Free Field Study by Rachel Seiffert Page A

turn the lights on when it gets dark and he doesn’t cook himself any dinner, he just lies in the bed. He can’t cry and he can’t sleep. He lies very still and smokes his brother’s eighth.
    At the end of the week Kenny cashes his giro and paints the living room blue.
    He goes to the phone box and calls his brother to see if he can stay over. He rings his mum and says he won’t come for Sunday lunch, but he’ll see her soon. Early evening, Kenny hands the keys back to the neighbour and walks out of the estate onto the main road.

Architect

 
    The architect was young and enthusiastic, energetic and ambitious. He had a quiet passion for space, for dimensions, for awe. For comfort, for splendour and for ease. This passion was undimmed by the pragmatics of fire escapes, minimum sanitation requirements, cost-effective building materials, and optimum car-parking arrangements.
    The architect’s designs were singular. His drawings and his gracious manner somehow inseparable. Bureaucrats with construction millions would comb their hair and run a checking tongue across their dentures in preparation for their meetings. Those clients who fell for his designs invariably also fell for him.
    Small articles had begun to appear in specialist journals, respectful in their appraisal. The architect was treading a unique path and considered himself a lucky man: success and all its grand gestures, though still distant, seemed inevitable.
    Today, however, is different.
    All week the architect has struggled and strained, but what he has produced bears no relation to his expectations, and he feels critical of every line he has drawn. Although he can name each fault, he cannot make improvements.
    It has never happened before and he is determined not to let it worry him.
    Another project requires his attention. A simple matter ofredrawing the car park. Twelve executive spaces are required, not ten. He allows this task to stretch over three working days. A minor incident on the face of it, but his boss is puzzled. Upset, even, though he does not show it. The partners discuss the architect over pub lunches and the secretaries start sugaring his coffee in sympathy, falling silent when he walks by.
    The architect tells himself it’s nothing, that he just needs a break. He rings his brother and goes for the weekend. They are drunk, they are sober. They talk women, politics, work out an old grievance and resolve again to visit their father more often. Each feels happy with the time spent together.
    The weeks go by, as they do, and the architect keeps busy. Long hours with little time for brooding, reflecting. Returning home from a conference, he reads his first newspaper in days. A new public building on the front page. Half the world throws hands up in horror, the other half claps hands in praise, and the architect skims the articles, avoiding the fact that he has no opinion.
    Evening falls and he allows himself another look at the newspaper. The building is a puzzle to him, a shape. He cannot assess scale, proportion, quality. His mind’s eye sees no interior. A cold cloud gathers in his belly. He cooks dinner and watches TV.
    At work, two glaring errors in a recent front elevation have been noted. The boss wants a word. The architectretires to the associates’ washroom to think matters through. That elevation was done before. Before what? Before.
    He starts crossing the road to avoid construction sites. He takes unpaid leave. On the telephone he tells friends that he is pursuing his own interests. He learns of others’ successes and tastes his first bitterness. He wants to confess. If I could laugh about this with someone. But he is ashamed of his feelings and buries them deep where they hurt most.
    The days fall by, all swift and all exactly the same. He can no longer read newspapers, much less journals. Television is distressing rather than distracting. His savings are dwindling and the mortgage is a worry. He considers other careers. Each