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the works.
    Borromeo, following Peter’s gaze, explained:
    “That is his daughter.”
    “I didn’t realise he was married.”
    “He isn’t. But she’s his daughter all the same. Born out of wedlock I believe. A Hungarian woman who later killed herself in a tragic manner.”
    “Ah!”
    “And the daughter lives with Dr. Enheim, who has brought her up. Her name is Trudy.”
    Peter repeated the name under his breath and watched as the figure made her way across the piles of torn up earth, stepping carefully, lifting her dress slightly so that it would not get dirtied, showing an extremely white strip of calf.
    When, a quarter of an hour later, he was introduced to the young lady, he held his own heart in his hands.
    She was rather short, slightly plump and had a shy demeanour—and indeed it was apparent that she had been raised on the rich cooking of Enheim’s kitchen, where butter was used in abundance and a meal was never complete without a dessert of a few cheeses. Her eyes, which were large and dark brown, not unlike those of a young cow, fascinated Peter.
    “This is a girl I would like to know better,” he thought.
     
    1. Monopan
    2. Tinted concrete
    3. Grey glass
    4. Bituminous fibreboard
    5. Weathered brass
    6. Perforated steel
    7. Mastic asphalt

VII.
     
    The apartment of Maria Venezuela in Lugano was a model of elegant simplicity. A series of large, plate-glass windows gave a lovely view of the lake. A Tibetan tanka on one wall, a Russian icon on another. An Iranian felt rug partially covered the parquet floor in the living room. Furniture: a glass-topped table and a black leather couch. Huge cushions on which one could sit. Her mantle was covered with bric-a-brac—small Indian idols—a few grotesque Chinese figurines.
    The dining room had a vaguely oriental feel to it. The table and chairs spoke elegant simplicity. The only decoration was an antique print of chrysanthemums which gazed on Maria placidly as she opened a bottle of organic French wine. She clicked glasses with her nephew. The table was laid: salad, whole-wheat pasta with wild Norwegian salmon sauce.
    Peter twisted some noodles around his fork.
    “Things are going marvellously,” he said. “It is really quite incredible to see the speed at which he works. He is indefatigable. And it is not as if he is a young man!”
    “He is fuelled by his dreams.”
    “Oh, I don’t know about that. To me he simply seems like a man who is very true to himself. He looks towards the end result and is not concerned with money or fame. He has not sold out his ideals.”
    “It seems that he has found at least one disciple.”
    Her nephew shrugged his shoulders. “And what is wrong with that? I can learn a great deal from him.”
    “Yes, but…there is something about him that…”
    “That what?”
    Maria had become quite serious. A vague, indefinite smile flitted across her lips.
    “Well,” she said, “there is something about him that frightens me.”
    “You must be joking!”
    “No. I don’t mean that I find him frightening in the way one would some sort of monster…No, it is more like standing on the edge of an abyss. I wonder sometimes if his plan is not too—ambitious!”
    “It is ambitious, there is no question about it. But, it is not too ambitious. After all, people surely said the same thing about those ancient architects who designed the great pyramid—and yet now it is the only wonder of the ancient world still standing.”
    The two ate together in silence for some minutes. And then, as Maria was serving the salad, Peter said: “Well, I hope you have not lost any of your enthusiasm for the project.”
    “On the contrary. I am more enthusiastic than ever. Having a great meeting place, a place where members of our society from the four corners of the earth can come and learn in a spiritual environment, is truly of the highest importance to me. And I cannot deny that Herr Nachtman is a man…with certain merits.”
    “Yes, he