The Invisible Bridge (45 page)

Polaner stood beside him, crushing his handkerchief into a dense ball; on his other side was Rosen, who wore a look of vaguely interested detachment.
He
didn't have to worry; he hadn't entered the contest. He'd been too busy with meetings of the Ligue Contre l'Antisemitisme, of which he had recently been elected secretary.

Far too soon for Andras's comfort, the critique of the women's sports club concluded and the judges moved on. The students collected behind them around the table where Andras and Polaner's model was displayed.

"Introduce your project, gentlemen," Perret said, with a wave of his hand.

Polaner was the first to speak. He tugged at the hem of his jacket, and, in his Polish-tinged French, began to explain the need for an inclusive sports club, one that would stand as a symbol of the founding principles of the Republic. The design would be oriented toward the future; the building's predominant materials would be reinforced concrete, glass, and steel, with panels of dark wood crowning the doors and windows.

He paused and looked at Andras, who was to speak next. Andras opened his mouth and found that his French had fled entirely. In its place there was an astounding blankness, a book washed clean of text.

"What's the matter, young man?" Le Corbusier said. "Can't you speak?"

Andras, who hadn't slept in three days, was afflicted with a temporal hallucination. Time slowed to a chelonian crawl. He watched the cycle of Le Corbusier's blink, taking place over what seemed an eternity, behind the plaster-flecked lenses of his glasses. From the back of the amphitheater someone launched an oceanic cough.

He might never have found his voice had not Pierre Vago, Master of Ceremonies, come swiftly to his rescue. Vago was the one who had taught Andras the language he was supposed to speak now; he knew the words that might put Andras at ease. "Why don't you begin with the
piste,"
he said.
Piste:
the running track, French for
palya
. They'd had the conversation two days ago in studio: how one said
sports track
in French, and how that word differed from the ones that meant
road, trail, rail
, and
trace
. Andras could talk about the
piste;
it was the most unusual element of their design, a stroke of recent late-night inspiration.
"La piste,"
he began,
"est construit d'acier galvanisee,"
and would be suspended from the roof of the building, halolike, on steel cables attached to reinforced I-beams. The words had come back to him; he spoke them, and Le Corbusier and Lemain and Pingusson listened, making notes on their yellow pads. The suspension design allowed for a longer track than would be possible if the
piste
were housed inside the building. The sports club would be constructed higher than the surrounding buildings, and the track could hang over their uppermost stories. The roof of the building itself was also the ceiling of the natatorium; Andras bent over the model and demonstrated how it might be retracted in fine weather. Both design elements, the exposed track and the retractable roof, reflected the sports club's principles of inclusivity and freedom.

When he'd finished, there was a hush in the room. He sent a look of gratitude in the direction of Professor Vago, who refused to acknowledge that he had helped Andras.

Then the judges' questions began: How would a suspended track be kept from bouncing under the runners' impact? What would happen in a wind? How quickly could the retracted roof be closed again in case of thunderstorms? How did they propose to deal with the problem of housing a hydraulic system in the open space of the natatorium?

Now the words came faster. These were problems Andras and Polaner had discussed and argued about for hours in the studio at night. The supporting cables would be wrapped in thin bands of steel to make them rigid without entirely eliminating their elasticity; a certain degree of spring would cushion the runners' tread. The track would be braced against the building with support struts to prevent sway. And the hydraulic system would be housed within this closetlike enclosure. After they'd answered all the questions, it seemed to take hours for Pingusson and Lemain and Le Corbusier to inspect the materials and make their notes; even Perret himself insisted upon taking a closer look, muttering to himself as he examined the cross-section of an external wall.

"And who are you, Monsieur Levi?" Le Corbusier asked finally, lodging his pencil behind his ear.

"I'm a Hungarian, from Konyar, sir," Andras said.

"Ah. You're the young man they discovered at the art exhibition. They admitted you to the school based on some linoleum cuts, I understand."

"Yes," Andras said, and cleared his throat self-consciously.

"And you, Monsieur Polaner?" Pingusson asked. "From Krakow? They tell me you've got a taste for engineering."

