Abattoir, page 2
Cantrell had a bold vision, the mayor said, and not only the artistic skill to manifest it, but the personal fortitude and self sacrifice to make it happen.
The fact that Cantrell had been able to convince ten of the city’s most powerful millionaires to back the Exeter was obviously what most impressed the mayor. That, and the fact that the project, located deep within Derbytown, one of the city’s most neglected areas, might potentially trigger a major urban renewal movement, eventually generate significant tax revenue, and hence, provide him with serious political capital.
“In light of this project’s significance, I am proud to announce today the launch of an initiative to create an urban redevelopment district for Derbytown, with the Exeter as its cornerstone.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically. The mayor’s political acumen told him that it was time to hand things over. He turned to Cantrell, who stood on the dais beside him, shook his hand, smiling for the cameras as he abandoned the mike.
Cantrell’s black hair, streaked with silver, blew in the wind. He’d never been verbose or boastful; had very little experience speaking to the public, but this was his moment.
“Mr. Mayor, ladies and gentleman, thank you for making this dream a reality. It’s been a long, hard road getting here but I hope that most of you will agree it was all worth it.”
Applause.
“This is a historical restoration, a renaissance, if you will . . . ” He paused for effect.
“There are many individuals and agencies to thank, but I won’t bore you with all of that. You know who you are and how grateful I am. While this project was a labor of love, the true success of the Exeter will only be judged in time. I want the Exeter to be a home for people; a beautiful living space, and when it has become that, then we will know that we have succeeded.”
More applause. The mayor thrust the oversized gold-plated scissors into Cantrell’s hand.
Cantrell hesitated, turning to regard the crowd. Standing in front was an Asian woman, her young daughter beside her. He was struck by the mother’s beauty; the way the sun glinted blue off her jet black hair, the way she seemed to smile, even though she wasn’t.
He gestured to the woman. She hesitated, then smiled for real. Reluctantly, she ascended the steps, her daughter in hand. She allowed her daughter to accept the scissors, and gently guided the blades over the ribbon. Together, their hands severed the satin, and the crowd erupted.
§
What the audience would never know from Cantrell’s smooth and confident presentation was the utter dread with which he’d faced this opening. He didn’t sleep a minute the night before, so worried that he might say something wrong, that no matter how hard he had prepared, he would forget something.
Failure had never been a big part of Alex Cantrell’s life, but he’d always feared it. Ten years ago, when he turned 35, he’d been accepted for partnership in one of the city’s most prestigious architectural firms. He’d worked long and hard for that day; deserved the recognition, but couldn’t describe himself as satisfied. He was distracted with the mundane assignments reserved for junior partners: branch banks, small apartment complexes, strip malls, restaurants. He did his best on each assignment, invariably pleasing his clients and employers, but something was missing.
Cantrell had always seen architecture as but the medium for his art. He was a man with a multitude of ideas and inspirations, and he spent years searching for his nexus.
This project would be the epitome of his talent and experience. He wanted it to be his and his alone, from start to finish; nobody else holding the reins, the captain of his own ship. He’d always admired and respected Frank Lloyd Wright, not necessarily for his style, with which Cantrell didn’t always agree, but for his creative bravery, his willingness to stand alone, outside of the box. He aspired to the same bravery, to transform a lump of clay into a concept, an expression in stone and steel and, most importantly, space.
When he found the Exeter—then only the “old slaughterhouse”—it was purely by accident. He’d spent a Sunday exploring the city’s nether regions, and at the end of a cloudy day, had passed the forlorn packing house in Derbytown.
To the untrained eye, it wasn’t much to look at it. In fact, the abandoned structure had an almost eldritch feel to it. But he saw its potential immediately: its wonderful Second Empire lines, its intriguing spaces and angles . . . its sheer presence.
In less than a year, he’d quit the firm and devoted his every waking moment to the building’s resurrection. It was the biggest risk he’d ever taken in his life, both financially and emotionally. He knew that if the Exeter failed, then he would have failed; as an entrepreneur, but most importantly, as an artist.
§
Cantrell was relieved when the ribbon cutting ceremony finally drew to a close. But the crowd was hungry for more.
He flung open the doors and offered an impromptu tour of the building’s interior. All but a handful eagerly followed the creator into his creation.
The central foyer coaxed a chorus of sighs and gasps. Dominating the center of the lofty space was a towering linden tree, at least 40 feet in height, roots firmly entrenched in a circular garden covered with flowers and vines. High above was a multi-paned skylight which bathed the entire space in natural light.
Cantrell informed his guests that the linden had been imported directly from Germany, painstakingly replanted in the specially designed garden. He called it a “natural aesthetic;” designed to bring nature and greenery into the everyday lives of the tenants.
The tree’s graceful girth was encircled by a wide and flowing staircase that wound its way up all four floors of the main building. Bordered with wrought iron balustrades in delicate art noveau designs, the effect was both pleasing and somewhat dizzying to those who stared upward. Cantrell explained that the staircase was designed to provide a seamless transition from floor to floor that was smooth and welcoming.
