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    The Architect
    The Architect
    The Architect
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    The Architect

    By Jerome Richard

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    About this ebook

    Templeton Jones, a successful east coast architect, arrives in Seattle and is dismayed by what he regards as dull buildings and clumsy street patterns. He plans to remake the city. The city's establishment is mostly resentful. One reason he left New York was to escape what he considered a stifling domestic situation. He tends to regard buildings as permanent and women as temporary. It is a delicate balance.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJerome Richard
    Release dateOct 15, 2014
    ISBN9781311494412
    The Architect
    Author

    Jerome Richard

    I am a retired professor of English now writing fiction and social commentary. My life has taken me from New York to Seattle where I have lived for the past thirty years. Intermediate landings have been in San Francisco, Missoula, Montana, and Plainfield, Vermont. My novel, The Kiss of the Prison Dancer, was a PEN/Hemingway finalist. Essay and short stories have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Iconoclast, Tikkun.org, OpEd News.com, East Coast Literary Review, Main Street Rag, Drash, and elsewhere.There are links and a brief bio on my website: www.jeromerichard1.com.

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      Book preview

      The Architect - Jerome Richard

      Chapter 34

      Has anyone seen Templeton Jones?

      It was the first day of spring. The sun wiped away winter’s tears and the city looked forward to a new season. Yet, something was amiss. An odd buzz ran through downtown like an out-of tune violin string.

      It began shortly after nine o’clock in the office of Templeton Jones, AIA when his assistant, Freddy Grenninger, asked Marge the receptionist if Jones had returned yet. Freddy had made a rough sketch for the new arts complex they were going to propose and was anxious to get his boss’ reaction. Have you heard from Templeton?

      The receptionist shook her head. And the vote is in two weeks.

      Where could he have gone? Grenninger wondered.A UPS man put his package on the receptionist’s desk and said Jones might be in the café downstairs because it was very crowded when he passed, so Freddy went there. Not seeing his boss, he yelled in the general direction of the cashier, Has anyone seen Templeton Jones?

      A reporter for The Times heard him and when he got back to his office asked if anyone had heard anything about Templeton Jones lately. By mid-afternoon, Marge called his home number to see if he was there, but got only the answering machine:

      I'm not available right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call one way or another. Wait for the beep.

      Oddly, there was no beep.

      Try his girlfriend, Grenninger suggested.

      Which one?

      Berman.

      Arlene Berman took a taxi to the office and was yelling, Is he dead? before she even opened the door.

      We don’t think so, Marge said reassuringly.

      Oh, God, it’s my fault, Arlene said, slumping into the nearest chair.

      Freddy tried to reassure her. He’s just taking some time off, maybe scouting the site for the new arts center, he said. Or he could be visiting that new convention center in Guatemala.

      Don’t worry, the receptionist said. He always comes back."

      Arlene accepted a tissue from Marge and blotted her eyes. As she left, she said, Don’t tell the bastard I was here.

      The phone rang. It was a reporter from the newspaper wanting to know what Jones was up to.

      Freddy said, Tell him-- Tell him, the usual. Just scouting a location.

      What about the civic oval? the reporter said. Isn’t he going to campaign?

      By late afternoon, rumors circulated like bills at the end of the month. Someone at a rival firm wanted to know if it was true he had retired. A former client heard Jones was on his way to Cambodia to design a new temple. A disc jockey called to ask if it were true that Jones was starting his own rock band. And a reporter from a New York paper sent an urgent e-mail asking confirmation that Jones was dead.

      1

      Templeton Jones had a way of suddenly being someplace, as if a wind brought him, or some previously invisible conglomeration of molecules unexpectedly assembled themselves and began to reflect light. Even his presence in Seattle was not generally known until he secured the commission for the biggest office building in town, beating out much more established architectural firms.

      Who is this Jones? Bob Crohn asked. He was the president of Mitkin Crohn Phillips & Associates, the city’s largest architectural firm, and he had called a staff meeting as soon as he heard about Jones’ commission. Has anyone met him?

      I have, answered Beverly Krim, one of the junior architects. He was at the reception following the lecture on urban planning last month. If you were a woman you would remember him.

