Buildings

They made their first building entirely out of glass. The tourists who flocked to visit it all said it was the most beautiful building they had ever seen. Certainly, the curving surface of its pure glass walls had nothing in common with the grid of panes that cover skyscrapers in other parts of the world, like shiny clothes on grey and nondescript bodies. And its structure — an icicle shaped tower tapering to a point hundreds of meters above the ground — was as far from the squat cathedrals they had visited before as it was from the sprawling airports that would greet their return.

Every day, coaches and family cars filled the purpose-built car parks. From there the sightseers trickled together, wearing brightly coloured tee-shirts, badly fitting shorts, until a motley river flowed to the ticket booths in the perimeter fence. They harmonised in one sense only, these speakers of German, English, Japanese: that all of them wanted to climb the tower. But it wasn't the promise of panoramic views that had them queuing for the glass elevator, edging up the glass stairs that spiralled vertiginously around the outer wall. It was what went on inside. They were as obsessed with the banal details of the residents' lives — their conversations, showers, infidelities, tears — as they were with the extravagance of their home.

Every month a ball was held in the great chamber in the tower's base. Every month a thousand chandeliers blazed through the tower walls, illuminating towns for miles around. The old women who lived out there, in those hopeless collections of supermarkets and houses, knew what it meant when a second dawn burst through their lace curtains. It meant a night of fabulous costumes, elegant dances, intrigues between rich and beautiful people. But the young men knew differently. As far as they were concerned, the bright spire and the ring of shadows twirling beneath it were nothing but insults, reminders of the inequality of the world. They would have gladly smashed the tower to pieces and forced everyone in it to scrub the streets where they'd pissed away their youth.

They never did though. The glass remained, a cabinet for the dancing, clapping, laughing people. The festivities that began at nightfall continued well into the morning. Food and drink arrived on silver trays and compliments were passed offhandedly, like a light touch on a sensitive part of the body. Later, as the dances became more intimate and the inhibitions dissolved in alcohol, couples began to make their way upstairs. Of course they were visible from the ballroom — backs moving up the wide glass stairway, feet treading the corridors above, clothes slipping off on the bedroom floor — but no-one was watching. No-one wanted to be caught gawping, like the gormless plebs who went up and down in the elevator.

Afterwards, as the revellers returned in ones and twos to their chambers, a few tired looking figures would emerge — when no-one was looking — from a trapdoor to the cellars. "Now maybe we can get some sleep," one would say, as they picked their way over champagne corks and party streamers. "Until sunrise," the other would answer, "If we don't freeze to death first." "Who cares about that," the first would reply, "As long as we look pretty for the tourists." And they'd continue in the same vein until someone looked their way — a lady in a beautiful gown, a man with a white bow-tie draped across his shoulder. Then they'd fall silent and a smile would appear on their lips. A false smile, brittle and thin.

The hailstorm that destroyed the building was freakish: not only did it occur in August, but the blocks of ice it hurled through the walls, the ceilings, the floor, were the size of clenched fists, and endowed with the same murderous intent. The memories of those who survived made them easy to recognise — even if they didn't have eyepatches or missing limbs. Every so often they would flinch slightly, as if a moment of embarrassment had returned to them, or a piece of glass had moved inside their body.

*

They made their second building out of bricks. They made it square, like the small windows set at regular intervals into the walls, the meals they ate at six o'clock off solid wooden tables. They put a lot of thought into the interior (far more than the exterior), splitting it into numbered blocks, subdividing these into apartments, and connecting the apartments via communal rooms where the residents could come together and relax in the evening. These rooms, or cosies as they were known, were the heartbeat of the second building. Here the adults drank mugs of beer or cups of mulled wine scooped from a pot on the hearth. Here the children worked on their homework, and when that was finished, played board games or exchanged comic books. Here the husbands discussed their day's work while the wives knitted colourful jumpers.

When travellers came (and they didn't come often — the new building was known only by word of mouth) they were shown the same hospitality as family friends: bowls of steaming soup mopped up with hunks of buttered bread; clean towels for long hot baths; a freshly made bed where they would probably sleep better than they had for weeks. All that was asked in return was that they come to the cosy to entertain their hosts with stories of their travels. And they were only to happy to oblige, as the meal settled in their bellies and the firelight melted into the ceiling. They would talk of ancient temples and modern cities, of suns rising in the desert, setting behind snow-capped mountains, of nights spent in sleeper compartments talking to exotic women, listening to the shunt and bump of the engine as it dragged them into unknown lands.

