“Good heavens, Dominique, what are you talking about?”
“About your building. About the kind of building that Roark will design for you. It will be a great building, Joel.”
“You mean, good?”
“I don’t mean good. I mean great.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“No, Joel, no, it’s not the same thing.”
“I don’t like this ‘great’ stuff.”
“No. You don’t. I didn’t think you would. Then what do you want with Roark? You want a building that won’t shock anybody. A building that will be folksy and comfortable and safe, like the old parlor back home that smells of clam chowder. A building that everybody will like, everybody and anybody. It’s very uncomfortable to be a hero, Joel, and you don’t have the figure for it.”
“Well, of course I want a building that people will like. What do you think I’m putting it up for, for my health?”
“No, Joel. Nor for your soul.”
“You mean, Roark’s no good?”
She sat straight and stiff, as if all her muscles were drawn tight against pain. But her eyes were heavy, half closed, as if a hand were caressing her body. She said:
“Do you see many buildings that he’s done? Do you see many people hiring him? There are six million people in the city of New York. Six million people can’t be wrong. Can they?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course.”
“But I thought Enright…”
“You’re not Enright, Joel. For one thing, he doesn’t smile so much. Then, you see, Enright wouldn’t have asked my opinion. You did. That’s what I like you for.”
“Do you really like me, Dominique?”
“Didn’t you know that you’ve always been one of my great favorites?”
“I…I’ve always trusted you. I’ll take your word anytime. What do you really think I should do?”
“It’s simple. You want the best that money can buy–of what money can buy. You want a building that will be–what it deserves to be. You want an architect whom other people have employed, so that you can show them that you’re just as good as they are.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right….Look, Dominique, you’ve hardly touched your food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, what architect would you recommend?”
“Think, Joel. Who is there, at the moment, that everybody’s talking about? Who gets the pick of all commissions? Who makes the most money for himself and his clients? Who’s young and famous and safe and popular?”
“Why, I guess…I guess Peter Keating.”
“Yes, Joel. Peter Keating.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Roark, so terribly sorry, believe me, but after all, I’m not in business for my health…not for my health nor for my soul…that is, I mean, well, I’m sure you can understand my position. And it’s not that I have anything against you, quite the contrary, I think you’re a great architect. You see that’s just the trouble, greatness is fine but it’s not practical. That’s the trouble, Mr. Roark, not practical, and after all you must admit that Mr. Keating has much the better name and he’s got that…that popular touch which you haven’t been able to achieve.”
It disturbed Mr. Sutton that Roark did not protest. He wished Roark would try to argue; then he could bring forth the unanswerable justifications which Dominique had taught him a few hours ago. But Roark said nothing; he had merely inclined his head when he heard the decision. Mr. Sutton wanted desperately to utter the justifications, but it seemed pointless to try to convince a man who seemed convinced. Still, Mr. Sutton loved people and did not want to hurt anyone.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Roark, I’m not alone in this decision. As a matter of fact, I did want you, I had decided on you, honestly I had, but it was Miss Dominique Francon, whose judgment I value most highly, who convinced me that you were not the right choice for this commission–and she was fair enough to allow me to tell you that she did.”
He saw Roark looking at him suddenly. Then he saw the hollows of Roark’s cheeks twisted, as if drawn in deeper, and his mouth open: he was laughing, without sound but for one sharp intake of breath.
“What on earth are you laughing at, Mr. Roark?”
“So Miss Francon wanted you to tell me this?”
“She didn’t want me to, why should she?–she merely said that I could tell you if I wished.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Which only shows her honesty and that she had good reasons for her convictions and will stand by them openly.”
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Mr. Sutton.”
“Look, it’s not decent to laugh like that.”
“No.”
His room was half dark around him. A sketch of the Heller house was tacked, unframed, on a long, blank wall; it made the room seem emptier and the wall longer. He did not feel the minutes passing, but he felt time as a solid thing enclosed and kept apart within the room; time clear of all meaning save the unmoving reality of his body.
When he heard the knock at the door, he said: “Come in,” without rising.
Dominique came in. She entered as if she had entered this room before. She wore a black suit of heavy cloth, simple like a child’s garment, worn as mere protection, not as ornament; she had a high masculine collar raised to her cheeks, and a hat cutting half her face out of sight. He sat looking at her. She waited to see the derisive smile, but it did not come. The smile seemed implicit in the room itself, in her standing there, halfway across that room. She took her hat off, like a man entering a house, she pulled it off by the brim with the tips of stiff fingers and held it hanging down at the end of her arm. She waited, her face stern and cold; but her smooth pale hair looked defenseless and humble. She said:
“You are not surprised to see me.”
“I expected you tonight.”
She raised her hand, bending her elbow with a tight economy of motion, the bare minimum needed, and flung her hat across to a table. The hat’s long flight showed the violence in that controlled jerk of her wrist.
He asked: “What do you want?”
She answered: “You know what I want,” her voice heavy and flat.
“Yes. But I want to hear you say it. All of it.”
“If you wish.” Her voice had the sound of efficiency, obeying an order with metallic precision. “I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin, your mouth, your hands. I want you–like this–not hysterical with desire–but coldly and consciously–without dignity and without regrets–I want you–I have no self-respect to bargain with me and divide me–I want you–I want you like an animal, or a cat on a fence, or a whore.”
She spoke on a single, level tone, as if she were reciting an austere catechism of faith. She stood without moving, her feet in flat shoes planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. She looked impersonal, untouched by the words she pronounced, chaste like a young boy.
“You know that I hate you, Roark. I hate you for what you are, for wanting you, for having to want you. I’m going to fight you–and I’m going to destroy you–and I tell you this as calmly as I told you mat I’m a begging animal. I’m going to pray that you can’t be destroyed–I tell you this, too–even though I believe in nothing and have nothing to pray to. But I will fight to block every step you take. I will fight to tear every chance you want away from you. I will hurt you through the only thing that can hurt you–through your work. I will fight to starve you, to strangle you on the things you won’t be able to reach. I have done it to you today–and that is why I shall sleep with you tonight.”
He sat deep in his chair, stretched out, his body relaxed, and taut in relaxation, a stillness being filled slowly with the violence of future motion.
“I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten you–whenever I know that I have hurt you–and I’ll let you own me. I want to be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my victory over him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. That is what I want of you, Roark. That is what I am. You wanted to hear it all. You’ve heard it. What do you wish to say now?”
“Take your clothes off.”
She stood still for a moment; two hard spots swelled and grew white under the corners of her mouth. Then she saw a movement in the cloth of his shirt, one jolt of controlled breath–and she smiled in her turn, derisively, as he had always smiled at her.