The Architect (8 page)

There was a general sigh of approval. A teardrop rolled out of one woman’s eye.

“I realise that much is being asked of you,” the doctor continued, “but I also realise that, fortified by the wisdom of the great Maxwell Körn, you are up to the task. For from him we have learned that these bodies are not our true bodies, but only an illusion and we realise that our suffering and hardship are unreal.”

It was well that the doctor spoke so, since suffering and hardship had most certainly become part of these disciples daily lot, dragging along Cyclopean blocks of stone, weighing as much as twenty tons each, mixing cold mortar before the sun rose and still finding themselves balanced at precarious heights when the moon came out. And yet, through it all, they were for the most part cheerful—for these were all people who had gone through years of thought reform, mystical manipulation which made them always put the Society first.

With glazed eyes and hungry bellies they listened to his words. Many were gladly willing to be devoured by the structure, to let it crunch their bones and chew off their heads. Many—but not all, for there were others, inspired by fear or some innate sense of self preservation, who were not quite so keen.

A few whispered together, a few openly sneered—some wandered off into the darkness, cursing the mountain on which they stood.

XX.

Even though the group seemed to be compelled by some sort of mass hypnotism, madness, it was seen that the intensity of the labour soon caused infractions. Though minor at first—a man leaning on his shovel, a woman sitting down for a quarter of an hour to rest—a few more serious incidents soon occurred.

A young man from India complained rather too volubly about the living conditions saying that even on the streets of Calcutta one might do better—sleeping on the sidewalk with dogs and dining off nauseous waste. An Italian couple insisted on being fed better. An elderly gentleman from Morocco began to scream violently and declared that he would soon return home, even if he had to walk.

“We cannot let this sort of behaviour go unchecked,” Nachtman said during the next board meeting. “Discipline is the key to the completion of the project. These workers are all we have. If they abandon us, the project is doomed.”

“They will not abandon us,” Dr. Enheim stated.

“No? Some of them are already beginning to murmur, a few to shout.”

“But even if we lose a few people, I don’t see how—”

“We cannot afford to lose anyone! If one goes, others will follow. The distance from a whisper to open rebellion can be covered in an instant and, as you well know, mankind is a gregarious animal and acts as a herd rather than as a group of individuals. Humans are like plagues of rats. They clew together, follow one upon the next like parcels of penguins. Furthermore,” the architect added with a pompous wave of his hand, “Körn himself, in his Vienna lectures, said that educational discipline was the key to the betterment of mankind.”

“What do you propose?”

“Well, there is obviously only one solution.”

“Which is?”

“Corporal punishment. Severe corporal punishment for those who don’t give themselves to us, from the ends of their toes to the follicles of their hair. Their very minds and individuality. Corporal punishment for those who don’t conform to the requirements of the Society.”

Borromeo smiled uneasily. “Don’t you think that would be somewhat…brutal?”

“Come man! Do you think the pyramids would have ever been built without the help of the whip? In grand projects, the workers need whatever stimulation they can get. They should be shown what dedication means. It is simply a matter of healthy respect for authority. And I am quite sure, if Dr. Körn were with us today, he would agree with my point of view. After all,
He that spareth his rod hateth his son.
”

“But from a strictly spiritual perspective…”

“Aren’t you listening to me? Am I shouting at walls? It is the spirit that I am concerned with. We must be willing to chastise the flesh if we hope to cleanse the soul. Only by suffering can these poor bastards hope to find the light!”

“I am afraid he is right,” Maria said quietly. “These people need us. They need our guidance. We cannot be cowards. We are not doing them any favours by treating them so delicately. A small amount of hard-living will only help them”

Peter was dumbfounded.

“But what exactly are you planning on doing?” he asked.

“You will see,” Nachtman said, standing erect and thrusting his index finger in the air like a spear. “Leave the matter in my hands and all will be well.”

“You are the architect,” Enheim pronounced gravely. “You are in charge of the project and of course must do what you think fit.”

