The Great Architect

Dr. Len Chesney wondered what it was worth, to send someone into a den of sexual depravity, expecting them to remain professional and get their job done without succumbing to their own yearnings. He examined the woman across the desk from him. Catrina Balieu was the most beautiful member of his staff. He hoped this meant she had her choice of lovers in New York, so she wouldn't be lured into Andreas Toscano's sex trap in the Nevada desert.

It was a story he wished he could disregard, but as publisher and editor of America's most respected architectural journal, Chesney knew Toscano's work had to be addressed. He had a growing stack of mail from subscribers wanting to know when the magazine would review Toscano's experimental community, and it was obvious the day American Architect and Designer published the feature, every newspaper and broadcast station in the country would be quoting his publication. You can't buy publicity like that at any price. All the gossip rags had already done splashy features on the world's most unorthodox architect, so it was silly to think American Architect and Designer could continue ignoring Andreas Toscano, regardless of Chesney's personal distaste for the man and his nonsensical designs.

Catrina had always been the most logical choice for the assignment. Her impeccable academic credentials would give the story a stamp of authority, and the magazine's critique of Toscano's so called Sensory Schemas would be especially searing if written by such a desirable woman. Toscano wanted people to believe he was creating a sexual Utopia. Who better to break that image than the most desirable architectural journalist in the industry? Though she was only twenty-six, Catrina Balieu's beauty was already legendary within the fashionable social circles in which she worked. Her thick tresses of almost raven hair flowed over her shoulders in stormy waves, complimenting her traffic stopping countenance before plunging down to brush the satiny cleavage of her generous bosom. Catrina knew how to package her assets too, in attire from New York's finest salons and boutiques. Combined with her turbocharged intellect and uncompromising wit, it all resulted in a charismatic feminine persona that turned heads and fixed gazes in every room she entered. If you were anyone of consequence in America's architectural profession, or within those elite social cliques who are the connoisseurs and consumers of sophisticated art and design, then your home had probably either been visited by Catrina Balieu and featured in American Architect and Designer under her byline, or you were waiting for her to arrive so you could claim to have done the same.

Catrina's outstanding attractiveness, however, was the exact reason Len Chesney had avoided giving her the assignment. He knew Toscano's taste in women only too well. The architectural heretic liked them elegant, well bred and thoughtfully nurtured; smart and well educated women whose decency he could defile with his contemptible lust. Whenever Chesney thought of men like Andreas Toscano, he could not help think of his own dear daughter, once a celebrated debutante, a bright young woman not unlike Catrina Balieu, with an equally brilliant future ahead of her. Then she married that man; that hedonistic philanderer who abused her with his selfish lust until it drove her into the arms of an even worse wastrel. Now she lived in a trailer on five acres in Laurel Canyon outside Los Angeles, sharing her new husband's unchecked taste for alcohol which they both used in copious quantities to wash down their Valium and Prozac.

Dr. Chesney felt he had lost his only daughter to an inferior social caste. It made him bitter and angry. It had transformed his once tolerant, liberal intellect into a pressure cooker of rigidly conservative moral values, and it caused him to view anyone who promoted hedonism as nothing less than a dangerous predator. Andreas Toscano was just such a man.

That's why Chesney had avoided sending his top feature writer on this assignment. He wanted to avoid exposing her to Toscano's evil temptations, so he tried two freelancers with the task first. Neither of them had offered any expertise in writing about architecture. One was an iconoclastic paparazzo hired through an agency specialising in puritanical show biz gossip, while the other was a timid young woman from Salt Lake City, whose experience ran more to columns about kitchen table arts and crafts than the complexities of structural design. Sending such people to write about any architect's work was a veiled insult, but Dr. Len Chesney was convinced it was even more than Andreas Toscano deserved.

"We've sent two freelancers on this assignment before you," the editor admitted. "The first delivered us nothing we could use. The other sent us an invoice for expenses, with a terse note saying the story we're looking for doesn't exist. I'll entertain a two thousand dollar bonus if you deliver the goods for us, Catrina."

Catrina was surprised. As a staff writer with impressive qualifications in art and engineering, her wages were already four times the going rate for most trade journal writers. The idea that Dr. Chesney would pay even more was almost embarrassing.

