High by Andrew Osmond
Chapter Fifteen
It was ten o’clock in the morning and Lee Hae-Sup was just returning home after having spent a night shift at the construction site of the Wendelson Building on Yanggak Island in the middle of the Taedong River in central Pyongyang. The temperature outside had already soared to thirty-two degrees, and by lunchtime it would be too hot for any of the labourers to continue working. Lee was employed as part of the team responsible for mixing and spreading concrete, a job only sensibly done during the cooler night time hours of the Korean summer. He was exhausted now: it had been a tiring shift, the temperamental mixing equipment jamming on no fewer than three occasions, and the liquid concrete setting in the pipes before it could be pumped out, ensuring that he had not been able to slope away for a crafty couple of hours nap, as was his habit when everything was running smoothly. All he wanted to do now, was to curl up in bed and sleep, but he could hear his nine month old daughter, Joo-Hee, crying, before he even reached the front door of his apartment, and he knew that he would not be able to retire to the bedroom until he had pacified her, and spoken to her mother, Cho-Mi. She would want to know what he had been doing that night; had the work gone well; how far had the building progressed; how much money had he earned. It was the same questions every day. He was bored of them. He was bored of it all. The work. The building. The days that became nights, the nights that became days, it was throwing out his routine: he could not sleep in the daytime; he could not keep awake at night. It wasn’t natural to live like this. He was bored with his little apartment. He was bored with his wife. The Great Reawakening, they had called it. It seemed as though everyone else was awakening, and only he, Lee Hae-Sup, was drifting further and further into a deep slumber. He yawned. He was so tired. He couldn’t remember how he had even got here. Had he fallen asleep on the metro? The sound of his daughter’s cries brought him back to the moment. He wondered how long she had been crying for. Thank goodness, Kim Eun-Hae, next door, would already be out at work, otherwise she would be knocking on their door, complaining again. She worked at the new Office for Tourism, Lee knew: there were good jobs to be had there. Not that they would want him, of course. He was unskilled. Too old, too, more than likely, they would say. You had to be able to speak English, nowadays. Or Japanese. Or German. He didn’t even know where Germany was. Eun-Hae could speak three foreign languages; she had even travelled to America last year as part of her training, and yet how old was she? Twenty four, twenty five maybe? Her salary would be three times his own too. Lee didn’t know why she still lived in this building. It was a crummy part of town, one of the areas that the rejuvenation programme had overlooked, there was money promised, of course, like there always was, but it would be a long time before any of the city’s new found wealth trickled down to the suburbs. Eun-Hae would soon be able to afford one of the swish new places overlooking Changsan Park: that was where all the new elite lived; politicians, media personalities, managers of the manufacturing plants. Gone were the days of Communist ideology, where managers were required to live in the same housing as their workers, in order to foster an environment of visible equality: now, the fruits of labour were only too apparent and aimed at being divisive. It would not be long before the temptation to cross town and ascend to her rightful place overcome Eun-Hae. And what difference did it make to him if she did? True, she would say hello to him whenever they chanced to meet each other, if they came out of their apartments at the same time, or arrived back simultaneously and shared a lift up to the eighth floor, but that was no different to a thousand other neighbours in a hundred other similar buildings. There had been that one occasion when she had knocked on their door to ask for his advice about a dripping pipe she had discovered beneath the sink in her bathroom: of course it was probably all innocent enough, there had been a small leak which he had been able to mend without any great exertion, but he had been alone in the apartment that day, his wife having taken Joo-Hee to visit her mother in the country, and it was possible that Eun-Hae had waited for just such an occasion in order to get him to herself. No, it was too fanciful. He was being ridiculous. What would she see in him. It was his fantasy, not hers.
The continuing sounds of youthful indignation from the room behind his own front door brought Lee back from his daydream to his present reality. If he was looking for an escape, it would have to be of his own doing, there was no point waiting for a successful young career woman to swoop down and extract him from his plight, it was never going to happen. He slotted his key into the lock, but deliberately delayed turning it, knowing that it was at that precise moment that the transition occurred between the free self of his dreams and the flesh and blood husband and father that he knew to be the reality. He took one more deep breath, preparing to cross the imaginary threshold of his own construction, his hand poised to twist the cool metal key that leads him towards the rest of his life, when he heard the sound of steps on the staircase behind him, and the noise of muffled oaths said in a low, woman’s voice. He knew it was Eun-Hae before he turned around and saw the young woman herself emerge around the wall and climb the final flights of steps leading to their shared landing. She noticed him at precisely the same moment, and conscious that her angry mutterings required some kind of explanation, said, “The lift. Is it never working?”
