BEDROOM — Sleep two people. View unnecessary. Likes to wake to morning sun. Fifteen square feet closet space. Accessibility to study. Balcony if possible. (Tie-in to study balcony?) No need for...
The notes went on in similar fashion for each room in the house. There was a time when Larry, fresh out of Pratt Institute and beginning practice, would have made a flow diagram of the proposed house. The diagram would have been a simple series of circles, each representing an area, and its purpose would have been to define the relationship between the areas. He still used a mental flow diagram, but he no longer found it necessary to commit such elementary planning to paper. Unless, of course, he were working on something with as many elements as a hospital. A house rarely contained more than ten or twelve elements, and these he safely juggled in his mind.
With most houses, Larry found it best to begin his thinking with an over-all theme which came from the client. These, capitalized in his mind, were necessities or concepts like Ideal Orientation, Maximum Economy, Soar Heavenward, Cloistered Silence and the like. Roger Altar wanted to spend seventy-five thousand dollars on his house, and he had given Larry a virtual carte blanche. Unstrapped economically, unlimited architecturally, he had only to concern himself with expression, and so his early thoughts about the house did not consider the economical placing of toilets back to back but only the type of statement he wanted in the house: Powerful? Dramatic? Natural? In short, he asked himself what kind of an experience the house would be and, thinking in this manner, he began by drawing perspectives first rather than floor plans.
Would Altar accept all spaces in one space?
Or would he prefer a different experience for the living spaces as opposed to the bedroom spaces?
Or should the house be a tower rather than a low horizontal?
Would Altar prefer something more serene, a scheme of sunken courts?
Using the yellow tracing paper, he allowed his mind to roam, creating the doodles of free expression. Would Altar consider a cube on stilts? The land sloped sharply. Should he take advantage of the slope the way Wright would do; or should he fight it, present the house as a statement against the terrain, like Corbusier?
He did not discard any of his sketches. By Wednesday morning, they were all Scotch-taped to the walls of his office and, like a connoisseur at a gallery exhibit, he stood in the center of the small room and studied them carefully. He would not show Altar all of the sketches. He would eliminate those he disliked and then work over the remainder into ⅛″ scale drawings. These exploratory sketches would be presented to Altar for thought and comment. Once they had decided on an approach, he would then attack his preliminary drawings, using white paper rather than the rough tracing paper.
The weeding-out was not a simple job. He worked all through the morning and then went into the kitchen for lunch. He felt the need for a short break after lunch and so he drove up to the shopping center to buy the afternoon newspaper. He did not expect to see Margaret Gault, nor was he looking for her.
Mrs. Garandi the widowed old lady who lived with her son and daughter-in-law in the house across the street, was coming out of the super market with a shopping bag. Larry tucked his newspaper under his arm and then walked quickly to her.
“Can I help you with that, Signora?” he asked.
Mrs. Garandi looked up, surprised. She was a hardy woman with white hair and the compact body of a tree stump. She had been born in Basilico, and despite the fact that she spoke English without a trace of accent, everyone in the neighborhood called her Signora. There was no attempt at sarcasm in their affectionate title. She was a lady through and through.
Larry’s fancy, in fact, maintained that the Signora had been high-born in Italy and had learned English from a governess at the same time she’d learned to ride and serve tea. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Mrs. Garandi had been born in poverty, married in poverty, and had come to America with her husband to seek a new life. She knew she couldn’t start with a language handicap and so she’d instantly enrolled at night school, where she’d learned her flawless English.
“Oh, Larry,” she said, “don’t bother. It’s not heavy.”
“It’s no bother. Where’s the car?”
“I walked.”
“Well, come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I am a little tired.”
He took the shopping bag from her and together they walked to the car. He closed the door behind her and then went around to the driver’s side. When he was seated, he said, “Whoo! Cold!”
“Terrible, terrible. Do you really think it’ll snow?”
“Is it supposed to?”
“The radio said so.”
“Today?”
“Supposed to come this afternoon.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “The sky is clear.”
He started the car and backed out of his space. He was slowing down at the exit when he saw Margaret.
She walked with her head bent against the wind, one hand in her coat pocket. Her right hand held her lifted coat collar, and her cheek was turned into the collar. He tooted the horn, and she looked up instantly, recognized him, and waved. He waved back. Margaret walked closer to the car. She was saying something but he couldn’t hear her because the window was closed.
He rolled it down and said, “What?”
“I said, ‘Do you go around picking up all the women in the neighborhood?’”
Larry laughed. “No,” he answered. “Just the pretty ones.”
“Oh,” she said, and she laughed with him, waved, and then continued walking toward the shops. Larry rolled up the window.
“É bella,” Mrs. Garandi said, using Italian for the first time since he’d known her. “É bellissima.”
The girl who admitted him to Roger Altar’s apartment on the twenty-ninth was not Agnes.
He didn’t know whether or not he expected Agnes, but he was nonetheless disappointed to find a stranger. The girl was a tall, relaxed brunette with a bored expression on her face. She wore no make-up, and a pair of brass hoop earrings decorated her ears. She was dressed entirely in black — a black sweater, black slacks, black belt, black Capezio slippers. Larry wondered if she had just come from someone’s funeral.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Larry Cole.”
“Oh, sure. Come in. The Genius is working.”
He stepped into the apartment. The place was a masterpiece of disorderly living. A pair of trousers was hung over the blue couch in the center of the room facing the bar unit. The bar itself was covered with empty bottles and unwashed glasses. A table rested near a long window wall and was covered with dirty breakfast dishes even though it was three in the afternoon. The sink was piled with last night’s dinner dishes.
For no apparent reason, a half-empty bottle of milk was under the easy chair to the left of the bar unit. Phonograph records were piled in a haphazard heap in the center of the room. A man’s shoe was on the table, and its mate was in the far corner of the room. A pair of red socks had been hung on the open door of the hi-fi setup.
“You’re the architect, huh?” the girl said.