Spending the summer in France, where I'm pretending to know buildings. Seen in Toulouse, June 10th, 2015
When she said, "I don't want to see you anymore," he immediately set about fulfilling her request, as he had always fulfilled her requests, regardless of their prudence, impetuousness, or frivolity. He had no experience in construction, so he did what he could: dredging up stones from the shallows of the river, scooping up gravel from the paths of public gardens. He turned the stones this way and that, searching for angles that nearly matched. For adhesive, he used up what little was left in his kitchen; he concocted a simple dough of flour and water, and he added honey and sugar for good measure. The mixture was surprisingly strong. His wall grew in jagged rows, eventually rising to the top of the rosy brick arch.
When the wall was halfway built, she began pleading for him to stop, recanting her previous request. But he could not bear to leave this monument to his devotion incomplete. Whenever she came by, he hid behind the unfinished barrier, pressing himself flat against the wall. By the time she left, his face was marked with an irregular red geometry. He continued construction at night, cheered on by the drunkards wobbling home.
As he stuck the final row together, fingers white with his impromptu paste, he regretted the lack of ceremony--but only for a moment. Only she needed to know that this was a testament to his loyalty--no one else. Through the cracks, he could hear her weeping. That was enough.
She returned for three, maybe four evenings, to beg at the wall--no one can remember for sure. After not having received a payment for many months, the landlord wanted to lease the rooms to another tenant. He hired a crew of men. They came with saws and power tools. They sliced a thin, rectangular doorway into the wall with sharp, straight lines. They knocked over the slab they had removed, and it shattered on the street, clumps of its stones kicked away by children.