The Fountainhead (13 page)

“Then I’ll do it for you.”

The man roared. “That’s rich! When did office boys learn to do a man’s work?”

“Give me your torch.”

“Look out, boy! It’ll burn your pretty pink toes!”

Roark took the man’s gloves and goggles, took the acetylene torch, knelt, and sent a thin jet of blue fire at the center of the beam. The man stood watching him. Roark’s arm was steady, holding the tense, hissing streak of flame in leash, shuddering faintly with its violence, but holding it aimed straight. There was no strain, no effort in the easy posture of his body, only in his arm. And it seemed as if the blue tension eating slowly through metal came not from the flame but from the hand holding it.

He finished, put the torch down, and rose.

“Jesus!” said the electrician. “Do you know how to handle a torch!”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” He removed the gloves, the goggles, and handed them back. “Do it that way from now on. Tell the foreman I said so.”

The electrician was staring reverently at the neat hole cut through the beam. He muttered: “Where did you learn to handle it like that, Red?”

Roark’s slow, amused smile acknowledged this concession of victory. “Oh, I’ve been an electrician, and a plumber, and a rivet catcher, and many other things.”

“And went to school besides?”

“Well, in a way.”

“Gonna be an architect?”

“ Yes.”

“Well, you’ll be the first one that knows something besides pretty pictures and tea parties. You should see the teacher’s pets they send us down from the office.”

“If you’re apologizing, don’t. I don’t like them either. Go back to the pipes. So long.”

“So long, Red.”

The next time Roark appeared on that job, the blue-eyed electrician waved to him from afar, and called him over, and asked advice about his work which he did not need; he stated that his name was Mike and that he had missed Roark for several days. On the next visit the day shift was leaving, and Mike waited outside for Roark to finish the inspection. “How about a glass of beer, Red?” he invited, when Roark came out. “Sure,” said Roark, “thanks.”

They sat together at a table in the corner of a basement speak-easy, and they drank beer, and Mike related his favorite tale of how he had fallen five stories when a scaffolding gave way under him, how he had broken three ribs but lived to tell it, and Roark spoke of his days in the building trades. Mike did have a real name, which was Sean Xavier Donnigan, but everyone had forgotten it long ago; he owned a set of tools and an ancient Ford, and existed for the sole purpose of traveling around the country from one big construction job to another. People meant very little to Mike, but their performance a great deal. He worshiped expertness of any kind. He loved his work passionately and had no tolerance for anything save for other single-track devotions. He was a master in his own field and he felt no sympathy except for mastery. His view of the world was simple: there were the able and there were the incompetent; he was not concerned with the latter. He loved buildings. He despised, however, all architects.

“There was one, Red,” he said earnestly, over his fifth beer, “one only and you’d be too young to know about him, but that was the only man that knew building. I worked for him when I was your age.”

“Who was that?”

“Henry Cameron was his name. He’s dead, I guess, these many years.”

Roark looked at him for a long time, then said: “He’s not dead, Mike,” and added: “I’ve worked for him.”

“You did?”

“For almost three years.”

They looked at each other silently, and that was the final seal on their friendship.

Weeks later, Mike stopped Roark, one day, at the building, his ugly face puzzled, and asked:

“Say, Red, I heard the super tell a guy from the contractor’s that you’re stuck-up and stubborn and the lousiest bastard he’s ever been up against. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing.”

“What the hell did he mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Roark. “Do you?”

Mike looked at him, shrugged and grinned.

“No,” said Mike.

VIII

E
ARLY IN MAY, PETER KEATING DEPARTED FOR WASHINGTON, TO supervise the construction of a museum donated to the city by a great philanthropist easing his conscience. The museum building, Keating pointed out proudly, was to be decidedly different: it was not a reproduction of the Parthenon, but of the Maison Carrée at Nimes.

Keating had been away for some time when an office boy approached Roark’s table and informed him that Mr. Francon wished to see him in his office. When Roark entered the sanctuary, Francon smiled from behind the desk and said cheerfully: “Sit down, my friend. Sit down ...” but something in Roark’s eyes, which he had never seen at close range before, made Francon’s voice shrink and stop, and he added dryly: “Sit down.”

