Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“Lévi,” 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 École Spéciale 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 Frédéric 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 Frédéric. “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 Frédéric, 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 Lévi,” 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 Frédéric 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 École Spéciale, 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-Élysées 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.”

“The drinks are on me today,” Polaner said. “Did you hear about the Polish flag?”

“I heard it’s scheduled to be replaced,” Ben Yakov said. “I hear they’ve come up with something in black and white on a red ground. Rather ugly, if you ask me.” He drained his glass and filled it again. “Congratulate me, boys, I’m going to see the rabbi.”

They’d never seen Ben Yakov drunk in public. His handsome mouth looked blurred around the edges, as if someone had been trying to erase it.

“Going to see the rabbi?” Rosen said. “Why should we congratulate you for that?”

“Because it’ll make me a free man. I’m going to get a divorce.”

“What?”

“An old-fashioned Jewish divorce. I can do it, you see, because we’ve got a note from the doctor saying Ilana’s barren. That means we qualify. How’s that for chivalry? She can’t bear children, so I can cast her off.” He bent over his glass and rubbed his eyes. “Have a drink, will you?”