Perfect Architect

by Jayne Joso

  Coover had a kind of grubby charisma, “Couldn’t invent it if you tried,” his grandfather would say. And as the ventures grew, so did Coover’s confidence.

  The endless explosion of skyscrapers cutting up the cityscape meant that in any cluster of closely built structures a building often found its double in the glass skin of another, and Coover had always been particularly struck if not often downright irritated by what he considered the ugliness of one building (if it wasn’t his own) reflected in another – a kind of relationship that was struck up without invitation; an unwanted imprint that had no right being there. And Coover decided that as far as his structures were concerned, something was going to have to be done about this.

  “Hell,” he exclaimed, “I just put it to them, told it to ’em plain as I could, and nothing could have surprised me more when they just up and did what I asked ’em. …’course it involved governors and all. That was the first time, after that they suckered along pretty well, and blow me now if they don’t jump just as soon as I start up! Nowadays they mainly clear the surrounding site of what I call unfit context, way in advance.” Unfit context, was Ralph’s euphemism for:

  Any other structure, be it permanent or transient, and most definitely including bill boards, sign boards and company logos – in any form, as these will not be permitted within a given radius to the Coover Work, without the prior consent of the Architect himself.

  “Heck, if the suckers chew on it, what can I say?” It might not have seemed much on first hearing, but over time it lead in fact, to the razing to the ground of some monumental structures: office blocks, malls, you name it, if it interfered with the necessary landscape for Coover Architecture, if there was even the vague possibility that a company’s logo would be reflected in Coover’s glass cladding – so giving them free advertising at certain sunny times of day – then it had to go, and not just the logo, but often the whole offending structure, in one instance: a thirty-storey office block. “I don’t want dumb architecture reflecting its ass in Coover Architecture, simple as that.” Of course, it was all tongue-in-cheek at the start, “But hell, Alessandro… can you believe these suckers? I’m cruising, riding these jerks like a herd of old donkeys, so who can blame me? And in the words of that great disco classic: Ain’t no stopping me now! I’m on the move! – Whoop! Whoop!

  Needless to say, Las Vegas was Ralph’s least favourite place, “I hate all that junk that passes for architecture out there, ain’t no thought… just a super over-build is all. Cheek by jowl junk. And most of all I hate the trillion room hotels and all the loony-tune-replica-crap they just keep on trawling out. For Christ’s sake if people want Venice, go get the real thing! Hell, take a trip there! Venice, you chumps… is in Italy! Assholes! And by that I mean both the architects that build that crap and the folk that like it. I tell you, world’s full of ’em.”

  Back in their study days, Ralph’s sexual failings lay smouldering between the sheets shouting unconsummated, untalented, zerooooooooo!, but he never gave up completely. He’d read all the books, been to those ladies that train you up good, and so, thought Ralph, what gives? Still no luck. Truth of it was, Ralph never really got off the starting blocks. Daily bathing and deodorant might have helped; a good bicarb-toothpaste and a little nasal hair trim might have closed the gap some, but, as Alessandro none too gently pronounced, “There’s a lot of work to do, Ralphi! A lot of catching up.”

  Weeks of late night conversations on the veritable art of dating were met by arguably poor results when the apprentice Put it on the stage! as Ralph was apt to describe it. Disheartened, Alessandro finally had to admit to being out of ideas, and he suggested Ralph take time out to consider for himself what might be going wrong. If Ralph couldn’t see that 1960s flares, particularly worn that tight, might be part of what was scaring those girls away, then what was there to say? “But I likes ’em!” Ralph would chuckle while Alessandro shook his head.

  Meanwhile, back on campus, the architectural design classes and the wildly animated discussion of crazy innovations, exposure to the extraordinary new uses of familiar materials coupled with the discovery of tantalising new ones, was nothing short of ecstasy. Taught only by the brilliant and borderline insane, challenging topics such as legitimacy and design action and their interface with cultural boundaries were also proving to be major hits. These two guys were wired with excitement, especially when set free in the Climate Chamber and the Lighting Lab where they regularly ran amok. They were having what Ralph readily christened, “One inte-llectual orgasm after another! It’s a rollercoaster ride is what it is Alessandro, and it’s ours for the taking!”

