The Architect

It's a daunting task to pinpoint the city where these events unfolded, let alone discern the era in which they occurred. But mark my words, the tale you're about to embark upon is steeped in undeniable truth. And as I string you along with words and commas, the name of the architect in question, peculiarly enough, hasn't surfaced in my memory or imagination. Henceforth, let us dub him the Architect.

 

Picture this: on a Monday morning, beneath the scrutinizing gaze of the autumn sun, the Architect briskly makes his way to the exhibition of fates. A slender, long-limbed figure with hollowed cheeks and waxen cheekbones traverses the desolate alleyway. His gray suit, adorned with delicate white pinstripes, engulfs him entirely, and despite his tall stature, his lengthy trousers trail along the alley, collecting golden leaves in their wake.

 

The morning air is crisp, as autumn mornings often are. Droplets of water adorn the architect's spectacles, manifesting shortly after his departure from home. With a gentle patter, they descend upon the violet knitted scarf enveloping the Architect's neck, concealing it almost entirely.

 

As he moves steadily towards a grand azure edifice looming in the distance, the Architect contemplates the mysteries that await within. Such structures often house enigmatic cultural sanctuaries or ancient cinemas, where imposing columns gaze down upon entrants with disdainful pomposity.

 

But amidst his musings, the annoying sound of the red plastic watch adorning the Architect's wrist pierces the tranquil morning air. With haste, he casts a glance at the dial, quickening his stiff stride towards the azure structure. The diminutive square suitcase, better suited for a cake, weighs heavily upon the Architect's frame, impeding the fluid motion of his right arm. From the side, he resembles naught but a broken helicopter, struggling to take flight amidst poor weather.

 

Truly, it is an unpleasant day. And with each step hastened, the rhythm of the rain intensified. Having traversed three intersections, a quaint square, and a patrol post, the Architect finds himself upon the steps of the Architects' Bureau. Drenched nearly to the bone, he stands before a towering banner, concealed behind formidable columns, bearing the proclamation: "Welcome to the exhibition of fates." Beneath the banner, two parchment sheets are affixed, adorned with handwritten inscriptions: "visitors to the right" and "contestants to the left."

 

Entering through the leftmost portal, the Architect collides with a robust figure cloaked in a crimson knitted vest, beneath which a jaundiced shirt peeked. "Pardon me," murmurs the Architect, inadvertently treading upon the rotund figure's foot.

"Oh, Mr. Architect, it’s you. I was certain our paths would cross once more this year," declares the man, positioned last in the queue for registration, extending his hand to the Architect, a genial smile adorning his heavyset features.

Upon entering the left door, the Architect nearly collided with a broad back encased in a crimson knitted vest, beneath which a greasy shirt protruded.

 

"Excuse me," muttered the Architect, unintentionally stepping on the hefty figure's foot.

 

"Ah, Mr. Architect, it's you. I was certain I'd meet you again this year," the man standing last in the registration line said with a smile spreading across his face, extending his hand to the Architect.

 

"Good day," the Architect reluctantly shook hands and lowered his gaze, pretending to brush raindrops off his suit.

 

"In which category are you competing this year?" the man continued, ignoring the Architect's apparent and quite evident reluctance to engage further in conversation. "I'm in the 'Disaster' category, very low competition, but if you're there too, I might as well go home," the man chuckled loudly and slapped the Architect on the shoulder.

 

"I'm not in that category."

 

"Then which one?"

 

"One of the usual ones."

 

"Which is?"

 

"Broken fates."

 

"Well, I'll be! In that category, every other architect is competing," the man said with surprise and an unmistakable grin.

 

"I'll take my chances."

 

"Next!" a creaky female voice rang out, instantly dispersing throughout the corridor.

 

"Good luck," the man continued to smile, wishing the Architect, before heading to the registration desk.

 

A couple of minutes later, the Architect stood at the registration counter, retrieving his identification card from the inner pocket of his jacket with wet hands.

"Have you paid the fee?" the same creaky voice of the woman at the registration desk inquired.

"Last week."

 

"And where's the receipt?"

 

"Oh," the Architect stammered and began rummaging through his pockets in search of the receipt, "here it is."

 

A piece of paper, crumpled like the trousers they came from, emerged from his pocket. The Architect carefully smoothed it out on the table and handed it to the registrar. A cold, displeased gaze fixed on the Architect, after which the woman disdainfully took the receipt.

 

"Your number. Attach it in a way it'll be visible," the woman handed the Architect a round sticker with the number three hundred thirty.

