The Restoration of Otto Laird (2 page)

He felt a frisson of excitement even now at the thought of Marlowe House, followed by a different sort of frisson at the thought of its destruction. Familiarity with this structure – with its myriad grey moods, the play of sun and cloudlight on its richly textured surface – must, at some point, have blossomed into love. But it was only now, many years later and when it was on the point of extinction, that he had come to fully appreciate it.

Anika noticed his expression darken.

‘Is there nothing you can do?' she asked.

Otto thought.

‘We can fight the proposals.'

‘And how do you do that?'

‘I can't quite remember. I'm a little out of touch with these things. We have to write some letters, I expect.'

Otto rarely read
The Architectural Eye
in any detail these days. He would devour with relish any interviews with his peers, commenting out loud on their idiocy or philistinism, but he rarely bothered with the more technical articles. It had been more than twenty years since he moved to Switzerland, and the intricacies of the British planning system seemed as alien to him now as when he had first arrived in England, back in the early 1950s.

‘Well, surely there's someone you could ask for help. How about Daniel?'

Otto winced at the sound of this name. Relations with Daniel were a little awkward at present, and the idea of contacting him to ask any kind of favour was disagreeable. Furthermore, Otto had taught him everything he knew about the architectural profession, or so he had come to convince himself in later years. What would it say about his own diminished status, not to mention his waning powers of recall, if he were reduced to calling up his own son in order to seek advice?

All this passed through Otto's mind as he stood scanning the lake's far shore, the steaming cup of coffee poised beneath his nose. Finally, his eyes found what they sought – the distant lights of Evian-les-Bains, rippling in the murky lee of the Alpine foothills. He had felt a strange affinity with this town since being advised to drink more mineral water following the onset of his prostate problems. At least three litres a day, the doctors had told him, and Anika had imposed the regime with unwavering rigour. For much of the past decade, therefore, barely a waking hour seemed to pass without Otto either ingesting, or attempting to expel, the town's famous waters, often to the accompanying strains of deep discomfort. Given such associations, Otto's feelings for Evian were ambivalent at best, yet there was no doubting the intimacy of his connection with the place. It resonated within him at the molecular level.

How is the body composed again? Are we sixty per cent or seventy per cent water? I once knew of such things.

He turned from the window and blew on his coffee.

‘I shan't trouble Daniel – he'll be busy with the project in Mumbai. I'll call Angelo instead.'

Angelo Morretti, once a junior partner with Otto's firm, had since gone on to achieve considerable success with his own London-based partnership. Personable and discreet, he had managed to remain a friend and confidant of both Otto and Daniel, despite their difficult relationship. He could be trusted not to speak out of turn to either.

Otto reached for the phone, while Anika drifted off to the bedroom in search of a hairdryer. Perched on the edge of the four-poster, she ran the warm nozzle over her locks, and could just make out Otto's distinctive baritone, rumbling away beneath the airy blast.

He's very upset, she thought. But I'm not really sure what he can do. They seem to be knocking down everything from Otto's era these days. Anything large and made of concrete is fair game.

It had become a regular topic of conversation between them. Each month, Otto would leaf through
The Architectural Eye
and tell Anika which of his peers' buildings had been condemned to the wrecking ball. It was clear from the tightness in his voice that his feelings on the matter were complex. On the one hand, he couldn't resist indulging in a certain
schadenfreude
when reading of the misfortunes of former rivals or friends. Yet he knew that it was only a matter of time before he, too, fell victim to these changes in architectural fashion. He had been shocked, therefore, but hardly surprised by that morning's headline.

Anika switched off the dryer as Otto appeared in the doorway.

‘Well?' she asked.

‘There's still hope. Angelo's going to make a few calls about it, including one to his lawyer. The fightback will soon be under way … the counter-offensive has started.'

Otto's face flushed and his eyes glittered. He drummed
The Architectural Eye
into his palm.

