continued to stare straight ahead. When Alfonzo reached the centre of the wire, he stopped. He raised himself onto the balls of his feet, threw his pole into the air and the crowd gasped. Alfonzo spun around, then caught the pole again. He teetered to one side, tottered to the other, while the audience below oohed and aahed. He managed to stabilise himself and continued on towards the other platform. When he reached it, there was an explosion of cheering and whistling. Sweat broke out on Alfonzo’s forehead as he raised his hand in the air and bowed again with a flourish.

After the performance, as Alfonzo was wiping his make-up off, his old rival, Guiseppe, burst into the dressing room.

“So, you think you are the best tightrope walker in the whole of Argentina?” Guiseppe said.

“Well, they don’t call me Alfonzo the Magnificent for nothing,” Alfonzo replied. “I know how to please a crowd. It is I they want, not some third-rate amateur like yourself.”

“I am not here for insults, Alfonzo. I came here to challenge you to the tightrope duel of your life. I dare you to meet me at the Plaza Maria on Thursday week, at midnight, where we will judge, once and for all, who is the best.”

“I am the best!” Alfonzo cried. “I am the best in Buenos Aires, the best in Argentina and perhaps even the best in the world!”

“Then prove it,” Guiseppe said, slamming the door on his way out.

Nine days later, Alfonzo looked at himself in the mirror and adjusted his bow tie. It was eleven o’clock on Thursday night, one hour before the duel. He picked up his pole and his bucket of chalk and headed for the door. He felt a slight foreboding but chose to ignore it.

As he approached the Plaza Maria, he could hear the crowd that had gathered to watch. He turned a corner and saw the plaza at the far end of the street. There were lights strung up between the buildings, and high above the square, Alfonzo saw the silver wire gleaming like a blade between the cathedral spire and the balcony of the Italian Embassy building. In the centre of the plaza, a man on a unicycle was juggling tenpins. As he got closer, he saw a woman with a snake wrapped around her shoulders.

When Guiseppe arrived, they tossed a coin to see who would go first. It landed heads up, and Alfonzo prepared himself to climb the ladder. He dusted his hands and looped the pole through his belt at the small of his back. He took one step and paused, then continued his ascent. The wire was a hundred feet up in the air and it took Alfonzo five and a half minutes to reach the top. When he stepped onto the slanted roof of the cathedral spire, he noticed a chill in the air. He could not hear the crowd for the wind in his ears.

From the ground, Guiseppe watched Alfonzo pull the pole out from under his belt and lay it across his hands. Alfonzo waited for a moment and then slid one foot out onto the wire. Just as he was about to lift his other foot, his body jerked, and the pole slid through his hands. He bent to retrieve it, but it was too late. It had started to slide down the roof. It slipped off the edge and fell down into the crowd. Alfonzo turned and started back down the ladder.

When he got to the bottom, Guiseppe was waiting for him.

“What on earth are you doing?” he screamed.

“I can’t go on like this,” Alfonzo said, pushing Guiseppe aside and striding off through the plaza and down a main street. Guiseppe set off after him.

Alfonzo stopped in front of the entrance to a bar and looked up at the sign. The bar belonged to a friend of his, and he opened the door and walked in. He walked over to the counter and ordered a glass of water. The bartender smiled knowingly at him, took a revolver out from under the bar and shot a bullet into the ceiling. After waiting a few moments, Alfonzo thanked his friend and they shook hands. He turned and left the bar without taking a sip of his water.

Why did the bartender shoot the ceiling, and why did Alfonzo thank him?