"Well, they do seem to be taking rather a long time…" Radlett replied diplomatically.
"Of course Gaudi," the stranger said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "was very Latin."
"Sorry, I'm not quite with you."
"He was typical Latin. A genius, they say, but he could never understand. Never understand that his wonderful creation couldn't be finished. "
"Well, now you say that…" Radlett thought of the model of the Cathedral's original design on show in the Gaudi Museum, the towering edifices of mismatched, garish colours, its walls barnacled with bulging, multiform extrusions. "The task does seem a little bit difficult."
"There is always the old danger, the Green Angel." The stranger made a little circle with thumb and forefinger, and mimed sipping something bitter. "Absinthe, my friend."
"Oh, surely…I thought Gaudi was a very religious person?"
"That is correct. But there are many different ways of expressing your belief. The brochures say that the Cathedral was Gaudi's way of, eh, expressing his religion. But perhaps, in his last days, perhaps he realized that his true religion was simply architecture itself. You being an architect, you might see what I mean."
"How did you know that I'm an architect?" Radlett blinked several times, feeling vaguely threatened. "Have we met before?"
The other man raised a napkin to his whiskered lips, to wipe off the chocolate sauce that had stuck there, but also perhaps to conceal the smirk he now wore. "I am sorry. You didn't recognize me when I recognized you, and I didn't say anything." He reached a meaty hand into his wallet to extract a business card, and handed it to Radlett. "Alphonse Varo. We met at the conference in Florence last year, if I am not mistaken."
"Oh, yes, of course…" Hadn't there been that argy-bargy in the passageway leading out of the forum? Some irate guest, haranguing one of the speakers on some obscure point that nobody else really cared about? With Sean and a bearded Continental chap helping the speaker out and trying to get the other guest to shut up? "Oh yes, I do apologize. Very rude of me not to recognize you."
"Well, we only met the once. But I remember you. You raised some very interesting questions during the weekend."
"Oh, thank you very much for saying so."
"Of course, with the rubbish that the other guests were talking, it wasn't that difficult for you to make an impression." Their laughter broke the ice, and eased away the last of Radlett's nervousness. Varo waved the waiter over, and ordered more coffee for the two of them.
"This is quite a coincidence," Radlett said.
Alphonse said he lived in the Barri Gothic, and was working on several new developments there. Radlett worried at first that Varo would be sick of talking about Gaudi, but he didn't seem to mind at all.
"You know," Radlett continued, "Gaudi really was the last of his line, wasn't he? Of course there are some creative people around today, people of genius, but now you have to think about profit, you have to think about rent per square inch. Nobody can erect a building from the force of their will anymore, it doesn't matter who they are."
Varo nodded. "Yes, what Gaudi did is difficult to believe when you see it with your own eyes. They come here all the time, they come to Sagrada Familia and they stare. But what use is a building, if it cannot be used as a building?"
Radlett paused, confused by the question. They were eventually interrupted by the burbling of Radlett's mobile. It was Edwin, having surfaced at last, announcing that he was now at the Sagrada Familia subway station.
"Would you like to stay and meet him?"
"I am afraid I cannot. Another appointment means that now would be a good time for me to leave. Still, if you do wish to finish this conversation, would you do me the honour of meeting me tomorrow? There is something I wish to discuss with you. It is a matter concerning architecture. Not a business proposition, exactly. It is a kind of philosophical proposition."
Radlett stared back at him. "Well, I think my wife might have something planned, but…" he thought of Alison taking the kids to the park. Thought of a couple of hours free for architectural curiosities. He pulled out his mobile. "Look, I'll just give her a call and ask."
The next day Radlett and Varo met again at the Sagrada Familia, and after discussing it from the outside, Varo invited Radlett to walk with him along the Provenca. They were headed for a project that Gaudi had mercifully completed; La Pedrera, otherwise known as the Casa Mila.
