The Architect

by Connell, Brendan

  Kissing the uneven surface of the architect’s skull, she would murmur romantic smudges calculated to titillate and then, having collapsed into his arms with an ardour truly frightening, having wrapped her lips around his nose and ears in turn, she would offer herself to him bodily, this woman who had the temperament of a disciple, was as searing as a fire-brand. These episodes, as acute as they were alarming, seemed to carry with them something of the cabaret—the disgusting entertainment of Nazi transvestites and leather clad midgets.

  With his gut sticking forward and armpits exhaling effluvia, the architect accepted her love as some deity would a blood sacrifice, gurgling in his intoxication about strange dreams in which he was visited by mahatmas who instructed him on the secrets of the ancient Myceneans and Egyptians and then, wagging a tongue off which cream-coloured spittle slid, he would proceed to sample the morsels of her buffet as outside the sound of work rang on—the gruff cries of the Company of Good Men going up amongst the rattle of hydromechanical work tools.

  Then what was love to this man?

  It was around half past seven in the morning when she arrived at the work site. She slipped into his tent, went to the bed. A figure was there, beneath the blankets and sheets. She sat down beside it, pressed her hand close. Then it rose up, appeared out of those coverings of cotton and wool—Borromeo, glassy-eyed, muscular chest uncovered.

  “Alex isn’t here,” he said in a sleepy voice. “He’s out, looking over the men no doubt.”

  A moment later, outside the tent, she wiped a tear from her eye.

  “I cannot blame him,” she murmured to herself. “I cannot expect a genius to be satisfied with my meagre treasures. And if he is happy, I should be. His heart is surely big enough to share and he needs a great many sensations to satisfy his regal appetite.”

  XXXVI.

  Summer had wilted away and now it was, once again, autumn.

  The structure itself seemed to be coming to life, gorged as it was with other lives—a huge organic thing with eyes that saw and lungs that breathed. Its shape was hybrid—half animal, half vegetable—something between a gargantuan fungus and an antediluvian lizard. It was such a thing that was impossible to look at without emotion, for it represented all mankind’s strongest emotions—was a physical manifestation of fear and hope, of violent passion and sacrifice; a re-enforcement of the awesomeness of the universe—of chaos and the leech-like derangement that is integral to human nature and make this species sweep aside forests, drain oceans, commit nuclear follies, all with the utmost diligence, in the belief that such madness helps it progress.

  The board members themselves were feverish, often finding it difficult to speak in full sentences or connect their thoughts. Having channelled so much of their energy, so much of themselves into that building, they had difficulty distinguishing their own selves from the stones and towers.

  Maria kissed its very walls and Dr. Enheim, tossing his great belly to the ground, wet its marble floor with his tears. Nesler, whenever he had a spare moment, went to the temple that was to carry his name, that niche on the east side of the structure, and, gently whistling an air from Schubert, gazed at the place with manifest satisfaction.

  As for Borromeo, he strutted from one end of the interior to the other, like a peacock, now sweeping out a corner, now polishing a part of a wall—feeling as one privileged, one who had been touched by the wings of Cassiel and seen the Seventh Heaven, who had been graced by earthquakes and hurricanes, had his strong limbs tempered by the lead and melancholy.

  XXXVII.

  Another winter had all but passed. A winter even milder than the previous.

  Peter walked out of the building, the Academy of Architecture in Mendrisio, with a backpack over one shoulder. While working on the project, he had neglected his studies, in truth even despised his teachers, but now he was back at it, spending his days buried in books, immersed in theory, rather than up on that mountain top where men and machines did battle with earth and sky.

  He felt intolerably lonely, had heard what had happened to Trudy, and it saddened him deeply. He tried to imagine that he might at some future time meet her. Might meet her in some other world, where their spirits, golden yellow flames, would flit about, now intertwining, now blending—giving kisses without flesh, making those strange eternal pledges that are the core of religion and love. He tried to imagine, but he could not—could, when it was night, only see in the stars flickers of light from masses of dying plasma, of hydrogen long since extinguished, and in the day, as his feet stepped one before the next, only could he see grim-faced pragmatism that cut the heads off all dreams.

  He sniffed and pushed the hair back away from his eyes as he thought about it—continued his way, along the Corso Bello, the facades of the buildings hiding so many old women sunk in apricot-coloured divans mentally caressing their fossilized loves, their memories of springtime; concealing the lean forms of unemployed bachelors whose thoughts roosted in dirty corners; and also concealing stooping lunatics who shambled from side to side. So it is that, shuttered in, lives disappear unseen—buildings being places to hide from the sun and ourselves, private theatres in which we can dramatize—our audience four walls and closed windows.

  The street was cobbled. A few bored shopkeepers stood outside their shops. Smoking cigarettes, eyes half-closed, scratching bellies which waited patiently for the dinner hour, when they could be stuffed full of masticated horse flesh, corn mush, cheeses which carried with them the sapidity of marigolds and fresh grass.

  Peter felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around.

  It was Fabrizio Fabrizi.

