The Architect Page 5

  Of course, we don't want all buildings to look alike. You have seen, I am sure, some of those suburban developments that look like a scale model of itself. Sameness too is economical, though in a different way than fashion, but sameness is also a recipe for boredom. Which reminds me, I left out the architect who called himself Le Corbusier. Corb's virtue was that he thought big, more concerned with whole cities, or at least whole neighborhoods, than single buildings. But he thought all buildings should be white. In fact, he was against all ornamentation. Like Wright, many of his buildings have nice lines. If you want to see what a Le Corbusier city would have looked like, go to Russia. In its Soviet Union days he was their architectural inspiration.

  Most of the great buildings of the world are either religious or governmental in their function. Think of the Parthenon, gothic churches, Saint Basil's Cathedral in Moscow, you know, that onion dome thing. (Slide.) The capitol in Washington D.C. is actually a very good building. Louis Kahn's government building in Bangladesh, of all places. (Slide, please, and leave it up.) So are the Houses of Parliament. What is the force behind these buildings? It is a grand idea. All right, the Taj Mahal. Love is also a grand idea. What architecture needs today are grand ideas. Architects need to be aware that they have two obligations. One of course is to the people who will occupy the building. The other is to the people who will have to look at it. So I say, away with minimalism. More is more, but only when it is elegant and harmonious. That is my passion. That is what I will do for Seattle.

  Thank you.

  16

  A few people lingered in the vestibule, eager to shake his hand or ask one more question. He noticed a tall woman with close-cropped blond hair standing near the door. When his last well-wisher departed, she approached and introduced herself.

  "I'm Millicent Mondelay."

  Jones regarded her extended hand for a moment and said, "Hello."

  "The architecture critic."

  Jones caught the slight emphasis on the definite article. He looked again and saw a woman whose face clung to being beautiful and whose body appeared to have been assembled in some haste. Still, the appearance was not unattractive and, come to think of it, he thought he had seen her somewhere. He nodded, and turned to go.

  "I enjoyed your talk tonight," she said, moving closer so that he could feel the warm breath that carried her words. "I would like to do an article. Can we go somewhere for coffee, or a glass of wine?"

  "Where do you suggest?"

  He looked her over more closely. She appeared to be in her forties, which probably meant she was pushing fifty. Her eyes were emerald green and her lips had just a little too much lipstick. She wore a peach-colored suit with a skirt that showed off bowling pin legs, and she carried a purse large enough to be an overnight bag. This will be easy, he thought, as she stood as if for inspection.

  "How about your place?" she said, when he was finished examining her.

  "No," he said emphatically.

  She took a step back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--. I know a pleasant bar where we can talk."

  At the 210 Club, a jazz trio played softly at one end of the long room. Millicent leaned against the leather backing of the bench that ran the length of the room. Jones pulled up a chair to face her over a small table. When the waiter came. She ordered a mimosa; he chose a glass of red wine.

  "I love to say mimosa," she explained. She repeated it several times. "It sounds so…sexy." She said it again, pursing her lips in an exaggerated way.

  In his imagination, her naked body was as lumpy as one of those Venus figurines from antiquity, more fun to cuddle than to contemplate. She read his expression and said, "Call me Millie."

  "All right, Millie."

  She reached out her hand and touched his. When the waiter brought their drinks, she ordered another round and Jones had to say that one was enough for him. Millie looked disappointed, but she took out a notebook and began asking questions. He told her about studying architecture in Paris and then apprenticing in New York where he was a project manager on several important buildings. Millie took notes even as she ordered a third mimosa and he explained his philosophy of architecture, repeating much of what he had said earlier in his lecture. He could not decide whether or not he wanted to go to bed with her.

  The trio stopped playing and began to pack up their instruments as a round of applause rippled through the bar. Millie stood up and clapped loudly until the musicians disappeared. When she sat down she asked him about his latest project. He mentioned the chapel at Northwest University and she took more notes. Jones made up his mind. "Let's go," he said.

  "One more drink." She motioned for the waiter, but when he came Jones asked for the check.

  "Okay," Millie said, standing up again and bracing herself against the table. "Let's go to your place."

  "I said no."

  "To a hotel?"

  "Why a hotel? What's wrong with your place?"

  She leaned over the table and said softly: "It’s a mess. The cleaning woman quit and I haven’t had a chance to find a new one. There's a nice hotel around the corner."

  Jones stared at her. I think you’re the one who is a mess. "Well, I’m afraid my place is even messier," he said. "Come on, I'll call you a cab."

  Bastard, she thought. I’ll get you.

  Back at his condo, staring out at a freighter being guided into port by a tugboat like a child leading its father home, he thought: I must be getting old.

  17

  On his way to meet Arlene at the Tiptoe Ballroom, Jones passed a site where a small apartment house had recently been demolished. A sign proclaimed that a six unit town house would soon be erected in its place. It was dusk and no one was working, but two young men were scrounging through the wreckage.

  "What are you doing?" Jones yelled.

