Abattoir Read Free Page A

Cantrell didn’t always agree, but for his creative bravery, his willingness to stand alone, outside of the box. He aspired to the same bravery, to transform a lump of clay into a concept, an expression in stone and steel and, most importantly, space .
    When he found the Exeter—then only the “old slaughterhouse”—it was purely by accident. He’d spent a Sunday exploring the city’s nether regions, and at the end of a cloudy day, had passed the forlorn packing house in Derbytown.
    To the untrained eye, it wasn’t much to look at it. In fact, the abandoned structure had an almost eldritch feel to it. But he saw its potential immediately: its wonderful Second Empire lines, its intriguing spaces and angles . . . its sheer presence .
    In less than a year, he’d quit the firm and devoted his every waking moment to the building’s resurrection. It was the biggest risk he’d ever taken in his life, both financially and emotionally. He knew that if the Exeter failed, then he would have failed; as an entrepreneur, but most importantly, as an artist .
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    Cantrell was relieved when the ribbon cutting ceremony finally drew to a close. But the crowd was hungry for more.
    He flung open the doors and offered an impromptu tour of the building’s interior. All but a handful eagerly followed the creator into his creation.
    The central foyer coaxed a chorus of sighs and gasps. Dominating the center of the lofty space was a towering linden tree, at least 40 feet in height, roots firmly entrenched in a circular garden covered with flowers and vines. High above was a multi-paned skylight which bathed the entire space in natural light.
    Cantrell informed his guests that the linden had been imported directly from Germany, painstakingly replanted in the specially designed garden. He called it a “natural aesthetic;” designed to bring nature and greenery into the everyday lives of the tenants.
    The tree’s graceful girth was encircled by a wide and flowing staircase that wound its way up all four floors of the main building. Bordered with wrought iron balustrades in delicate art noveau designs, the effect was both pleasing and somewhat dizzying to those who stared upward. Cantrell explained that the staircase was designed to provide a seamless transition from floor to floor that was smooth and welcoming.
    Complementing the tree and garden was an ornate floor of alternating black and white marble squares, a motif that was repeated in the common hallways of each floor.
    The walls were textured with silk fabrics and marble wainscoting. Large canvas prints of Monet and Renoir masterpieces, and less famous American impressionists, graced the hallways and common areas.
    The entire effect was one of space masterfully and artistically used. The building was huge, Cantrell explained, and he felt liberated by the challenge of making the dimensions intimate. The lines, the repeating circular patterns, the carefully calibrated angles all joined into an effect that Cantrell wanted to communicate to both the conscious and subconscious.
    “Ladies and gentlemen: it is people who design and build buildings; people who transform utilitarian ugliness into inspired beauty.”
    Based on their smiles and awed expressions, Cantrell sensed they agreed with him.
    He fielded a series of questions about the building’s construction, its physical plant, foundation and the extent of the renovations that had transformed it from slaughterhouse to living space.
    Then a man raised his hand and asked a question that Cantrell had hoped might be avoided. He recognized the man as a reporter for the Telegraph, one of the very few who seemed less than impressed today.
    “Mr. Cantrell, can you tell us about the body?”
    “The body?”
    “Yes, the transient who was found in your basement a year or so ago, when construction began.”
    The crowd grew silent as Cantrell tried to maintain his smile.
    “It was very unfortunate. From what I know, the man apparently