Scorpio Rising

by Monique Domovitch

  “Aie! Mon mec, vous voulez des fleurs pour une jolie demoiselle?” a flower merchant called out to him.

  At a street corner, a small waif of a girl sang in a woman's voice, full of adult passion. “N'oublis jamais le jour où on s'est connu…”

  “Par ici monsieur. Venez, entrez,” a small bar owner beckoned.

  He shook his head, completely baffled by the torrent of sounds. A few feet further, his stomach rumbled, and he was seduced into a small boulangerie by the enticing aroma of freshly baked petit pains au chocolat. Later, he sat by the banks of the Seine and fed the remaining crumbs to the pigeons.

  Over the past few days of sightseeing, he gradually felt a better understanding and respect for the distinct flavor of Paris. Only then did he feel ready to go to the left bank, to the proposed site of the new project. He brushed off the crumbs from his trousers and went in search of a Métro.

  On a city block smaller than any he had ever seen in New York was the handful of medieval buildings scheduled to be torn down. Unless the plan I suggest is accepted. He pulled out a measuring tape, a pad of paper and began to take notes. He walked around the structures and recorded their details.

  The stones were old and black with age. Caved-in roofs and cracked foundations inspired him. What windows remained had long lost their panes and most of their framework. The doorways were astonishingly small and low. Still, even after years of neglect, the structures had an undeniable charm and beauty that time failed to erode.

  How can anyone think of destroying these monuments? Alex wondered, outraged. They are history. He measured, calculated and recorded the figures he needed. Satisfied, he put away his notebook and headed back to the small hotel.

  As he walked into La Petite Tuillerie, he felt almost at home. He waved a greeting to Madame Durand behind the front desk and she rewarded him with one of her rare smiles. In his room, he settled down to a night's work by lamplight.

  On the appointed morning, his stomach churned with croissants et brioches, his portfolio was thick with last minute sketches, and his soul burst with nervous anticipation. Shaking, Alex walked into the large, prestigious offices of Modern Design & Architecture, on the Avenue George V.

  The reception was a modern area with floor-to-ceiling columns, diffused lighting, and a turquoise Formica desk upon which sat an elaborate floral arrangement. Against the wall was a row of modern steel and leather chairs. A collection of Modern Design & Architecture magazines were neatly piled on a coffee table. The receptionist—a young woman with rhinestone glasses—looked up when Alex walked in.

  “I’m Alex Ivanov. I have an appointment with Frédérique Marchant.”

  “Un instant, s'il vous plait Monsieur.”

  Alex sat and waited. He pulled out his Berlitz translator and flipped it open. Moments later, a tall, thin man stepped out of an office.

  “Je peux vous aider?”

  “Bonn-joor, jay oon randy-voose…” Alex stopped, confused and looked in his book.

  The man burst into laughter. “That has to be the worse French I've ever heard,” he exclaimed.

  “And I’m sure you've heard some pretty bad French in your life, right?” added Alex, embarrassed. “I guess I won't need this.” He indicated his translation book.

  “Please, do yourself a favor and throw it in the garbage. Now, who is it you want to see?”

  “I have an appointment with Frédérique Marchant.”

  “And you are?”

  “Alexander Ivanov. My friends call me Alex.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alex. I am Frédérique Marchant. Come, I'll introduce you to the others.” He led him into a conference room where three other men were gathered around a small round table. “Have a seat, Alex.”

  Alex went around the table and sat between two of the men. Frédérique, despite his lanky frame, had surprisingly beautiful features. He remained standing and waited for every one's attention. Clearing his throat, he began the meeting. “I would like to introduce you to my assistant on this project, Jean Pierre Fauchon.”

  The plain little man with a receding hairline looked up from a thick stack of papers, nodded, looked around the room and rested his eyes on Alex. Expressionless, he went back to his papers.

  Frédérique continued. “Jean Pierre is in charge of the contest. Questions and special requests are to be addressed to him.

  “I would like to congratulate Alex Ivanov of New York, Darren Bishop of Birmingham, and Guillermo Bernardi of Palermo for being this year's finalists in our annual Architecture and Design International Contest. And a special mention to monsieur Bernardi for his perseverance. This is his third time as a finalist in the contest.” The two other finalists looked at him. Bernardi stared back determinedly.

  Frédérique continued. “Winning is not everything. Being chosen as a finalist is a great honor in itself. Most of the past finalists, as Guillermo can attest, have moved on to international careers. Since his first time here seven years ago, he has become one of the busiest architects on the continent.”

  Guillermo smiled. “I'm hoping my third time around will be the charm.” Although the words were congenial, Alex detected resentment in the Italian's voice.

