Perfect Architect

by Jayne Joso

  “And when it comes to architects? Which one cannot be bettered?”

  “Ah, Gai-a, I don’t even hear your question! For that, you certainly know the answer.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Cara Came Home

  Cara wasn’t sure what she believed anymore, and if she was to take her mother’s advice – heaven forbid – then she’d leave this no-good man and find herself a new one. See, the thing was, when push came to shove, Cara knew that there wasn’t any better than Tom Bradshaw. She knew he wasn’t bad, at least not that bad, and she also knew from previous experience that no one but Tom Bradshaw was likely to put up with her vicious temper; her constant revision of rules, ‘interminable double standards’ being her particular speciality. In terms of the balance of power however, she knew that the right way to handle a man was never to let on that she was aware of any of this. Blinkered, that was Tom Bradshaw, and that’s how he needed to stay.

  Cara came back with the kids while Tom was out at work. She’d missed him, and the kids had really missed him, they were each of them daddy’s girl, daddy’s boy. Cara hated how he was favourite with them, but today, well, it was OK, and she had destroyed his guitar. Hell, it was only an accident really, and he shouldn’t go leaving his stuff lying around like that, a person could have a bad fall. She wasn’t good at facing up to the truth, it hurt. Anyway, it was just a silly old guitar, they could save and get him another one or put it on credit. Cara had always liked the idea of the family band, despite her disapproval of it being named after their dopey-old-dog. It could just have easily been called: Cara’s Crew, or Cara and the Kids, or Cara’s Cradle or… anything! Cara wasn’t musical, but they just couldn’t tell her, deep down she knew it herself, but so what, that was all the more reason to use her name for the band, shit, she ought to be included somehow! That was only right and fair, “But Ma, you’re always telling us life isn’t fair, so just plain get on with it!” Kids! She blamed the teachers. No manners these days, no manners at all, Tom ought to realise what a tough time she had! Delivering mail! Huh! And now she was faced with a huge pile of mail, much of which was addressed to her, and most of which heralded a new level of truth facing. Credit card debt and catalogue overdue notices, hers and hers alone. What to do? Well anyway, they really had needed new stuff, most kids had several pairs of Nikes these days, not her fault. It was about time she had new clothes, having kids makes a woman lose her figure and she was plain too busy to get it back, wasn’t like they were the sort to have gym membership for Christ’s sake, and face it, that would cost. Tom should be grateful. A delivery van arrived. A new sofa, new sofa! Oh! She’d totally forgotten that one. She signed, they removed the old one – all part of the service – and planted the new one in its grave. She shivered. It was all too much, she had to get out, besides, they needed some shopping. Food. She ought to buy some food, poor Tom, he was probably skin and bones, having been left all alone. A good fry-up. That would fix things. She set out to the supermarket, listing… bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, bread, butter, and fresh coffee as Tom had recently taken a liking to that, God knows how, but never mind that, and sugar. Keep him sweet.

  Tom collected his paycheque, the guys were all looking downhearted. Rumours were circulating. Redundancies. A new take-over. It was unavoidable. Still, he might be one of the lucky ones.

  There are few things than can make a man weep like an old woman, one of them is facing the loss of a half-decent income, another is facing his wife and mother of his children with such news, and another is facing the bills she’s stacked up.

  Not even Tom Jones could have handled that lot much better.

  Tom knew she’d cooked the fried stuff specially, to say sorry, but he just couldn’t stomach it, and he didn’t want to cry in front of the kids. New sofa! More Nikes! What! When women punish with shopping, that can really hurt. He went straight out again, wandered the streets. Redundancy. Hell, it probably wouldn’t come to that, had to be just rumours, he’d probably be ‘retained’, after all, he was ‘time-served’ as Cara put it – diplomacy – after all, this was a woman with a stack of unpaid bills stuffed in the kitchen drawer.

