The Invisible Bridge (6 page)

The young woman behind the desk seemed a figure from a dream. Her skin was the color of dark-stained walnut, her close-cropped hair as glossy as satin. Her gaze was friendly, her dark-fringed eyes steady on his own. It didn't occur to him to try to speak.

Never before had he seen a woman so beautiful, nor had he ever encountered in real life a person of African descent. Now this gorgeous young black Frenchwoman asked him a question he couldn't understand, and he mumbled one of his few French words--
desole
-and wrote his name on a slip of paper, which he pushed across the desk. The young woman thumbed through a stack of thick envelopes in a wooden box and extracted one with his name, L EVI, printed across the top in precise block capitals.

He thanked her in his awkward French. She told him he was welcome. He might have continued to stand there and stare if a group of students hadn't come in at that moment, calling greetings to her and leaning over the desk to kiss her cheeks.
Eh, Lucia!

Ca va, bellissima?
Andras slipped past the others, holding his envelope against his chest, and went out into the hall. Everyone had gathered under the glass roof of a central atrium where studio assignments had just been posted. He sat down on a low bench there and opened his envelope to find a list of classes:

COURS PROFESSEUR HISTOIRE D'ARCHITECTUREA. PERRET LES

STATIQUESv. LE BOURGEOIS ATELIERP. VAGO DESSINAGEM. LABELLE

All matter-of-fact, as though it were perfectly natural for Andras to study those subjects under the tutelage of famous architects. There was a long list of required texts and materials, and a small white card handwritten in Hungarian (by whom?) indicating that Andras, due to his scholarship status, would be permitted to purchase his books and supplies on the school's credit at a bookstore on the boulevard Saint-Michel.

He read and reread the message, then looked around the atrium, wondering who could have been responsible for that piece of communication. The crowd of students provided no clue. None of them looked even vaguely Hungarian; they were all hopelessly, perfectly Parisian. But in one corner a trio of uncertain-looking young men stood close together and scanned the room. He could tell at a glance that they were first-year students, and the names on their folders suggested they were Jewish: ROSEN, P

OLANER, B EN Y AKOV. He raised a hand in greeting, and they nodded, a kind of tacit recognition passing between them. The tallest of them waved him over.

Rosen was lanky, freckled, with unruly red hair and the vague beginnings of a goatee. He took Andras by the shoulder and introduced Ben Yakov, who resembled the handsome French film star Pierre Fresnay; and Polaner, small and light-boned, with a neat, close-shorn head and tapering hands. Andras greeted everyone and repeated his own name, and the young men's conversation continued in quick French as Andras tried to pick up a thread of meaning. Rosen seemed to be the leader of the group; he led the conversation, and the others listened and responded. Polaner seemed nervous, buttoning and unbuttoning the top button of his antique-looking velvet jacket. The handsome Ben Yakov eyed a group of young women; one of them waved, and he waved in return. Then he leaned in toward Polaner and Rosen to make what could only have been a suggestive joke, and the three of them laughed. Though Andras found himself struggling to follow the men's talk, and though they had hardly addressed him at all, he felt an acute desire to know them. When they went to look at the studio lists, he was glad to find they were all in the same group.

After a short time the students began to move out into the stone-walled courtyard, where tall trees overshadowed rows of wooden benches. One student carried a lectern to a small paved area at the front, and the others sat down on the benches. From beyond the stone courtyard walls came the rush and hum of traffic. But Andras was here inside, sitting beside three men whose names he knew; he was one of these students, and he belonged on this side of the wall. He tried to take note of the feeling, tried to imagine how he might write about it to Tibor, to Matyas. But before he could put the words together in his mind, a door opened in the side of the building and a man strode out. He looked as though he could have been a military captain; he wore a long gray cloak lined in red, and sported a short triangular beard with wax-curled moustaches. His eyes were narrow and fierce behind rimless pince-nez. In one hand he carried a walking stick, and in the other what looked like a jagged gray rock. Any other man, it seemed to Andras, would have had to bow under the weight of the thing, but this man crossed the courtyard with his back straight and his chin set at a martial angle. He stepped up to the lectern and set the rock down upon it with a hollow thud.