  Frédérique continued. “The criteria for this competition are elementary. Superior architectural design must have esthetic beauty without jarring its surroundings. Practical aspects such as cost and efficiency are also important. Each one of you has presented ideas that combine those ingredients. You were invited here to complete your plans with the full cooperation of this office and the city of Paris's planning committee. You will be allowed to study firsthand the environs of the proposed project. You will meet with the members of the planning committee and finally each of you will have the opportunity to make your own presentation. The reason of today's meeting is to welcome you and help acquaint you with a few of the city's concerns about this project. You have two months to prepare for the official presentation to the city.

  “A press conference has been scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning. It will take place at the building site. Thank you and good luck. Now, Jean Pierre has a few words to say.”

  Jean Pierre took the floor. He shuffled his papers for a minute, cleared his throat and launched into a long and detailed brief of the Paris building code. Alex pulled out a pencil and paper to take notes. After the meeting, the finalists had the opportunity to chat over coffee and to get their first look at each other's designs.

  From the doorway, where he stood watching, Frédérique studied them. The finalists were an oddly mismatched group.

  Guillermo Bernardi, a middle-aged overweight man with over thirty years experience in the profession, enjoyed a noted reputation as one of Italy's leading architects, greatly enhanced by having been twice selected as one of the Modern Design & Architecture finalists.

  Bernardi was studying Darren Bishop's plans. “Very nice,” he said, in a superior tone. “But I prefer modern structures similar to Le Corbusier's. I don't like all this tra-la-la.” He punctuated his remark with a slap to the blueprint. “Concrete! Now that's what I like to use. It is inexpensive yet solid. If an architect cannot give grace to a building without using expensive materials, he lacks imagination.”

  Although Darren Bishop was barely in his thirties, his hair was completely white. He was also as thin as Guillermo Bernardi was large. Those characteristics, combined with his habit of dressing in an almost old-fashioned way, gave him a distinct air of aloof nobility.

  Now, towering over Guillermo, he replied calmly. “Really? Concrete? I detest it.” He gently but firmly pulled his plans from Guillermo's hands and put them back down on the table.

  Standing nearby, Alex Ivanov had movie-star good looks with dark hair, brushed back to show off his perfect chiseled features. Being the youngest, he was certainly the dark horse in this competition, yet, Frédérique noted, he looked intelligent and self-assured.

  Alex listened attentively as the two other contestants espoused the merits of each
other's diametrically opposed opinions. They had obviously dismissed him as a competitor, and neither had bothered looking at his sketches. He inched closer and discreetly studied their plans.

  After a moment, Frédérique strolled over to Alex. “I know you have less experience, but don't be intimidated. I have rarely seen a proposal of such inspiration as the one you submitted. I have no idea if the building committee will agree with me, but if they do, you have just as good a chance of winning as they do.” Frédérique gave him a pat on the back and wandered off.

  From across the room, Jean Pierre watched Frédérique's hand rest on Alex's back for a second longer than necessary before he walked away.

  At the door, Frédérique Marchant turned and cleared his throat again. “Lunch will be here shortly. I wish I could join you, but I have work to do. Bon appétit, everybody,” he said, and left.

  Jean Pierre hurried out of the room after Frédérique and caught up with him in his office. “Alors?”

  “Alors, I think we have three exceptionally talented architects,” Frédérique answered casually. “Call Paul Leduc at Paris Match. See if he'll give us a story.”

  Jean Pierre hesitated. “What do you think of the American?”

  Frédérique looked up from his appointment calendar. “Jealous, are we?” He patted Jean Pierre on the behind and picked up a large folder from his desk. “Don't be ridiculous. Call me tonight. Maybe we can get together.” It was Jean Pierre's signal to leave.

  * * *

  The next morning, Alex hurried through his morning shower-and-shave and rushed all the way to the left bank where he found Frédérique and Jean Pierre already waiting with the photographer. Guillermo and Darren arrived moments later. Neither of them appeared any happier to be there than he did. The three finalists stood in front of the medieval building and posed for the camera.

  What the heck am I doing here? Alex wondered. He felt acutely uncomfortable standing before a camera. I should be working instead of wasting my time here.

  The reporter asked Frédérique a few questions, then left, leaving the photographer to finish snapping the pictures.

  “Vraiment, don't look so gloomy. This is important.” Frédérique called out impatiently to the finalists. “I'm sure you know about the power of the media. I want to make sure that whenever somebody mentions this project, your names are associated with it. Do you understand? Now be good boys and smile.”

  Alex cringed. There was some underlying tone in Frédérique's comments that were blatantly patronizing. He gritted his teeth, pulled back his shoulders and fixed a wide smile on his face.

  Frédérique's eyes swept over the group and paused on Guillermo. “Guillermo, my dear man, why don't you try standing sideways,” he called out. Guillermo looked stricken. “Oh, don't look at me like that. It is only for your own good. Sideways you will look twenty kilos thinner.” His eyes moved on to Darren Bishop. “Darren, whatever possessed you to wear such a tie? Oh, and Alex, that's a great suit you're wearing. Great style.” Frédérique was going out of his way to make Alex’s competitors uncomfortable.

