“And what’s that?”
“The best architect in the world.”
Altar chuckled as if he begrudged humor in another man. But at the same time, the chuckle was a delighted release from somewhere deep within his barrel chest. “I enjoy modesty,” he said. “I think I like you.” He picked up his coffee cup with two hands, the way Larry imagined medieval kings might have. “Do you like me?”
“I don’t know you yet.”
“How long does it take? I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“I’d have to refuse,” Larry said.
Altar exploded into real laughter this time. He was a big man wearing a bulky tweed jacket which emphasized his hugeness. He had shaggy black brows and hair, and his nose honestly advertized the fact that it had once been broken. His chin was cleft, a dishonest chin in that it was molded along perfect classical lines in an otherwise craggy, disorganized face. But there was nothing dishonest about Altar’s eyes. They were a sharp, penetrating brown, and they seemed to examine every object in the room while miraculously remaining fixed on the abundant buttocks of the waitress.
“It’s a pleasure to talk to a creator,” Altar said. “Are you really a good architect, or is the ego a big bluff?”
“Are you really a good writer, or is the ego a big bluff?” Larry asked.
“I try,” Altar said simply. “Somebody told me you were honest. He also said you were a good architect. That’s why I contacted you. I want someone who’ll design a house for me the way he wants to design it, without any of my half-assed opinions. If I could design it myself, I would. I can’t.”
“Suppose my ideas don’t jibe with yours?”
“Our ideas don’t have to jibe. Only our frame of reference. That’s why I wanted to meet you.”
“And you think a breakfast conversation is going to tell you what I’m like?”
“Probably not. Do you mind if I ask a few questions?” He snapped his fingers impatiently for the waitress. “I want more coffee.”
“Go ahead. Ask your questions.”
“You’d never heard of me before I called, had you?”
“Should I have?”
“Well,” Altar said wearily, “I’ve achieved a small degree of fame.”
The waitress came to the table. “Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked.
“Two more coffees,” Altar said.
“What have you written?” Larry asked.
“You must be abysmally ignorant,” Altar said, watching the waitress as she moved away from the table.
Larry shrugged. “If you’re shy, don’t tell me.”
“I wrote two books,” Altar said. “The first was called Star Reach. It was serialized in Good Housekeeping and was a Book-of-the-Month Club selection. We sold a hundred and fifty thousand copies in the hard cover and over a million in the paperback. Ray Milland starred in the movie. Perhaps you saw it last year?”
“No, I’m sorry. What was the second book?”
“The Debacle,” Altar said. “It was published last June.”
“That’s a dangerous title,” Larry said. “I can see a review starting with ‘This book is aptly titled.’”
“One started exactly that way,” Altar said, unsmiling.
“Was this one serialized?”
“Ladies’ Home Journal,” Altar said. “And Literary Guild, and Metro bought it from the galleys. They’re making the movie now.”
“I see. I guess you’re successful.”
“I’m King Midas.”
“Well, in any case, I haven’t read either of your books. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We can’t expect to enlighten everyone with two brilliant thrusts.”
“Jesus, you’re almost insufferable,” Larry said, laughing. “Will you get me a copy of The Debacle? I’m assuming that’s the better of the two.”
“If it weren’t, I’d quit writing tomorrow.”
“Will you get it for me?”
“Go buy one,” Altar said. “I run a grocery store, and I don’t give away canned goods. It sells for three-ninety-five. If you’re cheap, wait until next June. It’ll be reprinted by then, and it’ll only cost you thirty-five cents.”
“I’ll buy one now. It may break me, but I’ll buy it. How much do you want to spend on this house of yours?”
“About seventy-five thousand.”
“I guess you are King Midas.”
“Making money isn’t the hard thing to do,” Altar said, suddenly serious.
“What kind of house do you want?”
“Something to live in.”
“I don’t design gingerbread or colonials or ranchonials or any other bastard forms. I’ll design a contemporary house, and that’s all.”
“What else would a contemporary architect design?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Just show me pictures of what you’ve done,” Altar said. “After that it’s up to you. I don’t tell a plumber how to fix pipes, and I don’t like people telling me how to write books. I won’t tell you what to design.”
“You may not like the houses I show you. They were designed for other people.”
“So what? Each book an author writes is a separate entity, but they all bear the same man’s stamp. I like you, but your stamp may stink. I want to see it.”
“How old are you, Altar?”
“Thirty-two. You?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Good. I like young people.”
“Suppose we agree my houses are good, Altar?”
“We’ve got a deal. Don’t call me by my last name. That’s for the critics.”
“What’s the matter? Weren’t they kind to your books?”
“As a matter of fact, they weren’t.” Altar stopped and shook his head. “The hell with the critics. Will you design my house?”
“Maybe.”
“When will you know?”
“After I’ve read your book.”
“Why?”
Larry grinned. “I want to see your stamp,” he said.
There was, Larry discovered that night, a polish about the prose of Roger Altar which seemed in antipathy to the bluff, earthy exterior of the man, a contradiction which made the reading experience puzzling. Try as he might, he could not associate the book with Altar. The book simply did not seem to be the man.
He could not understand the disagreement. He knew with certainty that every house he designed revealed at least a part of himself. He had hoped similarly to find a clue to Altar’s identity within the pages of his book, but he was sorely disappointed. The book seemed to be nothing more than quick entertainment.
Altar wrote in a clear, crisp magazine style. A succession of slick polished words helped Altar to create a world within which flesh-and-blood characters lived. The trouble with the characters, Larry supposed, was that they approached all their problems in terms of half truths. The novel seemed to be a collection of tired household verities, and by the time Larry reached page fifty of The Debacle, he seriously wondered if he wanted to design a house for a man who was utterly lacking in integrity.
As he went deeper into the book, his feelings changed.
Altar was trying to speak, but something constantly intruded to prevent the naked statement. It was a fear, perhaps, a holding back, a refusal to commit completely to the printed page. The struggle was immense, entirely overshadowing the characters Altar had created. Page by page, the intricate plot development became meaningless when juxtaposed to Altar’s tortured personal combat. He could not have said why Altar struck a sympathetic chord within him. He knew only that he was rooting for the man, that he was mentally screaming, “Get it out! For God’s sake, please get it out!” The effort left him exhausted. More so because it ended in defeat; the half truths triumphed.