Roark obeyed. Francon studied him for a second, but could reach no conclusion beyond deciding that the man had a most unpleasant face, yet looked quite correctly attentive.

“You’re the one who’s worked for Cameron, aren’t you?” Francon asked.

“Yes,” said Roark.

“Mr. Keating has been telling me very nice things about you,” Francon tried pleasantly and stopped. It was wasted courtesy; Roark just sat looking at him, waiting.

“Listen ... what’s your name?”

“Roark.”

“Listen, Roark. We have a client who is a little ... odd, but he’s an important man, a very important man, and we have to satisfy him. He’s given us a commission for an eight-million-dollar office building, but the trouble is that he has very definite ideas on what he wants it to look like. He wants it—” Francon shrugged apologetically, disclaiming all blame for the preposterous suggestion—“he wants it to look like this.” He handed Roark a photograph. It was a photograph of the Dana Building.

Roark sat quite still, the photograph hanging between his fingers.

“Do you know that building?” asked Francon.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s what he wants. And Mr. Keating’s away. I’ve had Bennett and Cooper and Williams make sketches, but he’s turned them down. So I thought I’d give you a chance.”

Francon looked at him, impressed by the magnanimity of his own offer. There was no reaction. There was only a man who still looked as if he’d been struck on the head.

“Of course,” said Francon, “it’s quite a jump for you, quite an assignment, but I thought I’d let you try. Don’t be afraid. Mr. Keating and I will go over it afterward. Just draw up the plans and a good sketch of it. You must have an idea of what the man wants. You know Cameron’s tricks. But of course, we can’t let a crude thing like this come out of our office. We must please him, but we must also preserve our reputation and not frighten all our other clients away. The point is to make it simple and in the general mood of this, but also artistic. You know, the more severe kind of Greek. You don’t have to use the Ionic order, use the Doric. Plain pediments and simple moldings, or something like that. Get the idea? Now take this along and show me what you can do. Bennett will give you all the particulars and ... What’s the mat—”

Francon’s voice cut itself off.

“Mr. Francon, please let me design it the way the Dana Bulding was designed.”

“Huh?”

“Let me do it. Not copy the Dana Building, but design it as Henry Cameron would have wanted it done, as I will.”

“You mean modernistic?”

“I ... well, call it that.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Mr. Francon, please listen to me.” Roark’s words were like the steps of a man walking a tightwire, slow, strained, groping for the only right spot, quivering over an abyss, but precise. “I don’t blame you for the things you’re doing. I’m working for you, I’m taking your money, I have no right to express objections. But this time ... this time the client is asking for it. You’re risking nothing. He wants it. Think of it, there’s a man, one man who sees and understands and wants it and has the power to build it. Are you going to fight a client for the first time in your life—and fight for what? To cheat him and to give him the same old trash, when you have so many others asking for it, and one, only one, who comes with a request like this?”

“Aren’t you forgetting yourself?” asked Francon, coldly.

“What difference would it make to you? Just let me do it my way and show it to him. Only show it to him. He’s already turned down three sketches, what if he turns down a fourth? But if he doesn’t ... if he doesn’t ...”

Roark had never known how to entreat and he was not doing it well; his voice was hard, toneless, revealing the effort, so that the plea became an insult to the man who was making him plead. Keating would have given a great deal to see Roark in that moment. But Francon could not appreciate the triumph he was the first ever to achieve; he recognized only the insult.

“Am I correct in gathering,” Francon asked, “that you are criticizing me and teaching me something about architecture?”

“I’m begging you,” said Roark, closing his eyes.

“If you weren’t a protégé of Mr. Keating’s, I wouldn’t bother to discuss the matter with you any further. But since you are quite obviously naïve and inexperienced, I shall point out to you that I am not in the habit of asking for the esthetic opinions of my draftsmen. You will kindly take this photograph—and I do not wish any building as Cameron
might have
designed it, I wish the scheme of
this
adapted to our site—and you will follow my instructions as to the Classic treatment of the façade.”