“Indeed he must,” was Nesler’s comment as he bobbed his head deferentially.

The next day the young and voluble man from India, he who had compared his sojourn in Switzerland disadvantageously to life in the streets of Calcutta, was busy smoothing the side of a giant block of marble. Nachtman, carrying in one hand a rattan cane, approached him.

“You have been refractory.”

The other looked somewhat confused.

“I am not sure that I understand…”

“You have been belittling the community and disturbing their composure with your pusillanimous complaints.”

“I am sorry about it.”

“I am glad to hear that, my friend. But now, if you would be so kind as to step over here and touch your toes.”

“My toes?”

“Touch them.”

The man did as he was told.

The architect, majestically holding his head high, violently applied the stick to the other man’s slim buttocks twelve times. With each stroke the poor fellow let out a painful cry. Afterwards, he was allowed to return to his work, which he went about with much vehemence.

Throughout the rest of the day the teams worked on in nervous silence, going about their business obediently, with heads hung low. Many felt inner joy at being part of something so great. Some felt fear and pressed their lips tightly together. Unfortunately however, this was not the last disciplinary incident. Nachtman had his eye on several who he considered to be trouble-makers and infractions were not tolerated. Behaviour modifications were doled out to those who did not conform one-hundred percent to the requirements of the Society. These punishments were referred to as purges and were said to expel the demon of softness. Some were made to wear sackcloth and others, the more refractory, were smeared with honey and exposed to flies and wasps. Those who were caught uttering unflattering comments regarding either the project or the Society were made to wear branks—a bridle with a sharp iron to restrain the tongue. There were whippings and humiliations, cries which tore the calm of the mountain and tears of repentance.

And though in truth there were very few who had not consigned themselves body and soul to the project and fewer still who openly complained, the punishments gradually grew more severe. It being the nature of our species to be ever searching for new sensations, unlike bees who are satisfied with the dust of flowers, it came to pass that simple floggings no longer sufficed and the penalties became not so much a matter of discipline as being a demonstration of Nachtman’s authority—a sacrifice to that man and to the great structure he was building, a thing which seemed to grow larger with every drop of blood spilt, a fungus that seemed to flourish in conditions of human suffering.

One day a young Spaniard was found asleep high up on a wall during working hours. It seemed probable that he had fallen asleep involuntarily, but the architect was still merciless.

“Shall we whip him?” Maria asked.

“No,” was Nachtman’s reply. “His crime is too severe for that. Cut off his leg.”

And as it was said so it was done, the architect showing no particular signs of pleasure while meting out this chastisement, but also not showing the least repugnance.

XXI.

Mr. Daniel Nesler directed two organisations, the Körn Business Association (KBA), and the Association for Responsible Living (ARL), and with these was in charge of vast resources, gleaned from multiple sources—from investments to charity. From a unique line of herbal and homeopathic products to an arms manufacturer in Zürich—for the KBA was composed of 43 medium-sized businesses, all with their tax bases in Liechtenstein, which generated considerable wealth, while the ARL, though not involved in commerce, was still a formidable financial institution, as it took donations under a vast variety of headings. There were programs for feeding the hungry in Africa and for curing the blind in India. Conveniently however, only a small amount of money given for these causes managed to find its way through the infinite maze of bank accounts and routing numbers, financial rubrics and Byzantine computations, to the place where it had been destined. The secret holdings in the banks of Switzerland and Nassau grew ever fatter, while a truly minute amount was dribbled into those needy Third World countries where it was gobbled up in an instant by blind beggars and weeping mothers, indigence opening its parched lips, displaying its decayed and unappealing mouth.

But, as wealthy as the Society was, it did not seem to be able to meet the needs of the structure. Huge sums had been spent on costly marble and exotic woods. Machinery had been purchased and millions expended on enormous stained glass windows which were being made in Murano. The building was indeed ravenous, swallowing down fortunes, drinking molten gold and dining off beefsteaks of silver.