Complementing the tree and garden was an ornate floor of alternating black and white marble squares, a motif that was repeated in the common hallways of each floor.
The walls were textured with silk fabrics and marble wainscoting. Large canvas prints of Monet and Renoir masterpieces, and less famous American impressionists, graced the hallways and common areas.
The entire effect was one of space masterfully and artistically used. The building was huge, Cantrell explained, and he felt liberated by the challenge of making the dimensions intimate. The lines, the repeating circular patterns, the carefully calibrated angles all joined into an effect that Cantrell wanted to communicate to both the conscious and subconscious.
“Ladies and gentlemen: it is people who design and build buildings; people who transform utilitarian ugliness into inspired beauty.”
Based on their smiles and awed expressions, Cantrell sensed they agreed with him.
He fielded a series of questions about the building’s construction, its physical plant, foundation and the extent of the renovations that had transformed it from slaughterhouse to living space.
Then a man raised his hand and asked a question that Cantrell had hoped might be avoided. He recognized the man as a reporter for the Telegraph, one of the very few who seemed less than impressed today.
“Mr. Cantrell, can you tell us about the body?”
“The body?”
“Yes, the transient who was found in your basement a year or so ago, when construction began.”
The crowd grew silent as Cantrell tried to maintain his smile.
“It was very unfortunate. From what I know, the man apparently sought shelter here during a snowstorm. He froze to death.”
Cantrell moved to answer another question, but the reporter was persistent.
“Yes, that was the coroner’s ruling, sir, but don’t you think it’s odd that a man could freeze to death when he had already started a fire, and there seemed to be plenty of fuel to keep it going?”
Cantrell matched the reporter’s gaze. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for that.”
The crowd seemed to shift uncomfortably, but nobody seemed to have anything to say.
“What about workers dying on the job?”
The reporter’s polite voice now had a sharper edge.
“What’s your question?”
Cantrell’s voice was also growing harder.
“Your construction workers. My count is that three died during the renovations, and many walked off the job. Why?”
Cantrell swallowed. “Tragically, there was a heart attack, a stroke, and one fatal fall during the reconstruction. This was a very, very difficult renovation. Unfortunately, despite all of our precautions, there was a run of bad luck. I can’t think of another way to put it. On a job like this, where there’s plenty of danger, the margin for error is extremely small. And, yes, some workers did walk off the job. I really can’t blame them.”
He cleared his throat and before the reporter could speak again, invited the new tenants for coffee in the conference room.
“There are a few practical details I’d like to go over with all of you, and perhaps you’d like the chance to meet your new neighbors.”
He turned to the others. “For the rest of you, thank you very much for your attendance today.” They filed to the front door—the thwarted reporter among them—while the tenants followed Cantrell to the conference room.
Like the rest of the building, the scale was impressive. There were 30 people here, but the room could easily have held three times that. Designed both for conferences and social events, the room was further testimony that Cantrell had achieved the synthesis of art and function. A long walnut table dominated the center of the room, but there was plenty of space to accommodate sofas and easy chairs along the marble and silk-covered walls. Warm sconces bathed the room in soft amber illumination. English countryside paintings added to the gentle and soothing ambiance.
The tenants positioned themselves at various spots along the table, settling into soft leather chairs, awaiting his words.
“I want to welcome you all—the first residents of the Exeter.”
He began with a lengthy talk on practical matters—parking, trash and recycling; the use of common rooms for parties and events, keys and security, then fielded questions from the room.
“Now,” he continued. “Let’s have everyone introduce themselves; tell us a little about who you are and why you’re here. After all, we’re all neighbors now.
“I’ll begin with myself. My flat is in the tower, just behind the clock. The point I’m making is that I’m not an absentee landlord. I want you to know that I’m here to help with whatever you might need, whenever you might need it. Now you, sir.”
He gestured to the man who was sitting to his right; a short, rather rotund older gentleman, about 60 years old. He’d shaved his balding pate and wore expensive glasses, ornate and oversized, jeans and an expensive silk shirt, opened halfway down to reveal a heavy gold medallion laying upon his hairy, graying chest.
“Stu Brown,” he announced in a deep and gravelly voice, the accent reminiscent of Brooklyn. “I’m in the bar and restaurant business. I’d be surprised if most of you haven’t been in one or more of my establishments at one time or another—the Lancelot, Rick’s, the Lime Light, Fifteenth Street Grill . . . ”
Some of the others nodded their heads in recognition.
“ . . . I’m pretty damn good at what I do,” Brown continued. “I make people happy.”
He smiled, the expression insincere, leering.
Cantrell made a mental note to himself: Tough character. Tread lightly with this guy . . .
He indicated the person to Brown’s right.
“My name is Derek Taylor . . . ”
He was in his late 20s, movie star handsome, complete with deep tan and dyed blonde hair. He was dressed impeccably in clothes that screamed Neiman Marcus or Hugo Boss; flowing baggy trousers, black t-shirt; a matching black linen sport-coat.
