Facade

FACADE

by Susan Cory

Published by Susan Cory

Copyright © Susan Cory, 2016

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-9853702-4-4

The characters in Façade bear no resemblance to actual people I know, although I would like to think they would blend in nicely in my Cambridge neighborhood or at Harvard's Graduate School of Design. Some beloved Cambridge places mentioned in the book do exist, although, regrettably, not the Paradise Café.

I would like to thank Lee Lofland and his remarkable Writer's Police Academy for the instructive four days I spent there learning about all the latest tools in the crime fighter's arsenal.

Special thanks go to my esteemed beta reader, Zenith Gross, whose keen insight into the characters kept me on the right path.

For her editing expertise, my deep gratitude goes to Anne Wagner. I promise to keep a copy of the Chicago Manual of Style at hand during the writing of the next book.

This book is far richer for the prodding and inspiration of my writing group extraordinaire: Joan Sawyer, Paula Steffan, and Nancy Gardner. My thanks for holding my feet to the fire. I dedicate Chapter 56 to you.

Last, but certainly not least, my heartfelt gratitude goes to my husband, Dan Tenney. Façade would have been a different book without your input and support. I dedicate this book to you.

“He who has to be a creator always has to destroy.”

Friedrich Nietzsche's
Thus spoke Zarathustra

I
t was the irritating waft of his cigarette smoke that Iris Reid noticed first.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you,” said a voice behind her which, yes, was disturbing her. She clapped her sketch book closed.

“I was having a coffee out here on the café terrace and I couldn't help noticing you drawing that building,” the man said, delicate fingers holding the offending cigarette. “You've piqued my curiosity. Are you by chance an architectural illustrator?”

She rose to face him, her own curiosity piqued by his accent. German maybe—a bit of tonsil-clearing in those “r”s? “I'm an architect. At the moment I'm designing a townhouse to replace that Greek Revival one,” she said gesturing toward a building on Mount Auburn Street near Harvard Square.

“I'm an architect too,” he said and reached out a hand to shake hers.

Up close she could see that his looks were of the weather-beaten-director-at-Sundance type. He had craggy skin and wore fashionable green glasses (conspicuous eyewear being a fetish among architects), with light brown hair brushed straight back. An elegant black leather backpack was slung over one shoulder.

“Do you practice in Cambridge?” she asked. God knew, every fourth person in this town seemed to be an architect and even Iris didn't know them all.

“No, my firm is in Amsterdam. I'm here to teach for a semester at the GSD.” He pronounced the initials for the Graduate School of Design “Gay Ess Day.”

“Xander DeWitt,” he added.

“I didn't recognize... I know your work of course... I'm Iris Reid. I'm also teaching at GSD this Fall.” She moved back to look at him.

DeWitt was one of a handful of world-class architects she most respected. His office, Co-op dWa, employed 60 architects, yet he was barely forty. She'd noticed his name on the faculty roster and had been eager to meet him.

“So we'll be colleagues. Lovely.” He appraised her while blowing a long stream of smoke out his nostrils. “I flew in last night and the Dean gave me a quick tour. I'm trying to get oriented. What are you teaching?”

“Urban infill architecture, a studio for second year students. You?”

“Mine is a third year studio. Waterfront mixed use in Rotterdam.”

“Are you using a project from your office?”

“Yes, we're in the middle of constructing it. The building's frame has just been completed.”

Iris imagined a noisy, waterlogged building site where everything was managed with Dutch precision. Not like here. “So you'll end up taking your students to Holland? That's brave of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I'm not sure what I've gotten myself in for.”

“I'm sure it will be a memorable studio.” She sounded like an idiot and probably looked like a bag lady. Her long brown hair was twisted into a topknot on this sweltering early September day and she wore no make-up. Her shorts and T-shirt didn't quite match up to his linen pants and crisp white shirt. So much for first impressions.

“But I didn't mean to interrupt your sketching.” He made a demurring motion with his eloquent hand. “Still I'm glad to have met a fellow professor. I'm on my way over to the Malkin Pool for a swim. I'll see you around the GSD, Iris Reid.”

She stared at his back disappearing into traffic on Mount Auburn Street. So that was the legendary Xander DeWitt.