  Sometimes, all the streets, the sky, people passing by, the air even, it was concrete, all of it. Some people get a run of bad luck, and some people get a dumper-truck-load of concrete poured right down their throat ’till they’re full to choking. Fuck! He sank to the ground, head in hands. What to do?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Alessandro Cannizzaro, Eyrie

  Alessandro invited Gaia to stay on in Italy for as long as she wished, for the full ten weeks until the competition deadline, longer, whatever would make her happy. She could, of course, take her time to think it over… for sure, there was no need to rush and decide anything. But oh, that she would rush!

  Being in his company was easy; the competition was set and running; Italy was brimming with romance and distraction, so why not stay? Spontaneity was exciting, but still, it did not come as naturally to Gaia as she might have liked. She would take a little time to think it through.

  For the first few days Gaia had come down to breakfast wearing the rosy-jamas. Alessandro never commented, and Gaia soon realised that it had to be his modesty that prevented him acknowledging the gift – she felt suddenly gauche at her insensitivity, it would have been more appropriate to get fully dressed, and spare his shyness. She would do so from now on. Modesty! Shyness! Alessandro! No…

  The following morning Gaia appeared at the breakfast table fully dressed as planned. This raised a smile and her host remarked, “Oh, I see the night-suit is gone!” He was so pleased that she was no longer wearing the dreadful English pyjamas, “You sleep naked now perhaps in this Italian heat! That’s good, me too,” he laughed, “and for that reason I don’t frighten you with my own night-time attire at breakfast! That would be too much ah?!” Gaia couldn’t follow him entirely, and it would never have crossed her mind that the pyjamas were not in fact Alessandro’s kindness, but that of another. For once, Tom Bradshaw’s endeavours would remain concealed.

  Back home, Tom knew the ‘law of averages’ had to kick into action sooner or later, and things surely had to start going his way again. That was Tom, always the optimist. Unfortunately, he would never get to know just how big a success the rosy-jamas had been. And far more unfortunately, redundancy papers were soon to hit the doormat –the law of what?

  Alessandro took on the challenge of the competition with heart, interrupting the project only to entertain or guide his house guest. He would design her a house, a home, and what a place it would be. He kept all his design ideas secret from her, but each day would replace the bread residence beside her bed with a new one. The small penguin standing close, and this carved as skilfully as each small bread house was realised. A master craftsman by now, Alessandro indulged his childhood building pleasure still.

  Gaia would spend her days keeping a notebook and reading; taking walks; chatting in a smattering of Italian with anyone she met; admiring Alessandro… touched by his attention and pleased by the time alone whilst he worked. A comfortable balance seemed to emerge. Separate endeavours by day and the subtle move to seek the other’s company at dusk and dawn. – A small wooden penguin found another on a broad oriental table, and home-made sushi was shared by four. – Would she stay a little longer? Until the competition? He would like to help her choose a good location for the competition finale… but didn’t want to presume. They could have it there! In Italy! He had plenty of rooms, and the gardens… they could all be his guests! Or… he could book hotel rooms, yes, that might be better. Whatever she thought was best. But perhaps he was speaking too much… but if he could help he would, and if she would stay he would be…

  “Yes, Alessandro, I will stay. I would love to stay.”

  Self-conscious and happy, he tilted the penguins. “Hurrah!” they seemed to call, “Hurrah!”

 
At times Alessandro felt Gaia to be quite vulnerable, and he would dream of her home as a place of safety and calm; but then she was its opposite and he must not mistakenly design something of a cage for one who must most certainly feel at ease, without even walls to hold her! Why suddenly so dramatic? He thought of his mother, looking into her photograph now for inspiration, guidance, approval. He looked at one of the small penguins returned to his desk, but no response. He might carve a wise owl. He sighed, and put the penguin to one side. This deepening affection for Gaia was testing him. He must not let it put him off his stride, but turn it into strength! Building for one he was now coming to love.

  He sketched with his paint box, drawing out images of house designs in light-touch watercolour. And how to find… how to create, the perfect dwelling? What is its shape? Where to begin?

  The Orient!

  Mountains!