‘We've a lot of work to do. Angelo agrees with me that we shouldn't take this lying down. He says I owe it to posterity, and to myself, to fight this through to the end. He's quite right – we must act, and act fast. I won't let those pen pushers obliterate
my
oeuvre!'

Otto's breathing sounded harshly across the threshold as he awaited Anika's response. It was some time since she had seen him in this kind of state, but she knew the right tone with which to calm him.

‘I admire your spirit, Otto,' she said, sympathetic but cool as she sat poised on the edge of the bed. ‘And of course you must do everything possible to save your building. But please remember both your age
and
your current state of health. You're seventy-nine years old – it's only a few months since your last operation. There's a balance to be struck here. You need to look after yourself. And when all is said and done, I'd much rather keep
you
for posterity than one of your buildings, however important it might be.'

The flame in Otto's eyes lowered a notch.

‘Of course,' he said, ‘you have a point, which is exactly why Angelo is going to get his people to do the lion's share of the work. He said I can't be expected to take on too much, given recent circumstances.'

His fingers brushed lightly across his abdomen as he spoke.

‘Well, that's good,' replied Anika. ‘I'm glad you're both being sensible about it.'

Bending her head forward, she flicked back her hair in a fluid motion that Otto paused to admire.

‘So what happens next?' she asked.

‘We won't know much for a couple of weeks. Angelo told me to sit tight and wait for his call.'

He looked around, as if for something specific.

‘In the meantime, I'll need to keep myself busy. It won't be easy. Patience never was my greatest virtue, as you know.'

‘I'm sure I can find plenty for you to do. Didn't you promise to cook us lunch for a start?'

‘So I did.'

‘An omelette would be perfect. There are eggs in the pantry, freshly laid. I collected them this morning.'

‘Right – an omelette it is.'

Anika switched on the dryer once more and dipped her head forward to complete the routine, disappearing behind the vanilla wave. When she emerged again, a minute or two later, Otto was still standing in the doorway.

‘Eggs,' said Anika, as she flicked off the dryer.

‘Eggs, yes,' said Otto, turning away as the jet of air revived.

Half an hour later, he still hadn't returned.

Leave him alone with his wall a little longer, thought Anika, who by this time had settled onto the sofa with the latest edition of
Paris Match.
He'll make his way back, when he's ready.

For Anika, who had a literary turn of mind, the fragment of wall beyond the kitchen window had come to represent a metaphor for something lost and irretrievable in Otto's life. Cynthia, his first wife, was the obvious candidate, which explained why Anika felt a slight pang of resentment every time she cycled up the pathway and past the pile of bricks, nurturing fantasies of demolition.

You can't be jealous of a wall, she thought, smiling to herself, setting aside her magazine and bending an elegant knee to paint a toenail. That would make you even crazier than he is.

There were other reasons for Anika's frustration. She was aware that the wall must have certain aesthetic qualities that she, with her untrained eye, couldn't appreciate. Cynthia, of course, would have seen them immediately. A gifted architect in her own right, Cynthia had shared Otto's eccentric passion for buildings in need of a lick of paint. Even as students, the two of them had gone on tours of the English countryside, seeking out ruined farmsteads in order to photograph them. But then hadn't Cynthia been, in the final analysis, Otto's ‘intellectual soulmate', a painfully memorable phrase Anika had once read in
The Architectural Eye?

Cynthia would have been cranky about that fucking wall, too, she thought – instantly regretting her spite.

How could she still harbour such feelings? They were unbecoming, undignified. The poor girl had not been around for many years. And besides, Anika knew that her own place in Otto's life was permanently secured. The passing of time, and Otto's increasing fragility, meant that to all intents and purposes he was now entirely dependent upon her, as much errant child as doting husband. His philandering days had long passed into history, giving way to a strange docility and the creeping vagueness of old age. It was Anika, in fact, who played the gadabout in this relationship. It was she who had the affairs, usually with men somewhat younger than herself. She found them to be less bothersome than men her own age, who invariably spoiled everything by asking her to do the one impossible thing and leave her elderly husband. And if Otto suspected anything (he occasionally hinted as much, during pillow talk), then he didn't appear to object (he was careful to hint at this, too).