The following Friday

“It won't be
that
bad,” Ellie assured Iris as they strolled down Oxford Street past Harvard University's Science Center. “Sure, the students will be as intense and overachieving as we were twenty years ago, but I actually enjoyed teaching the Bauhaus course last year.”

The still air of summer lingered as they approached the concrete structure housing the design school.

Iris finished the last of her Vietnamese iced coffee and dumped the cardboard cup in a recycling bin near the entry. “I can't believe we agreed to do this,” she groaned.

“It's not like you had much choice with the Gilles calling in his marker. And I'm doing it because I'm your saintly friend,” Ellie said, looking more professional than usual with her normal explosion of red curls tamed into a neat asymmetrical bob.

“I'm forever in your debt. You're the one with the teaching experience.” Iris removed her sunglasses as they entered the stuffy, badly lit Piper Auditorium.

Their long-ago professor, Gilles Broussard, was now the dean of the Architecture Department. Iris' work had popped back onto his radar at their twentieth reunion the previous June. He'd been so impressed by a house she'd designed, which had served as an informal reunion venue, that he'd championed her work to the committee searching for an architect for a townhouse for visiting GSD staff, and Iris had snagged the commission. So when a professor scheduled to teach a fall studio had dropped out at the last moment, the dean had tapped Iris to fill in.

Ellie and Iris eased into the front row with eleven other instructors, all readying their spiels so the mass of waiting students could rank their choices for the studio assignment lottery. It felt like a popularity contest. It
was
a popularity contest. What if no one wanted to take her course? Iris glanced around and spotted Xander DeWitt as he wended his way up the aisle. She nudged Ellie and gestured in his direction with her head.

“Mmmm,” Ellie purred.

A delicate young blond man with a soul-patch and an unfortunate overbite, probably an assistant, followed in his wake. Hundreds of eyes followed DeWitt to his seat and studied him as he propped a leather briefcase, big enough to hold perhaps four sheets of paper, onto his lap. Definitely the marquee attraction.

Gilles stood at the podium fiddling with the projection remote. He tapped the mike, cleared his throat, then launched into an introduction of Professor #1, an architect from Argentina with an Einstein perm, who shuffled to the lectern. The man began to expound on studying the urban fabric from both the Latour, Sloterdijk and Habermas points of view versus a Situationist approach.

Iris' palms began to sweat. She whispered to Ellie, “Can you spout crap like that?”

“Oh yeah. We architectural historians love to talk trash.”

When it was their turn, they showed PowerPoint slides of Iris' Neo-Modernist house that had caught Gilles' eye as well as other examples of buildings she had designed. The house had just been published that month in
cuttingedgedecor
magazine, lending them some momentary cachet. Iris stressed her experience as a practicing architect, while Ellie discussed the books she'd written and courses she'd taught.

Iris was relieved to sink back into her uncomfortable purple plastic seat and watch DeWitt drift fluidly to the podium.

As the room hushed, he clicked an image onto the screen. “I'd like to show a project that my firm has just finished constructing. It is a Jesuit Chapel in Geneva. You're seeing it 'hot off the press.'”

Iris was looking at...what? An interior shot—wavy lines embedded in warm ochre panels, juxtaposed against rough scored concrete, sometimes flat, sometimes curved.

“The panels are marble. Very thin translucent slabs used instead of glass,” DeWitt explained. “The pattern from the veins forms an abstract version of stained glass. I wanted to show the passage between two worlds, the sacred and the profane, so I limited my materials to marble and concrete.”

Four hundred jaws dropped quietly.

He showed more slides of this incredible building. Shapes transformed from intimate prayer rooms into a soaring nave, with plays of light masterfully orchestrated throughout.

It was utterly modern, utterly original. Iris wondered why she hadn't thought of using sliced marble this way.

An impressive cross-section of more buildings from around the globe followed. DeWitt finished up with a discussion of his studio's Rotterdam waterfront project. For the closing, he removed his glasses, and, like Clark Kent, exposed his secret weapon, a pair of striking, steel blue eyes.

As he stepped down from the podium the energy in the room deflated. The last few speakers tried unsuccessfully to regenerate some excitement, until Gilles stepped in to wrap up the session. Students migrated out to the lobby, loudly exchanging impressions. The teaching staff, the full professors, and the actual practicing architects remained behind to socialize. Ellie was chatting with a visiting professor from her Berkeley PhD days. Iris was about to leave when Gilles appeared, Zelig-like, in her path.