Lee was suddenly conscious of how cold the key felt in his hand, and how hot he was feeling himself: the building was supposed to be air-conditioned, but like so many other things - the lift included - it seldom seemed to be working. He wiped his hand across his brow, too late to prevent a drip of sweat from running down his forehead and along the side of his nose, until it was finally halted from any further southerly progress by the bridge of his glasses. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back, and was conscious that there were dark, damp marks of sweat on the material, beneath each armpit. He answered, “I must have been lucky. I’ve just come up myself. It was working then.” Lee glanced at his watch - an unconscious reaction - before continuing, “What are you doing home now? Are you not working today?”
Eun-Hae had joined him on the landing now, the long corridor leading off in both directions, rows of identical doors on either side, receding into darkness at either end, where it turned a corner, eventually joining to form four sides of a perfect square: the architecture of this quarter was functional rather than decorative. Eun-Hae had opened her shoulder bag and was searching for her own front door key, as she answered, “It is obviously not my day. I should be giving a presentation now to a delegation from Texas, but then I discovered that I had left behind the most important document. I just hope I can find it. They have agreed to delay the meeting until this afternoon, but...” Her voice tailed off as she redoubled her efforts to find her key, also aware that her neighbour was unlikely to be interested in the precise details of her own misfortune. She shook her head, her long, silky black hair flicking in front of her face. “It was stupid of me,” she concluded.
Lee was about to begin to tell Eun-Hae about the events of his own night’s labour, stopping himself only just in time: the temperamental mechanics of mixing plant number two was hardly the stuff of scintillating small talk. Instead, he found himself tongue-tied and feeling awkward, ever more conscious of the oppressive heat. “Hot, isn’t it?” he said, “Or is it just me?” He was aware of Eun-Hae’s appraising eyes on his body, as she lifted her gaze up from her bag, and looked at him critically, as if for the first time.
“You’re carrying a bit too much weight,” she said, familiarly. “That makes you sweat more. Do you work out?”
“Work out?” The notion was preposterous to Lee, although he was careful not to let his voice betray his feelings. He was only too aware that a plethora of expensive new fitness clubs had sprung up in the centre of town, but they were aimed at endorphin-fixated tourists, those body beautifuls who could not go a day without their adrenalin-pumped exercise regime, not sc
Eun-Hae smiled thinly, obviously unconvinced by Lee’s words, but then suddenly some association of ideas must have occurred to her, perhaps inspired by the appearance of Lee’s physique and the knowledge of the job that he did, and she said, “Actually, I’m glad that I have bumped into you. You’re working on the new building on Yanggak, aren’t you? The Wendelson Building.”
“That’s right,” said Lee proudly. “I’m...”
Eun-Hae interrupted his words before he had had an opportunity to describe the details of his own lowly position in the hierarchy of labourers employed on the massive construction site, “Garnet Wendelson. I suppose you get to meet him occasionally, right? When he stops by to see how things are going, yes? He rents a suite of rooms at the Taebaeksan, you know. Smartest hotel in town.” Eun-Hae was uncharacteristically animated and persistent, “Tell me how often you’ve met him.”
