FSF, July 2008

by Spilogale Authors

  There were links from the article to websites with photographs of existing Pakki-flex homes, all in various stages of puckering, sloughing, and weepage. The one that caught Julian's attention was a ranch house in Southern California at the edge of the Mojave desert. Beside it was a flashing neon sign announcing tours through “The Nightmare House” by a former resident, a bona fide survivor, who had “lived through Hell.” On an adjacent plot was a standard cinder-block home with a more hastily constructed sign: “See the Amazing Three-headed Chicken!” With a click you could watch a twenty-second clip of the Pakki-flex do its thing for a busload of amazed tourists and with another click order tickets. Since its inception the website had gotten an astonishing fifty thousand hits.

  Julian stared for a long time at the screen. He made some notes, and over the course of the next few weeks he made more. He talked to people, then flew to several major cities and talked to more people: city planners, private developers, art and museum directors, philanthropic organizations. Back home he met with realtors and consulted his firm's tax attorney. At length he put together a proposal, sat on it for a week, reworked it, waited, reworked it again, and finally presented it to his partners. They were not wholly unprepared, having been memoed, but they were a bit taken aback by the scope of what he conceived. Being prudent men, they took a good long while getting back to him.

  When they did, Julian put in a call to Robert. He had a business proposition, and there was no one else he'd remotely considered for the job. Robert agreed to meet but warned him that, whatever it was, he wouldn't possibly be able to accept. He had more business than he knew what to do with, including a project in Brazil and another in Dubai. Julian was unfazed, and two weeks later they met in Robert's office. Located in the heart of town, it was spacious, neat, airy, and six hundred feet off the ground. The view from it, to the south and east, once sweeping, had been progressively pinched by competing high-rises. The sky was now represented by vertical slits of blue. There was a shadowy quality to the light that had not been present previously, and less reason to look outside, as if the eye had been requested—indeed, had been required—to turn inward.

  After exchanging pleasantries, Julian wasted little time.

  "We need a house to house a house,” he said smoothly, concealing his pleasure at the obviously rehearsed line. He pulled a photo from his briefcase and handed it to Robert. “This house."

  It was the Domome.

  "I thought they tore it down."

  "Nope. Didn't."

  Robert stared at the photo, then looked up. “What kind of house?"

  "A big one.” Julian paused. There had been a slight alteration in his manner since his change of career. A dramatizing. He was, in addition to everything else, a salesman now.

  "A museum, Robert."

  "A museum."

  "Yes."

  "For what?"

  "For the Domome. For Pakki-flex. For you, Robert. For art."

  "An art museum."

  "Yes. Art and architecture. The Domome will be the centerpiece."

  "Ridiculous."

  "It's not."

  "No?"

  "No. Not at all."

  Robert considered for a moment. “It's not only ridiculous, Julian. It's unseemly. It's also idiotic. And, I should add, insane."

  Julian, of course, had expected this. Robert more than anyone had been wounded by the Pakki-flex debacle, and he wouldn't be keen on reminding people of it, much less bringing one of the actual homes back into the public eye. Never mind that the Domome, with or without Pakki-flex, was a stunning piece of architecture. It had failed as a home. An architect juggled form and function, function and form, and he succeeded only by melding both. It was almost the worst criticism imaginable for a building to be considered solely a work of art.

  This was the first hurdle for Julian, and it helped to know how much of himself Robert had put into the Domome and how hard it had been for him to see it fail. Judging by his reaction to the photograph, he was still attached to it.

  "It's a beautiful building. It deserves to be seen. To be shown."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why? Because it has a flaw? Because it doesn't function the way you meant it to? There're plenty of buildings that don't, or that did but don't anymore. Stonehenge. The Parthenon. The Catacombs. They've all outlived their usefulness, but only if you define usefulness in one narrow and rigid way. And who does? No one. It's insulting to these works. They have so much to offer beside what they were built for. They're windows into a time and place. Into art and politics and technology. They represent themselves, but they also represent a world view."

  "You've been doing some reading, Julian."

  "The Domome used to be a building, now it's that and also a comment on buildings. It's historically and culturally and aesthetically interesting. It doesn't have to house people, any more than the Baths of Caracalla have to give people baths."

  "I'd hardly put it on a par with the Baths of Caracalla. Or any of those monuments. With all due respect to your sudden erudition."

  "But wouldn't you like to try your hand?"

  "At what? Building a monument to myself?"

  "To an idea, Robert. A phenomenon. A vision. Of tomorrow."

  "So you think we should rechristen Fairchild's Folly. Is that what you're suggesting? Along the lines of what? Fairchild's Future? Fairchild's Favor to Humanity? His Forward-Thinking? The Feather in his Cap? Or maybe we should be more honest and not try to rewrite history. Stick with Fairchild's Fumble. His Failure. Fairchild's Flop."

  "Forget the Domome. I'm talking about something else. Something different. A new way of looking. A new perception. If you don't want to call it a museum or a monument, fine. Don't. Call it whatever you like. Or don't call it anything. Call it an opportunity. A dream. A chance."