Taylor smiled casually. “I’m not exactly working right now, but I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. I’m here because I love this building. Mr. Cantrell, you’ve done an absolutely amazing job. It’s the most beautiful building in town. I can’t wait to move in this weekend.”
Trust fund punk; spoiled, self-infatuated; a kid who’s never worked a day in his life.
Next in line was a couple; a man in his 60s, dressed in plain khakis and a polo shirt, while the woman—just shy of fifty if Cantrell were any judge—wore a casual sun dress. They were holding hands. The man spoke for both of them:
“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Sloane, Bill and Janice. I’m a retired attorney—corporate and tax—and the little lady is my beautiful wife. She’s what they used to call a housewife, but I call her my better half.”
The others laughed.
“We’re looking forward to spending a lot of time on the home front, enjoying life. And enjoying this building. I have to second Mr. Taylor in giving kudos to Mr. Cantrell here.”
Nice people; a sweet couple, despite their cheesiness. Still, they were folksy and down-to-earth. They’d fit in well.
The next person introduced herself without prompting:
She was in her 40s, a little heavy, dressed in a conservative suit. She kept her red hair short in a bob with bangs and wore gold-rimmed glasses. She looked scholarly, but far from dowdy.
“My name is Sharon Knaster. I’m a shrink. I specialize in Alzheimer’s Disease and other forms of dementia, mostly associated with aging. I’m on staff at three hospitals in town and have run my own practice for the past ten years.”
She paused to examine her listeners. “And I warn you all: I don’t give discounts.”
Everyone laughed, including Cantrell.
Honest, doesn’t take herself too seriously. I like her.
“As for my reasons for being here, let me be honest: I’m at that stage in my professional career where I can actually reward myself. I can afford to live here, and I’m happy about that. Let’s face it, this place ain’t cheap . . . ”
There was another ripple of laughter.
“ . . . I think we all deserve this reward, or we wouldn’t be here . . . ”
Everyone’s heads were nodding.
“ . . . but there’s another reason I’m here.” Knaster took the hand of the woman who sat next to her. “This is my dear friend, Su Ling Nguyen. I’ll let her speak for herself.”
She paused before she spoke. She appeared to be about 35, petite, dressed in pastel cotton. Her hair was medium length, straight, cut in a modern style.
Intriguing. He’d noticed her from the dais, before her daughter cut the ribbon. He saw the pride in her soft black eyes, the deep love she felt for her daughter; the pain in her smile. Beautiful.
“Thank you, Sharon. This is my daughter, Anna. She’s five years old.”
The little girl, pretty like her mother, kept her head down, eyes glued to the tabletop. She said nothing.
“I’m not used to speaking in front of others. I came to this country when I was five years old, from Vietnam. I was among the last to leave Saigon before it fell. I guess you have all heard the story of the refugees.”
Heads nodded.
“My daughter and I are here because this is where I’m convinced my husband would have wanted us to be. It’s a beautiful place, and I think I like it because it’s so quiet, so far away from all the bustle and noise.”
She paused and looked at Knaster. “Sharon, I’m so grateful that you introduced us to this place . . . and for everything else you’ve done.”
Cantrell already knew a little about Su Ling from having gone over her lease papers. He wanted to know more. There was something mysterious about her, something compelling. He liked the way she didn’t offer her whole biography to this room of strangers.
He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late, folks, and I know you have a lot of things to do before you move in. A couple of details: You have your keys. Please adhere to your moving schedules, and do feel free to call on me for anything. Welcome home, folks.”
The tenants filed out one by one, shaking Cantrell’s hand and congratulating him. When Su Ling passed, she gave him a subtle smile.
§
Cantrell stood alone in the foyer. He wasn’t sure how to feel. The place was no longer a project, no longer merely a concept. It was open for business, with real flesh and blood residents. He had arrived, but the feeling was vaguely bittersweet, somehow anti-climactic. In many ways, his job was done. For the next year or so, he would consider himself on architectural sabbatical, devoting all his energies to getting the Exeter off the ground and running smoothly.
He would be the manager, of course, which would entail a lot of work, but that was a far cry from being the creator. Would he be able to adjust to his new role? Would it bore him? Maybe it would drive him mad to see his creation slowly decay around him, to lose its veneer of newness.
Would he need another project someday?
The sun was setting, sending angled rays down through the skylight. As he ascended the stairs to his own flat, he paused, staring at the shadows cast by the wrought iron railings, feeling a vague sense of unease. The shadows puzzled him. The angles looked somehow off kilter—slightly expressionistic.
He knelt on a stair and brought his eye close to the iron railing, looking up into the rotunda design. It looked perfect to him, exactly as he designed it. Everything was square, level and plumb, the angles exactly as they should be.
But when he stepped back and regarded the shadows once again, it still seemed oddly different.
He laughed at his own life-consuming obsession with perfection. Now it looked like it’d finally started to take a toll on his sanity.
=§=§=§=
The disturbances spread through everything.
They were manifold, seeming to come from all directions—vibrations, changes in light and temperature, shifting currents of air.
