The Architect (5 page)

“Yes, he is.”

“I believe in this project because it will benefit humanity.”

Peter was unsure of this, but kept his opinion to himself. He did not put a great deal of importance in
humanity
but did consider architecture to be the ultimate expression of the human will. Humans for him were, after all, only great because of their ability to shelter themselves—to, with earth and stone, recreate the world, chisel beauty out of its sulking form—wipe away forests and replace them with cities, drain away swamps and lagoons, where only eels and weeds prospered, so that man and woman could have mazes in which to live, love, hate and murder—play out their dramas.

“I certainly hope it will succeed,” he limited himself to saying.

“Of course it will. As long as Nachtman is not a charlatan.”

“And he is not!”

“Yes, if we trust our presentiments…”

VIII.

A golden dust filled the air. Piles of building materials were stacked everywhere. Helicopters whirred overhead, dropping loads onto the plateau from the ends of ropes and trucks and freight cars crawled up the side of the mountain, all adding to the constant flux of activity, adding to that aura of exhilaration which was crowned by a rainbow of quarried rock.

The architect ordered supplies in abundance, all of the highest quality, huge quantities of marble, imported from Italy, Spain and Greece, which piled up, creating geometric fortresses: some blocks were silky white in colour, while others were black as night. There was Carrara white, Prato green, and red from Siena. There were blues, which resembled a spotless sky at dusk and cream-coloured blocks from Sicily. Pinkish marble from Valencia, which was veined with red, giving it the look of unhealthy, naked flesh, complimented dark, blood-coloured reds from Alicante which resembled cubes of raw meat. And then other stones, a magnificent assembly which crowded in from all sides: Mesozoic red sandstone from Utah and old red sandstone from Scotland. From Northern Italy he had ammonitic limestone brought in and from Wisconsin beautiful ordovician dolostone, with subtle green tints—hints of pine, the freshness of damp moss. There were chert nodules from England, quaternary breccia from Austria and ignimbrite from New Zealand and walking among these stacks of stone was like walking through some treasure chamber laden with the most precious gems—for they carried with them qualities of the exotic, some seeming as soft and colourful as parrot feathers, some as weighty and rich as gold or platinum. Lace-like aquamarine snowflakes and stones which seemed like goblets of wine.

One day Nesler visited him in his tent.

“I have been receiving some rather extraordinary bills,” he said.

“Yes, I have had to order a great deal of materials.”

“That is evident. But is it really necessary to have boatloads of stone brought over from the United States and New Zealand?”

“It is.”

“And why, might I ask, are such expensive products needed, when there are, as far as I can understand, products equally suitable, and far cheaper, near at hand?”

“Because, my dear fellow,” the architect said raising his eyebrows, “these stones each have certain qualities that are irreplaceable. The ignimbrite from Hinuera, for example, is a truly exquisite volcanic pyroclastic rock with pinkish-grey tones. And I believe no other would do for cladding the walls of the Temple of Nesler.”

“The temple of…?”

“The Temple of Nesler, which will be a mid-sized chapel on the east side of the structure. A temple of algebraic intensity which will carry your fame five-thousand years into the future.”

“An interesting idea…”

IX.

Earth had been excavated, the foundations laid, and now the walls, great hedges of stone, were being built across that expanse kissed by the clouds.

Gradually a structure began to rise up, stone by stone—to push itself up from the mud of the earth to the blue of the sky. It was like some great mushroom, seemingly swelling up out of nothingness amidst a network of scaffolding. Each day more work was done and that giant stone foetus stretched itself forth, like the golem created by Elijaj Ba’al Shem, which grew ever bigger. Nachtman, by sheer will power, seemed to be dragging it out of the mountain, to be giving life to inanimate materials—like a magician casting his spell over clay. The men obeyed his sometimes frantic gestures and occasional screams, though the effect of his madness was somewhat mitigated by the foreman who acted as a breakwater between this fanatic of architecture and his workers.

And though, as a rule, construction is the most dangerous of occupations, this project proved to be considerably more dangerous than most.

The position of the structure was such that, more often than not, a slight mistake would mean sure death—for to one side there was a sheer drop of a good three or four hundred meters, and strong winds often came about, making balance difficult. Occasionally a worker, losing his footing, would fall from the heights of that vast structure and be broken to bits on the rocks below or find himself unpleasantly skewered by a tree.

Then there were the stones themselves, which Nachtman, obsessed with the gigantic, insisted on having cut into as large of units as possible, so that, if these were mismanaged, they proved exceedingly dangerous, and on more than one occasion some poor fellow had his leg crushed or was bodily buried beneath one.

But such was the grandeur of the project that these contra-temps went by all but unnoticed. A helicopter would come to remove the corpse and a quarter of an hour later the work force would be at it again at full throttle, throwing up stone and scaling ladders and, indeed, their sheer numbers made the losses seem but a trifle, like a great army having a man occasionally break away from its ranks.

The sound of drills filled the air† like the sound of war; the mountain itself had been decapitated like some traitor—to be mounted with a new head of stone. And Peter, gazing through the little windows of glass mounted before his eyes, resting on his long nose, looked on at the assault wave of shirtless men going about their work, bouquets of stout individuals pounding away at concept to make it reality. Obedient to their foreman, they attacked in squads, striking with their hammers and kicking with their boots. Some held grinders or impact wrenches in their hands and all went about with helmets, lending the scene a decidedly military aspect.

†
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The young man’s lips curled into something loosely resembling a smile as he took note of the great progress that had been done in such a short period of time and then, seeing Fabrizio approaching his person, his mouth returned to its usual austere pastures, where it grazed momentarily on his tongue as his hand pushed the wings of his hair back away from his eyes.

“The work is getting on well,” he commented.

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem very satisfied.”