“
Irees
, have you met Xander DeWitt yet?” The dean had left France more than twenty years before but his accent seemed to be gaining strength. “Xander, if you are teaching here two years from now, you will be able to stay in the faculty guest center
Irees
is designing for us.”

The man of the hour's smile was sphinxlike. “We've already met. You look different today.”

Iris had armored herself in “archigear” for the occasion: a gray Issey Miyake dress that draped so artfully that no one else at Filene's Basement had been able to figure out what to do with it. “You caught me off duty the other day.” Was she blushing? “How have you been enjoying Cambridge?”

“It is an adorable town—almost European, and I've discovered an excellent restaurant. Maybe you'd like to join me for a meal tonight. Not that you haven't been delightful company, Gilles.”

The dean bowed his head at the compliment and took his cue to blend back into the crowd vibrating around them like a beehive. Iris felt, rather than saw, the respectful space the crowd had left around them, along with the ill-concealed sidelong glances. Xander could hardly have been as unaware of the attention as he appeared.

Iris thought about his invitation for all of a minute. Her boyfriend Luc, the owner and chef of the Paradise Café, always ran the kitchen on Friday and Saturday nights. What harm could come from an innocent dinner with a new colleague?

“G
ood evening Professor DeWitt. Let me show you to your table.” The maitre d' nodded at Iris.

The Harvest had been a Cambridge institution since 1975, but Iris hadn't eaten there in ages. Located down an alley in Harvard Square, the restaurant's chef gave Luc some serious competition.

On their way to the softly lit back room, Iris and Xander passed two incongruous TVs over the bar, one set to a Red Sox game, the other to CNN. Their waitress handed them menus and walked them through the elaborate specials: wild-caught, Sumac-spiced salmon and a beet salad featuring nasturtiums “grown on their own roof garden.”

Iris leaned across to Xander. “I thought Sumac was poisonous.”

He smiled. “Have no fear. This berry is actually a cousin of the poisonous one. I've had it here and survived.”

“How many times have you eaten here?” she asked.

“I researched the restaurant scene when I first arrived. The restaurants in Cambridge are actually better than most of the Boston ones. Half a dozen places have first-class cuisine. I was going to work my way through those six but on the third night, the combination of a talented chef and the lacquered aubergine walls here won me over so I decided to make this my local spot.” He gestured to the walls. “How do you call that color in English—eggplant? So sophisticated.”

Iris wondered if the Paradise Café had made Xander's list. She should find a way to mention Luc. Across the brilliant white linen, lit by candles, Xander looked quite handsome.

She broke off a chunk of corn bread. “Does your assistant join you for dinners?”

“No—that would feel too much like a continuation of work. We both prefer our privacy after hours. Nils is here as my teaching helper but he'll also fly back and forth to Amsterdam to bring me important work from the office. This weekend he's helping me get my house here organized. My plan is to come here most nights to have a lovely meal, then to return home to read, write, or listen to music.”

The purity of his ritual struck Iris. What a noble way to lead your life—paring things to only the high points. She should live like this.

“What do you write about?” She kept her voice light, trying not to sound too nosy.

“Whatever speaks to me that day. Sometimes it's abstract, sometimes it's visual or relating to the senses. It depends.” Xander looked around the room. “But I'm talking too much about myself. Let's order some wine, then I want to hear about you.”

An attentive somelier, hovering nearby, whisked over and took Iris' order. She chose an Oregon Pinot Noir from a well-curated wine list. Iris' father had taught her a lot about wine before his untimely death so she felt confident in her choice.

“Shall I bring you a glass of the Meursault, Professor?” the sommelier asked Xander.

He gave a slight nod.

He leaned back in his chair to study her. “So what is your philosophy on life, Iris?”

The question struck Iris as so European. “I try to balance my work and my personal life,” she improvised.

“Are they actually separate? Or can they be viewed on a larger continuum. Nietzsche talks about each person becoming a poet of his own life.”

Iris kept his gaze, tilting her head just a bit.

When she didn't respond, Xander went on. “You know Friedrich Nietzsche—yes? To do everything in a conscious way—whether it is eating a meal, choosing one's clothes, or teaching students. Any action can be molded into a thing of beauty. But to do so, I believe, one must develop a deeper understanding of the nature of art.”