As they walked, however, Radlett didn't just see the dark Gothic structures around them. In his mind's eye, he was also staring in fascinated horror at the image that had haunted him for four months. He was watching an airplane soar into the side of a tower of steel and glass, a great gout of flames and smoke emerging from the other side. "It was the central lift shaft," Radlett heard himself say. "The towers were basically designed around the central core. Once the core was destroyed, the upper floors had nothing to support them. The investigators who filed the report–"
He paused. Why were they discussing this? How had their conversation shifted from the Sagrada Familia to the pile of wreckage that used to be the World Trade Center?
The Spaniard next to him gave no immediate sign that he was listening, the collar of his jacket turned up, a fisherman's cap pulled over his brow to keep up the icy drizzle. But then again, you could say it was unnatural not to talk about September 11th. Radlett often felt that the news reports at the time had hypnotized him, had put him under some kind of spell that couldn't be lifted. Through October and November, in his dreams, Sean had seen the twin towers collapse, and then reverse their fall, sucking in smoke and debris to rise back up into the skyline. They had stood in his dream in almost unbearable nostalgia before the lightning strike came once more, a terrible blossoming of colour and heat, the descent replaying itself again and again.
"I didn't even like the World Trade Center," Radlett admitted. "I'd been there once on a trip to Manhattan, and I thought it was a terrible place to work in. No soul, you see."
"And this is still troubling you now?"
Radlett took a deep breath. "You remember that Isle of Dogs project I told you about a while ago? The tower above the rail terminal. A companion to Canary Wharf, they're saying. Transform the London skyline. Make it aesthetically pleasing for all the Prince Charles supporters, but even more important, make it a safe environment to work in."
Radlett peered at Sean from the side while still facing into the rain. "You don't know what is the trouble, do you?"
"No," the answer came at last. "I look at the plans, and…there's something not right. But I can't communicate what it is to my colleagues. I mean, it looks fine; it's not ugly, like some of the horrors they put up in Greece or Israel. It's just that there's something missing."
"Is it the height that's troubling you?"
For a split second Sean thought of the staircase on the Sagrada Familia, and wondered if Varo had somehow been there, watching him in secret. Then the meaning of the comment clicked in.
"The height…well, these things are going to keep happening. Once we get over the problems of altitude, the towers will keep getting higher. People will have to adjust, and get used to living so far above the ground."
"There may be another jump you have not considered yet…a leap of the imagination that the human being has not had the courage to take."
Varo tapped Radlett on the shoulder and beckoned to the right. La Pedrera and the rest of the area known as the Eixample had come into view along the Provenca. His first impression was the building was alive. It was moving. Radlett stared at outer walls, windows, balconies and railings in sinuous, aquatic shapes, that rippled and shimmered in the gray January air. The wrought metalwork of the railings reminded him of seaweed cast upon white sand. Twisted and spiky figures stood out along the ramparts, like stone heads looking out from the roof. Radlett's architect mind told him he was looking at an agglomeration of smooth columns and parabolic arches, but the emotional impact took his breath away. It was a shocking con
trast to the stoic angular buildings of the rest of the Eixample.
Varo indicated they should cross the street, and stepped into the road. A tall North African man brushed past them, listlessly drawling "Marijuana?" and walking off without bothering for a reply.
They entered the gates of La Pedrera and a woman standing in the courtyard smiled at them. "Hola," she said brightly, handing them pamphlets in Spanish and English. The two men thanked her and walked past, into the ornate, hushed atmosphere of the courtyard.
"What kind of things do they have in here?" Radlett asked, looking down at the pamphlets.
"La Pedrera is owned by the Fundacio Caixa de Catalunya, and it's basically exhibition spaces and reconstructions." He gestured to the elevator. "Let's go straight to the roof, there's something I want you to see."
It would have to be the roof, Radlett thought darkly to himself as he prepared for more stomach-clenching stress at the top of a famous city landmark.