Lee’s mind momentarily remembered back to the morning of his solitary encounter with the ‘Head Man’. It had been early on in the project, over a year ago now: the foundations of the new structure had just been completed, a job that had involved him and his team in long shifts, day and night, and progress had been rapid. There had been talk of productivity bonuses at the time, although looking back that was just idle speculation among the workmen, such bonuses had never been paid before, it had been foolish to think that anything would be different this time, and yet, it had been a time of optimism: the build was going well, the pay was reasonable and regular, he remembered that his wife was heavily pregnant with Joo-Hee, there was every reason to feel positive about the future. In past years such feelings of optimism could always be directly levied at the door of the Great Leader, and after his death, at that of his son, the Dear Leader, it would have been blasphemous to attribute the responsibility for such goodness to anyone else, but now, since the Great Reawakening, there were new heroes, and, objectively assessed, Lee considered that the largest part of responsibility for his current feelings of well-being could only be attributed to one person, the man that some co-workers jokingly called New Leader: Garnet G. Wendelson. A message had been received the day before by Kim Dong-Moon, Lee’s head of section, which had originated directly from the offices of Mr. Jake Carver, the construction manager, and the man responsible for the day-to-day logistics of the entire site, to inform their crew that they would be receiving a visit from Mr. Wendelson on the following morning, in order that he could express his personal thanks for the work they had completed, and that every effort should be made by all personnel to look as tidy as possible, and that it was the responsibility of each individual to present himself respectfully and in a manner which would bestow honour to their section. What had struck Lee most forcibly at the time was how old Mr. Wendelson had appeared: he did not really know what he had been expecting, but he had not realised that Mr. Wendelson was confined to a wheelchair, was surprised, even then, to discover that he was so elderly. It had been a policy for decades in the capital city of the old North Korea for the infirm, disabled and extremely aged to be kept out of sight, hidden away behind closed doors, such that they would not be able to upset the aesthetic purity of the model communist city - a similar policy being extended to pregnant women, too - and so it was still something of a novelty, even in these greatly relaxed times, for Lee to see a person so obviously disabled. Despite this apparent insensitivity to the old, at the same time, North Koreans had always greatly respected the wisdom of their elders, and so, even if Lee had not known Mr. Wendelson for the important man that he was, as a matter of courtesy he would have been respectful of his senior status. He recalled his work section all lined up, their overalls specially washed for the occasion and feeling tight and freshly starched and smelling of detergent, regimented like a line of army cadets, while Mr. Wendelson, wheeled by his male carer, briskly made his way along their ranks, giving only the most cursory glance in their direction as he sailed past. Afterwards, one of his colleagues had whispered to him, “What a waste of time that was” but Lee, despite not saying anything at the time, had privately disagreed: it had been a privilege to see - even fleetingly - the man for whom they were all working, who he supposed was the one who was paying all their wages; it gave their labour some tangible reason, and that in itself was enough. That the great man had neither caught his eye, nor uttered a word, was of no real importance.
Lee was aware that Eun-Hae was still awaiting an answer to her enquiry. “Only once,” he replied, truthfully.
“Oh.” Eun-Hae sounded disappointed, but continued, “So what was he like? You could get to meet him again, I guess, if you needed to?” Lee was reminded in her tone of voice of a starry-eyed teenager, infatuated with the current pop idol on the TV: he was tempted to construct a mental scenario where this dreamy quality was directed specifically at him, but he was not able to delude himself satisfactorily that he was being used as anything other than a conduit to the real object of her desire, although why Eun-Hae should be interested in the elderly Garnet Wendelson, Lee was unable to imagine, until she went on to explain, “You see, our office has received a commission from him to construct a bespoke itinerary for a tour of the north. It is a very prestigious job. I am in competition with several of my colleagues to organise the best trip. I thought that he might like to visit Paekdusan, so that he could visit the spiritual birthplace of our nation. What do you think? I thought that if I could just find out a little about him, it would give me a headstart. You understand?”
Lee nodded, “Yes, of course.” He understood only too well. Such was the kind of attention to detail and unashamed ambition which insured promotion for the likes of Eun-Hae, and would always mean that he remained firmly rooted to the bottom of the career ladder. Still, he did not begrudge the young woman her tilt at success: happiness lay elsewhere, he had learnt that many years ago, the aspirational route had no end, it was only with closure that genuine contentment could be found. Knowing when you had reached your limit. He thought of his wife again, and of how happy they had been, just a short time ago, at the time when Joo-Hee had been first born, and he wondered what had changed since. They were just the same, perhaps it was only him that had altered. He had filled his head with unobtainable fantasies and foolish envies for unachievable goals: this was the legacy of the Great Reawakening - the illusion of freedom and choice, when the reality was eternal dissatisfaction. Eun-Hae would discover as much: several years on and a few knockbacks to her confidence, and she would come to realise that she was no greater mover in the general scheme of things than he was himself. For the time being though, he was in a modest position to help her with her attainment of the stars.