"That's very kind of you, Len, but what am I missing? How difficult can it be to fly to Nevada, spend a day or two interviewing an architect and taking pictures of his project, then fly back with the story? We've been through this routine countless times."

"Andreas Toscano is no ordinary man, Catrina. Few architects achieve his level of fame. Those who do become famous are usually known only to other members of their profession, and perhaps to its rather exclusive cross section of patrons. You know how it works. Just stop the first ten people you see on the street and ask them who Frank Lloyd Wright was. At least five will tell you he was Orville's brother."

She smiled graciously, but couldn't help wondering why her employer was so vociferous in his resentment of Toscano's success. "We both know that's sadly true," Catrina conceded, "but isn't that why a greater public interest in architecture is a positive thing? Isn't Toscano at least causing millions of people to pause and contemplate the way architecture shapes their lives?"

Dr. Chesney's intense expression softened, replaced by a thoughtful squint over the rim of his spectacles, the facial gesture Catrina was more used to seeing when he gave due consideration to lofty issues of art and engineering. He rocked back in his plush leather executive chair and seemed to begin forming his words with greater care.

"We must be fair, of course," he said, "and give the devil his dues. If Andreas Toscano's charisma and flamboyancy is really encouraging ordinary people to give more thought to the aesthetic quality of their lives, we must acknowledge it. My concern is that historically when architects have reached this level of popular approval, it's too often had tragic consequences. Adolf Hitler wanted people to believe his Third Reich would last a thousand years, so he appointed Albert Speer to design convincingly sturdy edifices. Millions of misguided people were seduced by Speer's imposing edifices at Nuremberg, even though they were nothing more than a grand backdrop for a mad dictator's dramatic speeches. Andreas Toscano isn't trying to promote fascism, Catrina, but he is promoting a way of life based on extraordinary lewdness and depravity. As the country's main journal of architecture and design, we must obviously question the wisdom of such a radical departure from the moral dignity of our society, and question the motivations of the man behind it all. Like Speer before him, Toscano is the darling of the privileged classes. The Hollywood crowd fawns over him, and being associated with all that glittering razzamatazz causes millions of less privileged types to support his ideas too.

"Let's face it," Dr. Chesney concluded, maintaining full eye contact to make his final point, "depravity isn't unknown in Tinsel Town, but the architecture of licentiousness may not suit the family of a Kentucky coal miner or a New York cab driver. We have to remember that for better or worse Andreas Toscano has become a pop icon more than an architect. He's trying to sell his twisted philosophy to everyone, and for most people it would be a disaster."

Her editor's argument was rational, but Catrina still wasn't sure she agreed with her boss. She made a mental note to reserve judgment of Toscano's character until after she had met him and seen his work. She had to concede, however, that Toscano had become the architectural profession's first sex symbol.

"I know," she responded, "you only have to read Playboy, Salon.com, or even Rolling Stone and you'll know that much. But American Architect and Designer is a professional journal. Surely you don't think I would fawn over Toscano like a besotted groupie."

Dr. Chesney leaned forward to the desk again. "I certainly want to believe you have the strength to resist the enticements a man like Toscano offers, Catrina. To be perfectly frank, you remind me of my own daughter and I wish no less for you than I ever did for her. These days my daughter is beyond my reach, I have only my grandson to offer me any optimistic outlook, and its my most sincere hope that one day he finds a young woman like yourself. Unfortunately, there are too few of you in the world, so I'm loathe to send you on this mission, exposing you to the same kind of depravity that claimed my only daughter. I must trust that you have the character to rise above the licentious entrapments of men like Andreas Toscano, but I must warn you that it may not be an easy task."

Dr. Chesney picked up a file from his blotter, then slid it across the desk to Catrina.

"This is what the second freelancer sent us," he said. "One glance will give you an idea of the problem."

Catrina's jaw dropped as she leafed through the photos in the file. Not a single image seemed to have been taken to show off a building exterior or interior. Every photograph of the architecture used it only as background for shots of people, all of them naked or nearly naked. Some pictures even depicted group sex orgies.

"Surely no one expected you to publish these."

