Perfect Architect

by Jayne Joso

  She woke to the smell of fresh coffee moving through the various units and then the sound of Tom’s voice from the floor below, “I don’t know if you can hear me, I was ju-st saying, I’m not so used to the fresh stuff, but I think I’m getting to grips with the mech-anics of it.” His voice was nearing, “Shall I, should I… well I was gonna suggest some music?” He reached the doorway, “But on second thoughts, that’s… probably in-… appropriate… just got such a gigantic music system in this place. I’ve never been around inside before. Of course, I….”

  Gaia smiled, Tom seemed so childlike and yet, she assumed, he must be about her age. Somehow the news of Charles’ death, the letters, and telling Tom, all took the shape of strange fictional details and having wept so deeply she now felt deplete of emotion, any at all. No pain, love, nor worry, just a peculiar state of equanimity. She didn’t want to analyse it. No emotion, and somehow that just seemed to fit.

  Tom stood, his cheeks pink, feeling something akin to the awkwardness of a boy on the first day of something a bit too unfamiliar. Noticing; and then without meaning to, Gaia laughed.

  “What’s funny? Are you alright Mrs Ore?” She sat up, sensing the distance made by his formality. She wanted him to call her Gaia, but she didn’t say.

  “That tray must be heavy,” she pointed to a table, “I’m sorry I laughed, I don’t know why…”

  “It doesn’t matter, I don’t think it’s easy for you right now.” He sucked up a breath, “I can’t stay… I…”

  Gaia sensed his feeling ill at ease, “No, no, of course… of course, but thank you…”

  “Oh it’s nothing. I just felt, sort of… well, duty bound, to check you was alright that’s… all, and you’re alright?”

  “Yes, yes, and thank you… for being so kind.”

  He blushed again and withdrew from the room. Then as he left the house he called out again, he’d leave the keys near the mail on the table by the main door. The door slammed cleanly.

  Mail, new mail.

  Gaia bolted down the stairs, took up the envelopes almost without seeing them, and returned to the room. She let them fall onto the bed, then turned her back on them. Sudden resistance. Fear perhaps.

  She breathed deeply, her eyes settling on a blanket, she pulled it around her shoulders and decided to try Tom’s coffee first, now almost stubbornly ignoring the letters as they lay. – It made no sense. – But the contents of a letter, though very rarely, can sometimes cut too deep. She exhaled. Yes, a necessary delay.

  Pouring the coffee, she began to look about the room. This, Charles’ bedroom, was also called creative-unit-four, he numbered the rooms he worked in, there were seven in all. He had three actual workrooms, units, but somehow the entire building had given over its other functions to make still more space for their creative inhabitant. Kitchen, bathroom and so on, became almost redundant terms. The trouble was that cooking and bathing still had to happen despite the models, sketches, mappings, screens, and yet more models.

  Behind a huge stretched-out roll of drafting paper, Gaia found a stack of heavy boxes. Dusty boxes. Dust wasn’t especially unusual, Charles refused to have some areas of the units disturbed at all, and cleaning, by himself or anyone else, he found intensely disturbing.

  She pulled one box out and blew at the dust. Lifted the lid. Letters. A full box-set of Selené. Pain shot up in her chest. She dropped the lid, went back to her own room and picked up her cigarettes.

  Nicotine imbibed, she returned and began to tug at two other boxes, and damn her! There she was, entombed, enshrined, cut up and shared between three boxes, but not dead. And who knows, there might be more. She lashed the paper out of the way, kicked at model boxes, but no, there didn’t appear to be any more. Selené – you fit into three boxes. You fit inside three boxes, and you fit into Charles’ life, but how much of it? All of it? Have you always known him, known him longer than I have, better than I have?

  She pulled at the letters, but was too distressed to open them, and in no mind to deal with the contents. Overwhelmed by the sheer amount, by what that meant, or had meant, or might mean, she pushed the letters back beside their dusty companions.

