The Paris Architect: A Novel

“This roof will have to be a lot higher now. Berlin has decided to install a permanent crane inside the building. It’ll be much easier to have one on-site all the time,” said Herzog, puffing away on his cigarette. He’d already gone through a pack in the two hours since he arrived at Lucien’s office to review the plans for the armaments factory in Tremblay.

Alain walked over from his drafting table. “The roof could angle up here so it looks like it’s blending into the main roof, then it won’t look awkward,” he said, pointing at the front elevation of the factory. “In fact, there should be an opening in the roof for another crane to lift the interior one out in one piece so it wouldn’t have to be disassembled.”

“That’s an excellent idea, young man,” said Herzog, who offered Alain a cigarette. “You’ve hired yourself one smart kid, Lucien.”

Lucien glared at Alain. He was about to make a similar comment about the roofline. He hated it when anyone—especially a know-it-all kid out of school—made any suggestions about how he should design. But he saw that the German was impressed with Alain, and it made Lucien look good for hiring him, so he didn’t make a big deal out of it. This wasn’t the first time that Alain had stuck his pointy nose into design matters. He’d thought the entry to the plant in Chaville should be stepped down to reduce the scale of the main facade and that the windows should have been vertical in orientation, instead of horizontal. Lucien had felt like telling him to go straight to hell, but he’d held his tongue.

Lucien knew he shouldn’t be complaining. After all, Alain was the best employee he’d ever had. His draftsmanship was impeccable, he was extremely intelligent, and best of all, he knew construction inside and out. But it was his know-it-all attitude that Lucien disliked. All kids out of architecture school were full of themselves, believing that they were great designers from day one. Alain would be a model worker, but never someone to take under one’s wing to mentor and advise. He didn’t think he needed any advice.

“The front doors look a little puny. They have to accommodate a mass of workers on three shift changes a day,” remarked Alain.

Lucien could feel the rage creeping up his throat.

“They could be widened, say half a meter for each door,” said Herzog, tapping his long, well-manicured fingers on the doors on the plan. “What do you say, Lucien?”

Lucien gave Alain the evil eye. Alain smiled back at him.

“I don’t see a problem with that. There’s plenty of room to widen them,” said Lucien.

“Fantastic. Alain, can you make these changes right away?”

“Of course, Major; they’ll be finished by tomorrow.”

What a goddamn bootlicker, thought Lucien, who gave a phony smile of approval.

“Would you like the rear door widened as well, Major?” asked Alain.

“That would be good,” replied Herzog.

The pencil in Lucien’s hand snapped in two. “Alain, could I see you in the storage room for a second?”

Lucien closed the door once Alain was inside, then grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “Listen, you little shit; if you ever open your mouth with one of your suggestions, I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them up your nostrils.”

Alain stared straight into Lucien’s eyes but didn’t say a word. After a few seconds, Lucien took his hands off him. He immediately regretted what he’d done but offered no apology. They both returned to the studio.

“We make a terrific team, all three of us, eh?” said Herzog. “It’s time for lunch. What about the Café Hiver? My treat, gentlemen.” Lucien knew the Café Hiver was reserved for Germans only, and no Frenchmen would see him there so he could accept.