These Hands

My hands where still dry. I pushed them further in, touching the edges of the wall with my middle fingers. Still, nothing. 

The long mirror had three symbols stickered on to it. One indicated a water droplet, one air, and one soap. I placed my hands under the water symbol. All three symbols where universal codes, informing and conditioning me to act a certain way. 

How accustomed we have become, I thought. What a stark difference to the screw-like mixer taps. 

I decided to oscillate my hands in line with the above symbol, then slightly to its left and right. 

Still nothing. 

I kept one hand underneath the mirror, and leaned, to understand where the sensor lied. A plastic level protruded downwards. Alas! I pulled it towards me, and a stream of colder water rushed downwards.

Freshened up, I wanted to make a good first impression to the newly appointed COO, seated next to the chair I had marked with my black A5 notebook and blue pen. 

“Hi”, I blurted out, sticking my now cleaned right hand out towards the seated man. “It’s very nice to finally meet you. Mirco Azzopardi, a Junior Architect working on one of the Big Three Projects”. 

We continued to exchange pleasantries until the moderator awkwardly coughed into the microphone. The hall had been packed. The rows of bright red rubber-like chairs had disappeared under peoples coats, jackets and bags.

“It’s a pleasure to have you with us”, the moderator continued, in a strong Maltese accent. “Without your attendance, it wouldn’t been so exciting today, thank you”. 

In the three-hour talk, the architect speakers, one Maltese and one American, would discuss the modernist movement in Malta, prolific throughout the 1930-60s, under the title, ‘Lime & Cement’.

Various architects work where photographed and explained to us, many now demolished and replaced with neo-dom-ino blocks. The photographs portrayed stones, elegantly dressed, in harmony with wrought iron windows, holding in placed square sheets of thin frosted glass. 

Another photograph portrayed a series of men, all wearing white t-shirts, gazing at a sea of mesh at their feet. Puzzled, with cigarettes hanging at the corner of their mouths, the Maltese architect, central in the photograph, had his arms wide open, as if recreating da’ Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. 

The next slide portrayed a thin, circular, concrete balcony in all its glory. It was cantilevered and fixed into a one of the slits in the limestone blockwork. The photo complimented the building’s façade in composition. 

They managed! I wonder how that architect instructed these men to cast such a beautiful, thin concrete balcony. 

“A first of its kind, at a time where reinforced concrete was seldom used”, the Maltese speaker explained, “let alone to achieve such a thin, elegant, span”. 

I felt a smile creep on my face. I looked around. The COO was tapping away at his screen, half way through an email. Others stared at the projection, while some tilted their heads in appreciation. 

The speaker concluded with a black and white photograph of the building, captured from the street. The architect, hands on hips,  wearing a full suit and a cowboy-like hat, gazed back at the camera on the roof, the cantilever below him. I could only but help wonder, what a great sense of pride this architect must have felt. What an accomplishment for an architect to instruct these man, and achieve such a result. 

I turned to the COO. “I wonder what will happen to the building”, I expressed, tilting my body towards him. “Tomorrow, we will find out, during the Board hearing. However, the proposal is recommended for approval”, he added. 

The proposal called for the retention and much needed restoration of the two-storey stone and concrete house we had just been presented, with an additional twelve-storeys atop it. 

I look around the hall. Contractors, Project Managers, Cultural Heritage officers, and architects had begun to filter out of the space. Nobody really looked like an author of the country, eager to leave a pivotal mark on our built environment. The few architects we had been presented with, had built iconic monuments across the island. Now, we attend talks about their work. 

Inspired, conflicted and exhausted, I made my way. I return to wash my hands from the ink of my blue pen on my fingertips. The water runs immediately.