  The cigarettes kept her hands busy, the coffee now made her shake. What to do? – Defeated, what greater harm could new mail do? – She went back to the bed and finally opened up the letters. Just bills. She clutched them to her chest. Strange to feel comforted by letters from the bank, the gas and electric supplier. She held on to them as she moved to look up and around this his favourite room, wondering now, just who had been the man that she had married?

  Charles Ore had passed away without having achieved his ‘home’, and long before his potential could be realised, as architect, as intellectual, as man. He had fulfilled the dreams of many men’s lifetimes by the age of forty, but Charles’ potency had been that of his list of ‘the great men of history’ – of Cusanus, Gropius, Rabindranath Tagore, Shostakovich, Lenin, Tom Waits… and Philip Roth, as he would say, to name but a few, and now it was cut short.

  There was no corresponding list of great women, and Selené had suggested with great pride that these might simply have been too many to list. The real truth lay in Charles’ belief that greatness, in all its philosophical dimensions at least, was limited to and encapsulated in the one consistent and overriding influence in his life, and that of course, was her, his dear beloved Selené.

  Gaia now rose early to check the mail, but still nothing came from Selené. She quickly realised that Selené might actually be waiting for Charles’ reply… to the last of the three. For would she know that Charles had passed away?

  The sympathy cards piled up, arriving now from all over the world, from colleagues, rivals, friends from way back, from people Gaia did and did not know. A few even from admirers of Charles’ work, fans you could say. Gaia thought it strange, but so it was with some of the more avant-garde architects, they were regarded for their brilliance in a way that seldom happened anymore, and certainly not outside the world of the architectural elite. Charles, ever cynical, would comment gruffly, “It seems we live in the shallows, and the present is too much given over only to celebrating the superficial… how people look… what they wear, dumb-ass branding and marketing… all the trash of modern life in place of talent, intellect and real hard work!”

  Gaia felt a moment of pride in the cards and letters from his fans, perhaps Charles had re-elevated the status of the architect. Re-elevation, she smiled, the architect would have liked that. She moved through memories of times when she had caught his attention, when he had been interested or amused by things she had said. He hadn’t always been only irritated by her. She wiped away an affectionate tear and smiled at one of his photographs, a more natural shot taken by a photographer from a broadsheet, she tried to recall which one. There had been many, and most were posed, half-shadow shots that somehow only ever revealed one persona, and it was not her favourite. Not Charles.

  Chapter Three

  The Widow’s Letter

  In the coming weeks a body was shipped, funeral arranged, attended, and Charles, buried. In the days that followed that, pangs of guilt as Gaia’s thoughts about Selené shifted in emphasis. Perhaps she should have contacted her. Written to her. After all, Selené might not have known Charles was married, she might have been lied to, or at least kept in the dark about his wife’s existence, as she had Selené’s. Sympathy, but it was only momentary.

  Charles had possibly lived a double life, but lies or none, it was Gaia that had been left to make all the arrangements, organise things, sort out legal matters, have his office advised as to how things were to continue in compliance with the will. And yet, if Selené had been duped, that made her an innocent, and though her right to grief was something Gaia questioned, she would undoubtedly feel some, whatever the rights and wrongs. She may even feel as much as Gaia, perhaps more.

 
What had she done?

  She should have let Selené know. She should have invited her to the funeral. But that would have been too much to bear, still, she should have let her know.

  She wandered through the units, picking things up, careful as she had always been, to put them back where she found them for fear of being scolded like a small inquisitive child – forgetting, in that moment, that he was dead.

  Since finding the boxes, she had not returned to them, withered by the mere knowledge of their existence, the sheer amount, and fearful of the contents. Besides, the three most recent letters seemed to say it all, all and nothing, for they posed so many questions, and the various plausible answers seemed to multiply out of control, without reason to discipline them, without care of what they touched or how.