"Attention,"

he

bellowed.

The students fell silent and came to attention, their backs straightening as if they had been pulled by invisible strings. Quietly, a tall young man in a frayed work shirt slid onto the bench beside Andras and bent his head toward Andras's ear.

"That's Auguste Perret," the young man said in Hungarian. "He was my teacher, and now he'll be yours."

Andras looked at the young man in surprise and relief. "You're the one who wrote the note in my packet," he said.

"Listen," the man said, "and I'll translate."

Andras listened. At the lectern, Auguste Perret lifted the jagged rock in both hands and asked a question. The question, according to Andras's translator, was whether anyone knew what this building material was. You there, in front? Concrete, that was correct. Reinforced concrete. By the time they finished their five years at the school, all of them would know everything there was to know about reinforced concrete. Why?

Because it was the future of the modern city. It would make buildings that surpassed in height and strength anything that had been built before. Height and strength, yes; and beauty. Here at the Ecole Speciale we were not
seduced
by beauty, however; leave that to the sons of privilege at
that other school
. That school was a gentlemen's institution, a place where boys went to play at the art of
dessinage;
we at the Ecole Speciale were interested in real architecture, buildings that people could inhabit. If our designs were beautiful, so much the better; but let them be beautiful in a manner that belonged to the common man. We were here because we believed in architecture as a democratic art; because we believed that form and function were of equal importance; because we, the avantgarde, had shrugged off the bonds of aristocratic tradition and had begun to think for ourselves. Let anyone who wanted to build Versailles stand now and go through that gate.
That other school
was only three Metro stops away.

The professor paused, his arm flung toward the gate, his eyes fixed on the rows of students.
"Non?"
he shouted.
"Pas un?"

No one moved. The professor stood statuelike before them. Andras had the sense of being a figure in a painting, paralyzed for all eternity by Perret's challenge. People would admire the painting in museums centuries from now. Still he would be sitting on the bench, inclined slightly toward this man with the cape and the white beard, this general among architects.

"He gives this speech every year," the Hungarian man next to Andras whispered.

"Next he'll talk about your responsibility to the students who will come after you."

"Les etudiants qui viennent apres vous,"
the professor went on, and the Hungarian translated. Those students were relying upon you to study assiduously. If you did not, they, too, would fail. You would be taught by those who came before you; at the Ecole Speciale you would learn collaboration, because your life as an architect would involve close work with others. You might have your own vision, but without the help of your colleagues that vision wasn't worth the paper it was drawn upon. In this school, Emile Trelat had instructed Robert Mallet-Stevens, Mallet-Stevens had instructed Fernand Fenzy, Fernand Fenzy had instructed Pierre Vago, and Pierre Vago would instruct you.

At that, the professor pointed into the audience, and the young man beside Andras stood up and made a polite bow. He strode to the front of the assembly, took his place beside Professor Perret at the lectern, and began addressing the students in French. Pierre Vago. This man who had been translating for Andras--this rumpled-looking young man in an inkstained work shirt--was the P. VAGO of Andras's class schedule. His studio leader. His professor. A Hungarian. Andras felt suddenly faint. For the first time it seemed to him he might have a chance of surviving at the Ecole Speciale. He could hardly concentrate on what Pierre Vago was saying now, in his elegant, slightly accented French. Pierre Vago had indeed been the one who'd written the Hungarian note in Andras's manila envelope. Pierre Vago, it occurred to Andras, was probably the one man responsible for his being there at all.

"Hey," Rosen said, pulling Andras's sleeve.
"Regardes-toi."

In the excitement, Andras's nose had begun to bleed. Red spots glistened on his white shirt. Polaner looked at him with concern and offered a handkerchief; Ben Yakov went pale and turned away. Andras took the handkerchief and pressed it against his nose.

Rosen made him tip his head back. A few people turned to see what was going on.

Andras sat bleeding into the handkerchief, not caring who was looking, happier than he'd ever been in his life.