He was pleasantly surprised to find, after leaving the elevator, the roof was not the flat vertiginous surface he was dreading. It was a jumble of white and pink and gray stone steps going up and down in various decorations, with frilled walls that looked puzzlingly organic. Filling the roof space between the steps were the figures Radlett had glimpsed from the street; semi-abstract geometric sculptures with holes and depressions for eyes and mouths. The fading light cast shadows upon the stone faces and granted them emotions that changed from moment to moment; they stared at Radlett in curiosity, then warning, then anger, then forgiveness.
"Did you know," Varo said in the continuation of their conversation from the street below, "for weeks after September 11th, some residents of New York reported they could still see the World Trade Centre? It was a kind of after-image. The ghost of a building."
"Like something they'd seen so often that it was imprinted on the retinas of their eyes," Radlett mused. "You know, that site is more of a cathedral now than Sagrada Familia is. The fantasy stands for a paradise that we've been kicked out of, and the reality has been shipped to places like India and smelted down for scrap."
"Yes, but what exactly did those people see?"
"What do you mean, what did they see? It was a hallucination. Brought on by stress, the shock of the event."
Varo nodded silently, pondering his next remark.
"Are you familiar with the Shrine of Ise? It is a Japanese shrine, part of the massive Shinto complex. Every twenty years, the priests deliberately dismantle it. They take the materials to another site within the complex, and they rebuild it, with much ceremony and, er – purification."
Wouldn't be surprised if Alison had heard of that, Radlett thought. "So what's the point of that?"
"The priests say that they are renewing the spirit of the shrine and all of the artifacts within it. Which is the point that I am making – where is the shrine? Can we actually say that it is anywhere? Perhaps it is not really located in the Ise complex at all. Instead, it is located in the hearts of Japanese people."
Radlett turned his head towards Varo, frowning.
"It is like your bank account. You cannot actually point to the cash machine and say, 'here is my money'. What you have is the basic idea that you have such a thing called money."
"This sounds a bit like the Emperor's New Clothes to me," Sean pondered. "I mean, we're talking about buildings here. Buildings have got to be physical spaces, so that people can live in them. Or work in them, or – you know, use them in some way."
They had followed the other tourists across and around the roof's winding passage, up and down the steps around the stone heads and back to the elevators. They paused and stood near one of the parapets, staring out acorss the Barcelona cityscape.
"Many scientists now believe in something they call intelligent design," Varo mused. "They look at the world, they look at the structure of something like bacteria, and they conclude that this could not have happened through mutation. There is something missing in the theory of evolution, you see." The lamps on the stone facades suddenly came on, as Barcelona moved from dusk to evening, and Varo's smile was brightly defined. "There is a hand putting the jigsaw together, they are saying. If you are designing a house, do you not consult with the architect responsible? Perhaps the scientists are reminding us to do this."
"Someone designed us, eh?" Radlett chuckled. "I'm not too impressed with their skills. The waterworks are too close to the playground, if you ask me."
Varo frowned. Radlett made a crude little gesture to explain, and then giggled in embarrassment.
Struck by a sudden thought, Radlett turned towards Alphonse as if seeing him for the first time. The idea was outrageous, but the switch had been thrown in his mind, and a lot of things suddenly seemed clearer. He appraised Varo, searching for the things that he'd missed. The little things that were perhaps obvious to others. Alison was always saying how he should be more perceptive.
"Are you…trying to recruit me?"
Varo glared at him, his gaze aggressive when taken directly. "Recruit?"
"Well, you know," Radlett mumbled, his face colouring. "Recruit me…into the lodge. Are you…what do they say…are you on the square?"
"Oh, I see." Varo looked away, far too abruptly to be polite. "I'm not a member of any lodge or club or group. I'm here as an individual. I work as an individual."
"Ah." Radlett dropped his head, wondering what he should say, and stared out into the gathering dusk of Barcelona.