  One thing remained clear, if Selené did not yet know of Charles’ death, then she ought to be told. – Surely she would have read it in the papers by now. But even so, she ought to learn the news formally. Gaia would send a letter. It was only right. – Perhaps Selené knew someone in Charles’ life… and they would have told her, certainly. But that couldn’t be the case. Charles, whatever he had done, would not have risked compromising his work with the type of scandal and gossip which that would have generated. – Gaia settled to the belief that Selené was a well-kept secret, and that Charles would not have permitted her into other areas of his life. – She could barely believe her own thoughts, how naïve! The letters clearly indicated that Selené had access to Charles’ most intimate thought processes at times – so who was she kidding? – that Charles wouldn’t let Selené in… oh, she was in alright. Right in!

  Cigarettes. She would have to go out and get more.

  Inhaling, calming. No, Selené might know an awful lot about Charles, but she hadn’t met with his team, with their few friends, it wasn’t possible. Half a pack later, and Gaia realised that the inevitable had to be done, she would have to make contact, she would have to write that letter.

  She wrote her own address, and then looked hard at Selené’s, a PO Box address, why so? Why was part of her address a secret? Secrets, Gaia paused, then breathed deeply. Hadn’t there been secrets enough already?

  In order that she keep to the bare facts, to merely informing, Gaia put ‘the final three’ in the bottom drawer of the dresser in her room, that she would not continue rereading, reinterpreting, guessing at the implications of the contents. If she was to learn anything more about Selené, it would now have to be directly, with the woman herself, and not mediated through this loving correspondence with her husband.

  She was aware that her desire not to write anything of a bitter letter was not at all the act of a tender heart. She simply had to ensure that Selené reply. She knew that if she wrote in any other language than that of formality, and possibly touching on compassion, the woman would never respond. And if she did not respond, then she would never get the kind of answers she was looking for. This letter was an opportunity to open things up, direct contact that might ultimately lead to direct answers, and she had to get it right.

  After several false starts, frustrations over clichés, crying fits, and the last cigarette, Gaia finally composed herself well enough to write the letter to Selené that she would actually send.

  Letter: To the Other Woman

  Gaia to Selené

  Dear Selené,

  Forgive me, I do not know your name in full, indeed I do not know you at all, save for a few letters I have come across addressed to Charles Ore.

  It is with deep regret that I inform you of his death, the nature of which I would rather not go into, except to say that he did not suffer terribly, nor for long. I’m afraid I must apologise further, the funeral has already taken place, and Charles laid to rest. I think that this news must come as a terrible shock to you, and with these few words I send compassionate and sincere wishes.

  In sympathy

  Yours

  Gaia Ore

  Gaia immediately sealed the envelope, addressed it and set out to send it right away. She grabbed a long coat, pulling it over her pyjamas as she dashed out of the door, in her haste failing to notice her footwear, just socks and old slippers. His old slippers, and several sizes too big. Gaia had never worn slippers, preferring thick socks that were the intended partners of hiking boots. The socks at least helped fill out some of the excess space, but still, she was likely to trip.

  The paving and Gaia were becoming too familiar, and in so short a space of time it was something of a whirlwind affair, so often forced cheek to cheek. She blushed. This time grazing her face, as the fall was greater, and with no mailman to break it with a gentleman’s excuse me. Who designed these stupid slabs? Not Charles, she sniffed to herself. Her spine had twisted a little, some muscles pulled. Slight twinges of pain would later remind her of this second close brush with the ground.

  In the post office, people in the queue noticed the slippers. Some kids laughed at her. She felt herself colour again.

  She looked about, connecting the mail in her hand with Tom; and the fall to the one she had experienced with him all those weeks before. He wasn’t there. Of course not. She bit into her bottom lip. With all the tension and embarrassment, she had partly crushed the envelope, she flattened it back out as best she could, but it still looked rather crumpled. It was too late to change it, to go back to the Construct and rewrite it afresh. If it was to be sent at all, it had to be done now, had to be over with. Her mouth was too dry for the stamps, she asked for the self-adhesive kind.

