Chapter Fourteen
Martin had never met Marcel Chin before, although he had heard his employer talk about the Laotian architect a great deal. He knew of the man’s reputation, too: there could be few New York residents who had not heard of Marcel Chin, albeit most perhaps would have encountered him and his outrageous fashion sense, leaping out from the society sections of the glossier weekly magazines, rather than any of them having actually employed him in a professional capacity. The man was variously described as a style guru, the greatest designer of his generation, or the most over-hyped architect of his - or any other - generation. Even if Martin had not already recognised the distinctive features of the man who now approached himself and Garnet from across the expansive foyer of the Korean hotel reception area, he would have been prepared to bet that he was not going to enjoy the company of the new arrival. No homophobe, Martin nevertheless had an instinctive macho aversion to overtly camp exhibitionism, and the stereotypical mincing steps, and flouncy, floral attire of the Asian architect sent out warning signals to the young carer. Martin spun Garnet’s chair around in a half circle so that his employer could greet his old friend, but it was Chin who was first to speak.
“Garnet, darling.” Chin kissed the air, high above Garnet’s head, making no pretence of bending over in order to make contact with actual flesh. “You are looking sublime.”
Garnet smiled indulgently: too old to be fooled by flattery, still aware enough to be amused by Chin’s appearance. “You, too,” he answered, ironically.
Martin was conscious that Chin was now studying him with ill-concealed repulsion, peering superciliously along the length of his finely reconstructed nose, from behind the affectation of a pair of pince-nez spectacles. Garnet realised that some sort of introduction was necessary.
“Marcel Chin, this is my current attendant, Martin Meek.”
Martin felt himself cringe unconsciously at the inclusion of the word ‘current’ in Garnet’s introduction. For Garnet it was a habitual phrase, but having now served the same master for the best part of a decade, Martin felt that he was deserving of having the additional appendage to his title dropped. Regardless of the permanency of his status, he was aware that Chin was tentatively extending a hand of welcome in his direction, and Martin took the wet-fish offering with as little bonhomie on his part as was advanced on the other. He felt an overwhelming urge to suddenly squeeze the languid limb that was held within his own, and crush it until he could hear the bones in each finger snap and the muscles and sinews in the palm meld together in a mess of damp pap, which could then be remoulded, like wet clay, into a hard and useful receptacle. Instead, he smiled, let the cold hand drop, and through gritted teeth, said, “Delighted. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Chin didn’t follow up on the statement, taking it as a norm that such would be the case, instead he turned back to Garnet, suggesting, “Too early for sherry?” There was a sudden peal of high-pitched laughter, as the Laotian found more amusement in his last comment than did either of his two companions. Before Garnet had had an opportunity to answer, Chin continued, speaking rapidly in the nervy fashion that Garnet recognised from old, “Of course, it is never too early for sherries. Lead me to the bar. This place does have a bar, I take it? But of course, it must. We can discuss matters there. But, what am I thinking! Discussing business when I have not even properly said hello. But you said it was urgent on the phone. I have come at once. How long has it been, dear fellow?” At the same time as patting Garnet across the shoulders, Chin had turned to catch the attention of a passing bellboy, “Three sherries here, please. Quick as you can. A cherry and ice in mine.” He turned back to an increasingly amused and bewildered Garnet and Martin, “Don’t you just love a sherry over ice in the morning?”
One hour and several sherries later, and Martin, grudgingly, had to admit to a certain growing respect for the flamboyant architect: he might still find his companion’s dress sense slightly distasteful, but there was no doubting that Marcel Chin appeared to know what he was talking about when it came to designing buildings. The Laotian’s enthusiasm was infectious, too, and his preposterous mannerisms and erratic sense of humour were easier to accept after a liberal dose of alcohol had dampened the nerve endings. He was a new source of entertainment, in any case, and that was welcome. Martin and Garnet had been resident in Pyongyang for over a week now: the bright lights and new attractions of the rejuvenated city had been superficially distracting for a few days, but Martin had quickly tired of the faux culture and artificial amusements which had sprung up with the necessity of encouraging the mighty tourist dollars. Martin found himself yearning for a glimpse of the genuine Asian experience: in Chin he discovered it, and it came with bells attached.