“I can’t do it,” said Roark, very quietly.

“What? Are you speaking to me? Are you actually saying: ‘Sorry, I can’t do it’?”

“I haven’t said ‘sorry,’ Mr. Francon.”

“What did you say?”

“That I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to know why. Don’t ask me to do any designing. I’ll do any other kind of job you wish. But not that. And not to Cameron’s work.”

“What do you mean, no designing? You expect to be an architect some day—or do you?”

“Not like this.”

“Oh ... I see ... So you can’t do it? You mean you won’t?”

“If you prefer.”

“Listen, you impertinent fool, this is incredible!”

Roark got up.

“May I go, Mr. Francon?”

“In all my life,” roared Francon, “in all my experience, I’ve never seen anything like it! Are you here to tell me what you’ll do and what you won’t do? Are you here to give me lessons and criticize my taste and pass judgment?”

“I’m not criticizing anything,” said Roark quietly. “I’m not passing judgment. There are some things that I can’t do. Let it go at that. May I leave now?”

“You may leave this room and this firm now and from now on! You may go straight to the devil! Go and find yourself another employer! Try and find him! Go get your check and get out!”

“Yes, Mr. Francon.”

That evening Roark walked to the basement speak-easy where he could always find Mike after the day’s work. Mike was now employed on the construction of a factory by the same contractor who was awarded most of Francon’s biggest jobs. Mike had expected to see Roark on an inspection visit to the factory that afternoon, and greeted him angrily:

“What’s the matter, Red? Lying down on the job?”

When he heard the news, Mike sat still and looked like a bulldog baring its teeth. Then he swore savagely.

“The bastards,” he gulped between stronger names, “the bastards ...”

“Keep still, Mike.”

“Well ... what now, Red?”

“Someone else of the same kind, until the same thing happens again.”

When Keating returned from Washington he went straight up to Francon’s office. He had not stopped in the drafting room and had heard no news. Francon greeted him expansively:

“Boy, it’s great to see you back! What’ll you have? A whisky-and-soda or a little brandy?”

“No, thanks. Just give me a cigarette.”

“Here.... Boy, you look fine! Better than ever. How do you do it, you lucky bastard? I have so many things to tell you! How did it go down in Washington? Everything all right?” And before Keating could answer, Francon rushed on: “Something dreadful’s happened to me. Most disappointing. Do you remember Lili Landau? I thought I was all set with her, but last time I saw her, did I get the cold shoulder! Do you know who’s got her? You’ll be surprised. Gail Wynand, no less! The girl’s flying high. You should see her pictures and her legs all over his newspapers. Will it help her show or won’t it! What can I offer against that? And do you know what he’s done? Remember how she always said that nobody could give her what she wanted most—her childhood home, the dear little Austrian village where she was born? Well, Wynand bought it, long ago, the whole damn village, and had it shipped here—every bit of it!—and had it assembled again down on the Hudson, and there it stands now, cobbles, church, apple trees, pigsties and all! Then he springs it on Lili, two weeks ago. Wouldn’t you just know it? If the King of Babylon could get hanging gardens for his homesick lady, why not Gail Wynand? Lili’s all smiles and gratitude—but the poor girl was really miserable. She’d have much preferred a mink coat. She never wanted the damn village. And Wynand knew it, too. But there it stands, on the Hudson. Last week, he gave a party for her, right there, in that village—a costume party, with Mr. Wynand dressed as Cesare Borgia—wouldn’t he, though?—and what a party!—if you can believe what you hear, but you know how it is, you can never prove anything on Wynand. Then what does he do the next day but pose up there himself with little schoolchildren who’d never seen an Austrian village—the philanthropist! —and plasters the photos all over his papers with plenty of sob stuff about educational values, and gets mush notes from women’s clubs! I’d like to know what he’ll do with the village when he gets rid of Lili! He will, you know, they never last long with him. Do you think I’ll have a chance with her then?”

