The Bricklayer
Robert T. Belie
The Bricklayer
Robert T. Belie
Copyright 2015 Robert T. Belie
The Bricklayer
-Table of Contents-
Title
Beginning
End
Author’s Note
About the Author
The following is based on true events.
***
Trust the string. He always tethered a string line and never trusted his eyes alone. Not that they had failed him previously, but eyes can be so self-centered and devious in their honesty. They do not lie but rather present the world through a filter of their own limited ability. They convey exactly what they see, which is so often far from the true nature of things.
Sanders made his living as a bricklayer. And when the body bent and twisted as his so often did distorted perspectives were created; perspectives that muddled reality and warped horizons, making strings appear crooked and unevenly stacked bricks seem straight. But he knew better, Sanders knew to trust the string.
It was a maxim he learned as an apprentice and continued using now as a master bricklayer. It was his way. Trust the string. Some trusted their eyes alone, while others used planks of wood, levels, or string lines like Sanders. Still others opted for sloppy workmanship and settled for walls with uneven brick lines. Close enough often passed muster when their work was largely hidden from discerning eyes beneath facades. Outer shells of paint, stone, or wood blinded notice of shoddy craft.
Sanders’ effort added a few moments of time to the whole process as he measured and reset the string line to its new height as each level of brick was mortared and set into place. The extra time was worth it to him though, as there was much less pressure in not having to trust the spot of his eyes alone. The string provided constant assurance that his bricks were laid evenly.
In any event he made up what little time was lost in the endeavor by the speed of his bricklaying. The movements were second nature to him, as skills such as these tend to be with any master in their field.
There was a mesmerizing flow and rhythm to it all. The combination of skill, muscle memory and a lifelong familiarity with one’s craft created a musical beat as tapping from the impact of unorthodox instruments kept a steady, lulling pace throughout the process. The trowel would slap the mortar with a flat thud, slosh the mixture with a crank of the wrist to remix the clumps of drying paste, while in the very same motion load a slopping portion onto the tool’s arrow-shaped metal base.
The ritual proceeded with dough dropping into place along the wall frame with a fluid, almost indiscernible tilt of the hand, leaving the perfect amount of mortar covering the open face of the brick below. This was followed by a light tap and scrape of mortar against the connecting side and bottom of the next brick to join the formation. The consecrated brick was then lowered and settled into its precise position, right along the string line. The act was completed with a final scrape of the trowel against the newly seated wall edge to remove any excess mortar pushed outward by the weight of the brick. And the melody continued with each wall rising one brick at a time.
The work was not terribly complicated by most measures, but still there was a nuanced skill and artistic polish that distinguished Sanders’ workmanship from that of other bricklayers. Not that the average person made a habit of comparing bricks on a regular basis, but if they did, they would likely be able to discern Sanders’ work from that of others. Without more than a rudimentary knowledge of masonry the uninitiated could still spot quality in the same way a patient can simply tell an eye doctor which lens filter is better or worse during a routine exam without having a firm grasp of optometry.
His talents often crossed the threshold between laborer and artist, and that in turn made for decent business. He did well for himself and his two boys. Not rich mind you, worse than some, but certainly better than others. His eldest would soon be of age to begin his own apprenticeship and carry on the trade of the bricklayer. But for now both sons were just boys who idled the days away with their toys and adventures.
Long hours were spent marching along as pretend soldiers or building pretend forts made not of brick, but of logs and fallen branches in the wooded outcrop of silver fir and white pine trees along the hillside behind their house. And when the cool of evening set in they would return home to regale their father with the products of their imaginations after supper beside the warmth and crackle of the fireplace.
He smiled as he watched them carry on a scaled version of their day’s play on the blanketed floor. Crude toy soldiers carved with expressions frozen in time moved about the terrain of the imaginary battlefield with the aid of pinched fingers. Orders and counter orders were issued through excited but whispered shouts. The flickering light from the fire briefly framed the molded forms of the miniature soldiers, then faded away before reappearing at slightly altered angles. Shadows dancing and playing tricks on the eyes provided the appearance of movement and life in the inanimate faces of the soldiers.
Sanders truly enjoyed these moments. It was hard not to be swept up in the impromptu storytelling and cinema unfolding before his eyes on the floor in front of him. He knew these times would not last forever. Soon enough they would be young men and join with their father in his trade. That joy of unburdened childhood is hard to emulate, but Sanders hoped all the same that some of the pleasure and peace he found as a bricklayer would rub off onto his boys.
He would certainly miss watching them play with their toy soldiers, but he also would appreciate the extra help with bricklaying projects, for lately there was more work than just one man was capable of completing alone.
Word of mouth in the right circles had led to his current project. It was a special assignment that came along once in a lifetime and one he would enjoy detailing to his boys. For it was the kind of work that created the stories they would want to share with their own children someday.
For this project he would be making a rather ordinary size fireplace, but it was the location and the facing stone he would be using that made this endeavor memorable.
The expensive stone was a gift from a wealthy friend of the residence’s owner, but was ordered and cut to the bricklayer’s exacting specifications. It came as prescribed, wrapped and boxed in several wooden crates. They were polished slabs, but he would of course still touch them up himself. Perfection was required for this project and he would make it so. In any event working with such stones was not an ordinary occurrence and he couldn’t help but pause to marvel at them as he caressed the surfaces with his coarse fingers.
The same stone had been used by the Romans for decorative sculptures and grandiose architectural flares. Countless princes and their artisans followed suit in the time since. Tools and techniques had improved over the millennia, but the stone had not changed.
The mining area in northwestern Italy was famous for this marble and the stone in turn bore the name of the region. Carrara marble had a natural beauty that shown through even before polishing. Its fleshy-red body was spattered with white hued splotches that sometimes streaked the full length of the slab. Each stone was unique and contained its own speckled pattern, but as a whole they conjured a resemblance to petrified wood crossed with the unfleshed musculature of a wild animal.
While Sanders’ boys were not old enough to accompany him on this project, he was by no means the only one working on the estate. Some of the others were laborers, some were artisans, some housekeepers, and others provided security. But often he was left alone. While the others worked elsewhere on their own taskings, his world revolved around the fireplace set in the main living room on the estate’s third floor.
The remote mountain compound was
lodged atop snow-covered mountain peaks, making the ideal setting for the warmth of an elegant marble-edged fireplace. While the atmosphere was enchanting and tranquil, the location offered the owner a sense of protection as much as anything else. He was paranoid, but not without cause. In the last six years he had survived no less than ten attempts on his life. Remoteness, elevation, and limited access were the primary draws of the retreat, but even paranoid men who were wanted dead by others still found pleasure in simple elegance, in the simple glow of a fireplace.
It seemed the retreat was in a constant state of construction and expansion regardless of whether anyone actually lived there at any given time. The owner’s presence was infrequent to be sure. He favored the safety and calm the retreat provided, but the money and power that made owning such a concern possible often required his presence elsewhere. In any event the bricklayer did not concern himself with such things. He had a job to do.
The sprawling compound would end up containing precisely 65 rooms once the ongoing phase of renovations and additions were completed. The other laborers busied themselves with their crafts in those rooms in addition to the work they occasionally did in the main living