The Architect

by Jerome Richard

  A week later, when the invitation arrived, Jones was in his office trying to decide if putting an arch at the end of the civic oval was too imitative of the Champs Elysée. The hearing was to be in two weeks at 6 p.m., the public invited. Wondering when people in Seattle ate dinner, he e-mailed his acceptance.

  The morning of the hearing an op-ed column in the Seattle Times by Millicent Mondelay blasted the proposed boulevard as “a threat to the very soul of our city.” It would, she proclaimed, destroy historic buildings, divide downtown, and put Seattle on the path to being to being another one of those anonymous modern cities like Dubai or Houston.

  She was outside City Hall, picketing along with members of Save Our Seattle, when Jones arrived. He winked at her and she gave him the finger. Jones laughed.

  Members of the Planning Committee were present along with four council members. Mittingale called the hearing to order and introduced Elizabeth Trimble. Standing before a screen on which was projected a map of downtown Seattle, she explained the history of the project. “The council decided that the city needed a new convention center,” she began, and then went on to describe the deliberations by the Planning Committee and the addition of the proposed new boulevard by Templeton Jones. “I now call upon Mr. Jones to tell us about his idea.”

  Jones waited until the audience began to murmur and council president Mittingale asked if Mr. Jones was present. Then he stood up, went to the podium, and pulled a disc from the inside pocket of his bright blue suit. “If I may...” he said, and without waiting for a response inserted the disc into the computer Trimble had used to project an image of downtown Seattle. He faced the Council and said: “I am withdrawing the boulevard proposal.”

  Councilman Rogers said “Yea!” Mittingale put his hand on Roger’s arm to restrain him, but there were also murmurs in the audience, a mixture of cheers and groans.

  “I bring you instead a new vision for downtown Seattle.”

  People looked mostly at each other, as if someone besides Jones might know what he was talking about.

  “Here is what you have now,” Jones said, pressing a key on the computer and projecting a view of the major avenue stretching from Mercer Street to downtown. “A sorry collection of undistinguished office building, vacant lots, warehouses, car lots, and the closer you get to downtown, strip clubs and fast food restaurants. And at the end, the climax, the center of the city? An incongruous little arch fronting a poor excuse for a park.”

  “And what do you propose?” Trimble asked.

  Jones pressed the computer key again and a sketch of his civic oval appeared on the screen. There was the small, tree-shaded pond, the café with its outdoor tables, the technology museum, the out-of-town newspaper and magazine stand, a food cart, benches and chairs, and a circle indicating a place for a commissioned sculpture. Leading into and out of the oval were the ends of his boulevard and the beginnings of a new street.”

  “The boulevard is still there!” protested Rogers.

  “Would you rather have people enter this magnificent city center via this?” Jones responded, returning the screen to the previous scene.

  “What’s wrong with Seattle Center?” yelled someone in the audience.

  “Seattle Center is quite nice,” Jones said. “But it’s not in the heart of the city and its attractions are too diverse and scattered to be the heart of a great city.”

  “What happens to all the stores that are there now?” someone shouted.

  “Some will stay around the oval, others will relocate.”

  Syd Snyder stood up, waving his Save Our Seattle poster, and yelled: “This is worse than the damn boulevard idea. It will destroy the soul of the city.”

  “Is this the soul of the city?” Jones demanded, pointing to the slide of the current downtown. “Yes, sometimes you have to destroy in order to build. That’s what happened in Paris and look at it now.”

  The woman seated next to Snyder stood up.

  “Who wants to be like Paris?” she demanded. As she followed Snyder and several other audience members out of the hearing room, she looked back and said, “They speak French!”

  Audience members began arguing with each other and shouting questions at Jones until Mittingale banged his gavel and threatened to clear the room. As the room grew quiet, the members of the council began arguing with each other. Mittingale was about to bang his gavel again when Elizabeth Trimble stood up and announced that she had a motion to offer.

  “I move that we ask Mr. Jones to make a formal proposal, complete with drawings, specifications, and estimated costs, after which we will put the whole matter-- Convention Center and Civic Oval—to a vote of the people.”

  “Hear, hear,” said a sleepy Stan Williams, and the motion passed 7-2.

  32

  Jones spent the winter filling in the details of his grand plan. Several times a month he would walk over to the area of his proposed oval to do site analysis. He carried a sketch pad and would outline different ideas about where to put the museum, the fountain, and the café, then he would hurry back to the office and draw the result again on drafting paper. New commissions were passed off to his assistant so he could concentrate on the Civic Oval.

  When he was satisfied, he painted a picture of the oval and surrounding buildings in water colors, took a photo of it and put it on his computer. Estimating costs was trickier. He consulted several contractors and included an average of their estimates in his proposal. No doubt the figure was low, but that was all part of the game.

