Read Online Birth of a Bridge by Maylis de Kerangal - Free Book Online Page B

foolishly emboldened by the question, answers swiftly that, yes, quite sure, when she’s specialized it will be easier to find work. You have such crazy ideas! James turns the pages of his paper, she’s stuck there, furious, dries her lacrimal canals by sticking her index fingers in the corners of her eyes. More months pass and in the spring, the concrete gets its revenge. A dinner on the terrace, a candleholder, six place settings, wicker chairs, a short stool for James Diamantis in a new Panama hat – he’s prepared the meal, let the wine breathe, cut a bouquet of wisteria, brushed his hat. The guests are their neighbours. Summer feels pretty, she talks, she drinks. This young lady is studying concrete, believe it or not; James serves the wine in unmatched glasses. A guy is there who Summer thinks is cute. He asks her what she does. Public works, I’m a concrete engineer. Oh. The guy lifts his head. His eyes screech over her and she knows now that they will spend the night together. He is amazed. That’s exactly what I would have wanted to do, something strong, tangible, a job that’s in direct contact with the real.
    SUMMER WALKS away from the plant and reels towards the river, heart suddenly heavy, approaches a little stretch of green at the end of the quay, tufts of grass have cracked the asphalt, the water laps against the bank, she crouches down, pushes up her sleeves and redoes her ponytail, shakes her head, looks at the opposite bank, impenetrable, throws three stones in the water hup hup hup , a hummingbird manoeuvres close to the river, turquoise speck above the golden-brown liquid, I’m here now, I’m here now, she closes her eyes, I’m here, then stands up, dizziness, thinks hunger, jetlag, thinks tomorrow I have to be in good shape, knows finally where she is, black veil for a moment and then again the ecru sky.

AT THE OTHER END OF THE PONTOVERDE PLATFORM, Sanche Alphonse Cameron is also getting his bearings. His “office” is a windowed cabin, six feet square, set at the top of a tower crane, a translucent box more than a hundred and fifty feet above the ground. He reaches it via an elevator that slides up and down the mast, but some days, to be mischievous (read: to impress the crowd), he climbs two by two the bars of a hoop ladder without pausing on the landings. I’m staying in shape is what he claims when those on the ground are alarmed to see him rise, frail little guy, all the way up the structure. Once inside his cab Sanche sits at the console, back straight against the seat, and carries out the steps of taking his position – checks the control panel (headlights, joystick, walkie-talkies, function displays and graphic readouts, anemometer, push buttons); checks the brakes and the safety system; settles his hands on the controls and concentrates. He spots Summer crossing the esplanade, follows her determined silhouette with his eyes, watches her disappear behind the machines parked near the plant and then re-emerge at the water’s edge, the blonde straw of her hair smooth in the sunlight, what’s she up to?
    He likes it in this technological enclave where his small size no longer causes him grief, since he is now a hundred and fifty-six feet four inches tall, since he is massive; he’s comfortable in this paradoxical chamber that incorporates him into limitless space, while each movement is controlled to an eighth of an inch, in front of this dashboard that endows the tips of his fingers with an insane amount of power since each thrust of the joystick is a matter of precision, minutia, vigilance; he feels at home in this cramped room where, eight hours a day, the exemplary nature of Imperial units is proven, a system that calibrates space in relation to the human body, in relation to the foot, indeed, to his abdomen, to the jut of his nose like an eagle’s beak, to his long slender feet and his baby giraffe’s eyelashes. From up in the crane cab, Sanche casts a panopticon eye on the