He currently found himself fascinated to watch the way the various parts of Chin’s face moved when the architect spoke: although knowing that the Asian man was now somewhere in late middle age, such was the boyishness of his appearance - chiefly as a result of the administrations of the surgeon’s scalpel, as opposed to any advantageous fluke of nature - his complexion clear of blemishes, the skin tautened unnaturally across the well-defined bones beneath, the forehead Botoxed to a featureless paralysis, any previous evidence of crow’s feet at the corners of the eyes and mouth smoothed away, the dermis sculptured into an expressionless mask, which prevented any inner emotions being externally revealed, leaving the irises of the eyes alone to be the only mirror to the man’s feelings, and which, in an apparent attempt to counter the rigidity of the rest of his visage, perpetually danced around the polished white ballroom of the sclera of his eyes, with constant restless energy. Conscious that he was concentrating more on the minute movements of the skin at the corner of Chin’s mouth and the rippling effect that each spoken syllable had across the man’s cheeks, rather than on the meaning of the actual words themselves, Martin tried to make a concerted effort to follow the course of the current conversation, and limit his observations to a polite and discrete minimum.
“If you want high, you have come to the right man, darling. But of course you know that already.”
Garnet answered, his tone serious, “It’s like I explained in my fax, though, attaining the height is not the issue. Any fool can build up, given the right tools and materials. What I want from you is...” Garnet searched for an elusive word that would sum up his requirements concisely, but at the same time would not sound too insulting.
“Originality,” Marcel suggested. “Imagination.” He waved his hand in the air in a manner suggestive of great creativity. “Inspirat...” He was cut off in mid-flow as Garnet discovered his descriptive noun.
“Immortality.”
Martin was amused to see Chin momentarily looking at a loss for words. It was obviously the effect that Garnet had desired during his careful consideration, because he now went on to explain, in the kind of terms more usually vocalised by his companion, “Chin. Marcel, my dear fellow. What is it exactly that you are famous for?” He silenced Chin’s immediate attempt to answer by the raising of an upturned hand, instead continuing, “Let me tell you. You are famous for doing nothing. Don’t get me wrong,” Garnet saw the look of surprised hurt which momentarily attempted to break through the filled lines in the smooth patina of the Asian man’s cosmetic mask. “I think that is an admirable thing. Truly admirable.”
“But... But...” Marcel spluttered, disarmed at receiving an insult when he had been stooping to receive a compliment.
“My own situation is just the same. Look at me. Wealthy. No, more than wealthy. Ludicrously monied. Outrageously rich. Relatively famous. Not in the same way as a movie star, perhaps, or a ball player, but a recognisable face. Would you not say so?” Garnet stopped, momentarily requiring reassurance himself.
“Yes,” Martin confirmed.
“And yet what have I achieved?” Martin opened his mouth to reply again, but was stopped by hi
s employer, “Nothing. Nothing that will outlive me.”
“The company,” Martin said.
“Phooey. My grandfather’s creation. I will be remembered as the Wendelson who let the company slide. Who scooped off the cream but was never prepared to get down and messy with the whey.”
“You had others to do that.”
“Precisely. Others who will be able to settle down on their deathbeds and look back with pride at a job well done. A life well lived.” Garnet looked Chin squarely in the eye, “It is ironic, Marcel. What I liked about you when we first met, all those years ago now, was the very fact that we were so different. You had nothing then and yet you were full of the vital spark which seemed to make things happen. You were not prepared to accept your place in the world, you were going to work and battle until you had achieved... what exactly? Where were you going? It is funny. What I like about you now is the fact that we are just the same.”