“Have you ever seen Mr. Wendelson?” Lee asked.
“No, never.”
“And you are proposing to take him to Paekdusan? Remind me how high is the sacred mountain?” Lee could not prevent himself smiling.
Eun-Hae frowned slightly, noticing Lee’s smirk, and conscious that in some subtle way she was being mocked, but her training could not prevent her from quoting, parrot-fashion, the statistics remembered from the latest guidebook, “Paekdusan is the highest peak on the Korean peninsula at 2744 metres. The Lake of Heaven, close to the summit, is one of the deepest alpine lakes in the world. It would make an exciting excursion, don’t you think?” she finished.
Lee could not resist revealing his little know
Eun-Hae’s frown momentarily deepened, and she lowered her head, looking embarrassed and confused, “Oh, I didn’t realise.” She fumbled in her bag again, “I must be going, I still have my presentation to find.” She finally found the key to her front door and turning back to Lee, her dignity regained, said, “Thank you for your advice. I will have to think of something else.” Not waiting for a reply, she turned the key in her door and stepped into her own apartment, leaving Lee alone again on the landing.
Joo-Hee had stopped crying and there were now no sounds emanating from inside his own home. Cho-Mi would be waiting for him, ready to ask him about his day. The smile that had first appeared for Eun-Hae still remained on his face, as he contemplated this fact. He would tell her that he was one very small block in one very large building, and that he wouldn’t have it any other way. Lee turned the key in his own lock, and opening the door, walked into his new old world.
••••••••••
“No more bets.”
The roulette wheel spun counter clockwise in a whirl of dark colours, the red sectors indistinguishable from the black, the numbers painted in each segment unrecognisable, until, little-by-little, friction slowed the motion of the rotating pan, and the tiny ball of fate, which had clung so steadfastly to the sides of the wheel, like a speedway rider desperately attempting to maintain his position on the track, slipped ever further down the side of the sloping wall, coming to rest first in one pan, before finally skipping into the neighbouring pocket.
“Double zero. All outside bets lose.”
There was an audible groan from the seated observers around the green baize table. One smartly attired man, rose to his feet, retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair, at the same time muttering in English, “Bloody American rules. Why don’t you use a European wheel. Let us punters feel like we have a bit more chance.” The remaining gamblers were already counting through their money chips, some apparently involved in quiet, complicated calculations of chance and probability, others, almost resignedly, pushing forward a pre-decided amount to be wagered on a pre-decided series of numbers, automaton-style, as though they had no choice in the matter. For Kim Dong-Moon he did not.
It was always the same bet for him. He ignored column bets and even money bets - High or Low, Red or Black, Odd or Even - the pay back was simply not sufficient, the series of regular small highs nothing compared to the occasional hit of a big win. In the past he had always opted for a straight up bet, the same number every time with the opportunity of a 35 to 1 return, but more recently he had become convinced that the split bet system offered him a better chance of success, although he privately acknowledged that this belief was based purely on the one-off good fortune of one lucky night back in March. But what a night that had been. One or two more evenings like that one and he would have been able to pay off his debts altogether, and finally get Pak Jin-Siek and his thugs off his back for good. March: it was four months ago now, and he knew that rather than improve, his debts had risen since then. Tonight, though. Perhaps tonight would be different. Perhaps tonight would be his lucky night.
It had been a bad twenty-four hours at work: twice he had been called out during the night when his team could not fix the problem of some blocked pumping equipment, and then he had had to carry straight on through for his regular daytime shift immediately afterwards. The one consolation was that Mr. Carver had not had to be informed of the latest hold ups, it had been bad enough being reprimanded by him last week for bad timekeeping, the last thing he needed was another ticking off for not being able to maintain his equipment properly. He was just glad that he had three days off now: no bleeper, no mobile phone, no way that his crew could contact him even if there was a problem on site; they would have to manage without him, either that or the Wendelson Building would just have to be another three days late in its completion. Despite his physical displacement, Kim Dong-Moon could not prevent his mind from wandering back to the scene of his current labour. It was a picture both unattractive and beautiful at the same time: ugly was the detail of the work; the old and rusting machinery; the cold, wet concrete, laying over equally characterless steel girders; the hard faces of the sweating, busy men: beautiful was the whole; the elegant structure, rising ever steadily upwards; the view of the river and the wide squares of the city from the dizzying heights of the seventy third floor, where they were currently engaged in laying a concrete floor over a bed of steel; the wind on his face rushing through the open holes in the side of the building, making him feel connected not only with the construction project but with the space beyond.