Despite the relatively contented state of their marriage, Otto's behaviour in recent months had unsettled Anika. She sensed that she was finally losing her husband – not to someone else, but to his memories. It was not so much that he was
losing
his memory, the usual assumption made about those experiencing the profound effects of old age, but the very opposite. Otto's memory was
growing,
consuming him, making the present seem fuzzy and obscure, an ever-shrinking space in which he increasingly struggled to function. During conversations with Anika, he would sometimes lose his thread of logic and sputter into silence, something painful to see in a man of once formidable intellect. Or else he would set out to undertake some practical task, only to become lost in reverie, forgetting to wash up, or feed the chickens, even on occasion to dress himself. Until Anika discovered him – absently stroking the folds of a shirt, or studying the grains of feed as they slid through his fingers – and gently reminded him of what he had set out to do.

It was clear to her that Otto was suffering from some form of mental deterioration, the kind people of a certain age dread as much as the physical. Alzheimer's … Dementia … The words, as she recalled them, touched Anika like a sore spot. She ought to go online and check out the symptoms more thoroughly, maybe arrange for Otto to see a specialist in Geneva. But she preferred not to face up to this eventuality just yet. She knew exactly how he would react. Unlike his libido, his temper had not yet faded entirely. For now, at least, he remained lucid and coordinated enough not to be a danger to himself.

Later, she thought, fastening her robe and preparing to go in search of her wayward husband. When things have deteriorated beyond doubt. When he's either too weak, or too confused, to cause a scene. Then I'll make the call.

Two

The egg in Otto's hand was palest blue; its cool weight pregnant on his palm. He was kneeling in the shade of the pantry, clad in his kimono and stroking the shell with a trembling thumb. The texture was extraordinary, granular yet smooth. Its surface formed an endless curve, held in perfect tension.

How does nature do this? Such engineering …

Raising the egg to eye level and rotating it slowly, he studied its proportion and balance; savoured its equilibrium.

Brunelleschi couldn't have achieved this. Not even Phidias and the Greeks.

A line came to him from somewhere:

Geometry and poetry, indivisible.

He must write that one down. Or had he done so already? From one of his books, perhaps? Fearing that he might drop the egg, Otto lowered it back carefully into the wooden crate and covered it over with his handkerchief. An omelette seemed impossible now, to break the delicate shells would be sacrilege. He would fix them both a sandwich instead.

Otto's knees on the stone floor throbbed with pain, and it took him a few seconds to climb to his feet, clutching a low wooden shelf for support. The dust on the hem of his gown required attention, but the thought of stretching down again deterred him, and he hobbled over to the fridge to fetch some cheese.

These moments of epiphany came regularly to him now; an overwhelming sense of the world's great beauty. He wasn't turning religious in his old age, surely? His younger self would have laughed at such flakiness.

No, he thought. It's nothing spiritual – just a heightened appreciation of matter.

Viewed from this perspective, Otto's moments of revelation formed the final stage in his intellectual odyssey; the culmination of a lifelong quest. His passion for raw materials, the physical stuff of which buildings were made, was legendary. The need to respect the integrity of those materials was always a guiding principle in his work. Whatever materials he built with – wood or brick, concrete or steel – Otto sought with the utmost sensitivity to draw out their aesthetic potential. He explored through trial and error their colouring and grain, the way the light struck them at different times of day, revealing new qualities and hidden imperfections. He wanted others to appreciate those qualities as much as he did, and considered any attempt to disguise the beauty of raw materials as the very gravest of architectural sins. He said as much in his first manifesto, typed out quickly on an old Olivetti while sitting in his Lambeth bedsit. In the long years since 1952, he had never really shifted position.