  One of the young men dropped a length of pipe he was carrying. It hit a pile of bricks with a dull thud.

  "We're saving some of this junk," the young man said.

  Another young man pulled a chandelier out from under a pile of wood and plaster.

  "Was this your house?" he asked.

  Jones said it wasn't and asked them what they intended to do with the stuff they salvaged.

  "It's going into a chapel that's being built at our school," the boy with the chandelier said.

  "Good for you," Jones said, and he whistled as he walked to the ballroom.

  The Tiptoe ballroom was located on the fourth floor of an office building. It was formerly a restaurant. Curtains covered a large window on one side of the room. Curious, Jones peeked behind the curtain and saw cars whizzing by on the elevated roadway that separated the city from the bay. By crouching, he could glimpse a ship heading to port. He closed the curtain.

  Arlene was talking to a man in a tweed jacket who was gesticulating wildly. Jones wondered if he were demonstrating a new dance or making a speech. The man continued to gesture when the music stopped so it was clearly a speech. When Jones approached, Arlene introduced the man as Dr. Zanger, a retired professor from the university. The professor had recently returned from a trip to Europe and was complaining that all the cities in the world were beginning to look like St. Louis.

  "St. Louis?" Jones said.

  "It's where I'm from, but it hardly matters anymore. The same stores, the same boring office buildings, the same clothes on the same people. And now everyone speaks English! Everyone except American teenagers. Who are you?"

  "Templeton Jones."

  "The architect? Why don't you do something about it," Zanger said, waving his hand in the direction of the city.

  "I am trying, little by little."

  "Not good enough," Zanger said. "We need vision. Like Baron Haussmann."

  "The man who rearranged Paris. Opened it up."

  "Exactly. He cleaned out slums, broadened streets, gave the city a sense of design, and made Paris the most beautiful city in the world."

  "Yes, but you overlook the suffering of the people he displaced
."

  "They were suffering anyway. Think of what he did for the economy of the city, the jobs he created. Surely he did more good than harm."

  "I'll think about it," Jones said.

  "I've seen your church. I like it. I've been praying that someone would come along and give some style to this city."

  Arlene stepped between the two men. The five piece orchestra had just started playing “Night and Day.”

  "Anyone care to dance?" she asked.

  "Just a minute,” Jones said. "I want to hear more about this man's ideas."

  "Go ahead," Arlene said. "I'll just find someone else."

  She walked a few feet away and began talking to a young man who was standing all by himself and staring out at the dance floor.

  "I'll be right back," Jones said to Zanger, as he caught up to Arlene. He took her away from the young man and together they glided out to the dance floor.

  The music suggested foxtrot. He held her a hand's width away and led her through the steps. The next number was a samba. Jones took her left hand and pulled her towards him. They began to move in time to the music. After a few steps he bent her back and then up towards him again so their faces were close enough to feel each other's breath. He pushed her away and twirled her around. They separated. Jone's hips and shoulders moved in opposite directions while she danced away and then back into his arms. Perspiration appeared like dew on Arlene's upper lip. When the music stopped, she said, "Where did you learn to dance like that?"

  Jones smiled.

  "I could have taken lessons from you."

  "Yes. You should have asked."

  Jones looked to where he had been having a conversation with Zanger, but the man was gone. He looked all around the ballroom.

  "Do you see your friend?" he asked Arlene. "The man you were talking to before."

  "No," she said, as the music started up again. "Let's dance."

  18

  Jones studied a map of the city he had pinned to the wall behind his desk. There! he thought, pointing to the western edge of Lake Union. Drawing on a transparent overlay of the city, he quickly outlined a six lane boulevard along the shore. It spread into a u-shaped park around the end of the lake at one end, and stretched clear to the edge of downtown at the other. That's it, he thought, we'll clear out that whole area and move the center of the city north. He put trolley tracks down the middle of his new boulevard in order to slow down traffic, and sketched in a new convention center there. He was contemplating what to put at the downtown end instead of the dinky mall that was there now when his phone rang.

  "Templeton, it's Sarah. I hope you don't mind me calling you at work. I tried your home number, but you didn't answer. It must be about nine-thirty there. I've never known you to be at work so early in the morning."

  "I have a big project I'm working on."

  "You see, I have learned about time zones."

  "What?"

  "Last time I called you said I should learn about time zones. It's twelve-thirty here."

  "That's swell, but you're interrupting—"

  "I have filed a Petition for Dissolution."

  "What's that?"

  "A divorce."

  Jones looked at his sketch. Perhaps it would be a good spot for a small museum and an indoor-outdoor café.

  "Templeton, are you there?"

  "I'm here, Sarah. You said we're divorced?"

  "Not yet. I filed the papers. They have to be served on you. I want you to know this doesn't change how I feel about you."

  "How is that? How do you feel about me, Sarah?"

  He could hear the sound of her breathing, like some far away bellows, and then a mumble of sounds.

  "What's that?"

  "I said, I still love you, damn it, but it's all right. I can live with that now."