  "As in second chance."

  "As in chance of a lifetime."

  It wasn't quite that, Robert told himself. But it wasn't nothing.

  "All right. Tell me what you have in mind."

  "I'm not an architect."

  "But you have an idea."

  Julian shrugged. “Something special."

  Robert waited for a bit more detail. Julian, however, appeared to believe that he had done his part.

  "Something special,” Robert said.

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "What?"

  "Special and ... what else?"

  Julian thought for a moment. “Distinctive."

  "Distinctive."

  "Yes. And original."

  "Of course."

  "Different from everything else."

  "You want something different."

  "Yes."

  "Unusual."

  "Yes. That's right."

  "Unique? Would you go that far?"

  "Yes. Exactly. I would. Something unique."

  Robert nodded and stroked his chin. So far he had learned next to nothing. He might as well have been talking to a stump.

  "That's very helpful. Very useful. Thank you. You said big. How big?"

  "Up to you."

  He sincerely doubted this. “What's the budget? Who's in charge? Where's the money coming from? Public? Private? Both?"

  "Private,” said Julian. “Although I expect tax incentives.” He gave Robert some rough numbers. “We have a group of investors. Fiduciary decisions rest with them. Artistic ones with you."

  "Why do they want a museum? These investors. Apart, I know, from how vital it is to preserve and showcase my fiasco. What's in it for them?"

  "They're very wealthy people. They want to spread some of that wealth. Give back to the community."

  "Tax write-offs."

  "Sure."

  "Land swaps?"

  Julian shrugged. “I'm not at liberty."

  "Do you have a site?"

  This was arguably the most important detail of all, and Julian was uncharacteristically coy. “I think you're going to like it."

  "Where is it?"
/>
  "If you could choose a place—anyplace ... any city, any site—where would it be?"

  Robert felt a flutter in his chest.

  Julian stuffed his hands in his pockets and casually strolled to the window.

  "If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, you can't see it,” said Robert. “Not anymore."

  "Too bad."

  "I don't know. I got tired of staring at it. It was a tease."

  "You can't have everything, I guess. Not every time."

  "Unfortunately, it's not available."

  Julian turned to face him. “No? What makes you say that?"

  "I've checked. Believe me."

  "Interesting. When I checked, it was.” He paused, theatrically. “We've made an offer. I expect a counter-offer any day."

  Robert was stunned. An inner voice warned him not to get his hopes up. The list of obstacles to such a project was long.

  "The city...” he began, starting with the first and foremost, but Julian cut him off.

  "Is behind us. More museums, more tourists. More privately funded museums, less drain on the public coffers. More privately funded museums designed by a world-renowned, native son ... what could be better? You'll be a hero. Civic pride is going to pop."

  Robert was not quite convinced. “I know who owns that piece of land. They haven't wanted to sell it for fifty years. What makes you think they'll sell it now?"

  "Robert. Let me ask you something, and I mean no disrespect. Are you a businessman?"

  "I try to be."

  "Of course. But on a scale of one to ten, what would you say? One being someone who loves to wheel and deal, ten being someone who loves to doodle and dream and do just about anything else."

  "I don't see myself as a number."

  "Exactly. The people I'm working with, they don't have money by accident. If they want the deal to happen, chances are it will. You can tell me all the reasons that it won't, but why bother? It's yours if you want it, Robert. It's been yours ever since I've known you."

  The words hung in the air, and after a while Robert joined Julian at the window. The building that blocked the view was tall and sleek and rectangular, like a trailer stood on end. It was far from the worst of the new buildings. It wasn't ugly, just boring. It brought nothing to the skyline but another box.

  "Want to take a drive?” asked Julian.

  Robert didn't need a drive. He could see the site as clear as day. And the building he would build, he could see that too. It formed itself in his mind just as it had the day Grace inspired it.

  "Sure,” he said. “Let's."

  * * * *

  How and where he found the time for it, with all his other work, he never knew, but he did, squeezing, coaxing, milking, wheedling, teasing every second. When he finally came up for air, three months had passed. He couldn't remember the last time he and Grace had spent an evening—or even much more than an hour—together. They made a date, but at the last minute, when Robert No. 2, who of late was sporting a beret and calling himself Róbert, an affectation calculated, it seemed, to annoy his progenitor (which it did), fell ill, she had to cancel. This led to a quarrel the following morning, Robert accusing No. 2 of obstruction and manipulation. Not to his face but to Grace, who found herself in the strange and challenging position of defending a man against himself.

  "He was sick,” she said.

  "Conveniently,” observed Robert.

  "I don't know why you say that. He had a rash. You get rashes."

  "Yes. And I take care of them myself. And they go away."

  "He had welts all over his body."

  "On his face?"

  "Yes."

  Robert conceded that welts on the face were no picnic. “He should have come to me."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "I have medicine."

  "That's not what I meant. I meant why would he come to you when it's clear you don't like him? What would be the point?"

  "I like him. I made him."

  "You don't like No. 3 either."