  Hideaways!

  Ideas running, entangling, rising. More paper! More water! More mountains! And higher! Like an eagle’s nest, cliff edge, mountain

  top – he lost himself in the imagery of Oriental paintings and the dwellings of poets and priests escaping to inaccessible, almost imperceptible structures. Settings where they would find ease, where they would be inspired, where they would enjoy the passion and succour of nature.

  Huangshan! The Yellow Mountains of China, Anhui province – he had never been, and yet he felt he had. He spent hours, days, studying prints, paintings and sketches of Huangshan. He immersed himself in the magic of the poetry written in those mountains, and of those mountains, reaching high above clouds, nudging the sky, soft yellow rock, peak after peak after peak, formed in the images of nature. Natural sculptures. In stone, a turtle, a rabbit, a lotus flower. And these emerging at the least accessible points, the settings so beautiful a man might weep. Staring back into the paper now… the colours began to settle, and if he looked just hard enough, he could make out a few delicate structures of his own… perhaps a temple; a home sculpted in poetry; a painter’s sanctuary; a writer’s nest – a timber frame… a bamboo cradle. He would consider the quality of light, the quality of sound… the quality of silence.

  Alessandro again took up his paintbrush and sketched, now frantically, fluently, the design coursing through his veins.

  A small temple.

  A dwelling.

  An eyrie.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Carlos Santillana, Sensual Stone

  Fabiola was soon pregnant again, and Carlos at ease, lost in fresh and fabulous thoughts of architecture, and that as much a child and as dear to him as those at varying heights around his feet, and the precious new twins, and the seed just sown. Two houses. Each with the aura of his love locked deep into the design. He watched his children now running back and forth, into the house, and out again, attached to their parents, and not… part of the house and the landscape, but free. Pebbles, he mused, taking up some of his collection from his solitary beach escapade and examining them closely.

  My children, my houses… They are not sand, subject to the conditions of the weather, too easily compressed into the ground by the weight of lashing and relentless rains, restrained, or else easily dried out in the heat and blown hither and thither. No. They are not sand. He paused. And they are not rocks, too heavy, inflexible, immovable, easily chipped and scarred. They are not rocks. Pebbles, he rubbed one gently between finger and thumb. Smooth, perfect, each with its own identity… with an essential innocence, a gentleness… but with definition, with shape. Pebbles. My children are like pebbles! I will design two houses, I will design two new children, two precious pebbles! Huge structures whose form will be that of two perfect pebbles; and not stone, but clad in wood. He remembered the boat-builders he had once met on his travels… their skills he had much admired. Ideas! Ideas!

  Perfectly smooth, undulating forms in wood, no awkward joins, craftsmanship of the highest degree; and if the Spanish were not expert enough in this, then he would search further. Norway, there certainly they would have such skills. It was all possible, realisable, passionful. Perfectly smooth forms.

  Where the light would naturally distinguish particular areas of the surface would be the points informing the positions for window panes set flush to the body of the building, expertly moulded, seamlessly married to a surface of almost liquid wood. A door, two, again handcrafted, following the pebbles’ natural and subtle curves and cleverly gliding inward, inviting guests to the centre, the heart. A pebble, a heart, the small beating hearts of the sea – pebbles. Happily, he inhaled deep, and let out a satisfied cry.

  He was about to rise and wander about in the remaining sunlight out of doors when Fabiola called him, she knew exactly what he was about to do, go missing, and there was much to do at home! Restraining food was served up, it was a wonderful ritual, they smiled at one another, she knowingly, he, caught out. From the doorway he called to the children to come in and undress for bed. He could take his walks in the morning. She was right.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ralph Coover, Fear before Genius

  Shit, I never been asked to design something as iddy-biddy as a house before. Hell, I build big! This darn competition thing, well… it’s making me nervous. That’s women for yer, that’s why I steer clear of ’em mostly, despite what ole Zandro’s always telling me. Women are trouble. Hell, can’t she just get herself a row house or somethin’, or whatever else they live in over there. Shit, she could afford to buy herself a whole big, enormous castle on what old Ore would have left her, a whole heap of castles! Isn’t that the thing with the English, I mean, isn’t that the whole problem with their modern architecture, they’re always kinda stuck, stuck on old ideas. Yup! It’s like they can’t help it. They like all that old stuff – so why can’t she just go ahead and buy somethin’ Georgian for Christ’s sake! Least that shit’s pretty.

