The Architect by Brendan Connell Page A

foreman, who sat silently to one side—for he was there not so much to participate, as simply to answer any questions that might arise.
    “The situation is serious,” Nesler said. “These men want more money, but we are going to have a hard enough time maintaining the accounts due as it is. Materials have cost more than anticipated. Several of the Society’s investments have recently proved the contrary of profitable. And now the workers want raises, but such a thing, from a financial point of view, is scarcely possible.”
    “Indeed it is,” Nachtman added. “And these lunkheads who spend more time scratching their bellies and smoking cigarettes than labouring should not only accept their current wages, but should do so gratefully, for in all truth a wage reduction seems far more in order than a rise.”
    “Yes,” Maria agreed, “they should be penalised.”
    “They are men,” Fabrizi could not help but putting in, “not beasts. They have families to support.”
    “Enough with the socialist clichés,” cried the architect. “Such high-sounding phrases have no place in a convocation of intelligent men…And while we are at it, I suppose you wouldn’t mind an augmentation of your salary also, would you?”
    The foreman rose to his feet.
    “I do as my men do. If their salary is increased, so should mine be.”
    “You dog! You have scarcely got dirt under your finger nails these past nine months, and now you talk about additional money! Yes, you might be handsome, but that big square jaw of yours will get you nothing from me—from us. As it is you are only being kept on as a matter of charity—as a matter of formality, so that the great louts we have shovelling sand and chipping away at stone can have someone to lavish their idiocy on.”
    “I would recommend that you be quiet.”
    Nachtman bared his teeth.
    “Quiet! I hardly need to be quiet before an inferior, a subordinate, a rebellious toady who knows as little about architecture as a—”
    It was at that moment that his words were cut off by the fist of Fabrizio Fabrizi, a lump of bones and flesh which shot forward like a hand-drilling hammer striking at a masonry nail.
    The older man lay sprawled on the ground, rubbing his jaw. Maria ran to him, kneeled down beside him, took up his hand and kissed it. Then, turning a flashing gaze on the handsome foreman, declared:
    “Ah, you are really a very stupid person!”
    “I defer to your judgement,” the other said and then turned, left the tent with his head held high. And proudly he followed his golden moustache into the unknown and the valley below.

XIV.
     
    The next day another meeting was convened in Lugano, at the offices of the Society. The portrait of Dr. Körn looked down. That man of paint seemed almost to be chuckling to himself, his eyes, magnetically moving spheres, inhabited by some dark angel, manipulating men from unseen planes.
    All present were seated around the large, glossy oak table but Nachtman, who stood erect, proud, a band-aid plastered across his chin.
    “We have a crisis on our hands,” Dr. Enheim proclaimed.
    “It is a problem, not a crisis.”
    “Yes, it is only a problem,” Maria confirmed.
    “We could still negotiate with the workers.”
    “No,” said Nachtman. “That is out of the question. I will not tolerate those traitors on my work site.”
    “Cheaper labour must be found,” Nesler said in a whiny voice. “We can no longer afford to pay outlandish prices for arms and legs.”
    “We could bring in Poles,” Borromeo suggested. “I have heard that they work well for very little.”
    “I have nothing against Poles,” Maria commented.
    Nachtman waved the idea aside with a gesture.
    “But why bring in Poles,” he said, “when we have an untapped resource. After all, worldwide membership to the Society is formidable.”
    “I am not sure I follow you,” Enheim said.
    “The followers of Körn are all loyal citizens. Let them, with my guidance, build