‘Well, I’ve never nicked no one in thirty years. Don’t plan on starting now.’

The great man lay there while his cheeks and neck were coated with a lather of the soap. It seemed he was content with silence for a while – there was something almost beautiful in his repose, the trustfulness with which he let the barber go about his work, sweeping circle motions with the foamy brush, quick-sharpening the razor on a leather strop. Then he said, ‘You know, it was a few months back and I’ve been rather busy since, so please forgive me. But I do recall it now – the letter.’ He paused to let the barber come at him. Domingo had his arms bent like a crossbow, making noiseless actions of the blade beside the great man’s ear, then moving in swift downstrokes at the jaw. Charlie watched it happening in the mirror. It seemed a lot of jeopardy to go through every morning – one slip of a stranger’s wrist and you’d be scarred for life – but there was something quite mesmeric in the process, as spectator sport.

‘I still have it with me, if you need to check.’ He got the envelope out of his pocket, raised it up – the red square facing outwards, so the great man could detect the hallmark.

But then his voice came back, unbothered: ‘I was speaking of the letter from your old employer. Mr Mayhood.’

‘Oh.’

Domingo twisted at the great man’s head until he had him peering to one side. His blade came down again and left a perfect stripe of shaven skin along the cheek.

‘I get a lot of letters, as you can imagine,’ Mr Wright continued. ‘They arrive from every corner of the world. It’s gratifying to discover people far and wide appreciate my work. It only makes me more convinced that we are doing something valuable at Taliesin. Whenever people write and say they want to join our cause, I take their applications seriously. All of them. But, naturally, not many who apply are suitable for what we do. It’s hard work – very hard. It’s broken more young men and women than have stuck around, but that’s the process. People who can draw well are a dime a dozen. People who can draw well and support their fellow man, and break their backs out on a farm in winter, sweat their guts out in the middle of the Arizona desert – tenacity like that is hard to find. Those people will endure as architects. There’s nothing you can’t learn by doing. And perhaps you’ve some God-given talent for it, who can say? But if you can’t keep going when the going’s rough, you might as well do something else. You want to know –’ Domingo was now standing idle. ‘Excuse me, did you want to do my lip?’

‘Please, you keep on talking, Mr Wright. I’ll wait.’

‘No, go on. Finish.’

‘All right.’ Domingo leaned down with the blade, shaving underneath the great man’s nose, across the upper lip, and wiping off the residue. ‘OK, we’re done, sir. I’ll just clean you up. You carry on.’