  The future lay before them in smart concrete set in stunning free-form configurations, super-strength structural-glazing, and eco-friendly tree-free hardwoods – and the world of architecture…? Well that could only lay prostrate before the brilliance of their as yet only imagined, almost unthinkable, sometimes nigh on unbuildable designs. OK, they weren’t there yet, “But,” said Ralph, “we’re about to a-rrive!” And to the delight of them both, he wasn’t wrong.

  Semesters came and went, and whilst visiting family back home for the holidays, Alessandro truly hoped that Ralph had either made a genuine leap, critical mass and all, in the love laboratory, or had at least found a hobby to replace his interest in love. Something, aside from fishing (though he didn’t mind the odd trip himself now and again).

  When the young Italian returned to the States to face a shiny new semester, he did so with a spring in his step. He’d missed his American buddy, and everything else aside, they were getting to share some of their most important years together, including nurturing a mutual and unparalleled passion for architecture.

  As Alessandro strolled back up the street he thought he could hear music coming from some place. A few steps closer and a horrible wailing was added to what was otherwise a classic Motown track. It was a new year; a new, two-man shared apartment, but Alessandro was already seriously doubting that Ralph had learnt any new tricks outside the architectural arena. And he was right, but you gotta admire a man for trying! Don’t you? Ralph… was singing.

  Cue the music!

  ‘You are Everything’ by Marvin Gaye:

  Ooh, you are everything,

  And everything is you,

  Ooh ooh…

  Ooh-ooh!

  There are certain tracks that should carry laws, possibly, arguably, ALL tracks. That is, that once any individual has established, beyond any, but at least reasonable doubt, that he or she cannot sing a damn note, that they be forbidden to exercise their vocal equipment in that manner, EVER. That only seems decent, and anyone who was in the neighbourhood that day, sorely, SORELY, agreed.

  Alessandro knew and liked the Marvin Gaye version, his mother had been a fan, but Ralph’s rendition, well that was a concrete-shattering experience, without support, and in need of condemnation, termination, anything! Just make him stop! Alessandro pushed open the door in trepidation, “Hey my friend, so good to see you! But really Ralphi, you so got to halt the singing, really, there’s something truly undignified about singing that song like that… and in front of a mirror! Please, you have skills for other things, it’s too much to branch out that far. And you simply cannot sing! If it’s about women, well Ralph, seriously, women don’t see you how you see you, that’s harsh of me, but I can’t take any more if we are going to live together and study together this year. I can’t!”

  Ralph looked sulky, but only for two seconds, then he embraced his buddy, he’d really missed him. Ralph was clad in the thickest of skin, and he didn’t quite get it, what was up with women anyhow? When he looked at his image in the mirror, he got: tenderness, a masculine jawline, someone kinda cute at the eyes, hell, they must be blind! And singing? Come on, who doesn’t want to be serenaded?

  The Grown-up Guys…

  Now there are two things that the full-grown architec
t, when drunk, should steer clear of discussing. The first, no surprise, is architecture, the second, is sex. But when Ralph and Alessandro ever got together, reunions, weddings, fishing trips, these were the two things neither of them could hold back talking about.

  Alessandro finished his cigarette and took up the next glass of bourbon, “There are some things to which a man is suited, if you are lucky you may be suited to more than one thing. Not you Ralphi, not you. You have something working well for you, you are a god in our world, almost despite yourself. You make bureaucrats, planners, and global monster corporations wrap themselves around your fingers, fall at your feet, to take it where it’s not sunny…”

  “Up the ass!”

  “You didn’t have to say it, argh! What can I do with you, Ralph? You really should stop that too-dirty talk, you are still not forty but all your life you are a dirt-brain, filthy-stinking… stinking man, when it comes down to it. Now, without you interrupting me anymore, just let me speak… OK, so you build your mad ideas, but then you make everyone rearrange the landscape around, to suit it! To suit your building! I never achieved that. No one, no one ever achieved that, not on this scale, not in so many ways, never!”