Later that day, after the assembly, after Andras's nosebleed had stopped and he'd traded his own clean handkerchief for the one he'd bled upon, after the first meeting of the studio groups, and after he'd exchanged addresses with Rosen, Polaner, and Ben Yakov, Andras found himself in Vago's cluttered office, sitting on a wooden stool beside the drafting table. On the walls were sketched and printed plans, black-and-white watercolors of beautiful and impossible buildings, a scale drawing of a city from high above. In one corner was a heap of paint-stained clothes; a rusted, twisted bicycle frame leaned against the wall. Vago's bookshelves held ancient books and glossy magazines and a teakettle and a small wooden airplane and a skinny-legged junk sculpture of a girl.

Vago himself leaned back in his swivel chair, his fingers laced behind his head.

"So," he said to Andras. "Here you are, fresh from Budapest. I'm glad you came. I didn't know if you'd be able to make it on such short notice. But I had to try. It's barbarous, those prejudices about who can study what, and when, and how. It's not a country for men like us."

"But--forgive me--are you Jewish, Professor?"

"No. I'm a Catholic. Educated in Rome." He gave his
R
a deep Italianate roll.

"Then why do you care, sir?"

"Shouldn't I care?"

"Many

don't."

Vago shrugged. "Some do." He opened a folder on his desk. There, in full color, were reproductions of Andras's covers for
Past and Future:
linoleum prints of a scribe inking a scroll, a father and his boys at synagogue, a woman lighting two slender candles.

Andras saw the work now as if for the first time. The subjects seemed sentimental, the compositions obvious and childish. He couldn't believe this was what had earned his admission to the school. He hadn't had a chance to submit the portfolio he'd used for his applications to Hungarian architectural colleges--detailed drawings of the Parliament and the Palace, measured renderings of the interiors of churches and libraries, work he'd slaved over for hours at his desk at
Past and Future
. But he suspected that even those pieces would have seemed clumsy and amateurish in comparison to Vago's work, the crisp plans and gorgeous elevations pinned to the walls.

"I'm here to learn, sir," Andras said. "I made those prints a long time ago."

"This is excellent work," Vago said. "There's a precision, an accuracy of perspective, rare in an untrained artist. You've got great natural skill, that's apparent. The compositions are asymmetrical but well balanced. The themes are ancient but the lines are modern. Good qualities to bring to your work in architecture."

Andras reached for one of the covers, the one that showed a man and boys at prayer. He'd carved the linoleum original by candlelight in the apartment on Harsfa utca.

Though he hadn't considered it at the time--and why not, when it was so clear now?--this man in the tallis was his father, the boys his brothers.

"It's fine work," Vago said. "I wasn't the only one who thought so."

"It's not architecture," Andras said, and handed the cover back to Vago.

"You'll learn architecture. And in the meantime you'll study French. There's no other way to survive here. I can help you, but I can't translate for you in every class. So you will come here every morning, an hour before studio, and practice your French with me."

"Here with you, sir?"

"Yes. From now on we will speak only French. I'll teach you all I know. And for God's sake, you will cease to call me 'sir,' as if I were an army officer." His eyes assumed a serious expression, but he twisted his mouth to the left in a French-looking moue.

"L'architecture n'est pas un jeu d'enfants,"
he said in a deep, resonant voice that matched exactly, both in pitch and tone, the voice of Professor Perret.
"L'architecture, c'est l'art le
plus seriuex de tous."

"L'art le plus serieux de tous,"
Andras repeated in the same deep tone.

"Non, non!"
Vago cried. "Only I am permitted the voice of Monsieur le Directeur.

You will please speak in the manner of Andras the lowly student.
My name is Andras the
Lowly Student,"
Vago said in French. "If you please: repeat."

"My name is Andras the Lowly Student."

"I shall learn to speak perfect French from Monsieur Vago."

"I shall learn to speak perfect French from Monsieur Vago."

"I will repeat everything he says."

"I will repeat everything he says."

"Though not in the voice of Monsieur le Directeur."

"Though not in the voice of Monsieur le Directeur."