“No more bets.”
Damn, he had been daydreaming and had missed his opportunity to place his usual bet. The croupier’s hand was already on the roulette wheel ready to spin the bowl, it was too late to interrupt now. Kim could feel a bead of sweat appear on his forehead, despite the relative coolness of the air-conditioned interior: a sweat of genuine fear; an anxiety that this would be the time that his numbers came up; his one opportunity to pay off his debts and he did not have a bet placed. He remembered the last time that Pak Jin-Siek had asked him for money, he had not had enough even to keep up with the interest payments. That had been the day he had been late for work, when Mr. Carver had called him into his office. He had been very nice - Mr. Carver - very understanding, he had asked him if everything was all right at home, had asked him how he had got the bruises on his face; but he had been serious, too, he had said that a slovenly attitude could not be tolerated, he had reminded Kim that he had a team of men who looked to him for an example, that there were building schedules to keep to, that his delays meant that other people could not complete their jobs, that he - Mr. Carver - would not allow anything to stand in the way of the Wendelson Building opening on time and to budget.
The roulette wheel was still spinning, relentlessly, almost soundlessly. Kim urged it to stop, desperate to be put out of his misery, anxious to know - even more anxious than on the occasions that he had money riding on the outcome - in which pocket the ball would land, to discover if he was to be a winner or a loser.
Pak Jin-Siek had said that he would be back again the day after tomorrow, that he would want his money then, that this time he would not be so lenient. It was not an ideal threat: Pak Jin-Siek was ex-military. There had been a lot of unemployed soldiers immediately after the Great Reawakening: an army which had comprised over 1 million men had been disbanded almost overnight. The most fortunate soldiers had been kept on by the state in a ceremonial capacity, forming the brigade of uniformed men who routinely marched and displayed, in a pantomime version of their previous profession, to entertain visiting tourists eager to see a procession of the erstwhile military might of the old North Korea. Like a militaristic version of the end-of-day Disneyland parade, this impressive procession of army personnel and hardware occurs daily, marching from the Arch of Triumph in the north of the city, past the Chollima Statue and the Mansudae Grand Monument of the Great Leader, and ending up in Mansudae Square in front of the Museum of the Korean Revolution and the newly completed Museum of the Great Reawakening. It had been said of the old Pyongyang that it was rather like stepping into a Stalinist theme park, but this description could be far more accurately attributed to the new regime, which now unashamedly exploited the perceived eccentricities of the past for the benefit of tourist entertainment and the acquisition of the mighty dollar. Kim Dong-Moon had served in the DPRK army himself, but had been invalided out long before the current upheavals. Other old colleagues of his had found work as police officers, security guards and personal bodyguards: now that there were people with possessions to lose there was a steadily growing business surrounding the protection of their assets. Many of the unemployed soldiers had found work - like Kim - in the burgeoning construction industry, others had moved into the service sector - banking, tourism, hotel and air
The wheel was slowing, the small ball visible now, rattling and bouncing in a descending spiral of motion, drawn inevitably towards a final resting place. Predestined? Who knows? Perhaps the owners of the casino: Kim always suspected that the odds were more than unfairly tilted in the house’s favour.
“Double zero. All outside bets lose.”
Twice on the bounce, that was most unusual. Someone was pulling some invisible strings somewhere, surely. Kim felt a moment’s instinctive rise of anger at the negative outcome of the ball’s eternal circuits, before remembering his own failure to record a bet, and was then momentarily overcome by the relief that his regular numbers had not come up. Double zero, though. It was portentous. It was not going to be a lucky night after all.
It was an effort to walk away from the table, but he was thirsty, and the casino did not allow drinks to be brought into the gaming rooms, except in the more exclusive chambers, of course, where money meant that anything goes. Kim had only ever once been permitted a glimpse into this hidden world of high-stake gamblers, and it had scared him more than he dared admit.