  The holiday decorations and a dusting of snow reminded him that it was almost Christmas. In the past he always bought personal presents for his staff, bottles of good wine, books, ear-rings, but he was so obsessed with his grand plan that he did not have time to shop and gave everyone a simple bonus. Among the cards he received from clients and friend was one from Martin. The salutation was “Dear Dad,” and it said how much he enjoyed his visit and that Shaina sent her regards. Jones stared at the card with tears beginning to pool in his eyes. What have I missed? he wondered. He did not usually send out cards, but that afternoon he went to the store and addressed one to Shaina and Martin, signing it “Love, Templeton.”

  Christmas day was spent putting together the paperwork, adding a link to the video at his firm’s website, and addressing it all in e-mails to the members of the City Council. When he was finished he called Arlene and got her answering machine.

  “It’s me, Templeton,” he said. “You were right, I am not ready to settle down, probably never will be, but if you are willing to settle up (Too glib? he wondered) I would love to see you. We can be friends. Good friends. Give me a call and let me know when we can get together.”

  He waited. Some people listen to their answering machine and then pick up the phone. After half a minute or so, he hung up.

  The week between Christmas and New Years was a lonely one for Jones. The office was closed. He spent the days at home, staring out at the bay or sketching ideas for the new capitol building in Peru. At night, he went to bars but was turned away from the one woman he thought looked interesting enough to approach by her boyfriend. He thought of calling Millicent Mondelay, but could not bring himself to do it. He called Arlene again, but she hung up on him. Two days before New Years, he called Marge and suggested an office party with the whole staff. “I think most of us have other plans,” she said.

  When the phone rang he grabbed it. “Yes?” he shouted.

  It was Elizabeth Trimble. She had been looking over his plans for a civic oval and had some suggestions she wanted to make before the council took up the matter. Could they get together for coffee.

  “Yes,” he said. “Would you like to come here?”

  There was a long pause before she said, “How about the lounge at the Sheraton?”

  And then check in? he thought. “Very good. I will be there in an hour.”

  With a toothbrush in his jacket pocket, he entered the hotel lounge and looked around. She was not there. Of c
ourse, he thought. She would keep me waiting.” He was about to leave when she appeared in the lobby wearing a black raincoat and matching cap. She was carrying a large sketch pad. Jones did not recognize her at first. At the City Council hearing she had brown, shoulder-length hair; now, blond bangs peeked out from under her cap and lipstick that was almost purple surrounded her mouth that last time he saw her looked more likely to bite than kiss. Trimble spotted him and waved.

  “What do you have there?” he asked, pointing to the sketch pad and fearing the answer.

  “It’s an idea I had for your civic oval. I think you will love it.”

  She put the pad down on the table in front of him, doffed her cap, wiggled out of her raincoat, and sat down next to him. Then she turned back the cover of the sketch pad, revealing an outline of the oval with various tiny geometric shapes indicating the features Jones had suggested. In the center was a circle surrounded by a larger circle.

  “I don’t get it,” Jones said.

  Snuggling closer to him, she turned the page. There was a rough drawing of a tower spouting water from its sides and topped by something that looked like a rocket.

  “I’m not a good artist,” she said, “and I am not set on the shape, but I thought a rocket would like symbolize the future. You might have a better design. Or we could enlist a sculptor. But the idea is to have a tower that would echo the Space Needle. I even thought we could arrange a beam that would go from one tower to the other, perhaps triggering changing colored lights. What do you think?

  He looked into her eyes and then back at the sketch.

  “How about a giant umbrella?” he said. “We could hang chairs from it that would revolve like one of those amusement park rides.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” she said, some excitement in her voice.

  “Well, think about it,” he said, getting up and leaving without looking back.

  New Year’s eve he went to a bar and nursed a martini while he looked at the couples dancing and talking loudly. For once, he thought, they have put away their iPhones and are actually seeing each other. Then he noticed a woman leaning over the bar who was staring at her phone. He made his way to her and said, “Good evening. I hope I am not intruding.”

  “What’s to intrude?” she said, putting away her phone.

  Her hair was the color of dark chocolate and was cut short on one side so that it seemed to be pulling her to the right. Jones stood on that side of her and thought of using a bar napkin to blot the tears trying to escape her eyes, but she dug a tissue from her purse and did that herself. He saw now that her face was more full than it appeared in profile, something like an adolescent’s that had persevered into adulthood.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kathy. What’s yours?”

  “Uh, Tom,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  She said she was a student at the university studying economics. When he observed that she appeared to be a little old to be an undergraduate, she explained that she had gone back to school after a nasty divorce.

  “And what do you do?” she asked.

  He wanted to tell her, to point out some of the buildings he had designed and to describe his idea for a civic oval, but it seemed too soon.

  “I manage a mutual fund,” he said, “and I collect art. Would you like to see my collection?”

  Jones called for a taxi. At his condo he poured white wine and arranged cheese and crackers on a tray while she admired the view.

  “To the new year,” they said, clinking wine glasses.

  “Turn on the TV,” Kathy said. “Let’s see the celebration in Times Square.”

  Jones looked at his watch. “It’s almost two o’clock in the morning there. New Years is all over in New York. Besides, I don’t have a television.”

  “No TV? What do you watch?”

  “My imagination.”

  For the next minute they just stared at each other until Jones began pointing to the pictures on his walls.