  "You have someone else."

  "Yes."

  "I'm jealous."

  "Bullshit!"

  Jones pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it as if he could see all the way to New York.

  "That hurts, Sarah. I have never lied to you. Cheated, but never lied."

  "Oh, Templeton, you haven't changed."

  She hung up.

  Jones conjured up Sarah's image. He saw her sitting by her phone, tears in her eyes. Then he realized that he pictured her as he saw her last, almost a dozen years ago. Her brown hair must be turning grey, he thought, and she has probably put on some weight. He picked up the phone, intending to call her back to ask for a picture, but his eye caught the plans he was making for revitalizing the city and he put the phone down and went back to work.

  19

  "What's that you're humming?" Trathorn asked.

  "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," Jones said. "That's what we're doing this afternoon."

  "But I told, you I don't like baseball."

  "I'm going to change your mind. I'll buy you some peanuts and Crackerjacks. Maybe a beer if you're good."

  Trathorn protested that he had a book to read for college, that he was tired, that the weather was too nice to spend sitting in a stadium for nine innings. All the while, Jones was making sandwiches. Finally, Trathorn asked, "Who's playing?"

  "The Mariners and the damn Yankees."

  "What's wrong with the Yankees?"

  "They're bad for baseball. They buy players instead of developing them and bully their way to a world series. Haven't you seen Damn Yankees?"

  Trathorn shook his head.

  "Then read The Devil Wears Pin Stripes."

  "What are pin stripes?"

  "Come on. I like to watch them warm up."

  The Mariners lost 3-2, giving up two runs in the ninth inning. As Jones and Trathorn pressed their way into the crowd on their way out, Jones criticized the Mariner's strategy. "They should have let Ibanez swing away when they had a man on first in the eighth," he said. "I hate the sacrifice bunt. And I've never seen such bad umpiring. I think the plate umpire had his balls and strikes confused."

  A thin young man with a snake tattoo on his arm overheard Jones and said, "Sore loser!"

  "Damn Yankee fan," retorted Jones.

  "Come on," Trathorn said, "it's only a game."

  "Only a game? It's not only a game," Jones said through pursed lips. "That's why you don't appreciate it. There is drama. Grace. There are few things more beautiful in this world than a double play. Fate. A bad bounce can change the course of the game. The outcome is uncertain. As Yogi said, 'It ain't over 'til it's over.' It's a metaphor for life."

  "And what if your team loses?"

  "Then it's only a game."

  They went to a bar across the street from the stadium. It was Trathorn's last week in Seattle and Jones was feeling badly that he had not spent more time with him. He stared at the boy's face across their pints of beer, seeing some of his own features, the hawked nose, the blue eyes.

  "Do you think you got to know me?" he asked.

  Trathorn shook his head. He wiped away a bead of beer foam from his upper lip.

  "I guess I'm not easy to get to know," Jones said. "There are days when I'm not so sure I know myself."

  "What should I tell my mother?"

  "Tell her I never stopped loving her."

  "That's a lie!"

  "No, it isn't. I never lie. I am wrong sometimes, but I never lie. I love Shaina whenever I think about her."

  "Which isn't often."

  Jones shrugged.

  They walked out of the bar and plunged into the crowd still leaving the stadium. A long line waited for a bus. Jones waved at taxis, but they were all taken. He put his arm around the boy to make sure he wouldn't lose him and they walked all the way home.

  Two days later, Jones drove the boy to the airport. He watched him take off his shoes and go through security. Trathorn turned and waved. Jones waved back and then went to get a cup of coffee. He read the newspaper and lingered over his latte for an hour. Then he went to the big window wall where he could watch planes take off. He wasn't certain which o
ne the boy was on, but he picked one just taxiing out to the runway and waved again as it gained the air, but it was a mechanical gesture and he knew it.

  He didn't feel anything. There goes my son, he thought, and I don't feel anything. Jones realized that he had taken Trathorn, Martin, to the baseball game not so much for the kid's benefit but for his own, expecting to forge a bond, to share something besides genes. Why didn't he care about the game? We might have had something more in common if he cared. But it wasn't just the boy. What Trathorn said about his caring for Shaina was true. When I'm not near the girl I love… When he stepped back a few inches he could see his reflection in the glass. For the first time, he did not like what he saw.

  On his way out of the airport it occurred to him that what the other end of his new downtown needed was a park, a gathering place where people could relax, and hear concerts. He hurried home.

  20

  Templeton Jones took a seat in the small auditorium at City Hall where the Planning Committee was about to meet. There were only four other people in the audience. Jones studied them while waiting for the meeting to begin. It was already twenty minutes late.

  "Did we publish a notice of the meeting?" the representative from the City Council asked the secretary.

  "Yes, a notice appeared in the Commercial Journal of Seattle."

  "Perhaps we should wait a few more minutes," the dean of architecture suggested.

  As the members of the committee talked among themselves, Jones looked up and shouted: "I can't hear you!"