Marcel answered quietly, unusually subdued and serious for him, “I don’t understand.”
“Marcel, you are known as the greatest architect who has built nothing. It is an astonishing feat. How long is it now since you first came to the States? Forty years? Longer? And what have you really got to show for it?” Garnet saw Chin’s face crumple again. “I’m being harsh, I know. Ask any member of the public to name five famous current day architects and...”
“They’d be hard pushed to name two,” interrupted Martin.
“Perhaps,” agreed Garnet, “But who would they say? Frank Gehry. Foster, perhaps. Or Cesar Pelli. Mat Maier? I’m not sure. Richard Rogers or Santiago Calatrava.”
“Wren?”
“Current day.” Garnet shot Martin an angry glance, before continuing, “But I guarantee that somewhere on everyone’s list there would also be included the name Marcel Chin. You are a phenomenon. Everyone has heard of you. And yet look around the world’s cities for physical evidence of your great architectural prowess and what do we find? Nothing. Zilch. That alone has made you famous.”
Chin attempted to defend his reputation, “What about my extension to the art gallery in Cordoba.”
“And how many days did it stand for?” enquired Garnet, in full knowledge of the answer.
“Only three. But everyone said that it was a freak rainstorm. No one could remember weather like that before in Andalusia. It was not my fault. I can not be expected to accommodate for one in a million occurrences.”
Garnet did not attempt to dispute the accuracy of Chin’s meteorological information, continuing, “In my opinion it is fortunate...”
He was interrupted by Marcel, who had thought of another example of his work, “The otter enclosure at Warsaw Zoo.”
Garnet raised an eyebrow contemptuously, “Consisting of how many structures, precisely?”
“Two,” Chin said, unconvincingly.
“Material?”
“Wood.”
Garnet sighed, “So you wish for your reputation to be judged on the basis of two garden sheds, only fit for habitation by amphibious weasels? I rest my case.”
“They received critical praise.”
“So did the recent retrospective of Cy Twombly at the Metropolitan. That is not to say that it was actually any good, it is more an indictment of modern critics that they are so terrified of expressing an original, or at least, truthful, opinion, that a turd could pass for a rose just so long as it is the accepted view.” Garnet made the sign for inverted commas as he said the word ‘accepted’. “Ugh, I can’t stand the pretentious people who do that,” he reprimanded himself.
“I went to that exhibition,” said Marcel haughtily, “It was actually very good.”
“Marcel, Marcel.” Garnet chided his friend like he would a small child, “You are among friends here. You can speak plainly. What did you really think?”
“No, really, it was...”
“You are so conditioned, I really believe you do not know your own opinion. No matter, I have digressed. The Cordoba gallery extension - do you know what? I am pleased that it blew down. Delighted. And so should you be, Marcel. It would have damaged your reputation immeasurably if it had stood. It was a non-entity. A jobbing commission. To coin a phrase, a carbuncle. It would have sold your abilities short. No, Marcel there is something greater in you. And together I think that we can unleash it.”
Martin who had stood a silent observer for several minutes now spoke up, “Do you want me to get the plans now?”
Garnet looked around at his carer with approval. “They are under my chair. If you would be so kind, Martin, yes, I think that it is time that we shared with Marcel the full extent of my vision.”
A cardboard roll was quickly extracted, and Martin pulled out several large sheets of draughtsman’s paper, each filled with many precision drawings of what appeared to be several different elevations of the same building, and laid out the plans both across Garnet’s lap and on the table beside them.
“This is what I mean by immortality,” said Garnet, addressing Chin. “You will no longer be known as the architect who has built nothing, you will be known as the architect who designed the tallest, most beautiful man-made creation in the world. One building. My building. Your building. One example to embody your whole lifetime of artistry. People will flock from all over the world to see it. Your triumph will be my triumph. The Wendelson Building designed by Marcel Chin. It will be huge.” He laughed at his own joke.