But at this point they would be interrupted by a teenage boy hunched over a page of calculations. He would rattle his pen off his textbook, his calculator, the wooden table, as if trying to dispel that shuddering train from his thoughts.

When the boy had calmed down the travellers would continue, conscious of a certain envy they were provoking in their audience, emphasising the tedious or uncomfortable aspects of their journey. Now they would talk of endless delays, stolen luggage, unsanitary toilets, freezing cold nights with nothing but the warmth of another body to protect them from the chill of the stars.

At that moment a sigh would escape one of the women. Pushing aside her needles and coloured wool, she would turn to a window and gaze at its pin-pricked square of black.

Feeling both the restive atmosphere and the weight of food in their stomachs, the travellers would begin to yawn, remarking on how tired they were, and how long it was since they'd slept in a proper bed. But their hosts would laugh at these manoeuvres — no need to drop hints here, they'd say, as they stood to show the guests to their rooms. It was getting late anyway; time for the children to go to bed, for the plates and glasses to be washed, the tables to be wiped and the crumbs to be swept from the bare brick floor.

Only a few solitary figures — usually middle-aged men — would remain in the cosy afterwards. Scattered around the long wooden benches, watching the fire shrink to a red glow, they would try to reassure themselves that their lives were not shrinking too, that their fires still burned as brightly as ever. The travellers had made them nostalgic for their restless youths — rushing from one adventure to another, one bed to the next — but also made them glad to have settled down. In the end they would finish their beer with peace in their thoughts and an assurance in their hearts that they could do the same thing tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

The earthquake caught them unawares. As the bricks came thundering down — crushing bones like matches, skulls like grapes — a cloud of red dust billowed up around them. It was as if the weight of the walls and the lightness of the particles that formed them had separated, the first to sink underground, the second to sprinkle itself, like a fine red snow, on those lucky enough to be outside.

*

The third building wasn't a building at all, just a huge white circle painted on the grass. "Come in," the residents liked to joke, as they led visitors over a gungy line through the middle of a field a field, "make yourself at home." It was a matter of pride to them how little fuss they made over their dwelling — and by extension, how little they pampered themselves. "Don't be square," they'd say, when someone suggested a roster to repaint the circle and keep the bushes from growing over it. "You're so transparent," they'd say to another, for criticising their looks in the hope of being corrected.

A certain appearance was the norm in the circle — though of course, it was not enforced. The men tended to have beards and long flowing hair; the women braids with flowers woven into them. As for clothes, they rarely wore any. However, if someone felt more comfortable dressed, that was fine, there was nothing wrong with being a woolly, as such people were called.

Once a week they held meetings where everyone, young and old, came together and sat in a circle. The circle, as the more philosophical of them were fond of pointing out, was a natural metaphor for their egalitarian community. As the talking shrub was passed around grievances were aired, problems of a personal and public nature. Everything was open to discussion, nothing was taboo. But strangely, one topic they rarely mentioned was love. No doubt this was because love flowed so freely there — undammed by repression or guilt — that it never formed the stagnant pools that plague other nations. For example, if a girl fell in love with a beautiful boy, she had no reason to keep it quiet, to hide her desire behind coy smiles and lingering looks. She could share with her friends, her parents, her brothers, the wonderful feelings growing inside her. She could talk openly about the days and nights she hoped to spend with him, her longing to feel his kiss, the weight of his body on hers. And when her love had reached full flower, when she was ready to realise her desires, all she had to do was come to the river where he bathed at sunset. After enjoying the play of rosy light across his wet and naked body she could simply walk up to him and tell him of her lust, while he towelled himself dry on the bank. It was even acceptable for her to watch him make furious, passionate love to her best friend — the same friend to whom she had been gushing about him all week, and who had beaten her to the bank — in a shallow part of the river, the water lapping their writhing flesh as he moaned his undying worship in her ear.

Our building, they liked to say, is the safest kind of all: its walls can never be broken down, its ceiling can never collapse. No matter what the world throws at us we'll still have our circle painted on the grass. And so they did, until a flood came and washed it away.

*

But all that was a long time ago. These days they don't worry about disasters, about fires, floods and storms, any more than they worry about getting a tan in summer, or finding the best snow for skiing in winter. After all, a tidal wave is the same as a rainbow to a people who have long since moved underground.