He thought back again to his conversation with Jake Carver. Perhaps if there was anyone who could help him out of his current predicament it was Mr. Carver. He was a good man. Hard but fair, it was what everyone said. He had a job to do, but he was not unapproachable. Perhaps he should tell him the truth; tell him about his debts; see if he might be persuaded to advance him some more wages. He might understand the necessity, in the short term. Or perhaps he could put him forward for more overtime. There was always plenty of extra work needed to be done on the building, particularly when that fool Lee Hae-Sup kept on clogging up the vital equipment. Kim took a long draught from his newly acquired beer. Yes, he would speak to Mr. Carver on Monday morning. It would be cathartic to share his problems, at the very least. Mr. Carver would know what to do. After all, wasn’t that what Mr. Wendelson paid him for?
••••••••••
When Jake Carver first met Garnet Wendelson his initial impression was that the man was an idiot. A senile, old idiot, at that. And a megalomaniac to boot. His impression didn’t significantly alter the more expansive the wheelchair-bound dreamer became, outlining his plans for his new skyscraper, to be built in Pyongyang - of all places - on a budget, that although colossal, would only just be sufficient for the scale of the enterprise he proposed, in a timescale, which Carver initially thought was wildly optimistic. Then there was his choice of architect, too - Marcel Chin. Carver had met Chin only once before, on a failed venture in the Middle East, and had no great desire to repeat the experience. He considered Chin a charlatan, full of hot air and glib phrases, but without the necessary experience to pull off a major construction project: the skills that were required in the construction of really tall buildings were meticulous planning, a vice-like tight hold on the project purse strings, and a steady nerve. For all of Carver’s negative assessment of his future employer, Garnet would have been the first person to agree with him on these points: they were the primary reasons that Carver himself was brought into the enterprise in the first place.
Jake Carver had been born in Wichita, Kansas in April 1966, to white, middle-American, farming stock. It was to his personal pride, that he was a no-nonsense kind of guy; someone that did not suffer fools gladly, and would tell them so, prince or pauper not respecting. Looking back on the conversation, he could not say now why he did not tell Garnet Wendelson at the time that he thought that his proposed building project was doomed to failure, and the design for his new skyscraper was ill-conceived at best and potentially unbuildable, but there had been something about the old man that had prevented him from voicing his concerns - a desperation, perhaps, or maybe it was just enthusiasm? Later, of course, it was too late, but as it happens, he was to be proved wrong with his initial pessimistic appraisal. His memories of that first meeting were blurred now by the intervening space of time, but he could still recall the gist of the old man's conversation.
He had been approached - as with almost every other job - by letter to his offices in Brooklyn, and asked to meet with a prospective unnamed client in Manhattan at a mutually convenient time, to discuss a proposal for a building project in East Asia. Nothing more. No details. No wordy letter. No special pleadings. As it happened, the timing of the letter could not have been more fortuitous: he had just completed overseeing the construction of a major telecommunications tower in Moscow and, although there were other offers available to him, he was open to a new challenge. The word challenge hardly described the invitation that he was about to receive. Garnet Wendelson’s opening question should have warned Carver that this was to be no ordinary meeting.
“Do you know the Great Mosque of Samarra?”
“Pardon me?”
“The Great Mosque of Samarra, not far from Baghdad. Here let me draw you a picture. You’ll probably recognise it when you see it.”
Carver had watched in silence while the old man before him had slowly, but not without skill, drawn a passable sketch of the building in question, with its recognisable, circular minaret and open-air spiral walkway.
“Recognise it now?”
Carver had still admitted his ignorance.
Garnet had pointed to the focal point of his illustration, a diagram of a wide, tapering tower, “The Malwiyya. Are you sure that you don’t recognise it? It is a spiral minaret. One of the most beautiful structures in the world, belonging to the largest mosque in the world.” Garnet added as a qualification, “In my opinion.”
“I am sure that you are right.” Carver was beginning to fear that his journey to the city was going to prove a waste of his time and was anxious to get to the point. “What exactly has this to do with me?”
Garnet, was not to be hurried. He smiled, sensing the other man’s anxiety, “First, let me tell you a story.” He motioned to a second man, who up until now had been standing silently in the corner of the room they occupied, “Martin, if you would be so good. Please close the curtains and turn on the projector so that we can show Mr. Carver some of our holiday snaps.”