Chin had been casting an appraising eye over the diagrams that Garnet had spread before him, “But it looks as though most of the design work has already been done. These illustrations are good. You already know what it is you wish built. What is there for me to do?”
“On the contrary. Most of my more detailed plans were lost at the airport, along with some other important documents. These were just the few I carried on with me. Did I tell you that the airline has mislaid one of my suitcases?”
“You, too,” said Chin. “I too have three bags still unaccounted for. Of course, I have another dozen that arrived safely, but even so, it is not good enough. The service in these...” Chin searched for an appropriately deprecating term, “Asian countries is deplorable. Shoddy.”
Garnet interrupted him, bringing the conversation back to the subject of his proposed building. “These,” Garnet struck the plans resting on his lap such that they crumpled in the middle, “are just the bare bones. I want you to turn them into a reality.”
“Here?”
“Of course. You don’t think that I have flown you halfway around the globe just for a holiday, do you? Take these diagrams away with you. Look at them. Tell me what you think. I have confidence in you, Marcel. If you have a better idea, then change these sketches. I am happy to be guided by you. All I ask of you is to think big. Imagine if you are only ever destined to build one building in your life, then let it be one worthy of your name.”
“And money?”
“Marcel. Do not trouble yourself with such minor details. Rest assured you will be suitably recompensed.”
“No, I meant the building.”
“Money is no object. Let the limits of your imagination be your only restriction. Do we understand each other?”
Marcel was already folding the plans into a tight roll again. For the first time in several minutes Chin allowed himself to smile, so that his perfectly white teeth were revealed as an advertisement for the benefits of an expensive orthodontist. “Perfectly,” he said.
••••••••••
Sixteen months later and the reality of the Wendelson Building was apparent for all to see. There was still much work to be completed on the colossal new structure, indeed, as it currently stood, it still failed to outstrip even the height of the Empire State Building, let alone any of the other giants which had surpassed it in the intervening decades, but that it was well on the way to claiming the crown of world’s tallest building, there was
little doubt in anyone’s mind.
It is said of all the truly awesome world superstructures that they are somehow more than a sum of their separate raw materials, that they all exude an undefinable quality which marks them out for greatness: the Pyramids at Giza are a good example of this. Viewed entirely objectively in a modern context, they are unremarkable structures, built on a simple design, surpassed in height many times over by contemporary structures, gaudily copied in different locations across the globe. There is little purely in their aesthetic appearance to occasion more than a cursory glance from any passing traveller: three artificial high points in a desert devoid of other punctuation. What transforms these structures, though, from a pile of lifeless building bricks to the majestic and mysterious edifices which have captured and inspired the imagination of centuries of successive generations of mankind, is the knowledge of the sum of the hundreds and thousands of individual people’s lives which have toiled together to create something greater than themselves, and in so doing have possessed the final construction with an almost organic quality, each stone capable of evoking its own emotional response for the observer who is building imaginary stories of those people who went before and built real ones. The great cathedrals of Europe are similarly inspirational; the finished structures standing as testaments of the power of Faith, the bricks pointing the way to an unobtainable earthly place, way beyond their physical height, showing believers the first step on the long route ahead. Even modern superstructures, ones built unashamedly for nothing other than profit, or power, can be blessed, though, with this same subtle spark. The Empire State Building always had it, so, too, did the Chrysler. The World Trade Center didn’t have it, then acquired it, and in destruction guaranteed that it would never lose it. The Sears Tower? Somehow it has never really had it. The Eiffel Tower, though, now there is a different story: always had it, always will. The undefinable it. Garnet was hoping that with Marcel Chin’s influence and input on the overall design of his own tower it would somehow insure that this elusive, undefinable quality was breathed into every floor of his structure, from every grain of sand in the concrete of the foundations, every pain of glass in the windows, to every tile on the lofty roof. He need not have worried, Chin or no, the story of the Wendelson Building was greater than any one man, and the sum was destined to be greater than its parts.
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