  “That’s right,” said Ralph, “shit, I never thought I could pull it off, then I’d done it once, and the rest – listen to me, I sound like a movie star! – ” then, mimicking the voice and swagger of John Wayne, “The rest, is, as they say, history!” They laughed together, and Alessandro carried on, “Yeah, I might never achieve that part, but you, you will never make a lover.”

  Coover sat down again, “OK, like I ain’t heard you a zillion times! But you really expect me to stop tryin’? My pecker ain’t getting any less in-er-ested even if the rest of me’s facing a few facts, hell I even stopped fartin’ in front of women! But I don’t see why I should–if it’s my home, me paying the hotel bill. Jee-sus, all that fuss to win a girl, and to think that all it takes is just a little iddy-biddy fart to ruin things! Even engineers ain’t that easily upset.”

  Alessandro poured the dregs of the bottle between them, shaking his head all the while and grinning ear to ear, safe in the knowledge that he was still at least ‘one’ of the best architects in the world, and something of a lover, his friend would never be.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alessandro Cannizzaro’s Shoes

  Ralph is in Italy for a brief visit. He sits, jetlagged and dumbstruck, in the presence of Alessandro. He’s listening to his dear old buddy over a rather luscious dinner, but wanting it to be over so that they can hit the bourbon. Bourbon never helps Ralph’s hangovers, insomnia or jetlag, but his firm belief that it will rarely wavers.

  Alessandro is delivering his Shoe Monologue. Ralph is sure he’s heard most of it before, but he never fails to be dazzled by the prowess of this serious seducer.

  Like the mailman, Tom Bradshaw, Alessandro has a thing for Marilyn Monroe, not with quite the same need-to-cuddle gorgeous-bosomy-roundedness that Tom yields to, but in an equally appreciative, if slightly more sophisticated way. During his early twenties, Alessandro became quite philosophical about the art of seduction, and its practice and pursuance were treated with the reverence other guys reserved for soccer, chess or gambling.

  One of Alessandro’s proudest, though at first glance, none too impressive, conclusions, was that a man should be extremely careful in his choice of gifts, especially when in pursuit of that most special of women, a Marilyn. He told Ralph, “Never present a woman with lingerie,” not because it is too personal or could be construed as one of self-interest, but simply because nothing compares with nakedness – certainly not at bedtime. That was the first consistency with Monroe’s life – bedtime was bare-time. The second… was shoes, and Marilyn Monroe adored shoes… very particular shoes. Alessandro avidly studied video footage, books, movies, and old newspaper clippings, anything he could lay his hands on, trying to glean as much as he possibly could about how Marilyn felt about shoes. As wacky as it sounds, what Alessandro came to understand about women and shoes was an education most guys never got, but which most would trade some treasure for.

  “Ralphi, let me tell you something truly special. My greatest romantic secret. Shoes! And Ralphi, not just any shoes, only the best shoes in the world, Salvatore Ferragamo, Italian – of course.” Ralph rolled his eyes, and wondered why Italians ate such darn small portions, luckily he wasn’t too hungry, but for breakfast he might have to order double. A big brain needs a big feed! You don’t get to be Ralph Coover by being underfed… he suddenly realised he’d stopped paying attention.

  “Listen to me, Ralph. You see, the French may think it sexy to spray their women; the Belgians to make them fat with chocolate; Germans, to make them fatter still with cake and sausage; the English, well what can I say, I think they do nothing; The Japanese paint them so thickly… like oil on canvas, how can I kiss that? But the Italian spirit shows that to know a woman is to adore her, and to adore her from the feet upwards. From the tips of her toes. – Most women, of course, don’t look like Marilyn, but let me tell you, every woman wants to feel like her. That’s the secret. – As I say, most don’t look like her – but I never cared only for blondes – and it’s not about colouring, it’s about essence. I tell you, every country has its Marilyns, they might be dark-skinned or lightly sun-kissed; tall and skinny; medium brunette, but they have Marilyn about them, or, they should have. And the trick is – I learned this by twenty-two and after that, I just perfected it – you treat her like Marilyn, and you got her! For the most special ones that means shoes. Salvatore Ferragamo! The reason? That was Marilyn’s favourite shoe designer – I can’t say cobbler, what kind of word is that to be used for the glove of the foot? I found this word next to shoemaker in my English dictionary, it was quite horrible. Cobbler! No.

