altering a line, changing a measurement. To one side of his diagrams sat an ashtray, in which burned a cigarette. To the other, a half empty bottle of beer.
He heard a scratching at his tent door, as if an animal wanted to be let in.
“Who is it?”
The flap was lifted. An exquisitely white face peered out from beneath an ermine hat and the luxuriant collar of a sable coat. It was Maria.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“Are you here to disturb me?”
“I hope not. I am only here to talk to you.”
“It is rather late.”
“I was able to find my way in the dark.”
He rose from his seat and advanced to greet her. His nose inhaled her perfume, sandalwood oil, as his hand shook hers.
“May I offer you something to drink?”
“Yes. A Scotch. Neat.”
“You know how to drink!”
“When the weather is chilly…But, it’s cosy in here,” she murmured, settling down in a chair near the stove. She watched the architect as he poured two drinks. “I always find it exquisite to sit by a warm fire when it is cold outside. It makes me feel very young and happy.”
“Well, you are not old,” he said, handing her a glass, a third full of gold-coloured whisky.
“But I am no longer young.”
“It is a matter of perspective. From my point of view…”
“But you are a man in the prime of life!”
“I am not much under sixty. Of course, my virility is more intact than many much younger beasts.”
“I believe that a man like you needs…”
“Yes, tell me what I need.”
“I believe that a man like you must need a very strong woman.”
“A strong woman. An oxymoron. I have yet to meet a strong man. Is there such a thing as a strong woman?”
“There is.”
“And what would I do with her?”
“Anything you wanted.”
The tone of her voice was so naked that her meaning could not be mistaken. Nachtman was not a shy man. He grinned. His maxillary canine teeth, capped with silver, let off a slight sparkle. His shadow stretched off to one side, a distorted mass. His face, in the rather weak light of the tent, appeared manifestly infernal. A huge nose that seemed in the process of being swallowed by a jutting bottom lip, below which rested a grotesque mound of chin and neck. Maria moved towards him.
“Come as close as you wish,” he said boldly.
She mixed her lips with his, devoured his ugly face with kisses.
XIII.
The next morning he awoke rather late. He was alone.
“Ah, the little bird has flown back to her own nest.”
He threw a few logs into the wood stove, which still had hot coals from the night before.
Then, after dousing his face with water, oiling his mouth with a coffee mixed with schnapps, he put on his boots and left his tent to look over the project. A fierce wind howled, blowing about the strands of hair that fringed his skull. Snow was piled up on all sides and, driven up against by the wind, let off wisps of crystal which swirled about. He trudged forward, his breath forming puffs of white vapour.
Surprised by the silence around him, he looked both right and left. No men clung to the sides of the structure. No hammers resounded. The machines lay dormant, their engines grown cold. The place was abandoned.
Two figures made their way towards him.
It was the foreman and Peter.
“They have left,” Peter said gloomily.
“What’s that?”
“Just like he said,” Fabrizi added. “The work has ground to a halt. The men won’t go on in these conditions. They say you need to raise their pay by at least forty percent if you expect them to continue through the winter. Otherwise they will be back towards the end of February, when the weather starts to warm up and the snow to melt.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
“Because I agree with them.”
“Ah, now I see how things are,” the architect said with an ugly twist of his lips.
An emergency meeting was called. The architect’s tent was where it was held. The four board members were present, as was Peter and the
He heard a scratching at his tent door, as if an animal wanted to be let in.
“Who is it?”
The flap was lifted. An exquisitely white face peered out from beneath an ermine hat and the luxuriant collar of a sable coat. It was Maria.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“Are you here to disturb me?”
“I hope not. I am only here to talk to you.”
“It is rather late.”
“I was able to find my way in the dark.”
He rose from his seat and advanced to greet her. His nose inhaled her perfume, sandalwood oil, as his hand shook hers.
“May I offer you something to drink?”
“Yes. A Scotch. Neat.”
“You know how to drink!”
“When the weather is chilly…But, it’s cosy in here,” she murmured, settling down in a chair near the stove. She watched the architect as he poured two drinks. “I always find it exquisite to sit by a warm fire when it is cold outside. It makes me feel very young and happy.”
“Well, you are not old,” he said, handing her a glass, a third full of gold-coloured whisky.
“But I am no longer young.”
“It is a matter of perspective. From my point of view…”
“But you are a man in the prime of life!”
“I am not much under sixty. Of course, my virility is more intact than many much younger beasts.”
“I believe that a man like you needs…”
“Yes, tell me what I need.”
“I believe that a man like you must need a very strong woman.”
“A strong woman. An oxymoron. I have yet to meet a strong man. Is there such a thing as a strong woman?”
“There is.”
“And what would I do with her?”
“Anything you wanted.”
The tone of her voice was so naked that her meaning could not be mistaken. Nachtman was not a shy man. He grinned. His maxillary canine teeth, capped with silver, let off a slight sparkle. His shadow stretched off to one side, a distorted mass. His face, in the rather weak light of the tent, appeared manifestly infernal. A huge nose that seemed in the process of being swallowed by a jutting bottom lip, below which rested a grotesque mound of chin and neck. Maria moved towards him.
“Come as close as you wish,” he said boldly.
She mixed her lips with his, devoured his ugly face with kisses.
XIII.
The next morning he awoke rather late. He was alone.
“Ah, the little bird has flown back to her own nest.”
He threw a few logs into the wood stove, which still had hot coals from the night before.
Then, after dousing his face with water, oiling his mouth with a coffee mixed with schnapps, he put on his boots and left his tent to look over the project. A fierce wind howled, blowing about the strands of hair that fringed his skull. Snow was piled up on all sides and, driven up against by the wind, let off wisps of crystal which swirled about. He trudged forward, his breath forming puffs of white vapour.
Surprised by the silence around him, he looked both right and left. No men clung to the sides of the structure. No hammers resounded. The machines lay dormant, their engines grown cold. The place was abandoned.
Two figures made their way towards him.
It was the foreman and Peter.
“They have left,” Peter said gloomily.
“What’s that?”
“Just like he said,” Fabrizi added. “The work has ground to a halt. The men won’t go on in these conditions. They say you need to raise their pay by at least forty percent if you expect them to continue through the winter. Otherwise they will be back towards the end of February, when the weather starts to warm up and the snow to melt.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
“Because I agree with them.”
“Ah, now I see how things are,” the architect said with an ugly twist of his lips.
An emergency meeting was called. The architect’s tent was where it was held. The four board members were present, as was Peter and the
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