Now Carver could no longer contain his sense of annoyance. He stood up, saying, “I think there has been some mistake. I don’t really have time...”
Garnet silenced him with another wave of his arm, “Indulge an old man, please. I will not take up too much of your precious time. And I think that you will find the outcome to your personal benefit.”
Jake Carver sat down in his chair again, folded his arms in front of him, and crossed one leg over the other in a defiant pose, challenging Garnet to prove the sentiments of his words. In response
The photographs - taken on Garnet’s old Mamiya medium-format camera - were of the high standard you would expect from top quality equipment: crisp, clear and revealed a good eye, on the part of the photographer, for composition and content. The images all showed the same building - the minaret of the aforementioned mosque - taken from a variety of vantage points, in different lights and in varying degree of detail. Garnet solemnly clicked through each picture on the slide projector, allowing several seconds delay for perusal before moving on to the next photograph, occasionally interjecting a comment when he felt the need to highlight a particular aspect of the structure. The minaret was indeed a fine piece of architectural ingenuity, Jake Carver was forced to admit, although quite what his prospective client’s obsession with it was, he was, as yet, unable to conjecture.
Carver was informed - although would not have been able to relate the same, since very little of the information that Garnet told him on this initial meeting he retained, not anticipating the relevance of any of the details - that the area originally covered by the ancient city of Samarra now formed one of the largest archaeological sites in the world, stretching for over 40 kilometres along the banks of the mighty Tigris River.
“The Abbasid period of history is a particularly fascinating one, I am sure you would agree?” said Garnet, not expecting - nor receiving - any response from Carver. “I have researched it quite thoroughly since returning from Iraq. While I was recovering in hospital, it gave me something to occupy myself, and Martin here, very kindly kept me supplied with textbooks. I do not think that I would be incorrect to say that the Abbasid era is regarded as being the golden age of Muslim civilisation.”
Jake Carver scratched his brow and made to stand again, “Forgive me, sir, this is all very interesting...”
“I am boring you, I can tell. You are a civil engineer, not a historian, right?”
“That is so.”
“You don’t see what relevance any of this has, am I right? You came here to discuss a new building project, not mull over the aesthetics of an ancient one, correct?”
“That would just about sum up the situation, yes.”
Garnet pointed back towards the final photograph he had shown of the spiral minaret, the image still displayed on the white screen, the projector beside him still producing a background hum, like the sound of a thousand invisible insects in a jungle night, “The Malwiyya stands 52 metres high. Very impressive for its day. It is made entirely from baked bricks, and it is possible to reach the very summit of the tower by following the spiral walkway up and around the outside of the structure; possible to reach the summit even in a wheelchair. Martin will tell you so.”
Martin nodded a weary affirmative, his memory of the particular day in Iraq one of pure physical exertion, where Garnet’s had been more of exhilaration.
Garnet continued talking to Carver, “What I want from you is to build the self same replica tower, only bigger. Much bigger. Over ten times bigger.” Garnet had already anticipated Carver’s objection, “Yes, that would mean it would be the tallest building in the world. That is my intention. You will have Marcel Chin, I am sure that you have heard of him, as your architect, but, if you agree, you will be in charge of the actual construction. I need a man that I can trust to get the work done, and everything that I have heard about you suggests that you are the man for the job.”
“I’m flattered, but...”
Garnet carried on speaking as though Carver had not said a word, “You’ll want to know where this new tower is going to be built. Pyongyang. North Korea as was. Any problems with that?”
“No, I guess not.”
The Wendelson steam roller was in full swing and would not have been halted by any negative responses should it have received any, “And I want the whole project finished by 1st May 2009. What do you say, Mr. Carver? Are you interested in being a part - a major part - of the most exciting construction venture so far envisaged for the twenty first century, or would you prefer to stand by and ponder that ‘it could have been me’? I need your answer today. Yes or no, what is it to be?”
It sounded as though Jake Carver had a choice in the matter, but as he was later to discover his fate had already been decided. There was only one answer to the question.
“Yes.”
It was one word which was to pay him a sum greater than he could ever have imagined, and also to cost him a price dearer than he could ever repay.