  He had clearly slid since the young man had last seen him. His cleft chin was unshaven and his blue eyes tinged with red. He wore a pair of dirty jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up so that his forearms were exposed. As he stood before Peter, he swayed slightly, his legs not entirely sure which way the earth was.

  “So how is life up there on the mountain?” he asked, a grim note to his voice, a spark of anger in his eyes.

  “I don’t know. I have left the project—or, rather, been kicked off of it, as I never did put forward a resignation.”

  “Ah, you too!”

  “Yes, I was too voluble with my ideas.”

  “You were a fool, like me. It’s better to keep quiet and let people do what they want. This world wasn’t made for men who think. Once you have been fired from such a big project…it is difficult to find work again…To draw a pay-cheque…But come and drink a bianchino with me.”

  Peter let himself be led into a nearby bar where the ex-foreman ordered two white wines. The latter clasped one of the small glasses in his large fist and waved it about as he spoke, thrusting forward his chin, deep phrases working themselves out from between his white teeth, from beneath his moustache, which seemed as sharp and aggressive as a cutlass.

  “That no one can smell the stench of that pig is beyond me. An ass dredged up from the unemployment roles. But that is how the world works these days. Fools are showered with gold, while honest men are thrown aside. Only superficial, useless things are praised—and that fat criminal, that zucchino from the north, is throwing who knows how many millions or billions into that castle of straw that will be blown away at the first strong wind, taking with it all those unskilled monkeys he has clambering all over it.”

  “So you really think the structure is unsound?”

  “Of course it is. But maybe that doesn’t even mean a damned thing. The truth is that half the buildings you see around you are only held together by Scotch Tape and miracles. The people who build them make pacts with the devil so the things stay upright until they are led into the world beyond. Buildings are no longer constructed for their usefulness, but simply as an advanced form of capitalism. God willing, one day the people will awake and set fire to the lot of them, burning up the architects, the bosses and buildings all in one go.”

  With wild eyes he drained off his wine.

&nbs
p; XXXVIII.

  Nachtman, more than a little tipsy, expelled the woman from his tent—a slim red-head from Ireland, a Sister of Future Well-being. He threw himself down on his bed, closed his eyes, and had a dream.

  In this dream he was on a vast, golden plain. Very sharp and colourful plants grew from the arid soil, which was cracked, scarred by fissures. He wandered forward, crossed bizarre gorges in which flowed rivers of cow skulls or dead crows or remnants of giants and soon came to a city, magnificent in every aspect, yet completely abandoned it would seem. In the centre of the city there was a large castle surrounded by a moat. A drawbridge was let down and a gate uplifted. He crossed over and went within the walls, was soon climbing a corkscrew staircase, the sound of his footsteps echoing with instrumental timbre as up and up he went and then it seemed like the steps began to slip beneath his feet, as he agitated his thin legs faster and the music gained tempo.

  He was now in the middle of a large room. To the sides were suits of grey armour the helmets of which had large beaks and the hands of which clasped huge halberds with blades shaped like moons and stars. In the centre was a throne and on the throne sat a man. The architect looked closer and recognised the great Dr. Körn.

  “I have been watching you,” the doctor said.

  Nachtman raised his eyebrows. “Well, I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Your conscious. Through unprejudiced contemplation…”

  “Let’s not use abusive language.”

  “The Universal Brotherhood of Mankind.”

  “Do you have something to tell me?”

  “Yes. I have a request.”

  The architect became obsequious. “You know I’ll try my best, do whatever I can.”

  “When you make the altar you must pay attention to certain rhythmic occurrences the ideation of which will result in your casting a statue of me. It should be made of solid bronze and be five cubits in height and four in width. At the base of the statue should be laid a girdle of silk finely woven with pomegranates in scarlet needlework, badger skins dyed red, and pieces of sardius and carbuncle. In the midst of the statue, at the level of the breast, you will put a heart derived from a human entity so that the metabolic process can be fulfilled and the Eastern Star aligned with Venus.”

  “And then?”

  “I am just saying…outside the sphere of ordinary consciousness…”

  A greenish light filled the room as did phosphorescent moths and the architect suddenly felt himself tumbling down stairs, falling through space, clutching at octagonal ghosts and triangular phantoms and the skirts of fast moving entities which flitted off into the infinite distance.

  When he awoke, his temples and underarms were moist with sweat. He got out of bed and made his way to his desk, where a half full mug of beer from the evening before sat. After draining off this tepid and bitter liquid, he slipped into his trousers, put on his boots, put a flashlight in his pocket, and went outside. He needed to breathe—to assess his vision, which had left on him a strong impression.

  “Yes, a heart…” he murmured to himself, kneading his hands together.

  The night was warm, silent. The building stood before him, vibrant, colossal—not far from complete.

  Without turning on his flashlight, he walked along the north side, and then entered on the west, stepping carefully, like a man entering a temple—admiring the work he had done almost as if it had been done by another.

  He went along one side quietly, eventually reaching that place where the altar would be and sat down, turned his head up, towards the unfinished dome. Through the great opening the night sky could be seen. Though there were a few wisps of clouds, stars shone.

  Thoughts blossomed and faded in his perverse cranium, which was as fecund as a pile of manure and then presently, sitting there, he noticed a sound, like a dog moving about.

