A Vigilante Phone

It was a Sunday afternoon. I'm surprised he picked up. Worried that my choice of day and time to call might alert him to my upcoming arrogance.

"Good Afternoon, is this Perit ******?"

"Who is this?"

"Hi, I wanted to inquire about a development, please…"

"Ok, but who is---"

"It's in Għajnsielem, and can be appreciated best from within the valley car park. I'm talking about the monstrous extension on the existing buildings," questioning if my use of the adjective proved enough for him to hang up, I continued, "I'm sure you know it!".

"Where? I think you're mistaken", he replied.

"No sir, it's an extension of an additional 5 storeys in a row of houses, and a relatively disproportionate looking washroom."

"No, that's not my doing, you're mistaken, that's another Perit ******, she's Maltese"

I recalled how I got his number. 

Finding this architect's phone number was straightforward. I first checked the planning server and found Perit ********** ****** listed as the project architect. I then Googled his name and found his office information at the top of the Google search. He had a private practice; his phone number was publicly available online. 

"No, I believe it is your project, I just wanted-"

"No, no, no!! That is not my project!. Another Maltese Perit had designed it!", interrupting me for the first time.

"Yes, but your name is listed as the Architect who submitted the proposal."

"Who is this?!"

"I'm a fellow architect, and concerned, pissed off citizen."

"No, no, it's not my doing. The architect gave birth towards the end of the project. I simply filed the application; it's not my design."

I recalled a photograph of him from my previous Google search. A middle-aged man holding up a special commendation award for a particular public space project his office had won. I was appalled. 

"This has nothing to do with design. Absolutely nothing. Regardless of its sheer scale, the facade is a mess. It is chaotic, warped, and devoid of any sense of coherence or intent. I am overwhelmed, not by awe, but by a deep, physical disgust. It's precisely such a thought that forced me to call you. Horrifically, I cannot say I have seen a worse building. Indeed, you have designed a staple for the recent developments of the last decade"

"Can you tell me who is calling, please?"

I was surprised by his calm tone and prevailing sense of politeness. In this regard, he remained true to his vocational standards.

"It's not my-"

"Thank you so much for aiding in ruining our built environment, and for participating in tainting the profession locally", I exclaimed, doubtful of my sarcasm's ambiguity.

"Yes, but the Planning Authority accepted the application, TAKE IT UP WITH THEM!"

“Who are you, please?", he continued.

A short silence ensued.

For a moment, I felt lighter. As if the call had corrected something. As if naming the ugliness aloud had reduced it. The satisfaction was brief and bodily, a rush that passed before I could examine it.

Standing there, phone still in my hand, it became clear that nothing had changed. The building remained. The system that allowed it remained. The warrant, the signatures, the approvals, the polite deflections remained intact. All I had done was introduce noise.

I reflected on how surprised I was, not at his response, but my own certainty while speaking. How easily outrage slipped into performance. How quickly critique became accusation. I had called in the name of architecture, of responsibility, of care for the built environment. I had also called to feel momentarily powerful.

Later, calmer, I wondered whether this was another learned behaviour. A small, private rehearsal of authority. The same impulse that produces buildings without consequence also produces anger without responsibility. Both rely on distance. Both stop short of repair.

The question that stayed with me was not why such buildings exist, but how easily I imagined myself outside the system that produces them.