  "No. 3's scared of me."

  "Not really. He just prefers to be around people who are nice to him."

  Three, thought Robert, was a poster boy for nice. “So then how come he likes to be around No. 2?

  "Róbert's nice to him. The two of them are friends. Good friends."

  "I can't imagine what he sees in him."

  She gave him a look. “You're joking."

  "I'm not."

  "Then I'd say the same thing you see in yourself."

  "Now that's a scary thought."

  She suffered this with the thinnest of smiles, remaining silent until his attempt at humor all but hung itself. They were not, Robert felt, off to the very best of starts.

  He tried a different approach. “Are they nice to you?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because I care. Because that's what they're for."

  "Yes. They are. Always."

  "You don't ever feel left out?"

  "Why would I feel that?"

  "I don't know. Two of them, one of you?"

  She shrugged.

  "You do,” he said.

  "It's not like that. The three of us, we're a family. We come together. We go our separate ways. We interact.” This seemed the spice of life to her, its very essence, and when he didn't respond, when he just stood and looked at her, she had a sudden, jolt-like thought. “Maybe it's you who feels left out."

  The image of 2's face, swollen with welts, rose up in Robert's mind, vivid and visceral, and he wondered if Grace had touched him with her soft and tender hands, touched him and healed him, and his stomach clenched, for he knew she had.

  "I did last night,” he said softly. “Not that I had any right."

  "I'm sorry,” she said. And she was. “Maybe there should be two of me."

  This drew a smile. “It's good to see you, Grace."

  "It's good to see you."

  They were in the living room, facing each other, and now it became clear how desperate they were to connect. But they were shy, like young lovers, each afraid to make the wrong move. Robert felt he'd somehow failed Grace. To Grace the only failure would have been not to do what both of them so plainly wanted.

  The boys were downstairs and occupied. There was really no reason for restraint. Grace was the first to take action. She held out her hand. Robert hesitated, not from reluctance to take it but from relief, and from wanting to savor the moment, the full meaning and impact of reconciliation and love. When at last he slid his palm into hers, he felt a shiver down his spine. They embraced, and shortly thereafter retired to the bedroom.

  To Robert it seemed like a lifetime since they'd made love. Grace was unquestionably the most beautiful, responsive woman he'd ever known. He was instantly aroused and began to kiss her, beginning at her face and moving slowly and meticulously downward, as though to possess her, inch by intoxicating inch. Her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly ... her skin impossibly soft and warm and sensual. She spread her legs to him, and he slipped his head between them, ever so gently caressing her tender parts with his tongue and lips. She quivered, then started to heave, and he pulled back, quivering a little himself, feverish now, aching to enter her. As he proposed to do just that, he noted a mark on one of her thighs. Somehow he had missed it earlier. It appeared to be a bruise, but it didn't seem to hurt her. In fact, she didn't even know it was there, until he pointed it out. In retrospect, this was a mistake, for if he hadn't, he could have made up his own story as to how it appeared. She could have bumped herself. Strained and popped a blood vessel. But once mentioned, it could no longer be ignored.

  "It's a hickey,” said Grace, craning her neck to see it. “I guess."

  "You guess."

  "Seems like one."

  "From whom?"

  "Robert,” she said.

  "Me? I don't remember."

  Silently, she swore. It got so confusing sometimes: even though they acted differently, when all
was said and done, the three of them were extremely alike. Especially Robert and Robert's Robert, the Robert he had given her. “I mean Robert No. 1. I mean 2. Róbert."

  The blood drained from Robert's face. “You two have been having sex?"

  Grace was still aroused, and given the choice between fulfillment and frustration, she much preferred the former. “Can we maybe talk about this later?"

  He looked at her, confused and hurt, and it was clear there was no possibility of deferring the discussion. As his penis shriveled, at a rate only slightly less than it had grown (what a marvel, thought Grace, and what a pity to say good-bye), she sat up. In response to the cold look in his eyes, she covered herself with a sheet. She didn't quite understand the fuss.

  "Isn't that why you gave him to me? Isn't that what you wanted?"

  "I wanted you to have someone to talk to. To do things with when I wasn't around."

  "This is a thing."

  "It's not the sort of thing I had in mind."

  "But you made him. He's just like you. He is you, Robert. If you like it, why wouldn't he?"

  "He is not the point."

  "No? Then what is?"

  "You are. I am."

  She drew a breath and slowly let it out. “Okay. That's nice. You're right. I can deal with that.” She held out her arms to him, as though the healing could now commence.

  But no.

  "How was it?” he asked dully.

  Several exceedingly unpleasant seconds elapsed.

  "Was it good? Did he say he loved you? What did you reply, Grace? Did you pant? Did you moan? Did you purr?"

  "Stop."

  "I'm trying to understand."

  "You're not."

  "Understand and empathize. Experience it from your point of view. Because strange to say, I think I already know his."

  "You act as if I betrayed you. But I was only being myself. And you're the one who made me. I was only being who you made."

  "Well then maybe I should have made somebody else."