      What do you mean?

      He is tall with a shock of curly white hair that makes him look as if he is walking around with his head in a cloud. His hair must be prematurely white because his face is young, almost a baby face with wide brown eyes and a ski-jump nose. Hmm. Maybe he dies his hair. Does anyone dye their hair white? His lips are full. And he wore a blue pin-striped suit with a handkerchief in the pocket. Very dapper.

      You sound as if you’re in love. Did you talk to him?

      Crohn, Phillips, and half the people in the office crowded around her.

      We chatted a little. He has an accent, Boston perhaps, or English, as if he lived there when he was little. It’s quite charming. He asked me what I thought about downtown Seattle and I told him that I found it rather dull. He agreed and said some day he would change it. Just like that. As if he already had the commission.

      Crohn looked about the conference room. His first idea was to send a woman, perhaps the student from the local architecture school who was interning, but he thought about the way Beverly Krim spoke about Jones and he decided to play it safe.

      You, he said, pointing at Roger Snodgrass, an apprentice who had only been with the firm for three weeks. Go to this Jones’s office and see what’s going on.

      Now?

      No, yesterday, Crohn said, ending the meeting.

      The office of Templeton Jones, AIA., was on the top floor of a sad looking building in the Pioneer Square section of the city. It looked as if it might once have been a small apartment house that was converted to offices when no more families could be found willing to live there. If he is going to change the city, Snodgrass thought as he entered the single elevator, he should start with his own office.

      There were three offices on the fifth floor. The Jones firm’s name was on one of them; the others were blank. Snodgrass opened the door with the name and found himself barely two feet from a desk behind which sat a gray-haired lady petting a calico cat. She welcomed him.

      Snodgrass looked around, expecting cubicles with working architects. There was a young man at a desk off to one side and lots of shelves full of books. Looking over the receptionist’s shoulder, he could glimpse the waterfront through the window. Doors at either end of the room apparently led to other offices.

      Can I help you? the gray-haired lady asked. The cat looked up as if curious about what he would say.

      Is Mr. Jones here?

      He stepped out.

      When will he return?

      Oh, one never quite knows that. He just shows up. Can I help you?

      Snodgrass was busy examining the room. On the rear wall, flanking the windows, were pictures of buildings presumably designed by Jones. A house with five gables fit for a country estate, what appeared to be a library all glass and brick and unfamiliar, an office building that cantilevered out over a small park, and a tower of some sort that disappeared off the top of the picture. On other walls were the usual books. To his right, next to a chair where a visitor might wait for Jones to show up, there were copies of Architectural Record and National Geographic. The young man pecking away at a computer keyboard paid him no attention and Snodgrass could not see the screen.

      How long has Mr. Jones been here?

      Three years, the receptionist said. He was in the east before that. Are you here about a house?

      Well, Snodgrass said, feeling behind him for the door handle, I’m shopping around. Just trying to get acquainted. Thank you.

      The receptionist asked if he would like to make an appointment, but Snodgrass demurred, mumbling that he would return at a better time.

      Back at Mitkin Crohn Phillips people gathered around Snodgrass, waiting for Crohn to come out of his office.

      Well? Crohn said.

      Snodgrass described Jones’ office, including the receptionist, the buildings in the pictures on the wall, and the magazines on the little table. He concluded with what seemed to him to be the only solid bit of information he had gleaned.

      He’s been in Seattle two years. He was in the east before that.

      The east? Crohn said. You mean New York or the Far East?

      Snodgrass looked at his shoes. Gee, I didn’t think to ask. I just assumed she meant like New York.

      "Swell! So this guy just snuck into town and began snatching up lucrative commissions. All right, folks, back to wor

      2

      Tuesday morning started out full of sunshine, but Jones had been in Seattle long enough to know that March was repertory weather season and conditions could change any number of times before night so he put on his raincoat and stuck his collapsible hat in the pocket before he patted the receptionist on her shoulder and said, I’m going out, Marge.

      I can see that, she said. Where?

      He closed the door behind him as she added, When will you be back?

      It was a

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