"I'm afraid that's exactly what was expected," Chesney assured her. "This is how Toscano gains his followers. His movement for architectural freedom is really just a sex cult, and it's already corrupted two of our freelance correspondents."

Catrina took a print from the file and studied it with a grin. It showed a group of naked volunteers labouring in the searing desert heat, applying rendering to one of Toscano's buildings. She remembered reading somewhere that students paid for the privilege of doing Toscano's construction work. This made her laugh aloud.

"A two thousand bonus you say?"

Dr. Chesney nodded. "Plus the usual expenses, we mustn't forget that."

"But no clothing allowance, I presume."

"No, but you can bill us for suntan oil if you like."

Catrina rented a Jeep at the Las Vegas airport, and headed out of town to the north. Tosca City was located in a box canyon at the end of an old wagon track in the Amargosa Desert, wedged between a military weapons range and Death Valley National Monument. The drive out of Las Vegas to the Tosca City turn off at Lathrop Wells allowed Catrina to spend a pleasant hour in the open topped jeep with the wind blowing through her hair. At Lathrop Wells, however, she was to leave the paved surface of Highway Ninety-five, and begin a slower crawl over eighty miles of rough dirt road back to the southwest. Before beginning that final leg of the journey she decided to pull into a filling station and make sure the Jeep's fluids were topped up. The last thing she wanted was a mechanical breakdown in or near the famously inhospitable Death Valley.

Shunning the big corporate stations on the main highway, she drove into the town and looked for a good old fashioned filling station with a mechanic's bay instead of a junk food store. She found a ramshackle business called Mojave Motors, with two fuel pumps that looked almost like antiques, a service bay and a small junk yard in the back. Catrina parked at the pumps and a man of about thirty-five sauntered out of the station's shop front to serve her. The name on his overalls was Jesus but he looked like anything but his sacred namesake. His hair was cropped short, almost bald, except for his moustache which was in serious need of trimming. There were streaks of black grease on his head and face where he had touched himself with his dirty hands. The overalls were left unbuttoned to well below his navel and there were more black smears on his chest and stomach.

"What can I do'ya for?" he asked with a grin that revealed his tobacco stained teeth.

"I'm heading to Tosca City and I want to make sure all the fluids are topped up before I go into the desert, and I'd like you to turn the four wheel drive on for me. The rental company showed me how to do it, but I can't recall which lever does what."

The man looked at her curiously and leaned against the Jeep's windscreen. "You from L.A. ain'tcha."

"No, what makes you say that?" she asked.

"You don't want that the four wheel drive on just yet, miss. You get stuck out there in two-wheel drive, maybe you can use four wheel-drive to get yourself unstuck. Get stuck in four-wheel drive you best start walkin', cause there ain't no six-wheel drive. Folks round here know that. If you ain't from L.A., where you from?"

"New York," she answered, silently scolding herself for not having the common sense to leave the extra drive wheels turned off until they were needed.

"New York!" he exclaimed, "hell that ain't just the big city, that's the whole enchilada; the real Big Apple. No wonder you wanted the four-by-fours turned on."

Catrina smiled. "We have sports utility vehicles in New York too, but I guess they're mainly for show. Thanks for the tip. It hadn't occurred to me to use the extra wheels to get myself out of trouble instead of into it."

"Don't mention it miss, I got another tip for'ya."

"Let's hear it. I need all the good advice I can get."

"Call your friends in Tosca City, get'em to send their helicopter for you. That's how most folks get to Tosca City. It's damn hot out there, over ninety-six degrees already and it ain't even noon yet. You're a pretty one, miss, and that ole' sun'll dry you out like a raisin. Heat stroke ain't funny. Folks been known to die."

"I appreciate your concern, Jesus, but it's not an option. If you could just make sure this vehicle is ready for the journey, and show me once again how to engage the four-wheel drive in case I need it..."

As she spoke the man had been showing extreme interest in Catrina's bosom, no just furtive glances but an unrestrained glare at the cleavage in the neck of her sleeveless tee shirt. Suddenly he reached out and touched her right breast, as though plucking something from her skin. Holding his hand up before her, he rolled something between his thumb and forefinger, then opened his fist to show her the smear of blood and insect parts left on his fingers.