  “That’s a Miró,” he said. “Perhaps you saw the exhibition of his work at the Museum recently. That one is a Mark Tobey. On that wall is a Thomas Wood.” He looked at the Miró, a wavy red line flowing through slanted blue lines, and straightened it out.

  She studied each painting as he pointed at them, asking questions about the artist and the meaning of the work. There was also a framed photograph of his church on the wall, but she didn’t ask about it, and he did not tell her he designed it. When the art lesson was finished she took a seat on the couch and held out her wine glass.

  In bed, a short time later, she teased him with fluttery kisses all over his body. He kissed her breasts, rolled over on top of her, and when fire crackers down in the street signaled the beginning of the new year he matched the explosions with one of his own.

  They were both breathing too rapidly to speak. Finally, still gasping, he got up to go to the bathroom. When he returned, she appeared to be asleep. When Jones kissed her, she opened her eyes, smiled, and went back to sleep.

  In the morning, ready for more sex, he snuggled up to what had been her pillow. Jones opened his eyes and saw that he was alone in the bedroom. He wanted to call out to her but could not remember her name, so he got up, put on a bathrobe, and went to search the condo. Not finding her, he thought Oh, well, easy come..., and put the coffee on. Then he sat down on the couch under the Miró The newspaper was on the coffee table. Apparently, she had brought it in. Very thoughtful. As he began to read, a terrible realization took hold of him. He stood up and stared at the wall above the couch. The Miró was gone.

  He ran back to the nightstand by his bed where he kept his phone. Where his wallet should have been there was a note:

  Happy New Year

  Kathy

  33

  Council president Mittingale looked out at the sparsely occupied council chamber, glanced at the brief agenda, thought what a waste of time this was, and called the session to order. A petition from neighbors in the north end of the city to finally put in sidewalks was acknowledged, a request from a developer to allow a new condominium along the waterfront to rise three stories higher that permitted by zoning regulations in return for adding twelve low-cost units was referred to committee, and a commendation to officer Cyrus Jones for saving a mother and daughter from a burning building was approved.

  “If there is no other business...” Mittingale said with his gavel raised, “I hereby...”

  “I have an item,” interrupted Elizabeth Trimble.”

  People in the process of leaving the chamber stopped. Mittingale, looking annoyed, asked her to state her business.

  “I take great pride,” Trimble said, leaning into her microphone, “in presenting a proposal for the revitalization of our great city.” She looked around the chamber for Jones, but he was not there.

  The other council members looked at each other; audience members reclaimed their seats.

  “Lights!” Trimble commanded.

  The chamber lights dimmed and on the screen on the wall above where the council members sat was projected a title:

  The Trimble-Jones Plan for a New City Centre

  Council members had to turn and twist their necks to see it. “What the...! exclaimed Rogers.

  “Action!” Trimble cried.

  The screen showed an animated person apparently walking down an expanded Westlake Boulevard with trees and an occasional food cart along the sides. Suddenly, the boulevard opened up to a large oval. The walker entered the oval and paused to look around. He fed the fish in the pond, bought a newspaper at the kiosk, and took a seat on one of the oval’s benches. Then the scene shifted to a sky shot showing the entire oval with a rocket-shaped structure in the middle, a light streaming from the top and pointed at Seattle Center. Returning to street-level, the walker continued on, pausing to pat on the head a little girl playing in a sand box, and then exiting through an arch at the other end of the oval.

  When the video ended there was for a long mo
ment complete silence in the chamber. Suddenly, one person in the audience started clapping, then another, and another. It was answered by someone booing. People got to their feet and started pointing at each other. An old man used his cane to poke at an even older woman until a young man in a backwards baseball cap intervened. Mittingale banged his gavel and ordered the chamber cleared.

  When order was restored, Mittingale moved that the Trimble-Jones plan be referred to the planning committee.

  The meeting adjourned, Trimble rushed to her office to call Jones. There was no answer.

  35

  She called three times in the weeks that followed. The third time she left a message: “Jonesey, I know you’re listening. Are you angry because I put my name first? I know it was mostly your idea, but ‘Jones-Trimble’ is a little awkward, don’t you think? I mean the rhythm of it is wrong. I’ll change it if you insist.” She waited for a response. Hearing nothing, not even breathing on the other end, she hung up.

  Meanwhile, the Planning Committee suggested putting the matter of the new civic oval to a referendum. The City Council voted five to four to put it on the April ballot along with a supplemental levy for street maintenance and an election for a new member of the school board to replace the chair who quit without notice and was located a month later in Hawaii.

  Pro and con committees formed immediately. The pro committee was called United for Seattle, or US. The anti committee took the name Not in Our Town. With so little time until the vote, the campaign was intense. NOT enlisted the support of those stores and businesses that would be affected by the construction. US plastered social media with the video of the planned center. Each side held rallies on the site of the proposed oval. Polls showed a majority of voters undecided. The question many asked was, Where is Templeton Jones?

  Trimble tried calling Jones again. His answering machine said: I'm not available right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call one way or another. Wait for the beep. There was no beep.