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Authors: Patricia Gaffney
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in Newport, I don't think," she answered with a soft smile. That shut him up. He stared back moodily, uneasy because she'd put an unerring finger on the heart of things so quickly. "Why did you take my husband's commission if you despise the kind of house he wants you to build?"
"I don't despise it," he said defensively.
"No? I beg your pardon. I thought you were a modernist; you like the skyscraper we saw today, and you—"
"No, no, it's not that simple. I like the
engineering
of the skyscraper. I admire the technology that solved a problem of space and materials with such elegance and economy. But try to imagine a city with nothing
but
skyscrapers. And you might as well, because it's coming, it's inevitable. The telephone, the elevator, the price of land in the city—they've all conspired to make it inevitable. So picture it. Barbaric, isn't it? Dark, congested, lifeless. It's not ethical, it's not beautiful, and it's not permanent. It's a commercial exploit, an
expedient
. I don't want to live in that city."
But she would not he sidetracked; she wanted to talk about him, not his philosophy. Even as it made him squirm, he found her interest seductive. "Then what will you do?" she pressed. "How will you find a middle ground? Is there a compromise?"
"Maybe, but I can't see it yet. For me, the worst is the architect who tries to turn something like a skyscraper—which can be beautiful, I don't argue that—into what it was never intended to be. He treats it like a
stone
rather than a
steel
structure and smothers it with flying buttresses and parapets and spires and balustrades. He tries to impose, say, a Gothic sensibility on a building that has absolutely nothing to do with the Gothic
spirit
. Do you see? Do you call that a compromise?"
"Yes, I think I see. But what will
you
do?"
There was no shaking her. He took refuge in cynicism. "Oh, make lots of money, I expect. Exploit my not inconsiderable talent for classical forms, ride the wave of popularity for things ancient until it crashes, and then swim very fast to catch up with the next one."
Instead of repelling her, his answer made her laugh. "If I believed that, I don't think I would like you very much, Mr. McKie."
"How much do you like me now?" He relished this turn in the conversation.
"A little more than you deserve, I think."
"Ah, no, so little? I'm done for, then." But her answer pleased him enormously. For the first time, he'd coaxed her into flirting.
"Well, I like you a
lot"
Michael piped up. He'd finally understood a bit of the discussion, but misinterpreted the mock-serious tone. "I think you're
awfully
nice."
They all laughed, and Alex said he thought Michael was awfully nice too. After that, serious conversation didn't seem appropriate.
It was getting dark when they left Dean's, but it was still warm and the rain hadn't started, so they decided to walk the thirteen blocks to Thirty-second Street. Sara assured Alex he needn't accompany them; it was out of his way and they were quite all right on their own. Besides that, she could send his drawings—which she had stupidly forgotten to bring this afternoon—to his office by messenger the first thing in the morning. He wouldn't hear of it. As they walked up Fifth Avenue, Sara holding Michael's hand, all three speculated, at different times and in private, on the interesting fact that they must look like a family to anyone passing by. But no one spoke the thought out loud.
In the house, with very little coaching from his mother, Michael thanked Alex for a wonderful afternoon, after which he was told to run upstairs. Sara found the tube of drawings by the door where she'd left it—so she wouldn't forget—and handed it to him. "Ben liked the changes you made and said everything looked fine to him. He wondered when you would get started on the construction."
"I've been waiting for his final approval. Now I can go to Newport and supervise the site excavation. I'll also be looking around for a place
"I don't despise it," he said defensively.
"No? I beg your pardon. I thought you were a modernist; you like the skyscraper we saw today, and you—"
"No, no, it's not that simple. I like the
engineering
of the skyscraper. I admire the technology that solved a problem of space and materials with such elegance and economy. But try to imagine a city with nothing
but
skyscrapers. And you might as well, because it's coming, it's inevitable. The telephone, the elevator, the price of land in the city—they've all conspired to make it inevitable. So picture it. Barbaric, isn't it? Dark, congested, lifeless. It's not ethical, it's not beautiful, and it's not permanent. It's a commercial exploit, an
expedient
. I don't want to live in that city."
But she would not he sidetracked; she wanted to talk about him, not his philosophy. Even as it made him squirm, he found her interest seductive. "Then what will you do?" she pressed. "How will you find a middle ground? Is there a compromise?"
"Maybe, but I can't see it yet. For me, the worst is the architect who tries to turn something like a skyscraper—which can be beautiful, I don't argue that—into what it was never intended to be. He treats it like a
stone
rather than a
steel
structure and smothers it with flying buttresses and parapets and spires and balustrades. He tries to impose, say, a Gothic sensibility on a building that has absolutely nothing to do with the Gothic
spirit
. Do you see? Do you call that a compromise?"
"Yes, I think I see. But what will
you
do?"
There was no shaking her. He took refuge in cynicism. "Oh, make lots of money, I expect. Exploit my not inconsiderable talent for classical forms, ride the wave of popularity for things ancient until it crashes, and then swim very fast to catch up with the next one."
Instead of repelling her, his answer made her laugh. "If I believed that, I don't think I would like you very much, Mr. McKie."
"How much do you like me now?" He relished this turn in the conversation.
"A little more than you deserve, I think."
"Ah, no, so little? I'm done for, then." But her answer pleased him enormously. For the first time, he'd coaxed her into flirting.
"Well, I like you a
lot"
Michael piped up. He'd finally understood a bit of the discussion, but misinterpreted the mock-serious tone. "I think you're
awfully
nice."
They all laughed, and Alex said he thought Michael was awfully nice too. After that, serious conversation didn't seem appropriate.
It was getting dark when they left Dean's, but it was still warm and the rain hadn't started, so they decided to walk the thirteen blocks to Thirty-second Street. Sara assured Alex he needn't accompany them; it was out of his way and they were quite all right on their own. Besides that, she could send his drawings—which she had stupidly forgotten to bring this afternoon—to his office by messenger the first thing in the morning. He wouldn't hear of it. As they walked up Fifth Avenue, Sara holding Michael's hand, all three speculated, at different times and in private, on the interesting fact that they must look like a family to anyone passing by. But no one spoke the thought out loud.
In the house, with very little coaching from his mother, Michael thanked Alex for a wonderful afternoon, after which he was told to run upstairs. Sara found the tube of drawings by the door where she'd left it—so she wouldn't forget—and handed it to him. "Ben liked the changes you made and said everything looked fine to him. He wondered when you would get started on the construction."
"I've been waiting for his final approval. Now I can go to Newport and supervise the site excavation. I'll also be looking around for a place
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