"Damn skeeters," he said, "they breed in filth y'know, then bites folks. Damn skeeters."

"Thank you," said Catrina, "but I'll look after the next one if you don't mind."

"No offence intended," the mechanic blurted, holding his hands up to indicate no threat to her person.

"None taken. You will help me prepare for my journey?"

"There's another," he said, with his pointed finger hovering over her inner thigh just below the crotch of her brief cargo shorts, "damn skeeters." She brushed the mosquito from her leg. "You'll see lots of'em in Tosca City count'a there's water there. Hope you packin' skeeter repellant, count'a those folks don't wear much in Tosca City. Damn skeeters."

"I see your point. I'll stop and get some before I leave Lathrop Wells, but what about the Jeep?"

"Hell, that ain't no problem miss." He pointed to a store a little farther along the road. "Balch's General Store has everything you need. You best get a case or two of bottled water and a cooler, I gots'tha ice, a snake bite kit just in case, sunscreen and plenty o'that skeeter oil. Time you get back I'll have this jalopy ready for the back country. You sure you wouldn't rather take a chopper ride?"

"Thanks, I'll be just fine," she replied as she swung her left leg out of the Jeep and placed her foot on the running board. Jesus' eyes followed her movement with great interest, touring the length of her leg before coming to rest on her crotch.

"Damn hope so. You sure a pretty one. Damn shame wastin' away out in that desert, with all them damn skeeters."

Catrina left the Jeep at the pumps and proceeded to Balch's General Store. She could feel Jesus' eyes burning through the seat of her shorts as she walked away. The mechanic was right about the heat, but it was not the thing that worried her most. Soon she would be in Tosca City and would have to make up her mind whether to adopt local modes of undress, or stick with the flight bag of clothes she'd brought with her. Catrina Balieu was no shrinking violet. She knew she had been blessed with a pretty face, and her healthy diet and exercise regimen kept her figure in trim shape too, but she was not accustomed to having it all on display for comparison with other women. The night before catching her flight to Las Vegas she had spent some hours thinking it over. She felt she had every right to remain fully clothed if she pleased, but she wasn't sure whether she would feel comfortable being dressed if everyone around her wasn't. The issue was still on her mind as she sat on the Boeing-747 winging her way to Nevada, and now that Jesus the mechanic had reminded her of Toscano City's clothing optional bylaw the question was dominating her thoughts once again.

The road to Death Valley wasn't good, but it was a driving luxury compared to the old track to Tosca City. Jesus had carefully instructed her on where to turn and she quickly discovered that his warnings about the road were not overstated. It was an old stagecoach route completely covered with sagebrush in some places; just two parallel paths, separated by a crown that would soon have torn the undercarriage off an ordinary vehicle, although the Jeep's high ground clearance helped Catrina negotiate the road without causing any damage. The track was eighty miles long with no realistic chance of seeing any other vehicles along the way. Safe and sensible driving speeds could reach about thirty to forty miles per hour in some places, but would literally drop to walking speed in other areas.

She had barely gone five miles along the old wagon track before the hot desert sun seemed to be searing her flesh like a steak on a grill. At a point in the road where the sagebrush was particularly sparse, she stopped the Jeep, jumped out and began rummaging in the box of supplies she'd bought at Balsch's General Store. Her body was perspiring profusely, which together with the cursed desert dust made her feel grimy. To solve the problem she slipped out of her clothes and poured two bottles of cold water over herself. Then she fished bottles of sunscreen and insect repellant from the box and began applying both to her entire body from forehead to feet. It was as she bent over to rub sunscreen onto her legs that she noticed her audience.

No more than fifteen feet away a rattlesnake was lying perfectly still watching her performance. It startled her causing her to emit an involuntary noise half way between a gasp and a scream, but her surprise also made it difficult for her to move decisively. Instead of darting back into the Jeep she simply stared back at the creature, gradually becoming more curious about it than afraid. The snake wasn't as long as she would have thought a rattler to be, no more than four feet from head to tail, but it was much fatter than she might have imagined, at least the circumference of her own lower leg. It's head was resting on a rock and its body wound along the ground, curling around small clumps of sagebrush. The reptile made no attempt to move toward or away from her, apparently interested only in watching her.