Carried away by a kind of infatuation, the Society seemed to have lost its bearings, and poured money into the Meeting Place without thought or discretion and went about emptying its coffers at a dizzying speed. The gun business was bought by a Russian multinational, the homeopathic product line by an entrepreneur from California. Funds were funnelled in from right and left, vaults once full were swept clean, so not even a coin remained.

When Nesler reported to the architect that the Society had divested its portfolios of most of its holdings, the latter merely shrugged his shoulders. Due to his ambitions, the unannounced grandeur of the structure, more money would need to be found. Construction was expensive, and it was vital that the flow of cash continue unabated.

And that accountant, that individual with eyeglasses and yellow skin whose clothes never seemed to fit, felt himself equal to the task.

Nesler was swept away by his own enthusiasm. He had been the most resistant to the architect, but once converted, that black belt in financial jujitsu would have spilled the blood of his entrails for the man. He had become the most avid henchman, ready to go to almost any lengths for the cause, restlessly searching for funds—willing to dive to the bottom of the sea for a few coins and traverse deserts to lay hands on a soiled banknote or two. In almost constant motion, he went from place to place, travelling over the face of the earth at great speed. He scraped together rupees in India and filled his hat full of kronor in Sweden, shaking hands with others like an automaton, rattling off little speeches and then climbing into a taxi to make his way to the next destination—whether it were some great institution where he hoped to gain millions—or the house of some destitute widow that he might pillage of its silverware.

He would beg five-franc pieces, convince welfare mothers to crack open the piggy banks of their youngsters, and elderly couples to donate their pensions. In Third World countries he stepped through lanes that abounded in itchy dogs, squeezed the last bits of copper out of peasants’ purses, emptied the begging bowls of lepers and then, come evening, could be seen at some dinner of important people, whispering into the ears of old women and pestering prominent men as they made their way to the toilet.

He stayed in cut-price hotels, dined at street stands, filling his belly with the meanest viands so as to have a few more pennies to bring back to Switzerland—squeezing his thin lips around fly-blown pakora and inflating his paunch with lentils and other pulses—anything that would provide his frame with energy on the cheap.

Bill by bill, coin by coin he gathered up funds, passing the cap at Körnosophical societies around Europe, browbeating members, frightening them with threats of cosmic retribution and promising lands of jewelled fruits as recompense for compliance. Like a good salesman, he would tell a person anything, as long as he left with their money—seething at the mouth like a rabid dog, howling like a jackal, the pockets of his over-sized trousers bulging with wadded-up bank notes and greasy centimes.

He caught planes and took rail transport, scurrying about, briefcase in hand, the eternal cheap grey suit hanging about his person, the same phrases upon his lips at every doorstep.

“We are asking you to dig deep in order to help defray expenses incurred by the construction of the Meeting Place. Your gift will be used to bring light into a dark world. I am sure you realise how costly equipment is, how quality materials need to be paid for and how numerous the expenses are in such a grand scheme, and if you could manage to give us just thirty or forty percent of the capital you have on hand, it would be helpful.”

One day he arrived by bicycle rickshaw at the home of a registered member in Khajuraho, India—a small, two-room dwelling in the middle of a great field—in the distance temples dedicated to Brahma and Vishnu—buildings that looked like elaborate cake decorations, as if they were made of icing, of buttercream and sugar.

He was greeted by the owner, one Tushar Biswas, with exaggerated politeness and offered tea.

“Let me introduce you to my family,” the man said. “This is my wife, and these are my three children. This gentleman here is my brother-in-law, Ashok, who lives here together with my sister and their children—which number two.”

Nesler looked over the ensemble gathered before him, who all bowed deeply, except for the small children, who gazed up at him in wonder.

“So, nine of you live here together?”

“Indeed we do. It is very fortunate that my job pays me twenty-thousand rupees a year, for regrettably Ashok is out of work, and I am the one privileged to support us all.”