 

"Right on the forehead?" chuckled the Architect, immediately regretting his attempt at humor. His companion didn't appreciate the joke either, prompting the Architect to hastily depart from the registration desk as quickly as he affixed the participant number to his chest.

 

Navigating through the dim, narrow corridor illuminated by faint ceiling lamps, the Architect entered the hall, already bustling with people. The buzz of the crowd grated on his nerves from the first moment. The Architect himself was a rather reclusive character, despite his profession. All he needed for work were his tools and a precise understanding of human nature. Perhaps it was his aversion to socializing and reluctance to get to know others that made him one of the best professionals in his field.

 

Preferring to look at his feet rather than faces, the Architect lowered his head and made his way to the left side of the hall to register his work. Maneuvering through numerous legs and remaining unnoticed, he finally breathed a sigh of relief, no longer concerned about ending conversations quickly if any of his colleagues caught him in the commotion.

 

Approaching an orange machine with a screen, the Architect was greeted by a pixelated message: "Select category." He tapped the screen a few times before the list unfolded before him. Slowly but surely, the Architect scrolled through the list of categories until he reached "Broken fates."

 

"Upload your work," the message on the screen read. Seeing this, the Architect carefully placed his suitcase on the floor next to the machine, unlatched two locks, and retrieved a small box from the suitcase, resembling a vintage kitchen television. In the center of the television sat a man, staring blankly at the wall.

 

If you knew even a little about this man, you would also know that he sits like this every evening, staring blankly at everything. Sometimes his eyes fill with tears, but more often than not, they remain crystal clear, as if someone had put him on pause, switched him off to conserve energy for the next day. Interestingly, no matter what he did or where he went, he always remained in the center of the screen. Sometimes the camera angle changed from close-up to wide, but the man was always dead center.

 

The Architect carefully placed the television into the slot at the bottom of the machine. "Select period for upload" flashed on the screen. After a brief contemplation, the Architect chose the option "Nine years." Instantly, the machine's screen began to load the story, while on the television screen, the man's life played out in fast-forward, rewinding back through the years.

 

Six minutes later, another message appeared on the screen: "History uploaded. Await results and voting outcomes." The Architect calmly retrieved the container from the machine and neatly tucked it into his suitcase. Unfortunately, the latches on the suitcase refused to close, despite the queue forming behind the Architect, numbering three or four people. But if we're being entirely honest, somewhere deep inside, the Architect himself didn't want them to close either, because ahead of him awaited the most challenging trial of all—interacting with his colleagues.

 

As soon as the Architect stepped from the hall into the Awards Room, dozens of eyes, glowing with excitement, turned in his direction.

 

"Mr. Architect, we've been expecting you," hands trembling with excitement grasped the Architect's wrists.

 

"How are you, Mr. Architect? I still can't forget your victory last year," a stranger to his right rambled on.

 

"Join us at the table, Mr. Architect," a woman to his left pulled out a chair from behind the table.

 

"Lookin' good, Mr. Architect," a short man looked down at the Architect, flashing his teeth in a wide smile.

 

Words and people swirled in the Architect's mind like a loud buzzing hive.

 

"Nod and smile, nod and smile," spun in the Architect's mind. This mantra helped him navigate through the crowd to his assigned table, where a sign read "Participant number three hundred thirty." To the Architect's relief, no one else was seated at the table yet, so upon spotting his goal, he confidently and swiftly made his way to his seat.

 

"I hope this time it's a ballerina. Who else could you imagine in the 'Broken Destinies' category?" a soft, fox-like voice sounded near the Architect's right ear, followed by a statuesque woman in a red dress taking a seat across the table.

 

"What's your number?" the Architect mumbled without lifting his gaze, and quite grumpily, it must be said.

 

"Three hundred thirty-six," his companion replied. "What luck that the same number is at the same table as yours," she added with a hint of sarcasm and obvious playfulness.

 

She was exceedingly attractive: a prominent bosom and slender waist made her figure feminine and desirable, while the red dress, skillfully accentuating her assets, didn't give men a chance to look away. Black locks, elegantly styled in waves, cascaded into a long ponytail gathered at the back, draping over her shoulder, slightly covering the revealing neckline. Large black eyes with long lashes, just as fox-like as her voice, gazed intently at the Architect. The woman retrieved a cigarette from her small purse.

 

"Smoking isn't allowed here," muttered the Architect.

 

"I'm afraid, my dear, that with you, I can do anything. Just look at them; even if you were sitting here naked or suddenly thought you were in the bathroom, none of them would say a word to you," she retorted with a sly smile.

 

The Architect fell silent. He knew she was right, and despite all his reclusiveness and modesty, none of them would dare say or do anything that might upset him.