"I do, sir," Polaner said.

"Well, I'd call the design superb but impractical," Le Corbusier said. "The zoning is the problem. You'll never get Parisians to hang a track off a building. It looks a bit like what ladies used to wear under their dresses in the eighteenth century. Those whatever-you-call-them. Martingale. Frimple."

"More like some sort of outlandish hat," said Pingusson. "But it's an awfully good use of urban space."

"Rather fantastical," Lemain said. "The building itself is well designed, though.

And the wood ornamentation is a fine element. Echoes of gymnasium parquet."

And then the judges moved on to the next set of designs. It was over. Andras and Polaner exhanged a look of exhausted satisfaction: Their design, if imperfect, had at least been worthy of praise. As the other students surged past them, Rosen clapped them on the shoulders and kissed them on both cheeks.

"Congratulations, boys," he said. "You've created the first ever architectural frimple. If I weren't entirely broke, I'd treat you both to a drink."

The next morning, when Andras came in through the blue courtyard doors--the same threshold he'd crossed nearly two years earlier as a novice student--he was greeted by cheers all around. The students in the courtyard clapped and began to chant his name.

On a chipped wooden chair in the corner of the yard, Polaner sat in state: Students crowded around him, and a gold medal hung from his neck. Someone had draped the tricolor over his shoulders. A photographer bent to a camera and shot pictures. When Rosen heard the new round of cheers, he rushed over to Andras and took him by the arm.

"Where have you been?" he said. "Everyone's been waiting for you! You won, idiot. You and your adorable partner. You won the Grand Prix. Your medal's hanging on display in the amphitheater."

Andras ran to the amphitheater, where he saw that it was true: Their Sportsclub Saint-Germain was crowned with a gold-stamped certificate and flanked by a medal on a tricolor ribbon. There were the judges' signatures on the certificate, Le Corbusier's and Lemain's and Pingusson's. He stood alone for a long moment, trying to believe it; he took the medal and turned it over in his hand. It was heavy and burnished, with a portrait of Emile Trelat sculpted in low relief upon its surface.
Grand Prix du Amphitheatre
, it read; on the back it was inscribed with Andras's and Polaner's names, and the year, 1939. He put the medal on, the weight of it pulling the tricolor ribbon against his neck. He had to see Polaner, and then Professor Vago.

"Levi," someone said, and he turned.

It was a pair of students who'd entered the contest, two third-year men. Andras had seen them around the Ecole Speciale but didn't know them; neither of them had been among his studio group or his third-year mentors. The tall fellow with ink-black hair was a Frederic something; the one with the broad chest and horn-rimmed glasses went by the nickname of Noirlac. The tall one reached for Andras's medal and gave it a yank.

"Nice trinket," he said. "It's a shame you had to cheat to get it."

"Pardon?" Andras said. He didn't trust his comprehension of the man's French.

"I said it's a shame you had to cheat to get it."

Andras narrowed his eyes at Frederic. "What's this about?"

"Everyone knows they gave it to you out of pity," said the one called Noirlac.

"They felt bad for your little friend, the one who got buggered and beat up. It wasn't enough that Lemarque had to hang himself over it. They had to make a public statement."

"We all know you work for Lemain," said the other. "And don't think we don't know about Pingusson and your scholarship. We know it was fixed. You'd better admit it to yourself. You'd never win for a monstrosity like that, not unless you were someone's little pet."

A muted cheer reached them from the courtyard. Andras could just make out Rosen's voice as he delivered a laudatory speech. "If you touch Polaner, I'll kill you," he said. "Both of you."

The taller man laughed. "Defending your lover?"

"What's going on, gentlemen?" It was Vago, striding across the amphitheater with a sheaf of plans under his arm. "Congratulating the winner, are we?"

"That's right, sir," said Frederic, and grabbed Andras's hand as if to shake it.

Andras pulled away.

Vago seemed to take in Andras's expression and the mocking smiles of the third-year students. "I'd like a word with Monsieur Levi," he said.