He wondered what he had done wrong.
From the corner of his eye, Radlett registered Alphonse silently lifting his left hand, reaching out to gently pinch Sean's shoulder through his jacket, and then beckon towards the incoherent net of lights. "Let me ask you a favour."
"What is it?"
"You may not agree with what I am saying to you." I might not even understand it, Radlett thought wildly. "But let me ask you to do something. You have one more day left here, yes? "
Varo's left hand was now pointing out towards something. "There is a certain street north of here. Stand on it, when the dusk is finally becoming night. When the light is dying. Stand on it, and face north. Because of the quality of the light, you will see what I have been talking about. You will see the structures that cannot be seen. You will see, I promise you, what Gaudi saw, and was trying to communicate to us."
Sean's knuckles whitened as they gripped the metal of the railing. His fear of heights had returned in force.
Varo took a tightly folded scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and placed it in Radlett's hand.
*
When he got back to the hotel, he found that his wife's headache had got worse. Looking after the kids all day had done it. Despite her listless denials, Sean felt the full force of guilt.
This was slightly assuaged the next day by the whole family spending the day together, slipping through crowds at the only department store that the city seemed to have, afterwards drifting from one tiny shop to another in the narrow side steets running off the Rambla.
For reasons Sean could only guess at, Alison didn't ask him too much about Varo. She didn't tease him too much about architecture, either. "I suppose we're all Gaudi'd out," she said repeatedly during the day.
In the evening, he took them to an oyster bar that had caught his wife's eye the day before. He couldn't just take off at a whim, he told himself, as he drizzled lemon juice over the oysters and let his family pick out the biggest, saltiest shells. He couldn't, in all fairness, waste his family's time because some stranger with a beard full of chocolate sauce had told him to.
He threw away the scrap of paper, unopened, in the waste bin in the oyster bar's rest room.
They flew back to Heathrow the next morning. Edwin had gone on to other cities in Spain, to meet up with some friends. After an extra pre-planned day off, Sean went to work on the Tuesday, bringing in some cured ham and cheese souvenirs for his colleagues.
Then Radlett returned to the plans for the Isle of Dogs project to work
out what was bothering him. Schematics translated through varying degrees on a flat-screen computer monitor. Elaborate pencil drawings on sheets of two-dimensional paper as delicate as autumn leaves.
"Why do architects place so much importance on those models we keep in our offices?" Varo had asked him. "Why do your catalogs have photographs of buildings when there are no people present?"
Radlett stared at the drawing, at his elbow, the coffee cooling in the Barcelona FC souvenir mug he'd bought for himself. Gaudi was killed by a tram in the 1920s. He hadn't died peacefully in his sleep, feted as the city's champion, the saviour of Spain's bloody century. He was run over by a tram, and for a while the police hadn't been able to work out who this bearded, smelly vagrant was. One of the world's greatest architects, wandering blindly into the road, just like a tourist.
The coffee had gone cold. The designs refused to leap off the screen or the paper at him. They remained flat, lifeless, and two-dimensional.
1: HORS D'OEUVRES
Drum Roll of Colonial Fish
Poached mullet marinated for twenty-four hours in a sauce of milk, rosolio liquer, capers and red pepper. Poach lightly. Just before serving the fish, open it and stuff it with date jam interspersed with discs of banana and slices of pineapple. It will then be eaten to a continual rolling of drums.
– from 'The Futurist Cookbook'
It is a well-known fact that while waiting in a supermarket queue, a common obsession is to stare into the baskets and trolleys held by the people standing next to you.
There, you may see the hoarde of the closet bulimics with their exquisite, neurotic marriage of a Lean Cuisine lasagne and a frozen blueberry cheesecake. Or the unmarried drones, with their bulk-buying of precooked meals. Or the veterans of tinned steak and kidney pies and corned beef, still nostalgic for food that was rationed and piping hot.
Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One Page 22