The Insane Journey

Chapter 5

 The Waterfront Centre was an architectural masterpiece of phenomenal proportions that would have sparked envy in the heart of many a medieval cathedral builder. The building was situated by the ocean and was fronted by a massive hemispherical dome standing 180 metres tall. Branching out from it were three tubular arms stretching over the water. Each arm was bordered by an outdoor walkway rich with cafés, restaurants and pubs; inside each arm were more of the same, together with a truly unbelievable number of shops, several hotels, swimming pools, a zoo and an amusement park.

 The massive dome had a wedge taken out of it, opening it up to the mild weather of Cape City. All the poshest shops and eateries lined the dome’s first four floors. Above them were prestigious office spaces.

 In the centre of the ground floor was a tent-like structure suspended from an overhead gantry and a speaker’s podium. Facing the tent and podium were several stands full of people pretending to listen to the mayor of Cape City rabbit on about something of great mutual disinterest. Sitting on either side of the mayor were several forgettably important people in the Cape City political scene, as well as Maxwell, who was wondering what would happen if he put a pin to the mayor: would the obese man burst and sputter crazily around the room like a popped balloon, or would he just get really pissed off? Although Maxwell reckoned the latter would most likely be the case, the former notion amused him.

 He was just pulling his notebook out of his pocket in order to sketch the idea when he heard a round of applause and looked up to see the tent over the centre platform being raised to a pop song he absolutely hated.

 “Lord love a duck. It can’t get worse than that,” he said to himself, pushing the notebook back in his pocket. In two seconds, he realised he was terribly wrong.

With the tent raised, Maxwell’s dancing robots were clearly visible as they moved to the beat of the horrendous pop song. The music was bad enough, but the robots he had painstakingly crafted to display the nude female form in motion had been dressed! Worse, they had been dressed in luridly coloured, frumpy suits designed for aesthetically challenged middle-aged women.

“What on earth has happened to my sculpture?!” Maxwell demanded, standing up.

 “What do you mean?” asked the mayor, with a feigned innocence that fooled no one, with possible exception of himself.

 “Some fool has put clothes on my figures – and ghastly clothes at that!” said Maxwell, wishing he had brought some light weaponry to the opening. He suspected that if the person responsible for this aesthetic atrocity was here at the opening, shooting him or her could only make the world a better place. It would certainly make Maxwell feel better.

 “Why, yes. I authorised the Family Values Association to dress your figures. You didn’t think we could allow our children to see naked dancing women, did you?” said the mayor.

 “Of course I did, you twisted excuse for man. It was in the proposal I submitted to your predecessor!”

 Maxwell was, as a rule, an easy-going chap – too easy, some would argue – but messing with his artwork was one of the few actions guaranteed not merely to provoke his ire, but to piss him off big time.

 “There, there now,” said the mayor with painfully patronising assurance. “Your sculpture is still very pretty, but now children can safely look at it without being harmed by its pornographic element.”

 “Harmed? Pornographic element?” Maxwell sputtered. This was just as bad as when he presented a proposal to the city of Topeka (the capital of the Evangelical States), he thought.

 He was reminded of that irritatingly pious American at his university, the one who had always glared at him and frequently threatened biblical nastiness of the worst order: Phinny Forge. Since then, the man had from time to time tried to sabotage Maxwell’s sculptures and reputation, not realising that every time he did so, he created publicity that only helped Maxwell’s reputation.