“Sure,” said Keating. “Sure, you will. How’s everything here in the office?”

“Oh, fine. Same as usual. Lucius had a cold and drank up all of my best Bas Armagnac. It’s bad for his heart, and a hundred dollars a case! ...Besides, Lucius got himself caught in a nasty little mess. It’s that phobia of his, his damn porcelain. Seems he went and bought a teapot from a fence. He knew it was stolen goods, too. Took me quite a bit of bother to save us from a scandal.... Oh, by the way, I fired that friend of yours, what’s his name?—Roark.”

“Oh,” said Keating, and let a moment pass, then asked: “Why?”

“The insolent bastard! Where did you ever pick him up?”

“What happened?”

“I thought I’d be nice to him, give him a real break. I asked him to make a sketch for the Farrell Building—you know, the one Brent finally managed to design and we got Farrell to accept, you know, the simplified Doric—and your friend just up and refused to do it. It seems he has ideals or something. So I showed him the gate.... What’s the matter? What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing. I can just see it.”

“Now don’t you ask me to take him back!”

“No, of course not.”

For several days, Keating thought that he should call on Roark. He did not know what he would say, but felt dimly that he should say something. He kept postponing it. He was gaining assurance in his work. He felt that he did not need Roark, after all. The days went by, and he did not call on Roark, and he felt relief in being free to forget him.

Beyond the windows of his room Roark saw the roofs, the water tanks, the chimneys, the cars speeding far below. There was a threat in the silence of his room, in the empty days, in his hands hanging idly by his sides. And he felt another threat rising from the city below, as if each window, each strip of pavement, had set itself closed grimly, in wordless resistance. It did not disturb him. He had known and accepted it long ago.

He made a list of the architects whose work he resented least, in the order of their lesser evil, and he set out upon the search for a job, coldly, systematically, without anger or hope. He never knew whether these days hurt him; he knew only that it was a thing which had to be done.

The architects he saw differed from one another. Some looked at him across the desk, kindly and vaguely, and their manner seemed to say that it was touching, his ambition to be an architect, touching and laudable and strange and attractively sad as all the delusions of youth. Some smiled at him with thin, drawn lips and seemed to enjoy his presence in the room, because it made them conscious of their own accomplishment. Some spoke coldly, as if his ambition were a personal insult. Some were brusque, and the sharpness of their voices seemed to say that they needed good draftsmen, they always needed good draftsmen, but this qualification could not possibly apply to him, and would he please refrain from being rude enough to force them to express it more plainly.

It was not malice. It was not a judgment passed upon his merit. They did not think he was worthless. They simply did not care to find out whether he was good. Sometimes, he was asked to show his sketches; he extended them across a desk, feeling a contraction of shame in the muscles of his hand; it was like having the clothes torn off his body, and the shame was not that his body was exposed, but that it was exposed to indifferent eyes.

Once in a while he made a trip to New Jersey, to see Cameron. They sat together on the porch of a house on a hill, Cameron in a wheel chair, his hands on an old blanket spread over his knees. “How is it, Howard? Pretty hard?” “No.” “Want me to give you a letter to one of the bastards?” “No.”

Then Cameron would not speak of it any more, he did not want to speak of it, he did not want the thought of Roark rejected by their city to become real. When Roark came to him, Cameron spoke of architecture with the simple confidence of a private possession. They sat together, looking at the city in the distance, on the edge of the sky, beyond the river. The sky was growing dark and luminous as blue-green glass; the buildings looked like clouds condensed on the glass, gray-blue clouds frozen for an instant in straight angles and vertical shafts, with the sunset caught in the spires....

As the summer months passed, as his list was exhausted and he returned again to the places that had refused him once, Roark found that a few things were known about him and he heard the same words—spoken bluntly or timidly or angrily or apologetically—“You were kicked out of Stanton. You were kicked out of Francon’s office.” All the different voices saying it had one note in common: a note of relief in the certainty that the decision had been made for them.