  “Some animal must have got in here,” he reasoned.

  Just then he saw a shape pass quite close to him. A distinctly human shape, moving swiftly towards the Temple of Isis. He rose to his feet and, on tip toe, pursued, his huge ridiculous shadow cast behind him by the moonbeams which streamed in through the opening of the unfinished dome and which also allowed the figure to be seen, now hunched over against one wall.

  The architect extracted his flashlight from his pocket, and flipped on the switch. A beam of strong light shot out, capturing the entity in its glare—a masculine figure with blond hair and a ragged moustache which wilted around his mouth reaching for an unshaven and cleft chin.

  It was Fabrizio Fabrizi. At his feet lay a 25 kg sack of ammonium nitrate fuel oil, pink in colour, which he had just set down.

  “Ah, it’s you!”

  “Yes, it’s me,” the other said, with a look that seemed to be traversing the border of anger and fear, hatred and madness.

  “This building site is off limits to you. You are not welcome here.”

  Fabrizi gave off a short, ugly laugh.

  “I’ve placed explosive charges at all the nerve centres of the building. When they go off…”

  “You really are a mangy animal!”

  Fabrizi stepped towards him menacingly.

  “Help!” the architect shouted. “Help me!”

  But as the sounds came from his mouth, the ex-foreman was on him, throwing him to the ground, muffling his mouth with his hand while digging his knee into his prosperous stomach.

  “I’m going to kill you, wring the life out of you.”

  And Fabrizi set one hand around the throat of the other, began to squeeze him and would undoubtedly have actually killed him if it was not for the fact that the voice of Nachtman had actually been heard, for footsteps were already clattering over the marble flooring, proceeding towards them with excited speed.

  “Worm,” Fabrizi said, digging his thumbs into the throat of the older man.

  Just then two of the Company of Good Men appeared—Sergei the Russian and Pedro from Columbia.

  “Master,” Sergei said in a dull voice. He took in the situation at a glance and moved towards them.

  Fabrizi, seeing he was in danger, let go of his grip on Nachtman, who now gasped for breath, clutched at his throat.

  “Get him,” he croaked. “Get him.”

  But it was Fabrizi who attacked first, throwing a punch at Sergei, which landed squarely on the Russian’s cheek. The brute only grinned. The tendons on his neck were like ropes. A moment later and the ex-foreman was in his hands.

  Fabrizi tried to struggle, but it was useless. He was strong, but the other was vastly stronger and with ease twisted the Italian down to the ground.

  “What should we do with him?” Pedro asked.

  The architect recalled his dream and the words of Dr. Körn.

  “Take out the bastard’s heart if he has one.”

  And as it was said, so it was done, this thing being preserved in a casket and the architect set his energies to the great statue into which it was to be installed, which, with the help of a few assistants, he hastily made out of plaster of Paris, before having it cast into a single enormous piece of bronze—a thing which looked somewhat futuristic—sharp lines and deep grooves. The face was solemn, eagle-like—slightly imitative of Rodin’s Balzac. The object was certainly grotesque and had a vague quality difficult to decipher, like some archaic representation of fertility or pain to be offered oil and blood sacrifice.

  XXXIX.

  As the structure neared completion, the number of workers rapidly decreased—all eager to sacrifice their physical beings to that demon-building whose entire purpose it would seem was to help depopulate the world. A solemnity ruled the place. Not only were there no smiles or laughter, but there was hardly any speech. Most communication was done by signs. A nod of the head; a jerk of an arm. The wind swept over the mountain, its lonely whistle audible as it blew over the crags and against the walls, interwrapped the towers.

  One by one those workers disappeared, were transmuted, not into gods or trees, not into flower
s or birds, but rather bricks dull-red in colour which mute, without even the echo of a whisper, found their place atop that grotesque megastructure, that drunken lump of stone and flesh.

  The Company of Good Men, having been prohibited from sacrificing themselves, with promises of a special place amongst the elect, worked with an almost superhuman force and in the end, aside from the board members themselves, it was only these that were left, these formidable troglodytes who had, through continuous labour, through vast artificial means, become things it would have been difficult to call human. They seemed to make the earth quake when they walked and their craniums rested on huge necks which in turn descended into pillars of muscle. These fellows now gave up almost all sleep, only napping for ten minutes every now and again, and spent all their time up on the heights of the structure, putting in place the bricks that were hoisted up to them with a crane which was operated by Nachtman himself.

  Enheim and Borromeo lent all their time, helped put into place those last blocks made from workers who but a short time before had been by their sides, and it was something marvellous indeed to see these individuals mounted atop the great building, crawling over its dome in excitement, fearless—recklessly going about the work as if the fate of the world rested in their hands.

  The sun watched throughout the day; the moon at night.

  And finally, the work was all but finished…

  “We will place the last stone, the capstone, tomorrow,” Nachtman said.

  “And then it will be done,” added Dr. Enheim, an odd, hollow note in his voice.

  “Yes, it will be.”

  “And the real work can be begun. Gathering new recruits to our ranks and inaugurating a new era—when the people of the world can be united under our banner, be taught to adhere to our philosophy.”