  “They’re all self-adhesive now, have been for ages,” said the girl at the counter without looking up.

  Quiet tears tumbled down Gaia’s face, stinging the cut cheek as they moved.

  Stamps attached, she pushed the letter toward the girl.

  “No. Box is outside,” said the girl, “you put it in yourself.”

  Despite feeling pinched, Gaia was glad at least that their eyes had not met. She shuffled now over the intense stripy carpet to the world outside, found the box, bid the letter goodbye. It was done.

  Now all she had to do was wait.

  Chapter Four

  The Waiting

  In the days dividing sending and receiving, Gaia barely ate, washed nor breathed. She soon gave up trying to distract herself. For what could possibly take her attention away from the gathering strength of Charles and Selené’s relationship? Oh yes, Charles was dead, but for Gaia, the illicit relationship was alive, kicking, and thriving. It increased in her mind with each new breath. The more she thought, the more she imagined, the more magnified the relationship and all the possibilities. It became, however unwittingly, a self-torture.

  Empty cigarette packs now littered her study and his room, creative-unit-four, the room where she presumed he had written his side of the correspondence. Bitterly she thought, his creative-fornication-unit.

  Language, Charles would play around with it ceaselessly, “Gaia,” he would say, “it is the most natural preoccupation of artists to play with language, especially architects. Pushing its usage to its limits and far beyond; mixing the sounds of words in one language with their meaning and use in another, and also creating entirely new terms.” There were times, however, when Gaia felt aggravated by Charles’ contributions to the linguistic mix.

  “Gaia, sweet Gaia, language simply doesn’t interface well enough with architecture. Architecture moves, morphs even, much much faster and with protean leaps! Language makes a poor attempt to keep pace, and with the English language, there are simply too many words, yet never the ones to explain well enough!” Besides Norwegian, he was competent if not entirely fluent, in English, German, Russian and, as Selené had oftentimes remarked, “As much as you claim to abhor the same, dearest Charles, you are quite the native when it comes to Public-Relations-Speak.” Gaia was often made overly aware of his egocentrism, and that, she recalled, was a
word he mistakenly thought she had created herself, “Ah, ego-centr-ism! Well done, sweet Gaia. You see, finally you begin to learn the art of language tricks through me!”

  Like many other things, Gaia now wanted to discuss this ego, this boundless ego, with Selené.

  She took out the final three, scouring them afresh for new instruments of torment. For that was all they could offer. Clear answers could only come from the woman herself, but the waiting was hard. It was strange, but each time she looked at the letters, she seemed to read something new. The words had been there all the time, but perhaps a mind in a state of distress edits out some parts, that the reader is exposed to only a number of upsetting aspects and not an immeasurable torrent.

  Gaia’s attention settled on Letter 3, and the mention of ‘little ones’, of Selené being ‘a poor mother’ and how they ‘missed’ Charles ‘so’. Tears slipped. But Gaia was sure this couldn’t mean Charles’ offspring. Surely. He had always been vehemently against having children. Gaia had thought to persuade him. Time had run out. No, she was fairly sure this couldn’t be the case, and Charles was not the sort of man to have been easily trapped into such a situation. Gaia ran her own words back in her mind. How did she know what sort of man Charles was, or had been? Perhaps he loved Selené in a different way, in a way that had influenced him enough to have a child, children even. Perhaps this Selené had tried to trap Charles by becoming pregnant. Certain women do indeed make quite cunning ‘trapists’, Gaia felt pleased – a genuinely new term, that would have raised a smile in Charles. Cunning trapist, cunning-trapist, cunt! Tears erupted. She tore the letter down its centre and imagined it as the woman herself, cutting through her very centre – mind, womb, sex. Had this woman stolen a right that was hers? Gaia’s hands shook. She wanted to reign in these gruesome thoughts.