  “So, Ferragamo realised that the height of shoe Marilyn found most comfortable was approximately four inches, that’s quite a few centimetres – the point is, that she wanted a specific height. Four inches was ideal, and so for her they specialised in this height. Wonderful! I visited many shoe shops and realised that for a woman, to have the most beautiful shoes is a very sensual, almost erotic experience, especially if they are of the highest quality, superb design, and ridiculously expensive. Ferragamo fits the bill perfectly. Allow a woman to be as magnificent as she ought to be, and you may discover a woman who becomes even more magnificent!”

  Ralph suppressed a belch, and in doing so felt a small moment of pride, he rubbed his belly, “That was great, shall we order some bourbon now?” Alessandro ignored him and carried on.

  “In my life, I never asked another man’s advice about women, never! Yes my father taught me a few things, but most I learned from him was in watching, observing… and most of the time he did a poor job at seducing my mother. He was a busy man, but I… I am also a busy man!

  “Ralphi, what I learned, I learned from women themselves, from looking, from their psychology, from what raises a smile. Mostly it’s simple. Women, they are just people most of them, and some of them are more, and a few are outstanding, and more so when you love them. Flowers only bloom fully for those who know how to handle them, and in my case, my sense for nature lies at the ‘feet’ of beauty. Think about it, Marlene Dietrich, Katherine Hepburn, Greta Garbo, and of course… Marilyn, they all wore Ferragamo. For sure they must have worn other designers too, but come on, I’m Italian! And so, it’s the Florentine Ferragamo,” Alessandro sighed, contented. “Florence… that’s where he settled… you see his good taste!”

  Ralph smiled but by now he really needed that drink, he wiggled the stem of his empty glass somewhat forlornly, and finally! Finally, Alessandro took the hint, “OK… but, no dessert?”

  “Nope!” Jetlag and too much ear-bashing were clearly taking their toll, Ralph NEVER refused dessert. Alessandro was too preoccupied with his own stories to act on his surprise, “No dessert. That’s fine, but
some bourbon for sure. Let me get the waiter.”

  “Good idea, my friend. – Wow, that dinner was divine, d’ya get it, Zandro? Deee-vine!” Ralph chuckled to himself. He had almost passed out when he first became aware – back in the day – that Alessandro was bedding one of their professors, Simone Divine, Miss De-vine. So many years had passed but it was still a real vicarious pleasure to revisit Alessandro’s ‘love past’ – it was also cringingly fun to bring up the more embarrassing encounters. Ralph himself had never caught up on the love front, such a phenomenal latecomer in fact that he had eventually tried to argue that he was intentionally holding back, in order to derive something more useful from this sexual tension… redirecting the energy – much in the way Charles Ore would have prescribed –to enhance creative potential, but that never washed with Alessandro. That said, Ralph could hardly be blamed for making up cover stories, in their first year of sharing, he was kicked out of that dorm room far more often than was reasonable; and not wanting this issue to come between them, Ralph had ultimately put the Italian’s phenomenal promiscuity down to loneliness… him being so far away from home and all. But Alessandro wasn’t homesick, and Ralph… Ralph wasn’t saving himself.

  Ralph sensed his host wasn’t quite done with droning on and asked that they be brought a full bottle of bourbon and that it be left at the table. He poured the first glass, knocked it back like a miracle cure, and poured some more. Then he started in on the most hilarious imitation of Alessandro, and loud, “Never take a woman too seriously – that I learned from my father, wow I was blown away by all that stuff when I first met you, and look at you! Still the same old panache, Zandro. Too suave for me. You’re one on your own and that’s for sure. But hey, you left out Americans in your who’s the best lover list, so how do we guys figure in the seduction stakes?”