  For Ralph, nothing could put him off his stride quite like a woman could, and for some reason, he found himself completely overwhelmed by the idea of designing for this particular woman. In Ralph’s fertile imagination Gaia had assumed skyscraper intensity, taken on an unreasonable quota of awe, and was pretty much paralysing his take on reality. Stupid really, but heck, it can take the best of ’em that way at times, even the maestro, Bigger and Better.

  Hell, I got myself so used to living in just two rooms mostly, hotel rooms at that, not even rooms designed by me! Just two rooms and a closet! Spend most of my time making a home of such rooms, working on site most of the time, overseeing my scraper projects, shit, I never even thought of designing houses… a home, not even for myself. Maybe that’s it! After all, that’s what most architects dream of, most normal architects, and they leave off of doing it for as long as hell ’cos they know that’s gonna be the ultimate leveller, that’ll be what you’re most harshly judged for, never mind what the hell else you build! Finally, the real day of reckoning comes, and you find yourself most brutally judged, by EVERYONE over a house! Shit, I’m just yella! Just plain, yokey-ole-yellow, a coward. Oh man, I gotta get out, clear my brain, get some freakin’ bourbon down my gullet. Guess I’d better put some pants on. This is a tough one. A house! – sweet Jesus, now where’s my darn disco pants hiding their ’selves?

  It’s all Zandro’s fault anyways, gotta be. She’s a visiting him, he’s out to do his romancing on her, Jees-us, why the hell can’t she just go ahead and move into his place? Ain’t no fathoming women. No fathoming at all.

  Ralph figures that it must be down to Alessandro that the site for the house isn’t fixed, but that part at least, he approves of. He pulls on his too-tight, red velvet flares, perhaps for inspiration – well, denying the lower half of the body its blood supply, and forcing it all to concentrate around the brain might be Ralph’s route to great ideas, but it might also answer for the lack of action seen by the contents of those pants.

  All dressed up, Ralph set off out in search o
f some serious night life and did his thing – he was something of a secret disco dancer; he never minded people hearing him sing along to Motown, but dancing, that was quite a different matter. Ralph, hiding his dancing light under a bushel – not so his architectural! Hours later, he danced back to his hotel room, half cut, and just as he turned on the light, he’d got it.

  Yo! Take a 1970s disco glitter-ball, the kind that spin overhead covered in all those tiny mirrored tiles, a globe… with a real sparkly skin… wow… yeah! Make it gigantic, like gi-gan-tic… set it next to the sea, part of it cut into the land, part submerged in the water, a little ways… sink some real heavyweight anchorage to hold it there nice and steady – we’ll figure something, easy does it – oh hell, this is great! –and with the tide lapping there… I suggest, at full tide… to approximately one third the height of the globe. Big shiny globe! Man! I’ll have the ball clad in nice reflective panels that don’t allow outsiders to see in, and vary those the dweller can see out of… yup! And the part that’s swimming, ‘swimming’ get that! – I like this idea, I like it a lot. Well, it ain’t gonna be wobbling around, I want it not only to be secure, but totally still… but I simply have to have part of it in the waves, I just have to – Anyway, the ‘swimming part’ as I’m liking to call it, from there you’ll be able to look out to sea. Yeah, part ‘in’ the water, looking out ‘on’ the water, how cool is that? The sun beating down, glistening on it sometimes; or snow flakes dancing around. – Waves lapping against the sides, shit, an amazing seascape as the view! Sometimes calm and dreamy, sometimes wild and crazed! Darn I like this place.