  He's enjoying this, Alex realized, surprised. As Alex watched Frédérique, he failed to notice the look of pure hatred in Jean Pierre's eyes.

  I have to find a way to keep Frédérique far from him, thought Jean Pierre.

  The photographer took a few more pictures and declared the session over. Alex picked up his portfolio, which he had once again brought needlessly, and looked at his watch. It was already noon. Half the day had gone by, and he still had hours of work to do. At this rate, I'll never finish in time.

  * * *

  The worst part of being an architect was the constant hunching over papers. Sometimes Alex felt like his back was about to break. Still he sketched on, hour after hour, day after day, always bending over the rickety table. The old chair Madame Durand had given him was hard and uncomfortable. If not for the money I'm saving, I'd be at the George V, too. He sat up, stretched his back, and pulled his arms over his head in an effort to relax his tense muscles.

  He was in a miserable mood. None of his sketches satisfied him. He rubbed his eyes and for the hundredth time, looked down at the sheet of paper before him.

  The idea was simple enough. He wanted to keep the existing medieval buildings and join their exterior walls around the entire city block. He planned to design large and elegant entrances to allow easy access to the main structure. Inside, the small, restored medieval houses would be transformed into quaint, individual boutiques. The entire complex would be a park-like area complete with a waterfall, a wishing-well, park benches, and growing trees. To further the impression of natural surroundings while allowing plenty of daylight, the roof would be constructed green-house style, all glass. The idea was simple, but with his limited experience in large construction, every technical detail became an obstacle.

  A knock at the door dispersed his morose thoughts.

  Madame Durand appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “Téléphone pour vous,” she said and promptly disappeared.

  Alex hurried to the front desk and picked up the receiver. “Bonjour Alex? It's Jean Pierre. Frédérique wants you to meet us at Maxime's for dinner. He's arranging for a photographer to be there, so don't be late. Then we go on to the Moulin Rouge for the late show and a few more publicity pictures.”

  “I'll be there.” Alex put down the telephone, and wondered if Guillermo and Darren were any further ahead with their plans than he was.

  * * *

  Maxime's was a restaurant like none other Alex had ever seen. The place was packed with a multitude of small tables and large overstuffed chairs. The room was filled with so much silver and crystal it seemed to sparkle.

  Frédérique patted the seat next to his. “Sit here, Alex.”

  Alex felt out of place in such elegant surroundings. “Thanks. Nice place.”

  “I thought you might like it.” Frédérique smiled and his beautiful face glowed. He handed Alex a heavily embossed menu. “Go ahead. Order whatever you want.”

  During the meal, waiters hovered nearby, catering to their customers’ every need. I could learn to like this, thought Alex, reveling in the luxurious surroundings.

  From across the table, Jean Pierre watched his every move, surreptitiously. “So how do you like Paris?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I love it. I love the city, the food, everything,” replied Alex.

  “How about French women?” prodded Jean Pierre.

  Alex shrugged. “Sure. But I haven't had time to meet any.”

  Jean Pierre's smile widened. “Did you hear that, Frédérique? Alex would like to meet some French women.” Frédérique was engrossed in a conversation with Guillermo and did not answer. Minutes later when the group left the famous restaurant and headed for their next stop, Frédérique seemed disturbed. Jean Pierre, on the other hand, wore a victorious little smile.

  * * *

  The Moulin Rouge, one of Paris's most famous nightspots, was a large, smoky, cavernous room filled to overflowing with small tables. Every night on a lavishly decorated stage, beautiful women danced and sang in scanty feather and sequin costumes. The floorshow was one of the city's most famous attractions.

  This was a special occasion. Not only had Paris Match agreed to send a photographer, but they had also promised Frédérique a feature story about Modern Design & Architecture's contribution to an important real-estate project for the city.

  At the famous nightclub, Frédérique used his influence to reserve a table in the front row. “Bring us a bottle of Dom Perignon,” he ordered. “I feel like celebrating tonight.”

  At that moment, the lights dimmed and the music began. A spotlight focused on the center of the curtain as it lifted on a row of barely dressed spectacular women. Frédérique leaned in. “These dancers are magnificent.” Slowly the mirrored platform began to revolve as the dancers’ choreography became more intricate. The effect was mesmerizing. The entire stage became a giant kaleidoscope. Dozens o
f naked legs moved in perfect unity, reflecting on the mirrored ceiling.

  Alex sat in the front row, totally captivated.

  “So you like the women of Paris, Alex?” asked Frédérique, over the music.

  “I never saw women like these in New York,” replied Alex, in awe.

  “Some say a man hasn't lived until he's had a French woman.”

  Something in Frédérique's voice made Alex turn around. “I guess that means I haven't lived. But then, I’ve only been here a few days.”