“I am satisfied with my crew, but…”

“Well?”

“They do what they’re told. The building is going up.”

“Yes, the building is going up, and much faster than most of us expected. So what’s the problem?”

“Nachtman.”

“Is a great architect.”

“That may be. But he’s not a structural engineer and hasn’t brought in one to help him. It seems to me that he has also been careless about the geotechnical aspects of the project, without paying proper attention to the soil mechanics of this mountain—the seepage, the best possible ground, rock anchors and so forth.”

“I have faith in him,” Peter said defensively.

“That’s fine,” the other replied with a rather cold grin, showing a mouthful of healthy white teeth. “But making a building shouldn’t require faith, but simply science. Many of the ideas he is basing this project on went out of date five-hundred years ago, and the more modern elements he is using he doesn’t seem to fully understand.”

“I fundamentally and respectfully disagree with you, but can see how his ideas might be somewhat beyond your level of comprehension. After all, he is an architect and you are simply a foreman. I am dedicated to Herr Nachtman, so you had better keep these negative thoughts to yourself.”

With these words Peter walked off, was soon on the north side, where the wind flowed through his hair, where workers looked at him with scepticism as they went about their tasks.

He came across Enheim questioning one of them, waving his arms about vehemently. The former, catching site of Peter, approached.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Herr Nachtman of course.”

“In his tent no doubt.”

“No doubt,” the other said with agitation, striding off without offering further explanation.

A few minutes later he did find the architect in his tent, sitting with papers, plans spread before him, a mug of beer at his side.

“Ah, my dear Enheim, please come in.”

The other sat down opposite. He wore a concerned look on his face and his beard drooped gravely over his chest. After running his hand over this great object, as if to calm it, as if he were petting an angry bull, he began.

“I have been looking over the site.”

“And I hope that you like what you see.”

“It would be impossible to deny that the work is phenomenal and is proceeding at an exquisite pace, but…”

“Please continue.”

“The structure that you are building.”

“Yes?”

“It seems to be considerably larger than that originally proposed.”

“It is. Very much larger.”

“Before making changes, particularly such important ones, you should have consulted the board. It is far from impossible that we would have had reservations about the enlargement of the scheme.”

“This is art my friend. I cannot go running off every time I have a fresh inspiration and have matters be decided by committee.”

“But this is a significant change, and now that it has been done, retrogression seems impossible!”

“And so it is. We cannot go back, only forward. We can only march on. But have no fear, for your building is going to be the grandest on the face of the earth—the envy of nations—a structure to rival the pyramids of old. But you must understand that, for it to be so, I must be left in complete control. All great decisions are made by one man alone—they are not done on an assembly line. If Alexander had had to consult a committee…”

“Yes, yes, I see your point. But undoubtedly, following your new scheme, extra expenses will be incurred.”

The architect shrugged his shoulders.

“Nesler is in charge of accounts. I only know that I will finish what I have begun.”

X.

It was one of the better restaurants in Lugano and they sat one across from the other, a small plate of pâté de foie gras in front of each.

The women in the place were elegant; the men those staid fellows who spent their lives heroically plundering the earth of its treasures while cultivating broad moustaches to hide the greedy twitching of their lips or, the keener among them, freezing their faces with Botox so they might lie with greater ease. And while their bank accounts were puffing themselves up with interest, while the stock exchange was magically endowing these idiots with wealth, their lisping mouths habituated to gasping out the thin frail phrases of a decayed, practically stillborn century, gobbled up all the expensive trash they could—from awful steaks suffocated in sauces, asphyxiated in butter and staggering with sherry, to desserts that would make an honest man vomit, so rich they were, glutted with cream and liqueur.

Dr. Enheim took a sip of white wine. His grave face wore a look of preoccupation as he applied his knife to the pâté before him and spread it on a small piece of toasted white bread.

His formidable belly rested on his thighs.

The fattened livers of force-fed geese screamed.

Taste buds whipped them with vines.

“You don’t seem in the best of spirits,” Maria commented.

“Yes, I am preoccupied. I want to speak to you about Nachtman.”

She frowned.

“Do you want to speak, or to lecture?”

“Please, do not be harsh with me. There was a time when you greatly enjoyed my lectures.”

“And I still do. In the proper context.”

“Nachtman, he seems to be having a somewhat contrary effect on the Society. He is too headstrong. What was meant to be a simple architectural project for the betterment of mankind is turning into our central focus. I fear that, from the spiritual point of view, we might have chosen the wrong man.”

“Are you sure that your concerns truly rest with Nachtman’s effect on the Society and not the damage it has done to your own ego? Because some attention has been taken away from you, you say that this is bad for the Society. Is the Society then just another Caesaristic institution? I can hardly believe it! If Dr. Körn were alive today, he would be thrilled with the work Herr Nachtman is doing. I feel, quite strongly, that the construction of the Meeting Place has raised the consciousness of all of our members. Do you not feel, as I do, that he is imbuing the very blocks of stone which make up the structure with the essence of the divine? Is there not something occult in the work he has done?”

“I am not saying there is not…But centralisation of power…”

“What vanity!”

“Then you honestly believe that I am speaking out of mere egotism?”

“Yes. You are acting like a chimpanzee. Some poor man suffering from testosterone poisoning. It is a classic example of inter-male aggression.”

The doctor stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth with embarrassment.

Maria, leaning forward, put her hand on his arm.

“Herman,” she said, “are you being honest with yourself?”

Enheim bowed his head.

“Surely,” she continued, “this cosmos is big enough for more than one great man.”

It was at that moment that the waiter, a short individual resembling to a remarkable degree an aged Buster Keaton, brought them their second course, i.e. thigh of capon beneath a cream and herb sauce. Dr. Enheim gravely began to eat it as if he were eating his own guts.