He looked away from Iris' gaze, seemingly self-conscious. “This is the nonsense I busy myself with in my writing. Most people consider it self-indulgent.”

“It's not self-indulgent,” Iris countered. “I was a sculpture major in college and spent most of those years obsessing about what art really is.”

“Aha—I thought you might be an artist,” Xander said, delighted.

“I don't think of myself as an artist now. I didn't continue making sculptures.”

“Why not?”

“It was all-consuming. I didn't think I could do both—practice architecture and create worthy sculpture at the same time. Architecture seemed more practical. Besides, my pieces were big and I would've needed a big studio.”

Xander reached across the table and took her hands in his. He looked into her eyes intently. “Did you feel passionate about your sculpture?”

Iris was startled by Xander's unexpected touch, but she nodded, then smiled wistfully as she remembered her time in Roger's Garage, the sculpture studio at Dartmouth. She had practically lived in that ratty building during her last two years of college. Nothing in her life up until that point had been as satisfying as the act of carving abstract, organic creations out of thick, glued-together planks of mahogany or, when she was lucky, black walnut.

Xander gave a small tug on her hands before releasing them. “I believe we should embrace all of our passions. Most people waste time on distractions,” said with complete disdain. “If you eliminate distractions, you have time for all the things that bring you joy.”

Iris was suddenly conscious that the neighboring diners had become quiet and were eying them curiously. She felt relieved when the waitress arrived and slid a plate of braised pork shoulder in front of her. The scent of the rich stock mingling with the sweet aroma of cinnamon sprinkled apples made her ravenous.

After her second mouthful Iris said “I wish I could eat like this every night.”

“Why can't you?” Xander asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Good question,” she said.
I am dating a chef after all.

Midway through the meal, Iris saw the sommelier pass by. She was about to suggest a second glass of wine when she noticed that Xander had been pacing drinking his single glass in perfect pace with his meal. This must be part of his interpretation of doing everything in a conscious way—one perfect drink to go with one perfect dinner. Iris finished her water and a busboy materialized to refill her glass.

Later, over strong espressos at their neatly-cleared table, Iris and Xander talked about their architectural projects. He asked her a lot of questions about her townhouse design and they discussed the properties of a new type of glass that Iris was considering using.

As she was about to ask him about his Rotterdam project, a short Classical melody emmanated from his inside jacket pocket, muffled by high-ply cashmere. He slipped a cell phone from his pocket, read the screen, and frowned.

“Sorry, I need to take this. I'll be right back.” He raised a finger and headed toward the door.

Iris watched through the windows as he hunched over his phone, a hand over one ear.

A minute later he hurried back to the table. “That was someone from my home security service. There's been a break-in. I'm afraid I need to go.” He signaled to the waiter, making a scribbling motion in the air.

“I can drive you. It'll be faster. You walked—right?”

They found her Jeep parked on Brattle Street and Xander directed her the dozen short blocks to the small Victorian house that Harvard had rented for him. Fiddling with his watchband throughout the nine minute ride, he leapt out before Iris had come to a complete stop.

The blinding blue strobe of a Cambridge Police patrol car lit up the flanks of a double-parked van from Safety First Security and a Harvard campus police car. Light from the front hall spilled out the gaping front door.

After a few words with the policeman, Xander strode quickly back to the Jeep, his face misted with sweat. He leaned through the open car window. “I'm so sorry that our evening has ended this way, Iris. We will have to have a —what do they call it—a do-over dinner. I had a delightful time. Thank you for the ride.”

Then he retreated to the porch. But Iris didn't leave right away. She parked down the block and walked back. She approached the front yard, trying to make out voices over a squawking police radio. She saw Xander talking with men in three different uniforms.

“No sign of a break-in,” the man in a Safety First Security uniform announced. “Don't know why the alarm went off.”

“Probably a short in the system. We opened the front door ourselves with our passkey,” the Harvard campus policeman said.

“Can you take a look around inside and tell us if anything's missing?” the police officer asked Xander.

As the men headed inside, Iris peeked through the windows, at a living room where nothing seemed out of place.

It struck her as ironic that an evening spent discussing life as a testament to beauty and order should end on such a chaotic note.