"Of course, Professor," said Noirlac, and made a half bow to Vago. He took his friend's arm and crossed the amphitheater, turning to give Andras a salute at the courtyard door.

"Bastards,"

Andras

said.

Vago put his hands on his hips and sighed. "I know those two," he said. "I'd kill them myself if it wouldn't get me fired."

"Just tell me. Is it true? Did you give us the prize to make a point?"

"What

point?"

"About

Polaner."

"Of course," said Vago. "To make the point that he's an excellent designer and draftsman. As are you. The entry isn't perfect, of course, but it was by far the most innovative and well-realized in the contest. The decision was unanimous. All the judges agreed, for once. But it was Pingusson who was your biggest champion. He said it was worth every cent to keep you here. In fact, he promised to increase the amount of your fellowship. He's keen to get you more studio time."

"But this design," Andras said, tweaking the hanging track with one finger. "It's absurd, isn't it? Le Corbusier was right when he said a thing like this could never be built."

"Maybe not in Paris," Vago said. "Maybe not this decade. But Le Corbusier's been making notes and sketches for a project in India, and he says he'd like to exchange some ideas with you and Polaner."

Andras squinted at him in disbelief. "He wants to exchange ideas with us?"

"Why shouldn't he? The best ideas often come out of the classroom. After all, you haven't spent years dealing with planning commissions and zoning boards and neighborhood associations. You're more likely to imagine something impossible, which is how the most interesting buildings come into being."

Andras turned the medal over in his hands. The third-years' insults were still fresh in his mind, his temples still beating with adrenaline.

"Jealous men will always try to take you down," Vago said. "It's the way of humankind."

"A fine species we are," Andras said.

"Oh, indeed. There's no saving us. Eventually we'll destroy ourselves. But in the meantime we've got to have shelter, so the architect's work goes on."

At that moment Rosen appeared at the entrance to the amphitheater. "What's keeping you?" he called. "The photographer's waiting."

Vago put a hand on Andras's shoulder and led him to the courtyard, where a group had gathered in a grassy corner. The judges had emerged to be photographed with the winners; Polaner stood between Le Corbusier and Pingusson, a look of deep solemnity on his pale boyish face, and Lemain stood beside them, proud and grave. The photographer placed Andras next to Le Corbusier, and Vago on his other side. Andras adjusted the medal around his neck and drew his shoulders back. As he looked toward the lens of the camera, still trying to shake off his anger, he saw Noirlac and Frederic watching him, their arms crossed over their chests, reminding him of what seemed to be one of the central truths of his life: that in any moment of happiness there was a reminder of bitterness or tragedy, like the ten plague drops spilled from the Passover cup, or the taste of wormwood in absinthe that no amount of sugar could disguise. And that was why, even though it was the only photograph he'd ever have of himself at the Ecole Speciale, he would never hang that picture on his wall. When he looked at it he could see nothing but his own anger, and the source of it staring at him from the crowd.

That summer, the constant subject of discussion was the fate of the Free City of Danzig. The papers reported that Germany was smuggling armaments and troops across the border; officers of the Reich were reported to be training the local Nazis in war maneuvers. While Britain and France stalled over a military-assistance agreement with Russia, the radio carried rumors of deeper cooperation between Berlin and Moscow. In early July, Chamberlain pledged Britain's help to Poland if Danzig were threatened, and on Bastille Day the Champs-Elysees bristled with French and British tanks, armored cars, artillery. Two days later the Polish flag mysteriously appeared above the offices of the Reich in Breslau. How that act of defiance had been accomplished, no one could guess; the building must have been crawling with guards. Polaner, who'd had a string of anxious letters from his parents all summer, was sick with the need for good news. Having received that piece, however small, he proposed that they all go to the Blue Dove and let him buy them drinks. It was a hot July afternoon, the streets still littered with Bastille Day trash, the sidewalks awash in greasy bags and empty beer bottles and tiny French and British flags. When they arrived at the Blue Dove they found Ben Yakov already installed at a table with a bottle of whiskey before him. A look of drink-eased resignation had settled over his features.

"Good afternoon, darlings," he said. "Have a drink on me."